Storiesonline.net ------- Past Lives by Ms. Friday Copyright© 2006 by Ms. Friday ------- Description: Past Lives is coming-of-age story with a twist. Brent Carson's memories of his past two lives were as strong and vivid as the life he currently lived. In his immediate past life he was a woman named Jane Wilson, a landscape painter, and Brent not only inherited her memories but also her artistic talents. That Jane was bisexual and promiscuous gave Brent an edge with young women. He wondered how to use his memories of Josh Randall, a man who worked as an industrial blacksmith, and then another past life entered his mind, his life as a Chinese Shaolin Monk in the 19th Century. With these memorie Codes: MF mF FF slow rom cons mag violent inc bro sis bi group interr WF OM oral mastrb squirt lac ------- ------- Chapter 1 This sucks, I thought. A memory had just arrived unbidden, not a recent memory, but rather an old one, a memory from my previous life. I was aggravated because in my previous life I'd been a female named Jane Wilson. My name in this life is Brent Carson. I'm a fifteen-year-old boy. If I'd been a male in my previous life, I could have used that experience to help guide me as a male through this one. How could I relate to fifty-five years as a female? Memories from my past life started to trickle into my mind about eighteen months ago when the hormones of puberty started to trickle into my then scrawny body. I believed I was going insane, that or someone had slipped a hallucinogenic drug into my root beer, or that my imagination had slipped a cog and wandered into the realm of silliness beyond fantasy. Imagine my surprise when I finally realized that the answer was none of the above. The memories were real. They were also terrifying at first because they were retrieved in reverse order; although retrieved, as a verb, wasn't completely accurate. My neurons and synapses didn't search for and retrieve the memories. They just happened, and because my first memory from my previous life was my violent death at the end of that life, the memory was scary. As my body changed, more memories from before my birth for this life slowly filled in the gaps in the life I lived as Jane Wilson. I'd just experienced Jane's first memory: taking a bath with her little brother. He had a woody, which made the event memorable. Because I'd gone through her memories from her last to her first, I believed I now knew the major events of her life — my life, too, the life before the one I was now living. Confusing, huh? As Jane Wilson, I was born in 1932 in New Orleans, Louisiana. As Brent Carson, I was born in 1988 in Phoenix, Arizona. Jane was born during the era known as the Great Depression, and in her youth, she was poor. My family for this life wasn't rich but wasn't close to poor. Jane Wilson had a younger brother. I had an older sister. Nothing matched. I begged the question: how could I, a fifteen-year-old male, relate to living fifty-five years as a female? Interrupting my mental gymnastics, my sister, Grace, strode into my room without knocking. Good thing I wasn't involved in my favorite indoor sport, the one involving a woody, like Jane's little brother. "Brent, you are a horse's patooty!" she yelled. "Patooty?" "Yeah." "No such word." "Don't care. Means ass with a capital A." She stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, her stance and expression laced with anger. Dark, gorgeous eyes. Dark brown hair, long, with soft waves framing a pretty face. Her slim body had to be, to my mind, the envy of runway models everywhere. That's my beautiful sister, Grace. I stifled a snicker. Grace's propensity for melodrama usually had that effect on me. I said, "No doubt you're correct, but an explanation might give me some clues that will let me avoid being a horse's ass under the same circumstances in the future. Has anyone told you that your eyes dance when you're pissed?" Her anger softened briefly but flared again. She said, "You saw me making out with Ted, and you told your nitwit friend, Billy, who told Gary Simmons, who told... you get the picture. By the time the malicious gossip made the rounds and came back to me, I was doing the nasty with Ted, not just making out. Horse's patooty! That's what you are." Yes, I'd seen my sister making out with her date last Saturday night, but I hadn't told Billy about the event. I'd known Billy most of my life — this life, that is. He couldn't keep a secret, so even under the pain of torture, I would tell him nothing that demanded confidentiality. I grinned and said, "Not guilty, Grace. Oh, I saw you with Ted but didn't say anything to Billy or anyone else about what I saw. Look elsewhere for the source of the malicious gossip." "Liar! I traced the..." Instantly angry, I stood up, took her by the arm and turned her. The door to my room was open, so I guided her into the hall. "I'm not lying, Grace," I said calmly, stepped back into my room and closed and locked my door. I returned to my computer where I'd been surfing the Internet when my sister interrupted my muses about my past life. Grace's accusation had upset me. I wasn't a liar, except little, white lies, or lies of omission, or lies to protect someone, and she knew this about me. What's more, living fifty-five years as a female before taking on the body of a boy taught me about the pain that gossiping can inflict, so after retrieving Jane's memories, I stopped being a gossip. Then it hit me. I'd asked myself a question: how could I, a fifteen-year-old male, relate to living fifty-five years as a female? I suddenly realized that Jane Wilson's life experiences would let me relate to the female of our species in a way no boy in my time and place could hope to achieve, and with that realization, I'd answered my question. ------- When my Jane memories arrived, fearing I'd be labeled a nut, I told no one about them. I considered telling my mother, the one adult I almost trusted, but a brief comment to her about them produced a negative response, so I pursed my lips and kept my own counsel thereafter. My mother was a real estate agent, but she didn't sell houses. She acted as agent for office building landlords and tenants, mostly tenants because she declared landlords a pain in the patooty. Yeah, I'd assimilated Grace's made-up word for ass into my vocabulary, and speaking of asses, my mom's was magnificent, her best feature, and like most clever women, she understood her assets and dressed accordingly. She wore a tight skirt that fell to just below her knees, no hose — her legs were tan, no hose needed — and a white silk blouse. She was thirty-eight years old and looked five years younger than her age. I considered her beautiful, but then I'm biased. "Nice patooty, Mom," I said as she bent over to retrieve something from a lower kitchen cabinet. She looked over her shoulder at me and grinned. "Patooty?" "Yeah, according to Grace, patooty is a synonym for ass." Her grin widened momentarily, and then she frowned. "I'm your mother, Brent. Don't..." I laughed. "You also have a nice ass. In my humble opinion, it's a world-class patooty. I appreciate perfection wherever I see it. It's the artist in me. For example, Grace's legs are in a class by themselves. She's my sister, but that doesn't stop me from enjoying the soft curves of her long, shapely legs anymore than I can stop appreciating the alluring shape of your ass." I'd referenced my artistic ability because Jane Wilson had climbed out of the poverty of her birth using her talent as an artist. I not only had her memories, I had also inherited her artistic aptitude and abilities, a talent I had yet to exploit. That would soon change. Mom placed a pot on the stove. "What about breasts?" "Waddaya mean?" I asked. "Who has world-class breasts?" Her dark eyes danced with mischief. "That's a tough one. The garments females wear let me judge patooties and legs. I've noticed cleavage..." She laughed. "No doubt." "... but I believe breasts must be bare to be properly judged, and I've yet to see a bare pair." A lie, but a boy shouldn't tell his mother everything. I lied to protect her, not me. No, that wasn't true. I lied because the truth didn't matter and the lie fit the conversation. She let out the air in her lungs with a whoosh. Teasingly, she said, "That's a relief." "What's a relief?" Grace asked as she walked into the kitchen. "Brent says he hasn't seen a pair of bare breasts," Mom said and giggled. Yeah, Moms can giggle, and I promptly demonstrated that Moms could make sons blush. Grace giggled, too. "You haven't seen a pair. How about just one?" she asked. She mentioned one because I'd seen one of hers one time, and she knew it. We'd never discussed the event. I let my Jane Wilson personality take over. With her memories, I could be her, was her, but because I'd lived as a boy for thirteen plus years before her memories arrived, I'd already developed my own distinct personality. With her memories, our personalities had merged a little, but for the most part still remained separate. "I just told Mom that she had a great ass, Grace, and also declared that you have the best legs I've ever seen. Then Mom asked whose breasts I appreciated the most, and I told her I didn't know because, in my opinion, breasts should be viewed without the clutter of bras, bikini tops or blouses to be fairly judged, so I couldn't connect a name with any world-class titties." Hmm, would they cooperate? Maybe. "Which reminds me that my education is lacking regarding breasts, a knowledge gap the two of you could alleviate by showing me your tits." "Brent!" Mom gasped. "Pervert!" Grace decried. I laughed. "I think you both protest too much. Mom, you enjoy my avid gaze when you bend over, and Grace, you've been known to flash more of your legs than necessary as a feast for my hungry eyes, so don't play the innocents with me." Mom looked at Grace. "He's got us pegged, missy." Grace groaned. "Yep, but he's lying, Mom. He's seen some bare breasts, a lot of them, while surfing on the Internet." "Grace, if you keep calling me a liar, I might stop calling you a friend," I said, my voice tinged with menace. "Hah! Are you denying looking at nekkid women on the Internet?" "Nope. A picture might be the equivalent of a thousand or more words, but it's no substitute for the real thing. I've yet to cast my eyes on a live pair of bare breasts. How about it? Would either or both of you correct my woefully limited sexual education by showing me your tits?" "Not me," Mom said. "My breasts aren't what they used to be." She chortled self-consciously. "My patooty, either, dammit." "Well, mine haven't reached their peak," Grace said and giggled. "So to speak." She looked at me. "To fill your knowledge gap, you'll need to pursue your breast quest elsewhere." "Spoilsports." ------- My art paraphernalia was sadly limited, and art stuff cost a bundle. I needed canvases, oil and acrylic paints, watercolor paint and paper, a drafting table, brushes, pastels, charcoal, palette knives, even a palette. I could go on and on. I also needed a studio. Big problems. Except for some occasional sketches I let my mother and sister see, I'd kept my artistic talent mostly hidden. I needed my father's support — and money. A demonstration was warranted. That evening while Dad was watching the news on the television, I sat across from him and drew his portrait in ink. He noticed my concentration, my glances toward him, my busy hand scratching the linen vellum with a pen, and asked what I was doing. I told him, at which point he stiffened and posed, not what I wanted. "Relax, Dad. Ignore me. You don't need to sit perfectly still, not for a quick sketch." "Oh. Okay." My father was a handsome man with a dark complexion, coal black eyes, a square chin punctured with a deep dimple. I hoped I'd grow to at least his six-two height. He was a corporate executive, a VP for a regional real estate development company, belonged to a gym and exercised religiously, watched his diet, imbibed booze socially but never to excess, and didn't smoke. He golfed on weekends. Sounds like the perfect dad, huh? Not quite. He worked a lot, giving his employer fifty to sixty hours every week, and his weekend trip around the links was usually business related, as well. In other words, he didn't have a whole lot of time for his family. Didn't matter. I loved him a lot. I finished the sketch, signed and dated it, and handed it to my father. He stared at the portrait, looked up at me and then at the sketch again. "This is excellent, Brent. I didn't know you were this talented." "I need art supplies, Dad," I said. He nodded as he continued to gaze at the drawing. "Art stuff is expensive," I added. That caught his attention. "How expensive?" I pulled a folded piece of paper out of my back pocket, unfolded the document and handed it to him. "That's a spreadsheet listing the supplies I need and their cost." "Holy crap!" he breathed when his eyes dropped to the total. "Plus I need a place to work," I added. His eyes zeroed in on mine. "You're serious about this?" "As a heart attack." He shook his head, glanced at the portrait and the spreadsheet, and said, "What do you mean by 'a place to work?'" "Oil paints and solvents smell. Also, I'll be painting some large canvases, five feet by seven feet, some larger. My room won't be adequate." He shook his head again. "Elaborate." "A studio, preferably with northern light through clerestory glass. A small, air-conditioned warehouse space would do it. Without telling her much, I queried Mom about rents for the type of facility I'll need, and she says it would cost about eight hundred a month, maybe a little more. That'll come later. Right now, our third garage would work if we put up a partition to make a room out of it, stuck a window air-conditioner through an outside wall, improved the lighting a little, and installed an exhaust vent." I handed him another spreadsheet. "I estimated the garage-to-studio conversion cost." He gulped when he noted that total. "I'll have to think about this." Which meant he'd discuss it with my mother. I smiled and tried not to look as excited as I felt inside. If he'd said no, that would've been the end of it. Mom would support me and would pressure Dad to do the same. To make sure I was as serious about art as I claimed, he wouldn't cough up the total amount, which would be fine with me. Staging the purchases would work. I'd start with acrylics. ------- Jane Wilson was renowned for her landscape paintings. Her artistic talent and her memories were mine. I could paint landscapes without any training. What's more, I knew the direction she wanted to take her talent when an accident took her life. She'd planned to switch from the macro to the micro with her work, and that's where I started. The blank canvas on the easel in front of me was five by seven feet. Daunting? Not at all. I knew the results I wanted. I could see the finished canvas in my mind. The micro-landscape was a hole in a red rock partially filled with rainwater. Sunlight and flickering shadows affected the composition and colors. The finished canvas would have the look of a non-objective painting. The colors would shimmer, fade and change, iridescent in places, and hard-edged in other areas of the canvas. The palette was extensive, reflecting the crystalline microcosm of nature. I worked all day, ignoring the call to dinner, painting into the night until my muscles cramped. The house was dark when I ventured inside. I needed a drink of water, and I was hungry. I grabbed another bottle of water from the pantry and a jar of mixed nuts, and returned to my makeshift studio. The short break relaxed the cramped muscles, and the water and nuts, along with a trip to the john, mollified my bodily needs. I started to paint again, finishing the canvas just before dawn. I removed it from the easel, turned it face in against a wall, cleaned up my mess, and walked to the patio to watch the sun come up. The sunrise was magnificent, and my eyes settled on a tiny portion of the glorious daily event at the horizon. I studied that micro-landscape, that tiny bit of nature that would become my next painting, and marveled at the beauty around me. I stripped and dove into the swimming pool and swam twenty laps. As I pulled myself up and out of the water, Mom stepped from the house. "Morning, Mom," I said. "You're naked!" "Sorry about that." She watched me as I walked toward her and continued to look at me as I moved by her to go into the house. She laughed. "Nice patooty, Brent." Looking over my shoulder, I grinned. "Thanks." "Considering the shrinkage factor after swimming, that swinging dick isn't bad either." I laughed. "Like Grace's breasts, my swinging dick hasn't reached its peak. So to speak." That cracked her up. "Dry off before you go inside." She tossed me a towel and returned inside, which pleased me. I would've been embarrassed if she'd watched me wipe the pool water from my naked body. ------- When I realized I was a female in my previous life, I worried about the sexual preference I'd assume when puberty finished doing its thing to my body and mind. Jane was bisexual with a preference for men. Imagine my relief when I determined I was 100% heterosexual. Sexy women turned me on. Pretty boys and handsome men did nothing for my libido. Whew! Dodged that bullet. Another bullet plagued me, though. From the extensive sexual experience I gleaned during my previous life — Jane was a tad promiscuous — I knew a lot about sex, much more than my teenaged friends, be they girls or boys. Nothing wrong with that, you say. Hah! With their silliness and inexperience, girls my age didn't excite me, not like a more mature woman. By a mature woman I mean one in her late teens or early twenties, college-age girls, if you will. Like me, they knew the score. Are you starting to understand my problem? Yep, women that age took one look at me and saw a boy, not a man. Plus, I was too young to get a driver's license, so my mobility was limited. Argh. I wasn't above using my experience to seduce fifteen- and sixteen-year-old girls, but the one time I succeeded turned into a disaster. The silly girl fell in love with me, mostly my tongue, I think. She sure did enjoy being eaten, but reciprocity wasn't in her nature. She believed going down on me was, if not immoral, at least distasteful. The one time she tried, she gagged a lot and refused to even consider swallowing my semen. Like I said: silly. I dodged that bullet when her father was transferred to Washington, D.C., and she moved a few thousand miles away from me. I made a personal promise to take cover from those kinds of bullets in the future by avoiding any sexual shenanigans with silly, inexperienced youngsters my age. To that end I started a quest for a young woman who wouldn't look at me as the boy I was on the outside and would appreciate the sexually experienced young man on the inside, and I'd begun to believe my quest was futile. Summertime in Metro Phoenix can boil your brains. Temperatures soar to one hundred ten degrees and above during the day and rarely drop below the nineties at night. A sane person avoided the heat, moving quickly from one air-conditioned space to the next. Also, Phoenix is spread out from hell to breakfast, which made it necessary for someone to drive me wherever I wanted to go. With my parents both working Monday through Friday during the workweek, this task usually fell to my sister. In other words, I'd need Grace's support if I wanted to get laid. Grace was driving when I said, "Waddaya think of that girl who waits on me at the art supply store?" "Terry?" "Yeah." "She's pleasant, always helpful. Attractive. I like her." "I agree. I'd like to get to know her better." "Jeez, Brent, she's... ah, in her early twenties, I'd guess. Isn't she a little old for you?" I grinned. "Uh-uh, just right. I like older women." She laughed. "Okay, but do they like you?" "Terry seems interested. We'll be at the store around closing. How about I ask her to ride back to the house with us? If she agrees, you'll need to drive her to her house later." "Why would she want to... ?" "She likes art and artists. I'll show her my paintings." I'd also recognized a streak of submissiveness in Terry Crisp's personality. I figured I could use her submissiveness to my advantage. "Paintings? Plural as opposed to singular?" Grace asked. "Yeah." "How many?" "Six. Four more, and I'll be asking you to chauffer me to the art galleries in Scottsdale to set up my first one-man show." "I think you've been smokin' too much happy hemp, Brent." ------- Hooray! I was almost as surprised as Grace when Terry accepted my invitation to see my paintings. My plan was altered, though, when Terry said, "No need for the ride. I have my own car. How about I drop by your house around seven. I'd like to change clothes and freshen up first." I agreed and gave her my address. The second Grace and I walked into the house she said, "Show me your paintings." An order, not a request. That morning, hopeful that Terry would want to see my work, I'd hung the paintings in my studio and arranged the track lighting to showcase each of them to advantage. "All right," I said, and Grace followed me to the studio. I flipped on the lights and motioned her to step into the converted garage ahead of me. I've gotta admit I expected a different reaction than the one Grace gave me. Without saying a word or telegraphing what she felt about my paintings, she moved from one to the other, studying each before moving to the next. When she finished, she turned and left the studio. I followed her. "Grace..." She spun toward me, her expression a combination of anger and sadness. Tears brimmed in her eyes. "I hate you!" she exclaimed, spun again and ran. I followed her. "Grace..." She turned and rushed to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her face in my chest. "I don't hate you, Brent. I hate myself," she stuttered between huge gulping sobs. Talk about confusing! Even armed with fifty-five years experience as a female, I couldn't fathom what was going through my sister's mind, let alone understand why she'd reacted as she had. I held her while she cried. When she finally gained a semblance of control, I said, "I hate it when you're unhappy. Make me understand, Grace." "You... you're so talented... so smart. You're going to be famous. An artist. I'm... I'm normal. Average. I hate it!" This wasn't melodrama. This was serious. "Wrong!" I huffed. "Average you're not." I walked her to the hall bath and wet a washcloth. "You're talented, too, and smarter than I am," I said as I washed her pretty face. "Hah! I wish. I sing off key. I took ballet lessons for years and still stumble over my big feet. Name one talent I have. I dare you!" "That's easy. You're a voracious reader and have a way with words. You could become a best-selling author if you worked at it. You're gorgeous and tall with a runway model's body. Your face and form could grace fashion magazines. I've watched you with your friends. You're a leader, and your organizational skills are phenomenal. As I said, average you're not." "A writer? Do you really think I could become a writer?" "Sure, but you must work at it. You must write everyday. Have you noticed that I work at my art everyday?" She nodded. "It was difficult at first." I was referring to Jane's initial attempts with her art, not mine in this life. "I failed and failed, but kept trying, kept trying to improve, kept learning about paint and brushes and palette knives, all the tools I use to create my art. Do the same. Study plots and storylines, characterization, dialogue, narrative, all the tools a writer must use, and write everyday. Before you know it, you'll be a writer." "You make it sound easy." "It's not. It's painful and discouraging and frustrating, but I didn't give up. Be persistent and single-minded, and you'll succeed." "Will you help me?" "Sure. I'll read and criticize, but you should look for more competent help than I can give you. Talk to Mom and Dad. They'll scare up a tutor for you, but work at it for a while on your own. Let them know you're serious, and they'll support you enthusiastically." She squared her shoulders and gave me a soft kiss on the lips. "I will. Thanks, Brent." ------- Terry Crisp arrived fifteen minutes late. I'd started to wonder if I'd been stood up. She arrived wearing a tight pair of low-rider blue jeans and a yellow blouse. No bra, I noticed, and her bellybutton looked adorable. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, and she wore little makeup. Terry wasn't a hard body. She was soft and feminine, very curvy, and about average in height, two or three inches shorter than I. I suspected her breasts were her best feature, but as I'd told my mother and sister, to judge I'd need to see them bare: my highest priority short-term goal. When I opened the door to her knock, I smiled and said, "You look freshened up." She laughed — pleasant sounds. Some female laughs grated my ears. Terry's laugh resonated like a bubbling brook. "I went for comfort," she said. "Comfort is good. Iced tea? Soft drink? Beer?" "Iced tea, no sugar, a squeeze of lemon, if you've got it." I fixed her drink and one for myself. I handed her the frosty glass and said, "Except for my sister, you'll be the first to see my paintings. My dad converted a single garage for me to use as a studio. Let me show you the paintings, and then we can talk." "All right." She followed me until I opened the door to the studio. I motioned her in ahead of me as I flipped on the lights. "I paint landscapes — micro-landscapes," I said. "Oh my!" she gushed when she took in the six paintings covering two of the walls in my studio. She turned to me with a wide smile. "Now I know why you buy so many art supplies. Those are large paintings." I raised one eyebrow. Large wasn't the critique I'd wished for. The window air-conditioner clanked and roared. Funny, I hadn't noticed how noisy it was before. She stood in front of my first painting. "That's a hole in a red rock half-filled with rainwater," I said. "Oh. Oh! I see it now. I thought the painting was non-objective." "Uh-uh. I told you I paint micro-landscapes." "It's beautiful," she breathed. She moved from painting to painting, and I described my vision for each until she stood in front of my last effort. "Tell me," I said. "What tiny bit of nature have I rendered in this painting?" She frowned with concentration. "I'm not sure." She pointed. "That looks like it might be part of a flower." "That's correct." I waited. "I don't know," she said. "It's my favorite, though. It shimmers; almost takes flight. It makes my eyes dart, moving from one part of the painting to another." "Very good. The shimmering is the furious fluttering of a hummingbird's wings." I stood close behind her. Her soft blonde hair smelled of apples. "Yes! I see the hummingbird now, dipping its beak into the trumpet-like flower, its fast wings holding it steady and aloft, sucking the nectar from the... it's the flower of an orange jubilee, isn't it?" "Yes." "Oh, Brent, the composition, the color! This is a great painting!" She turned to me. I was close enough that her breasts brushed my chest. She looked up at me, her pale blue eyes full of wonder. I couldn't resist the temptation and brushed my lips to hers, a kiss as soft as a landing butterfly. I pulled back and gazed into her eyes again. My hands hadn't moved around her. They remained dangling at my side. She groaned and her arms moved around my neck. The kiss she gave me wasn't soft. It was passionate and intense, and she rubbed her denim-clad mound over my erection as her fingers raked my hair. With a gasp, she spun away from me. She faced the painting I called Sunrise, but I doubted she could see it. Her breathing was ragged. I moved close behind her and brushed her hair from her neck before I kissed it. My hands went around her small waist, one moving up to a breast while the other wandered down until it cupped her cunt. I could feel heat emanating through the denim, could feel her nipple harden under my fingers. My erection pressed against her ass. "I want you," I whispered in her ear. "I want to taste you, roll my tongue back and forth between your lips, separating them so I can reach your clitoris. I want you to come on my mouth, and then I want to stab you, push my length inside you, feel your silky thighs at my hips, your hips moving, meeting my thrusts." I flipped the button loose at the top of her jeans. "I want to watch your passion build, hear your sighs and gasps and moans." My fingers moved under her panties. Her pubic hair felt soft, not kinky, and she was wet with arousal. "We can't do this, not now, not here, but soon." I pushed a finger inside her, and my thumb brushed her clitoris. She gasped. "I can make you come now, though. Would you like that?" She groaned, and her hips waved. My finger sawed in and out of her cunt, and my thumb wriggled over her hard clit. "Answer me. Would you like to come?" "Yes!" I pushed her jeans down a little, giving me more room, and used both hands on her cunt while I kissed and nibbled on her neck. One hand finger-fucked her while the other fondled and massaged her clit. "After you come, we'll freshen up, and you can take me for a drive. That's when I'll eat you, and after I eat you, I'll fuck you." "Yes!" "Come for me, Terry. Come all over my fingers." Her body stiffened. I knew she would scream, so I forced my mouth onto hers. She screamed into my mouth, which muffled the sounds, and her hips ratcheted very fast, pushing my fingers inside her and pulling them out when she moved back. I wasn't finger-fucking her. She was fucking my fingers. And then she collapsed. I caught her, turned her to me, and kissed her, a soft kiss, romantic, not passionate. "Beautiful," I breathed. ------- She drove me to her apartment, which she shared with another woman, she told me, but her roommate was out for the evening. "I'm making me a drink," she said. "A scotch and soda. What would you like?" I grinned. "Gotta root bear?" She laughed. "Gawd, you're refreshing. Sorry, no root beer." "I'm fine. Which bedroom is yours?" "The one at the end of the hall." "That's where I'll be. Bring your drink with you." I was naked on her bed when she stepped through the door. My hard-on stood straight and tall. "Nice cock," she muttered and sipped some scotch, her eyes never leaving my erection. "Take off your clothes and join me," I said and watched as she removed each garment until she stood before me completely naked. "Pirouette, please." She made a graceful turn. "Your breasts are magnificent, your best feature. Are they sensitive." She sipped her drink. "Very." "Come here. I'll test your veracity." She set the drink on the nightstand and reclined next to me. I kissed her and moved my mouth to her breasts. Ten minutes later, I said, "You weren't lying." Her nipples were as hard as glass, and she was very aroused. By then her breathing was ragged again, so I rolled between her legs and slid down on the bed. Her cunt was open. I wouldn't need to pry her outer lips apart to get at her clitoris, and it was ready for direct contact. The little nubbin shined in the subdued light, its hood fully retracted. I adore the taste and smell of an aroused cunt. She climaxed twice before she pushed my head away and pulled me up over her. "Fuck me now. Stab me like you said. And don't wait for me. Fuck me and come." Orders and directions I could easily follow. Her cunt was exquisite, very lively. The interior membranes milked my shaft timed to each of my thrusts. Her thighs wrapping my hips were as silky as I thought they'd be. I climaxed quickly, roaring loudly with pleasure as my body stiffened with rapturous sensations. When I collapsed and tried to roll my weight off her, she held me tightly. "I'm fine. You're not that heavy. I like it like this." We held each other while I recovered. When my breathing and heart rate returned to normal, she asked, "How old are you?" "Fifteen for this life, but I remember parts of my previous life. I'm seventy if you count both lives." She laughed. "I doubt the child-molester police would accept that reasoning." "Narrow thinking. That's the problem with our culture." I rolled to her side. She sat up and retrieved her drink. I said, "Keep some root beer in your refrigerator for my visits. I like it in frosted glass mugs." "All right." ------- I sat content and watched the sunrise, studied the golden light bringing life to the trees and plants. The leaves of a rosewood tree sparkled like a million green butterflies. The plumes of purple fountain grass waved like oiled metronomes. A dove cooed and took flight. The light in Arizona was different than the light in Louisiana. The air there was heavier, gloomier, the colors not as vivid. Older light. I preferred the new light of the high desert. Carrying a cup of coffee, my mother walked out of the house and joined me at the patio table. She hadn't dressed for the day. A silky robe wrapped her and shimmered in the new light. Gold glimmered in her dark hair. "Another all-nighter?" she asked. She looked fresh and clean but worried. "Yes." "The way you work, Brent, it isn't healthy. You've been painting for three days with hardly a break." I smiled. "I finished the painting, though. Wanna see it?" After showing my work to Grace, I'd kept the door to my studio locked. Unless my mom had snooped before I started locking the door, she hadn't seen any of my paintings. She nodded and blew air over the rim of her coffee mug before sipping. "In a minute. Tell me about Terry first." "What would you like to know about her?" "You're spending a lot of time with her. What is your relationship?" "She's a friend." "Are you having sex with her?" I said nothing. Mom slumped in the chair. "Thought so." I fixed my eyes on hers. "Terry's not a threat, Mom." "You're growing up too fast." "Physically I'm right where I should be. I will admit I'm ahead of my peers in the way I think, but Terry hasn't affected my mental maturity one way or the other." "I disagree. You..." "Mom, before the end of the year, a gallery in Scottsdale will present my first one-man show. At a minimum, my paintings from that one show will gross fifty thousand dollars. My share will be half that amount. I can do three or four shows a year, and with each successful show, my prices will increase. Before I graduate from high school, I'll be earning in the range of a quarter of a million dollars per year." Her incredulous expression made me laugh. "You don't believe me, I see. Come with me. I'll show you my work, and you can judge for yourself." I stood and held out my hand. "I'm not an art critic, Brent," she said, but she rose from the chair and took my hand. "I know, but you know what you like, and you've been to openings at some of the galleries in Scottsdale, so you can make a layman's comparison." As we walked toward my studio, I explained my painting style, what I tried to achieve. Only one painting hung on the walls — my latest. It was my largest painting: nine feet by seven feet. When my mother stood in front of the painting, I watched her expression. A look of wonder and awe filled her eyes. Her jaw gaped, but she slammed it shut and twisted her head to look at me. But the painting drew her eyes again, captured her attention, holding her in its grip. "At some point the microcosm apes the cosmos," I said. "Molecules swirl with atoms. Electrons circumnavigate protons. The universe rotates and expands. I started this painting to represent the shimmering leaves of our rosewood tree as they captured the morning light. It turned into a million green butterflies, and then finally evolved into an even smaller landscape, a microcosm that became a universe. I named this painting Controlled Chaos." She turned to me and reached with one hand to touch my face. "I believe you," she said, her voice soft and loving. Tears welled in her eyes, and she hugged me fiercely. ------- Chapter 2 While still in the grip of an orgasm while Terry knelt in front of me in my studio gulping my ejaculating semen with relish, I had my first glimpse of the life I lived before Jane Wilson. Once again, it was a terrifying event. I died, and it wasn't a normal death. I felt the pain of a bullet rip through my chest and heart, exploding out my back in a cone of pink mist. Terry thought I'd collapsed with pleasure. I didn't correct her mistaken assumption. During that life I'd been a male, but after assimilating Josh Randall's memories, I worried his life experiences would be even less applicable to my current incarnation than Jane Wilson's. Thankfully, capturing his memories took only a few weeks, not the eighteen months required to relive my life as Jane Wilson. Randall was born at the turn of the century and lived thirty-one years, dying nine months before Jane Wilson's birth, leading me to believe that, at the moment of his death, his life force escaped his no-longer compatible body and entered the fertilized zygote that would become Jane Wilson. Using logic, Jane's life force — her consciousness? — probably became me during my incubation in my mother's womb. Randall was a miner, and for much of his adult life, he worked for a company that mined, milled and smelted copper in Echo, Nevada. At the end of his life, he was industrial blacksmith, operating a huge steam hammer to bend and mold various metals into tools and equipment used by the mill and smelter. He was murdered by a group of strikebreakers the company imported to force the union to its knees. I don't know who prevailed, the company or the union. I know for sure that Josh Randall lost. Unlike Jane Wilson, Randall's passion wasn't his work. His wife and two daughters gave his hard life meaning, and they returned his love with full measure. He was a large man with huge hands, very strong, and unfortunately his short-fused temper occasionally insured his participation in barroom brawls. He killed one man with his bare hands, but he wasn't prosecuted for the assault. The other man drew a gun and wounded him before Randall ended the fight by breaking his opponent's neck with one blow from his meaty fist. The authorities decreed that Josh had killed his assailant in self-defense. Randall lived in different times, no telephones, no television, no computer, not much in the way of mechanized transportation, and he didn't like horses and hated mules. He liked dogs and put up with cats because his daughters adored them. He crapped in an outhouse in back of his small clapboard home and wiped his ass with pages ripped from a Montgomery Ward catalog. His wife cooked with wood and coal. The same stove heated the house. The winters were harsh and long, and finally I realized why I hated cold weather so much. No centralized heating and no air-conditioning at all. His laundry was hung on clotheslines; water for bathing was heated on the cooking stove, and others in his family reused the hot water until it became tepid and dark with grime and dirt. I turned sixteen the day I experienced Josh Randall's earliest memory, completing his history in reverse order, and thanked fate that I was living in better times. I started my sophomore year in high school the day after my birthday. ------- "Grace to Brent, come in please," Grace said. "Sorry," I grumbled. I'd been reviewing my life as Josh Randall trying to figure a way to use his life experiences to enhance my life as Brent Carson. "Doing a little woolgathering, huh?" Grace said. "Yeah. I was just thinking that we have a lot of reasons to be thankful. Life is a lot easier now than it was in the early 1900s." She laughed. "Instead of Brent I should call you Bent. You have the weirdest thoughts, little brother." "How's your writing coming along?" "Okay." She twisted her pretty face into a grimace. "That's a lie. Writing is hard, really frustrating. Sometimes I just want to give up." "I read a novel last week, one I checked out of the library. Terry recommended the author to me. James Lee Burke. Have you read any of his novels?" "No." "Check him out. His dialogue is crisp, his narrative lively, and his characters come alive on the page. Spend a few weeks copying his writing style, assimilate what works into your own style, and you'll be a better writer because of it." "Is that what you do with your art?" "No." "What do you do?" "I look at the beauty in the world around me, let my mind wander from the large to the small, turning what I see into composition, color, form and texture, and then try to capture my mind's eye vision on canvas." I chuckled. "It's hard, really frustrating. Sometimes I just want to give up." "Touché," she said and laughed as she pulled the car to the curb. Grace was driving us to school, a rare event with only two vehicles in our family. She stopped at the curb to pick up her friend, Kate. I slipped out of the car and held the door for the girl, greeted her, and grinned when she flashed a lot of leg as she clamored into the vehicle. I moved into the back seat. Kate was a pretty girl, slim, almost too thin. She had a long, classically beautiful face, and she wore her auburn hair softly curled at a medium length. Like Grace, this would be Kate's last year in high school. The two girls were close friends. "Guess who called me last night?" Kate said to Grace. Grace giggled, moving into girl-talk mode. "I don't know. Who?" "Hank Sharp. Ooh, he's a hunk. He asked me..." I tuned them out and returned to my silent investigation of Josh Randall's life. Surely I could use some of his life experiences to my advantage, some of his talents, some of the knowledge he'd accumulated during his short life. I made a small mental list. He was an exceptional bare-knuckle street fighter. That might hold me in good stead if one of the school bullies assaulted me. I grinned with that thought. He had a green thumb. Instead of being a miner, he should have pursued farming as a career. Everything he planted grew like a weed, and like most skills, his gardening was based on knowledge he'd picked up along the way. Mom had a uncultivated garden patch at the rear of our property. Some organic vegetables would taste good this winter, and Phoenix had a fall growing season as well as one in the spring. Nothing but cacti and native desert plants thrived in the Arizona summers, though. Randall could chop wood. I needed more and different kinds of exercise, and we had a wood-burning fireplace in the family room, as well as a fire pit in the backyard. Maybe I could talk Billy into borrowing his father's pickup truck, and we'd take a daytrip to the mountains and bring in a few cords of wood, which I'd later reduce to the proper size for the fireplace and fire pit to burn during the winter months. Randall also enjoyed hunting and fishing, sports I hadn't tried, but he didn't hunt or fish for sport. He killed animals and jerked fish out of streams to feed his family better than his meager wages would otherwise allow. I'd let his hunting skills rest with him in his grave, but decided to try my hand at fishing. In her youth, Jane did some fishing in the Louisiana bayous, once again for food, not sport. Mom loved fish; Dad preferred beef but would eat fish, mostly shellfish, though. Still, I'd get a kick out of putting some fresh fish on our dinner table. Fishing required fishing poles, reels, lures... a boat. I'd done some boating on Lake Pleasant, some water skiing. A boat would be good. Like a car of my own. I needed money. I focused my attention on Grace and Kate. Their conversation hadn't changed much since I tuned them out. Their topic: boys. With an inward chuckle, I said, "Grace, after school will you drive me to some art galleries in Scottsdale?" "I can't. I have... how about tomorrow?" "I'll call Terry. Maybe..." "No! I'll do it. I want to do it, Brent. It's just that..." "Tomorrow will be fine, Grace." ------- That afternoon, Terry and I were fucking on her couch. With Grace busy, Terry begged off the last hour of her shift at the art store and picked me up at school. We'd driven directly to her apartment for some afternoon loving. Just before we were ready to climax, the door opened and Terry's roommate, Nora, walked into the room. Terry was riding me, and she didn't miss a stroke. "Don't stop. Don't stop," she said. "Coming..." I watched Terry's eyes. They were fixed on her roommate, I assumed. I couldn't see Nora. She was behind me. "Coming..." Terry repeated and her eyes rolled back in her head when her body shuddered in orgasm. Her fluttering cunt took me over the edge. I spurted my viscous offering when exquisite sensations briefly removed me from the here and now. I bellowed with pleasure, reared back and thrust forward while jerking her spastic cunt down around my shaft with my hands on her hips as another jet of semen squirted. I ejaculated two more times before I collapsed, but Terry was still moving on me, so I marshaled my sapped strength and stayed with her until she experienced her last pulse of pleasure with a heartfelt sigh. A few seconds later, Terry kissed me and said, "Nora's home." "I noticed." Terry looked over the end of the sofa. "She's also playing with her pussy." I chuckled. "That's something I'd like to see." "That can be arranged," Nora said as she walked around the end of the sofa and came into my view. She hadn't removed any clothing. She'd merely raised her skirt and pushed her hand under her panties. Her busy fingers didn't falter as she walked. "Nora has a difficult time coming with a man," Terry said. "I think you should eat her, and then fuck her." From Terry's comment, I figured that Nora's unscheduled arrival had not been the accident I'd initially presumed. Nora was a pretty girl, petite, barely five feet, not more than a hundred pounds, with a cute figure. Dark hair and eyes, a button nose. I guessed her age at twenty-five. Later, I discovered I'd guessed wrong. She was twenty, a year younger than Terry. "Would you like that, Nora?" I asked. "Would you like me to eat you, and then fuck you?" She nodded, her fingers still busy under her black, lacy panties. "Let's take this to my bed," Terry said and lifted herself off my still-hard cock. It glistened with her fluids and mine. Nora fixed her eyes on the shiny shaft. She licked her lips. "Would you like to clean it with your mouth, Nora?" I asked. She nodded again, looked up from my cock to my eyes, and then shifted her lusty gaze to Terry. I saw Terry nod, and Nora dropped to her knees and took my cock in her hand. Her tongue lapped around the crown as if it were a Popsicle. "Can you taste Terry's juices as well as mine?" I asked. She groaned and nodded, sucking half my length into her small mouth. That answered the silent question in my mind. Terry and Nora were bisexual lovers. Nora pulled her mouth off my cock, and her tongue licked up all the juices on the shaft. "Do you like the way I taste." "Yes," she said. "Terry will taste the same way. I want you to eat her while I fuck you." Nora smiled. "I'd like that." I didn't notice that Nora had any problems climaxing with a man. Of course, I made sure she had an orgasm. As I fucked her from behind while she was lapping up a come cocktail — stirred, not shaken — from Terry's cunt, I used my fingers to fondle her clitoris. The three of us climaxed simultaneously. A half-hour later, we explored some other sexy combinations and permutations available for three participants. Fun. As Jane, I'd had sex with two men one time, and with another woman and a man quite a few times. Looking back, I think sex with Terry and Nora was the best threesome I'd experience in both lives. Three lives, if I counted Randall's, but I couldn't count that life. Randall wasn't lucky enough to climb into a bed with two sexy women. Not that he considered himself unlucky. He loved his wife passionately. I also looked forward to some alone times with Nora. She was a lively, happy tart, and with her petite size, I hit bottom, an event that rarely happened with Terry. ------- The first gallery owner I spoke with looked at me like I had two heads and told me to go away without looking at my portfolio. I didn't have much more luck at the second gallery, but the manager was at least polite and took ten seconds to flip through the photographs of my paintings before sending me on my way. I'd taken the photos in my portfolio with a digital camera. They weren't very professional. The lighting was wrong, producing glare in places, eroding the quality of the paintings I was trying to present with the photographs. The third gallery owner studied the photographs. I apologized for their quality, telling him he needed to see the actual paintings to appreciate them. He shook his head and said, "They don't fit this gallery. Did you see any large paintings displayed as you walked back to my office?" "No." I reached for my portfolio. "I'm sorry I wasted your time. I should have been more observant." "Whoa!" he said. "I have another gallery opening in early December located at the south end of downtown Phoenix. It's an old warehouse and tortilla factory I'm renovating to change its use. The gallery spaces are voluminous. Your work might fit that gallery. Of course, I'll need to see the actual paintings before I can make any commitments, and if I'm interested, I stress if, I'll want to deal with your parents for any contractual relationship, not you. How old are you, young man?" "Sixteen." Going on a hundred and two, I thought. "That's what I thought. When may I see the paintings?" "Tonight, tomorrow, whenever. I get out of school at four o'clock. Will you want one of my parents present?" He smiled. "That would be best. Let's do it tomorrow about five-thirty." I agreed and gave him my address. That evening, my father promised to leave his office early the next day, and Mom wanted to meet Gary Frazier, the gallery owner, and said that she'd make arrangements to be there, too. What's more, Mom had some ideas on how my paintings should be presented. "That studio doesn't do your paintings justice, Brent," she said. "Its size forces an observer to stand too close to the paintings. I'll clear that wall..." She pointed. "... and we'll hang the large painting there. We'll hang another over the fireplace mantel, and two more on that wall." She pointed again. "Hang one in the entry," Grace said. My sister had gotten into the spirit of the event on the drive back to our house from the gallery. "For impact," she added, "we should hang all the paintings in the entry and the family room. Grouping them makes a larger statement." Later, I corralled Dad for a private conversation. "Do you know how galleries and artists work together?" I asked. "Not really, but I'd guess that a gallery shows an artist's paintings and takes a cut from any resulting sales." "That's essentially correct, but the details count. For example, the percentage of gross sales a gallery takes varies. This will be my first show, so..." "If Frazier agrees to show your paintings," Dad said, interrupting me. I smiled. My dad had doubts. I wasn't concerned. He'd come around. I said, "Frazier will hem and haw and appear reluctant, but in the end, he'll do it." Dad huffed a laugh. "A negotiating ploy, huh?" "Yep." "I know about negotiating," he said. "I know you do. Here's what I want. I want fifty percent of gross sales. I want the gallery to pay for the frames. I want the gallery to pay for the professional photography needed for brochures and other marketing material, and the gallery should pay for the brochures. I want a say in how the paintings are framed, and how and where they're hung for the show. That's what I want. I won't get it. This is my first show. He'll ask for a sixty/forty split, sixty to the gallery. Hang tough on that one. He'll bend to the fifty/fifty. He'll want me to pay for the framing. Bend on that one if you must, but be prepared to front the money for the frames. I'll pay you back out of my cut from the sales. Hang tough on the photography, but if you have to, agree to split that cost, but in that instance, I'll want ten color prints of each photograph for my future use. In the end, I'll back away from interfering with where and how the paintings are hung. I gave you those 'wants' to use in the negotiations." "Got it," he said, warming to the subject. "Now let's talk about pricing. Pricing is critical. If the paintings are priced too low, they won't sell. If the paintings are too cheap, buyers will think there are underlying negative reasons for the low price, and they'll walk away without buying. If the paintings are priced too high, they won't sell. Buyers are astute. They understand value and won't shell out their money if the value isn't there. Ask Mr. Frazier for his opinion regarding a price range. His response will tell us a lot, mostly about the quality of his buyer list. I see nine of the paintings averaging $5,000 each, and the largest should sell for $10,000. Also, if the show doesn't sell out and only one or two paintings remain unsold, the price on those paintings should increase, not decrease." Dad looked a little shocked. "That means you'll net $27,500." "No. Remember, I'll be paying for the frames and half the cost of the photography. I'll net around $25,000. Next item: exclusivity. If he asks for it, that's good, but don't give it away except for Phoenix. Exclusivity beyond Phoenix is possible but... let's do this. If he asks for exclusive rights, I'll jump into the negotiations." "All right. Son, how do you know all this?" I grinned. "The Internet." And my life as Jane Wilson. "Oh," he said. ------- Gary Frazier did indeed hem and haw, but he made a low-ball offer. Dad, bless his greedy nature and negotiating skill, laughed at him, and in the end, did better than I expected. The split leveled off at fifty/fifty. I paid for the frames and any prints of the professional photographs of my work I wanted for my portfolio. I promised to keep my nose out of where and how my paintings were hung. We accepted Frazier's pricing without negotiating. The nine paintings would average $6,000 each, and Frazier planned to put a $12,000 price tag on the largest painting. He knew his buyer list better than I. Then we hit our first snag. "The opening is scheduled for December 10th," Frazier said. "That's a Friday. I'll be showing the work of two other artists in the same show." My heart sunk. I'd counted on a one-man show. "I don't like that," I said. "I might wait and work with a gallery who will present a one-man show for me." Frazier laughed. "If you could see my new gallery, you'd know that's not possible. I'll have 10,000 square feet of gallery space alone, not counting office, storage, and space for other backroom activities. I'd need twenty-five to thirty paintings from you to do a one-man show." "Is this a deal-breaker, Brent?" Dad asked. "I don't know. I do know that before I decide, I'll want to take a gander at your new gallery, Mr. Frazier. Regardless, although we backed off having a say about where my paintings will be hung for the show, I want those rights restored." Frazier didn't look happy. Had he planned to hang the other artists' paintings to my detriment? Or was he still negotiating. "May I see representative paintings of the other two artists?" I asked. "Yes. I've shown both artists before." "In your present gallery?" "Yes." "So, size-wise, the other two artists will be showing small paintings?" "Compared to yours, yes." I grinned and looked at my father. "No problem, Dad. Let's proceed." Frazier laughed. "You figured it out, didn't you?" "Yep," I said. "What?" Dad said. "Tell him," Frazier said. "My paintings will be showcased. Mr. Frazier needs me as much as I need him. A 'voluminous' gallery, to use Mr. Frazier's description of his new facility, needs large pieces of art filling the space. My paintings will lend the drama such a gallery demands. Hundreds of small oil or watercolor paintings would work, depending on his buyer list, but the opening will be more successful if he showcases my work. We don't need to worry that my paintings will be stuck in an out-of-the-way corner." I turned to Frazier. "Do you have anything to add?" He smiled. "You said it all, and said it well. One item remains open and needs to be discussed. I want exclusive rights for future shows displaying your work." "No problem," I said. "You can have it for the Phoenix area." He frowned. "That's not my definition of exclusive rights, young man." "Name the other galleries in your network," I said. "That isn't my definition, either." I looked at my father. "This is a deal-breaker, Dad. Mr. Frazier wants to ride my coattails for every show I'll ever have anywhere in the world." "That's crazy!" Dad huffed. I looked back at Frazier. "Name the galleries currently in your network. Name them now, Mr. Frazier, or we walk." He said nothing. I said nothing. Dad understood what was happening. Did my mother? The first person to speak lost. Frazier lost. He named five galleries. They were located in San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Denver and Santa Fe. "Will you work with me to set up one-man shows in those galleries over the next two years?" I said. "Yes," Frazier replied. "I won't accept less than a fifty/fifty split, and the contract must contain a performance clause. I won't be shackled in those cities with galleries that don't perform," I said. "I understand." "All right. I'll give you exclusive rights for the Phoenix area and the five cities you named. Do we have a deal?" "Yes. I'll prepare the contract and message it to your father by the end of the week." Thanks for the memories, Jane, I thought as I looked to the heavens. ------- I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but Dad and Mom had left their bedroom door slightly ajar, and as I approached their room, I heard their voices. They were talking about me. "Brent confounds me, Paul," Mom said. "He's sixteen years old and has the maturity of a professional man in his mid-thirties." Dad chuckled. "It looks like a career or money won't be a worry, either. In a year or two, he'll be netting as much or more from his art than I make at my job. What amazed me was how easily he handled Frazier. The night before last, he told me exactly how the negotiations would proceed. It's as if he wrote the script for a one-act play and each of us present played a part. Amazing!" "Amazing, yes, but also frightening," Mom said. "I've known smart boys, geeks with IQs in the stratosphere. You have, too, but although Brent's IQ is above average, it isn't that high, and he's certainly not a geek. He has a twenty-one-year-old girlfriend for crissake, and she's no wallflower, either. She's what you call a babe. He's fucking her, too." Jeez, Mom, watch your language. I grinned. "Are you certain about that?" Dad said. "I asked him point blank if he was having sex with her." "What did he say?" "Nothing." Dad groaned. "Yeah, he's fucking her." "What should we do about him, if anything?" Mom asked. "Besides this older girlfriend, is he doing anything that would hurt him or us or his future?" "Not that I know about. Dammit! He's a good boy, Paul. He studies and gets good grades, not great grades, but... ah, hell. I'll be surprised if he goes to college. Why should he? He'll be a famous artist by then." Wrong, Mom, I thought. I'm going to college. I stifled a snicker. If only to sample the goodies of some college girls. "From all indications," Mom said, "he's not into booze or drugs, and he hasn't taken up that nasty cigarette habit it took you so long to shake. He treats me with respect, sometimes with tongue in cheek, but you know what I mean. He honors you, too. His big sister thinks he walks on water, and she's as baffled by his maturity as we are." "Then other than his girlfriend there's nothing for us to do," Dad said. "Do you want me to talk to him about the girl? Or better yet, talk to the girl? What she's doing is against the law." Don't do it, Dad, I thought. If you do, I'll turn you everywhere but loose. "As crazy as it sounds, Paul, I don't think she seduced him. He's the dominant half of that pair." "After watching him handle Frazier last night, that doesn't surprise me. You didn't answer my question." "Talk to him. If she isn't pushing him where he shouldn't be going, let's leave well enough alone, but we'll need to monitor the situation carefully. He might be the most mature sixteen-year-old boy on the planet, but he still needs our support and guidance, and most of all our love." "Sounds like a plan," Dad said. He chuckled. "He's fucking her, huh?" Mom laughed. "Yeah, and Brent fucking that babe has given you ideas, I notice." "Hmm, that's nice, baby. How about taking off that nightgown?" I slipped silently away. A voyeur I'm not, at least as far as my parents are concerned. Watching Terry and Nora is something else again, though. ------- Billy thought I was crazy when I wanted to bring in a load of wood from the mountains, and I knew no one else with access to a pickup truck, so I gave up that idea. I also gave up on Billy. We no longer had anything in common. Deep down, I knew he felt the same way. No words were spoken, but we stopped hanging out together. I did plant a fall garden. The white flies ate everything that came up from the ground. Mom laughed. "Organic, huh? To hell with organic. Try this." The insecticide did its job, and it wasn't long before we had some vegetables from the garden on our table. I put off fishing until I had my own boat, and by using tried-and-true methods to avoid altercations with bullies, I had no occasion to test my Josh Randall inherited street-fighting ability, which I figured was just as well. I suspected Randall's success in brawls came more from his massive size than his street-fighting talent. I'd never attain his prodigious bulk. I did grow another inch, taking me to six feet, which pleased me. I had a couple more growth spurts in me, I figured. Maybe I'd reach Dad's height yet. I went to school. I painted. I had sex with Terry and Nora. The weeks slipped by. September and October came and went. Nora left to visit her parents in Minnesota for Thanksgiving. She didn't come back. An old boyfriend asked her to marry him. She said yes. Terry was more upset than I, mostly because she had to find a new roommate for the apartment. She couldn't afford the rent by herself. I didn't offer to help her. I couldn't. I had no money. My having money was just around the corner, though. December 10th was a week away, and although Terry was submissive sexually, she was no dummy. She was also halfway in love with me, and the veiled suggestions and hints for me to help her with the rent came one after the other until finally I said, "Terry, find a roommate or a cheaper apartment. I can't pay half your rent, and not because I won't have the money. I'm sixteen years old. You're twenty-one. We get away with what we're doing because I drop in here three or four times a week, and I never stay overnight, so we don't attract any attention. That can't change." The tears flowed — hers. I understood. Jane was quick to cry, too. "You don't love me," Terry said between sobs. "Sure I do, but..." "Yeah, but! There will always be buts. Right?" I could've lied to her. I didn't. "Probably. After I finish high school, there's college, and..." "College! You're going to college? Why?" Jane Wilson's biggest problem in life had been her lack of education. Agents, gallery owners, investment advisors, and garden-variety conmen took advantage of her fiscal ignorance. Besides sampling the goodies of a few college girls, I wanted a college education so I could manage my money better than Jane did. "Because an educated person has a better chance for a good life," I said simply. She twisted out of my arms, turning her back to me. "You've just been using me." "We've been using each other, Terry. There was never a future for us." I took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me. "Admit it." She looked up at me with the saddest expression I'd ever seen, but she nodded. "You're right, but..." She shuddered and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her mascara. "Okay, I'll find a new roommate, but hear this, Brent Carson. I'm going to start dating other men, too. I get offers, you know." I nodded but remained silent otherwise. "Won't it bother you if I go out with other men?" I said nothing. "I won't just date them. I'll fuck them, too." I said nothing. Sudden anger replaced the sadness in her eyes. She slapped my face. The Jane in me wanted to respond physically. The male in me didn't allow me to strike a woman. I turned and left the apartment. I was two blocks away when Terry pulled her car to the curb. The passenger-side window was down. "Get in, Brent. I'll drive you home." I had a five-mile walk ahead of me. I got in. A mile down the road, she said, "Are we finished?" "Yes," I said simply. "Just like that?" "No. I'm devastated, Terry. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I have. We had no future as lovers, but I cherished our friendship. For your sake and mine, we need to make a clean break. Right now, not tomorrow or the next day. Because a break is inevitable, we shouldn't put it off." "I'm sorry I slapped you." "I know." "What about your show?" "I'll instruct Frazier to send you two invitations, one for you and one for your guest. I painted some watercolor landscapes to give loved ones for Christmas gifts. I'll give you yours now." She pulled to the curb. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was valiantly trying to control her sobs, swallowing them one after the other. "You drive. I can't," she said. She curled up against the passenger door and cried during the drive to my house. She stayed in the car while I went inside to get her Christmas gift. When I stepped outside to give it to her, she was gone. I prepared the painting for shipping, and Grace drove me to the UPS store. Later that evening, Terry called me. "I want to be friends," she said as a greeting. "That is my fondest wish," I said. "That can't happen until I've found another lover." "I believe that's the only way." "I want the watercolor painting. I'll pick it up..." "I put it in UPS this afternoon. You should receive it tomorrow or the next day." "Oh. Okay. I don't have a gift for you, not yet, but..." "Your friendship will be the best gift you can give me, Terry." "I want to be your date for the opening. We can go as friends." She hadn't given up, wouldn't for a while. I knew this would happen. She loved me. She wouldn't give up without a fight, and a female fought through manipulation. As Jane, I'd perfected manipulation to an art form. "I asked Grace to be my date for the opening," I said. "She accepted." "Oh." She sniffed. "Goodbye, Terry. I'll see you at the opening." She couldn't control the sob that overwhelmed her. I pushed the end button on my cell phone. ------- Sunrise brought my mother outside to talk with me again. I'd painted all night and finished my laps in the pool. A towel wrapped my waist. "Good morning, Mom. It's a beautiful day." She grumped but smiled as she sat at the patio table with me and blew air over the rim of her coffee mug. "You surprise me," she said. "I thought I might find a morose young man, but you seem chipper." I snickered. "Yes, I asked Grace to be my date for the opening. Yes, I broke up with Terry. I'm not morose but I am upset. Terry wanted more from me than I was willing to give, so I ended our relationship." "What did she want that you wouldn't give?" I said nothing. "What about Nora?" "She's in Minnesota. She's engaged." "And that doesn't bother you either?" "No, I congratulated her and wished her every happiness." "Did you learn anything from these relationships?" "Yep." "What?" I said nothing. "Will your next girlfriend be closer to your age?" she asked. "Probably not. Girls my age are... too young for me right now. That'll change as I get older. When I'm twenty, a twenty-year-old woman will probably work for me. For what its worth, Terry hasn't given up on me completely, so I anticipate a few more problems. Still, I'm determined to make a clean break now." I huffed a cynical laugh. "Can you imagine the wailing and gnashing of teeth if she were sixteen?" Mom hooted with laughter. "Okay, I get the picture. If you scare up another 'older' girlfriend before the opening, don't even consider telling Grace she can't be your date for the event." I frowned. "I wouldn't do that to Grace, Mom." The anger in my voice surprised her. "Sorry," she said, and from her tone voice I gathered she meant it. "Are you aware that Grace wants to be writer?" I asked. "No." She frowned. Mom prided herself on knowing everything about her children. I'd just surprised her, and she didn't like it. I said, "My talent as an artist disturbed her, made her feel average. Grace isn't average. There's nothing average about my big sister. She's a reader. She's well spoken. I suggested that she could be a writer if she worked at it. She's been writing everyday. That's good. That's how any art form is perfected, by working at it, but expert instruction can shortcut the learning process. High schools, even colleges, can't teach anyone how to become a writer, so she'll soon come to you or Dad for support with her lifetime goal. Find someone who can teach her the tools of a writer, who can critique her work and point her in the right directions. Don't jump in now. She'll know when she can't move forward on her own, and that's when she'll come to you. Someday, your children will make you proud, Mom: a best-selling author and a famous artist, pretty good boasting material, I'd say." She said nothing. She did shake her head, which I took to mean that I'd confounded her yet again, so I decided to up the ante. I said, "On another subject, as a professional artist, I must present an individual, distinctive look. It's a marketing tool, and because of my age, I'll need every advantage I can think of. I've studied men's fashions on the Internet and various magazines like GQ. I'm tall and slim with a dark complexion, so my face and body are ideal for the look I want to achieve, but I'll need to have my hair styled. My new clothes will be basically black with splashes of strong color. I'm not talking outlandish, Mom. I'm talking style with a capital S, and style costs money. Will you and Dad front me a couple thousand dollars so I can achieve the look I want for the show and start building my wardrobe accordingly?" She looked as if I'd driven a nail into her skull, which made me laugh. With another shake of her head, she laughed with me. "I'll talk with your father, but go ahead and make your hair appointment." "Thanks, Mom. You and Dad, you're great. I consider myself very fortunate indeed to have you as parents." She grinned and said, "We love you, too." I stood up. "I've gotta grab a shower or I'll be late for school." At the door, I turned back to my mother. "Grace will need a new cocktail dress for the opening." "I know that, you little whippersnapper. Jeez!" With a smirk, I said, "Sorry." ------- Chapter 3 "Grace," I said, "you will make every other woman at the opening green with envy. That dress is stunning, but what it packages makes the dress, not the other way around." She blushed, but just under the flush or her embarrassment, I could see that my words had thrilled her. What made it easy was the fact that I hadn't exaggerated at all. "And Mom, if you looked any more alluring, Dad would need to carry a stick to beat off the men that would crowd around you instead of my paintings." Mom beamed. "Paul, listen to your son and learn. He knows how to compliment a lady." "Hah!" I said. "Dad's a man of few words, but his love for you shines like a beacon. Look at him. He can't take his eyes off you, unless it's to glance at his beautiful daughter." "Boy speaks truth," Dad said ponderously, which cracked us up. With large smiles, the ladies took our arms, and Dad and I escorted them to the limo waiting at the curb in front of our house — Dad's contribution to the cause. One of many. Inside the limo, Mom said, "I like your new look, Brent. It ages you slightly. You look eighteen, not sixteen." The beautician had given me a razor cut that looked wild, but framed my long face perfectly, giving me a mysterious appearance, like I kept secrets. I'd clipped a picture from a magazine to give her an idea of what I wanted. She did a good job of it. My trousers were black linen. The black shoes were Bally loafers. Thin black dress socks. A thin, black leather belt. My shirt was bright red, knit, cut like a t-shirt but with a slight v-neck. I wore a Kenneth Cole black three-button leather dress jacket, with a red silk handkerchief in the pocket. I'd raised the lapel at the back of my neck. I looked good, and I knew it, which was important for an artist at an opening. "Thank you," I said as I watched Dad push the cork out of a bottle of champagne. "You're both too young, but one glass won't hurt you," Dad said as he poured the bubbly into the flute Mom held in her hand. She handed the glass to Grace, and Dad continued pouring until we all had our drinks. "A toast," Dad said. "To the ladies first, Brent. Sweet Rose, you were my first love, and my last, and I've never loved you more than I do tonight. Grace, tonight you fit your name. You are grace and beauty, and I'm very proud of you and love you more than you'll ever know." "Man speaks truth," I said ponderously. Grace choked. It's difficult to drink champagne when you're laughing. "To you, Brent," Dad said. "You are my son, and I love you, but you confuse me. I've decided that that's a good thing. You confuse me because your maturity approaches mine. You're just sixteen, but you create astonishing paintings superior to artists who have labored at their craft for many, many years. But my toast isn't about how mature you are or how great you are as an artist. I toast you, Brent Carson, because you are a good man." "Man of few words like hell," Mom said. "Paul, that was beautiful but I want to add good luck for your show tonight, Brent. May all your paintings sell. As hard as you've worked, including many all-nighters, you deserve all the success I'm certain you'll achieve." She started to take a drink but stopped. "Oh, and I love you, too." "I wanna make a toast," Grace said after drinking to Mom's, "but I'm out of champagne." "That can be remedied," Dad said and poured a little more champagne in Grace's glass and mine, and then filled Mom's and his. Grace raised her glass and said, "To Brent, who more often than not ends up being more like my big brother than the little brother he is. I'm not sure how you do everything you do, Brent, but you never cease to amaze me. I might add that you look very dashing tonight." She paused. "Oh, and I love you, too. You, too, Mom and Dad." A happy bunch spilled out of the limo when it stopped in front of the gallery. ------- I've mentioned the importance of a buyer list to the success of any art opening. The buyer list is a gallery owner's lifeblood, but a competent gallery owner can't rely strictly on his buyer list. Non-buyers are invited, some related to the business of art, like art critics, but some merely because an art opening is also a social event. As we entered the gallery, I heard live music filling the cavernous space. The music was background sound, in this instance a string quartet with a piano. I saw pretty waitresses dressed in finery circulating and offering wine and hors d'oeuvres to the guests. "Are we late?" Dad asked when he noticed a number of small groups standing and talking in different areas in the gallery. "No, we're early," I said. "You're looking at the pre-opening guests, Frazier's serious buyers, for the most part. The bulk of the business end of this opening took place before we arrived. Now it's party time. But not for me. It's time for me to go to work, to take center stage, so to speak, and talk about my art with the buyers and critics and other guests. We can't leave out the other guests. Non-buying guests occasionally become buyers. "It's a staged affair, Dad. First I've gotta impress the buyers, especially those who purchased one of my paintings, and then Frazier will introduce me to a critic or two. Finally, close to the end of the evening I can relax and briefly join the party like all the other guests." I patted Grace's hand. "I hope my repetitive hyperbole doesn't bore you because it would be best if you stayed on my arm or nearby most of the time." She nodded. I didn't truly need her by my side, but she was so stunningly beautiful that I worried about smooth predatory males turning her head and taking advantage of her naivety. Not that my sister was overly naïve, but the world of art at this level drew men with money and power, and men with money and power used both to get what they wanted. If these men had eyes in their heads, and they did, they'd want Grace. Frazier noticed us and broke away from the group he was with. He hurried to us with a large smile on his face, a good omen, I hoped. "Brent, I'm glad you're a little early," he said and extended his hand. I shook it, and when I started to end the handshake, he held on and added, "I've put sold stickers on seven of your paintings, and I'm certain the remaining three will be purchased before the evening ends. Congratulations, young man!" He shook my hand with both of his. "Come. I want to introduce you to around. You look good, by the way, very... ah, arty." He laughed. That's when he noticed Grace. "And, Grace, you are... well, you're simply gorgeous." He laughed again. "This is going to be fun. The two of you will be a bigger hit than your paintings, Brent." I talked about micro-landscapes, color, form, composition, texture, balance, all the tenets of my art, until I was blue in the face. I grew tired of my repetitious narratives before Grace, but my flowery hyperbole convinced three other buyers to part with their money. Early in the evening, Terry arrived with her guest, a woman named Vicki, Terry's new roommate and lover, Terry whispered in my ear after leaning to kiss my cheek. "Call me," she said in parting. I was pleased that she hadn't been more demanding than the brief greeting she'd given me. Perhaps our friendship could be saved and fostered. I altered that opinion later when I suddenly found myself standing alone. One of the predator males I wanted Grace to avoid had captured her attention, and they were talking quietly in the far corner of the room. Almost as suddenly as I'd found myself alone, Terry stepped in front of me. "Hi, handsome," she said. I grinned. "Hello, friend." "Congratulations. I noticed the sold stickers on your paintings. You sold out!" I nodded. She glanced toward her new roommate who was standing with a group looking at one of my paintings. "She's beautiful, isn't she? I told her about you. She wouldn't say no if you joined us for a naughty evening." Vicki was indeed beautiful, and to say I wasn't tempted would've been a lie, but as I'd predicted, Terry hadn't given up on me. She was using Vicki as bait. "Terry, that gentleman in the navy suit standing over there with two women is a gallery owner from San Diego. One of the women with him is a gallery owner from San Francisco. Both want to show my work. Frazier wants to do another show for me next December, and galleries in Denver, Los Angeles, and Santa Fe have expressed interest in presenting one-man shows for me. I'm buried in work, and I can't neglect my education. Socializing must take fourth place to work, school and sleep. I can be your friend, but I don't and won't have the time a heavy relationship requires." Anger briefly flared in her pretty eyes, anger that quickly changed to disappointment. "Terry!" Grace said, returning to me. "It's good to see you again. How have you been? Have you noticed that all of my little brother's paintings sold?" Terry nodded. Grace took her by the arm. "I have someone I want you to meet. Like you, he's an art lover. In fact, he purchased one of Brent's paintings." As Grace dragged Terry away, Terry turned her head and mouthed, "Call me." After Grace made the introductions, she quickly extricated herself and came back to me. "Thanks, big sister. I owe you," I said. Grace laughed. "Yes you do. That girl is not about to give up on you, Brent." "Argh." ------- I met Sherry Crane while Grace was across the room talking with another predator male. I'd stopped worrying about my big sister. After a few whispered comments, Grace told me in no uncertain terms that she could take care of herself. After that conversation, I watched her, and she appeared to hold her own with the powerful, rich men who hit on her. "Brent," Grace said, "I try to ignore the charm, the flash, and look underneath for the real man, but if I raise my eyebrows at you, please come running to help me escape anyone who refuses to accept no as an answer." "That works for me," I said. So Grace was testing her alluring feminine appeal with predator males while I stood in front of a beautiful woman who'd just introduced herself as Sherry Crane. If Grace had a rival at the opening, Sherry would be that woman. She was tall and slim, wore a slinky black gown held aloft with what looked like a diamond-studded necklace. A matching bracelet wrapped her feminine wrist. Her soft shoulders were bare, and the gown plunged at the back. The elegant silkiness of the garment offered hints of an incredible body underneath — a naked body, I figured, because I could see no evidence of a bra or panties under the dress. She wore her black hair long. It was sleek and luxurious, styled a little like mine, giving her a wild, dangerous look. A panther came to mind. Her dark eyes glinted like the necklace that held up her dress. A compulsion to kiss her shoulders nearly overwhelmed me. The urge also surprised me. I'd never considered shoulders as replacements for kissable lips, but then there wasn't any part of Sherry Crane that wasn't utterly alluring. I tried and failed to guess her age because I couldn't decide whether she was in her early or late twenties. When she introduced herself, her sultry voice captivated me almost as much as her soft shoulders. "Your work presents a degree of maturity that doesn't conform to your youth, Mr. Carson," she said. "I have this urge — it's almost a compulsion — to rain kisses down your long neck and over your soft shoulders," I said quietly, my eyes never leaving hers. Her eyes widened, and then she smiled, and her smile took away her dangerous, wild look. "Young man, that gorgeous young woman you're with should have you on a leash. You're dangerous." I laughed. "Thank you — I think. That stunningly beautiful, young woman I'm with is my sister, and if anyone should be on a leash, it's she. The predator males in this place keep trying to steal her away from me." Sherry glanced at Grace. "If I were a male, I'd whisk her away and hold her close." Her sparkling dark eyes returned to mine, and she looked dangerous and wild again. "But I'm not a man." "That's the understatement of the evening. I didn't believe any woman at the opening could possibly rival my sister's beauty and grace. I was mistaken." Sherry frowned and shook her head. "You can't be the teenager written about in the printed hype for this show." A distinguished man joined us. Was he Sherry's date? Husband? Lover? Her father was a possibility. He was old enough to be her father. "There you are, Sherry," he said, his voice deep and commanding. He nodded at me. "Uncle Harry, have you met this remarkable young artist?" Sherry asked. "I have not," Harry said. Dr. Harry Crane was not only Sherry's uncle, he was also an art critic who wrote a weekly column for the Arizona Republic & Gazette. What's more, he was also a professor of art history at Arizona State University. Sherry didn't tell me all this when she introduced him. As soon as I heard his name, I recognized him. I read his column every week. "And this young man is Brent Carson," Sherry said to her uncle. "He painted the large acrylics showcased at the opening tonight." "Which I haven't had a chance to see. Frazier corralled me when we arrived, as you know. Join us, Mr. Carson, and tell us about your work while I take a look at your paintings." "All right," I said. We turned to the painting hanging at our right. "My work appears non-objective, but it's not. I paint micro-landscapes." I described each painting as we stepped from one to the other. Crane didn't comment, nod or shake his head, and my descriptions became terse with less hyperbole. When we finished the tour of my work, I didn't know whether he liked or detested what he saw. "Humph," he muttered. "Thank you, young man. Excuse me, please. Two other artists at this show expect my attention, I suspect." With that, he walked away with Sherry on his arm. Frazier sidled up to me. "What did Dr. Crane say?" he asked. "Not one word." "Really?" "Not a word. That is a frustrating man." Frazier laughed. "He's that. We'll know what he thinks on Sunday morning when his column hits the newsstands." "What do you know about his niece?" I asked. "Sherry?" "Yes." "Be careful with that one, Brent. She's a piranha. She chews up young artists, spits out their bare bones, and moves on to her next meal." I laughed. "If she wants me for dinner, I might let her munch away." Frazier grimaced. "That evokes images I'd rather not have skipping through my mind. Darrell wants words with you." Darrell was the gallery owner in San Diego. "He wants to know how soon you can provide him with twelve paintings." "Twelve?" "Twelve. Ten is too few for a one-man show. Fourteen would be too many for his gallery. He also wants to talk about pricing." "All right, but find my father." I grinned. "I am, after all, a minor." "Humph, in age only." "After our success tonight, the prices for my paintings should increase fifteen to twenty percent," I said. "I agree," Frazier said. "I'll want Darrell to pay for framing and any and all photography and prints needed, also to crate and ship my paintings to San Diego for the show." Frazier shook his head. "That'll be up to Darrell." "No, Gary. You'll be getting your cut. Earn it. Get me what I want and we'll have a long and mutually beneficial business relationship. I can ship twelve acrylic paintings in two months, but the show after San Diego, wherever it is, won't take place until four months after Darrell's show. I'm switching from acrylics to oils. Oils will give me a greater range of color depth than acrylics, something I'll need with the direction I'm taking with my art. I'll be renting a studio so I can work on a dozen paintings at the same time." Frazier nodded. "I agree. Oils would be a better medium for your style of painting." "Go ahead. Find my father, and the two of you can negotiate my deal with Darrell." Prior to the show, I'd had a private conversation with my father about future shows. He, too, knew what I wanted. I'd given him a few scenarios based upon the success of my first opening. A little later, Dad found me. "You're set for San Diego near the end of February. Darrell caved on every issue." I grinned. "Good job, Dad. You're a wonder." "Thanks." He beamed. I beamed, too. My first show had exceeded my greatest expectations, and my second show was in the hopper, a one-man show this time. That Sherry Crane left without speaking to me again was the only downer of the evening. That, and Terry's attempt to rekindle our relationship, I added as a thought a few seconds later. ------- Monday evening following my show, I received a call from Sherry Crane. My mother answered the call and passed the phone to me. "Uncle Harry liked your work," she said after I said hello. "I noticed." I'd read his column early Sunday morning moments after the paperboy threw the newspaper into the bougainvillea bush in our front yard. A couple of the critic's comments were: a good command of the medium, and an artist with a vision. Sherry said, "My uncle hosts a cocktail party for local artists every year during the Christmas season. He doesn't discriminate. He invites artists he praised in his column, as well as artists he vilified. Most fall between the two extremes. Because the invitations were sent weeks ago, he asked me to call and invite you this year. The party is Saturday evening. It starts at six o'clock. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres only, so don't expect to be fed. You're welcome to bring a guest." "Tell your uncle that I'm pleased he thought of me. I'll be there, of course. I do have one request." "You do, huh? What?" "I'm too young for booze, and my soft drink of choice is root beer. I like it served in a frosted glass mug." I listened to a second or two of silence, and then she laughed gaily. "I'll pass on your request, Mr. Carson. Whether he'll comply, I won't venture a guess. Bring your sister. She and I can compete for the most male attention." "For obvious reasons, you have my vote. What's the dress for the occasion?" "Casual, but I'd suggest elegant casual so you can compete for my attention." "Are you flirting with me, Ms. Crane?" She laughed. "I guess I am. Call me Sherry." "I will if you call me Brent." "Deal. See you Saturday." I jotted down the address she gave me, and as soon as I ended the call, Mom said, "Who was that woman?" I chuckled. "Sherry Crane." "Is she the stunning woman who was hanging on that art critic's arm at the show?" "Yes." I explained the reason for Sherry's call and her relationship with Dr. Harry Crane. "Does Grace have a Saturday night date?" "Don't know. If she does, she'll cancel it. She told me she enjoyed your opening more than her junior prom. I think she's starting to prefer the life you're leading to that of a high school senior, which worries me, Brent. She's a clever, level-headed girl, but she is a girl, and some smooth-talking, unscrupulous man might turn her head." "I had the same concerns Friday night, but she comported herself with panache with a number of smooth-talking, unscrupulous men, and I finally quit worrying about her. I'll keep my eye on her, Mom." "Hah! I know where your eye will be, both of them, and they won't be on Grace. Sherry Crane makes your ex-girlfriend look plain by comparison. Dammit!" She actually stomped a foot with the curse. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "What has Brent done now?" Grace asked as she walked into the room. "You explain," Mom said to me, and left the room in a huff. I explained, and Grace said she'd cancel her date. "What's the dress?" she asked. "Elegant casual." "What does that mean?" I shrugged. "Mom will know," Grace said. "Probably." ------- Grace drove Dad's car through a cold winter rainstorm. She looked beautiful in a black sheath cocktail dress, which seem a tad above casual to me, but she claimed that the funky costume jewelry festooning her lovely, long neck and one dainty wrist turned her elegant, semi-formal cocktail dress into elegant casual. As cold as it was, I wore a black Kenneth Cole p-coat with the color turned up. Black cowboy boots replaced the loafers I wore to the opening, and bright yellow provided my splash of color. Grace said, "Sherry Cole is probably the most beautiful woman I've seen in person, little brother. Are you planning to take a run at her?" The windshield wipers swished, masking the sound of my soft laughter. "Yes," I said, "if she lets me know that's what she wants. Otherwise, no." "Do you know any of the other artists invited to the party?" "Why are you asking?" "Brent, I wouldn't be opposed to a boyfriend that was a little older than me." "Define 'a little older.'" "Twenty, twenty-one." "Grace, I think we'll be the youngest guests at the party, especially me." "Which in your case doesn't matter, not the way you are." "To answer your earlier question, I met the two artists who shared the marquee with me last Friday, and another local artist introduced himself during the show. All three exceed your age criteria by at least a decade, which will probably run true tonight, as well. At a cocktail party, I suspect that you'll have better luck eliminating potential boyfriends than trying to find one. Frankly, I don't know what to expect tonight. Cocktail parties hosted by academia are usually pretty stuffy, but most of the partygoers tonight will be artists, and artists as a group can be rowdy. Stay close until we test the prevailing mood." When I'd lived as Jane Wilson, I'd attended many cocktail parties. Few were truly interesting and entertaining. Most bored me to tears, and the worst were hosted by academia. Professors as a rule are pompous, very full of themselves, but this party, although hosted by a college professor, was a gathering of local artists, and as Jane Wilson, I'd attended artist parties that had turned into orgies. "Won't my staying close cramp your style if sexy Sherry lets you know she wouldn't mind if you took a run at her?" "Grace, sexy Sherry is most likely the hostess for this party. If she is, she'll be doing the running — running here, running there — to make sure the guests are enjoying themselves. Regardless, stay in sight. If you have any trouble, raise your pretty eyebrows, and I'll come running to you." Grace laughed, nice sounds. Sometimes I wished Grace wasn't my sister. If we weren't related, I'd be taking a run at her. ------- Sherry was indeed the hostess for the cocktail party. She and her uncle greeted us warmly. Seeing her, hearing her sexy voice, gave me a partial erection. Hey, I might be mature for my age, but physically, I'm still a sixteen-year-old boy with the hormones of adolescence raging within. Besides, Sherry Crane could give a dead man a hard-on. Sherry's revealing cocktail dress was just as formal as my sister's, and like Grace, Sherry wore jewelry that turned semi-formal into elegant casual. Sherry's jewelry wasn't the funky costume variety, though. It was silver and turquoise: a loose belt, necklace and bracelet. Not clunky American Indian designs, either, but rather very thin and feminine. Was the jewelry a gift from one of the young artists she'd chewed up until she spit out his bare bones before moving on to her next young artist meal? With that thought, the excess blood that had recently traveled south retreated from my dick. Grace and I followed our assigned guide or sub-host, Troy Crawford, into the cavernous great room in Dr. Crane's home. Dr. Crane had introduced us to Crawford. He was a graduate student in art history. Dr. Crane was his faculty advisor. Crane had told us that Crawford would introduce us to the other guests at the party. From the way Troy Crawford and my sister were looking at each other, Grace might have found her 'older' boyfriend. Her head wasn't just turned. It appeared to be spinning, and Crawford looked like he'd just met a goddess. To my mind, he had, and he'd be wise to treat her accordingly. They were, in a two words, all atwitter. Was Crawford a smooth-talking, unscrupulous male who would use my sister to get what he wanted, and then discard her to move on to his next conquest? Hmm, if Frazier were accurate with his assessment of Sherry Crane, my question could be applied in reverse to Sherry and me. Was she still chewing, or was she at the stalking stage of looking for her next meal, and would I be that meal? Perhaps she was a glutton, indiscriminately moving back and forth to savor a variety of flavors as the opportunities for a taste test arose. I understood gluttony. Given the opportunity I'd savor a variety of flavors, too. At the open bar, Crawford asked Grace what she'd like to drink, and Grace ordered a white wine. I raised an eyebrow, and she dug her elbow into my ribs. "Be nice. If you're worried, you can declare yourself our designated driver and drive us home." "Dean," Crawford said to the bartender, "this is the young artist who ordered a special drink." The bartender snickered and said, "I'll be right back." He hurried away and returned in seconds with a frosted glass mug in his hand. There must have been a freezer nearby. He opened a bottle of IBC Root Beer, my favorite, and poured the frothing liquid into the tall glass mug, leaving about two inches of foam at the top, just the way I liked it. He set the drink on the bar. "Your root beer, sir." I grinned and thanked him. "When you want another like that, you won't get it. Sherry gave me one mug, not a half-dozen. That one mug is in your hand. I can pour another cold root beer for you, but not into a frosted mug." "Got it," I said. He chuckled. "I checked out your paintings last Saturday. Not by choice. I'm an art student taking an intro to art history course, and the professor assigned a critique of the show as homework. Your work intrigued me. During a break, I'd like to talk with you about it. My name's Dean Gibson, by the way." "I'm always happy to talk about my work with another artist. Look for me on your break," I said. Crawford introduced us to the guests that had arrived before us. Some of them hadn't been told that the occasion called for elegant-casual dress. The outfits ranged from three-piece dark suits and silk ties to Levi's and tie-died t-shirts. A middle-aged, brassy woman glommed onto me. She was a sculptor, I discovered later. Agnes Porter configured her art by welding scrap metal into various forms. Her hair was frizzy and red. Freckles dotted her chubby face, and her blousy green halter-top exposed a lot of cleavage. "I took a gander at your paintings, young man," Agnes said. "I was impressed. As Dr. Crane said in his column, you have an amazing control of your media." "Thanks. I'll soon be switching to oils. I need the greater depth oils provide for the direction of my work." "And what direction might that be?" "From micro-landscapes to microscopic landscapes." "Ah, that makes sense. You started that direction with your large painting, didn't you?" "Yes." That she'd noticed surprised me, and she noted my surprise. Her laugh was like a smoker's cough, but it fit her and didn't grate on my ears. She handed me a business card. "That's my studio. Drop in anytime, and we'll talk." "All right. I'm looking for a studio. The garage at my house doesn't work for me anymore." "Where are you looking?" "South Scottsdale." "Well, hell, there's a vacant space close to mine. It's around a thousand square feet plus a loft, and it's air-conditioned, not one of those confounded swap coolers that don't work worth a shit. The jerk renting it was an artist wanna-be and couldn't cut it. He'll sublease it cheap." "Sounds perfect. I'll drop by and look at the space tomorrow." She pulled a thick address book from her purse, flipped through the pages and jotted down a name and address. "Call Chuck Cole, not me. He'll meet you and show you the space." "I'll call him. Thanks, Agnes." "Don't thank me yet. The space might not work for you." While I talked with Agnes, Crawford and Grace had strolled away from me. I looked around the room and saw them with a group in front of the fireplace. Then the painting over the mantel caught my eye. A Jane Wilson landscape! I stood in shock with my mouth agape. The painting wasn't one of my best, but it was representative of the work I did when I was in my thirties. Why would an art historian and critic own a Jane Wilson landscape that was also prominently displayed in his home? To my mind, Jane was a phenomenal painter, and although I'm biased on that subject in the extreme, I certainly couldn't say that Jane had become famous. Even after her death, she'd remained a relatively obscure artist. I stepped closer to the painting and recalled the real landscape I'd used as the model for the painting: a Louisiana bayou with gnarled cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss. To uneducated eyes, the water in the painting looked like pewter, but I'd rendered the subtle colors in the water and sky, mixing the paint on the canvas with a palette knife. The painting originally sold for $800 during a two-man show in New Orleans in the late sixties, and I wondered what its value would be today. "I see your request for a root beer in a frosted mug was satisfied," Dr. Crane said as he walked up to me. "Yes. Thank you for catering to my youthful whim." He laughed, a laugh that, for some reason, I believed I'd heard before. Probably at the show, I decided. "Don't thank me, thank Sherry. I would've ignored your request. I noticed you studying the painting over the mantel." "Guilty as charged," I said. "That's the first Jane Wilson landscape I've seen." In this life, I added silently. Dr. Crane's eyes widened and he turned his head toward me with a jerk. "How do you know about Jane Wilson?" He sounded incredulous. Oh, oh, had I just opened my mouth and inserted both my feet? Think, I ordered myself. Come up with a plausible answer to his question. I couldn't. I said nothing. "And how do you know that's a Jane Wilson landscape? It isn't signed," he said. Fuck it. If this painting survived, surely other Jane Wilson paintings graced other walls in other homes. Besides, I'd suddenly remembered some articles in the Times Picayune, the New Orleans newspaper that critiqued Jane's work, both favorably and unfavorably, that I could use to defuse his astonishment about my Jane Wilson knowledge. "It's signed," I said. "She signed her paintings with her initials and camouflaged the signature in the subject matter of the paintings. I can't see her initials from her, but I'd guess they're part of the cypress log in the foreground." "You can't... there's no way..." he sputtered. "Dr. Crane, I paint landscapes. Granted they're micro-landscapes, but my work, like most artists, evolved from artists who came before me. Jane Wilson died sixteen or seventeen years ago. That's not that far in the past. I came across references to her in some old articles in the Times Picayune, and I've seen brochures from some of her shows. Jane Wilson might be an obscure artist, but not for me. I admire her work, and I'd like a closer look, if you don't mind." Without waiting for his response, I moved forward until I could see the brush strokes and the edges of paint ladled on the canvas with a palette knife. "Amazing!" I exclaimed. "What?" Crane said. "My brush strokes, the way I use a palette knife, it's as if I painted this landscape. I use the tools of my art form the way Jane Wilson used them." He studied the painting and closed his eyes, trying to remember my paintings, my brush strokes, so he could compare, I assumed. "Uncle Harry, you look upset," Sherry said, stepping up to us. "May I... ?" "This young man is familiar with Jane Wilson's work," Crane said. Sherry smiled. I adored her smiles. "Is that all? I thought you might need a pill." "Humph. He knows more about Jane Wilson than anyone still alive." "Except you," Sherry said. "There!" Crane shouted, attracting more attention. "There's her signature, her initials, just where he said they would be, camouflaged in the log." He turned to me. "I didn't know about that signature." Yep, both my feet were stretching my jaw. "I read about how she signed her paintings in an newspaper article, Dr. Crane," I said. "I knew Jane personally," he said. "She never mentioned how she signed her paintings." If he knew her, then I knew him, I thought and searched my Jane Wilson memories, finding no one named Harry Crane, doctor or otherwise. I remember a Winn Crane. Surely... Of course! Winn was a nickname, shortened from a longer nickname: Whinny. Holy crap! As Jane Wilson, I'd fucked Dr. Harry Crane, and not just once, either. He'd acquired the nickname, Whinny, during his late teens, and not because he loved horses. Like Josh Randall, Winn Crane hated horses. His friends called him Whinny because he was hung like a horse. Strange. Meeting someone in my present life that I knew in a past life, someone I knew well enough to fuck in that past life, was like getting nails pounded into my head. That's when I noticed Grace giving me a pleading look. When she saw me looking toward her, she raised her eyebrows, not once but twice. "Excuse me, please," I said to Dr. Crane, and ignoring Sherry, I hurried toward Grace. She was as far away from me as the room allowed, and as I drew closer, a huge, bearded man grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him. By then, I was close enough to hear her gasp of pain. She tried to twist from his grasp, but he tightened his grip and mumbled something I couldn't hear. Troy Crawford stood looking frightened and doing nothing to stop the hulk from manhandling Grace. Fucking wimp. "Let go of me!" Grace screamed as she struggled to free herself. "Ah, come on. I just wanna little kiss," the man said, his words slurring. He was drunk. He wrapped his other arm around Grace's waist and pulled her close. "Come on, you sweet, little cunt. I'll show you how a real man kisses, and then I'll take you home and show you how a real man fucks." "No! Stop it!" Grace screeched. I was six-feet tall and weighed one seventy. The man-mountain manhandling my sister had four or five inches and seventy to eighty pounds on me. I mentally reviewed Randall's street-fighting rules and techniques. Surprise works was the best rule I could come up with. Just before I got to Grace, the hulk slapped her with his meaty fist and called her a slut. That's when a street-fighting technique came to mind. With his back to me, surprise could be used. I took a little hop, and threw my foot as if I were kicking a football through goal posts. The toe of my snakeskin cowboy boot flashed just above the carpet and flew between the hulk's slightly spread legs. The pointed toe of the boot struck his balls with a loud thud. My body shuddered as if I'd just kicked a reinforced concrete wall. He roared in pain and fell to the floor, dragging Grace with him. Fortunately, she landed on him instead of under him, and he released her to take both of his hands to his crotch. I helped Grace to her feet as the injured man-mountain rolled onto his side into the fetal position. He rolled from one side to the other and back again, cursing and threatening to kill me. "Did he hurt you?" I asked Grace. "Bruised me, that's all, and I'll probably have a black eye. Jesus, Brent, you neutered the bastard." "I hope so. Men like that shouldn't have children anyway. Let's get out of here. I don't want to deal with that drunken brute when he recovers. I'm not big enough to handle him." Grace nodded. "Grace..." Troy said. Grace gave him a look of contempt and took my hand. We headed for the door. No one tried to stop us. Outside, Grace tossed me the car keys. "I've had three glasses of wine. You drive." ------- Chapter 4 When Grace and I walked into the house after leaving Dr. Crane's cocktail party, Mom was waiting for us, and she didn't look happy. She said, "Grace, a young man named Troy Crawford called you, and, Brent, Sherry Crane wants you to call her. They both sounded upset when they called, but neither of them would tell me why." She gasped. "Grace! What happened to your face?" "You explain, Grace," I said. "I'll call Sherry. Did she leave a number, Mom?" "Yes. It's on the pad next to the phone in the kitchen, but before you call her, I want to know what..." "Grace will explain, Mom," I said and walked past her into the kitchen. I'd just kicked a man in the nuts — hard. Hard enough that he'd need medical attention, I figured. That's called assault, a felony. I'd struck without warning, blindsiding the uncouth brute. That the police would soon be knocking at my door wasn't likely, but it was possible. I dialed the number Mom had scribbled on the notepad, and Sherry answered the phone. "It's Brent Carson, Sherry. I'm returning your call." She said nothing for a second or two. Then she spoke. "Yes, I called you, and now I have you on the phone, I don't know what to say, or rather, I don't know where to start." She paused. "Yes, I do. Thank you for kicking Carl Ballard in the gonads. If anyone deserves to be neutered, it's that no-account, worthless excuse for a human being. That being said, I called to warn you that Uncle Harry was forced to call an ambulance, and Ballard was taken to the hospital. Because the fight that caused Ballard's injuries happened in my uncle's home during a cocktail party where alcohol was freely dispensed, alcohol provided by my uncle, Uncle Harry fears legal repercussions, and not just from Carl Ballard. Grace has possible redress, as well. I've wandered off topic. Excuse me." "No problem," I said as I watched my mother walk into the kitchen. She stood so she could listen to my side of the telephone conversation. "For what it's worth, Dr. Crane doesn't need to worry about any legal repercussions from Grace." "Thank you. Back to my warning, it's possible that Ballard will swear out a complaint against you for assault, and failing that, might sue you in civil court." "Are you guessing, or do you know something you're not telling me?" "I'm guessing. I'm waiting for Uncle Harry's call. He's at the hospital." "I understand. I need a favor, Sherry. Are you still at your uncle's house?" "Yes, I live here." "Are your guests still there?" "Some of them. Most of them." "Considering the possibility that I might be arrested and prosecuted for assault, would you hand out pads of paper and ask any witnesses if they would write down what they saw and heard." Mother gasped, putting her hand over her mouth. I continued my conversation with Sherry. "That drunken Neanderthal was assaulting my sister. I stopped him. Written statements from witnesses to that effect might be necessary." "All right. I'll do that for you," Sherry said. "Thank you, and please call me after you hear from Dr. Crane." "I will." When I hung up, Mom hugged me fiercely. "Thank you, son. Whatever happens, you did the right thing." "Where's Dad?" I asked. "In the living room with Grace." "After Sherry calls back, and if she says it's likely that the police plan to arrest me, I'd like Dad to call a lawyer to stand ready to help me. Also if that happens, I think Grace should swear out a complaint against Ballard for assaulting her." "Maybe she should anyway," Mom said. "Maybe, but if Ballard doesn't pursue a legal course against me, it might be better to let the situation become history." Sherry called a half-hour later. Ballard had refused to name me when the police spoke with him. I breathed a sigh of relief. I believed that in the end I would've prevailed, but defending criminal charges is never cheap. I was just starting to earn my way in the world. I wanted to rent a studio and buy a car, not shell out my money to lawyers. "There's still the possibility of a civil suit, and Ballard is a mean drunk, Brent. If he doesn't sue in civil court, he'll want to get even by personally beating you to within an inch of your life, so watch your back," Sherry said. "I will. Did you ask the witnesses for their statements?" "Yes, I have some of them in hand, and I'll gather the rest in a few minutes." "Good. May I pick them up tomorrow?" "Sure. Join my uncle and me for lunch at the house." "All right." She laughed. "I suspect that Uncle Harry has more questions regarding your encyclopedic knowledge of Jane Wilson." Argh. ------- Before meeting Chuck Cole to see the studio space he wanted to sublease, I took digital pictures of Grace's bruised face, black eye, bruised arm and back. The photographs would be evidence if Ballard filed a civil suit against me. Photographing the bruise on her back was embarrassing. She had to remove her skirt and raise her blouse for me to see it. It was embarrassing because my sister's panty-clad ass gave me a hard-on. She noticed the prominent bulge in my trousers and gave me a knowing, pleased smile. It wasn't the first hard-on Grace had given me, and I suspected it wouldn't be the last. "Did you call Troy Crawford?" I asked as she zipped up her skirt. "No!" Grace said. "He's older, good looking and smart, just what I was looking for, but he's also a complete boob." "Do you remember the bartender?" "Yes. His name was Dean, I think." I said nothing. "What?" she said. "I liked him. He's an art student at the university. Although he was attentive to me, he couldn't take his eyes off you. I'm surprised you remember Dean at all. At the time you were all atwitter over Troy, who really doesn't fit your criteria, missy. He's a graduate student, too old for you. Dean fits, but if you're not interested, I'll drop it." "I didn't say I wasn't interested, but... ah, heck, I'll probably never see him again." I chuckled. "You will if you visit my new studio." She frowned. "What new studio?" "In about an hour, I have an appointment to see a studio that's available under a sublease, and during a break from bartending at the cocktail party, Dean and I talked. He's also looking for studio space, and we talked about sharing one." Dean's family had money, but I didn't want that detail confusing Grace's decision to date him. She shook her head with amazement. "Have you talked with Mom and Dad about this?" "With Dad yes. I'm sure he told Mom. They tell each other everything, and I'll make sure Mom reviews the sublease documents before Dad signs them. I also spoke with Dad about buying a vehicle. A four-door pickup truck would be best considering the art paraphernalia I have to haul around. Dad and I are going shopping for used pickups tomorrow afternoon. You can tag along if you want." "That is so unfair. I've wanted my own car forever." "I'll be paying for the pickup, Grace, not Dad." "Oh." I grinned. "Besides, you'll be using it as much or more than I, so get off your high horse." She smiled. "There's that." Her smile broadened. "I'm warming to the idea of another vehicle in this family." Then she blushed. "I'm also warming to the idea of Dean Gibson. He is good looking, and if you like him, I'll probably like him, too." ------- The air-conditioned warehouse space fit my painting needs perfectly, with room to spare if Dean wanted to share the space with me. Sunlight bathed the space from the north through clerestory glass. The loft was a studio apartment with a small kitchen and a bathroom with a shower. Chuck Cole had spent some money improving the place, and he'd furnished the loft with a sofa bed, loveseat, coffee and end tables, and lamps. The refrigerator was new, and it had an icemaker. I didn't see a microwave oven, but they weren't expensive, and I'd need a small table and chairs. Chuck said he'd throw in the furniture if I rented the place. The rent was reasonable, so I gave Chuck a deposit. That's when I discovered he didn't know how to prepare sublease documents. When I told him my mother was a leasing agent and would prepare the documents for us, he looked relieved and gave me the keys. "Change the utilities into your name tomorrow," he said. I agreed and drove to Dr. Crane's house for lunch. Sherry opened the door to me. I'd never seen her except dressed to the nines, but the casually dressed woman that greeted me still turned me on. She wore designer sweats and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. If she wore any makeup, I couldn't see it. I followed her swaying, sexy patooty to a kitchen nook where we'd be eating lunch, a lunch that she'd prepared. She told me to sit at the table and then set a frosted glass mug and a bottle of IBC Root Beer in front of me. I poured the root beer into the mug and ended up with a root-beer mustache, which made her laugh. "I rented a studio this morning," I said proudly and told her all about it as she bustled around the kitchen. That the facility also contained a studio apartment seemed to interest her more than the workspace. "Will you be moving into the studio?" she asked. "No, but sometimes when I start painting, I fall into a creative mode and paint all day and all night. My mother calls them all-nighters. I don't require a lot of sleep. I only need five hours to feel completely rested and refreshed, and the hours don't need to be strung together." I chuckled. "After a couple of all-nighters, I've been known to crash for a full eight hours, though. Enough about me. Let's talk about Sherry Crane. I've tried but I can't figure out how old you are." She giggled. "Are you asking me — a woman — my age, young man?" "Yep." I sipped some more root beer. "I'm twenty-five." "Whew! I dodged that bullet. I was worried you'd be too old for me." That cracked her up. "I am too old for you." I drank some more root beer and said, "Not if we keep our love affair a secret." Her head spun toward me to see if I were serious, I assumed. I was, and that's what she decided. "That, Brent Carson, will never happen," she said forcefully. "Sure it will. The idea of a secret lover intrigues you, and with the apartment in my studio, we have a place to meet. My last two lovers were twenty and twenty-one, but they were too young for me. I figure twenty-five is the perfect age for a secret lover for me, and for time immemorial older women have trained young men in the fine art of love." She laughed again. "You're something else again, Brent Carson." "What's so funny?" Dr. Crane asked as he stepped into the kitchen. "Your niece is laughing at me, Dr. Crane. I just told her I thought we should become secret lovers, and she laughed at me. Does that seem right to you? I mean, at my tender age, a beautiful woman laughing at me could permanently damage my psyche." He hooted with laughter and sat at the table across from me. "Stop laughing at the boy, Sherry." She set a plate in front of him and said, "It was either laugh at him or slap him. He made a serious pass at me, Uncle Harry." "Is this true?" he asked me, fixing his eyes on mine as if giving me the evil eye. I stifled a laugh and said, "Of course. Making an unserious pass would insure failure. This looks good, Sherry." She'd set a plate of food in front of me — a fried chicken salad. The fried chicken breast was cut in strips and layered over greens and strips of cheese. Tomatoes and cucumbers rimmed the plate. "He has a point, Sherry," Crane said as he drizzled dressing over his salad and passed the dressing to me. "And he's right about lunch, too. This does look good." "Thank you," Sherry said and put her salad on the table. She poured white wine for her uncle and her. With a grin, she said, "Would you like another root beet, young man?" "I'd prefer iced tea, if you have it. No sugar. A wedge of lemon." Crane chuckled and winked at me as Sherry grumbled while slicing a lemon. When she set the iced tea on the table, I rose and helped her into her seat. We dug in. The food was excellent. "How was Grace this morning," Crane asked. "Bruised," I said. "She has a black eye. I took digital pictures of her bruises in case Ballard sues in civil court, and Sherry was kind enough to ask the guests who witnessed the altercation to write down what they saw and heard. I think I'd prevail in a civil suit." "Probably," Crane said after swallowing some wine. "He won't sue, though. He'd be too embarrassed to admit in open court that a sixteen-year-old boy bested him in a fight, but that being said, don't think for a second that you're home free. The next time he sees you, he'll extract revenge personally, and he won't let you blindside him again. He's a vindictive bully, Brent, and he's down-deep mean, so don't let him catch you alone. With no witnesses, I wouldn't put it past him to kill you." Sherry gasped. "Would he go that far?" Crane nodded. "I've heard stories. I don't know if they're true." Perhaps a preemptive strike is warranted, I thought. Crane said, "All good things must come to an end. The party last night will be my last for local artists." He shook his head. "Too much liability. To change the subject, I called Frazier this morning, and he was kind enough to open his new gallery so I could see your paintings again. You were right. Your brush strokes, the way you use a palette knife, your choice of colors, all match Jane's. Yet, you say the painting over my mantel is the first painting of Jane's that you've ever seen. I find that extraordinary." I shrugged. "That's what I said when I studied her painting last night, but I disagree with your assertion regarding color selection. The quality of light in her landscapes is different than mine, not better or worse, just different. I live in and experience high-desert light. She lived near swamps in a semi-tropical rain forest. I think of the difference in the quality of light as old light versus new light, but that analogy isn't accurate. Light is ageless. You said you knew her. Tell me about her." His eyes drifted shut and he sighed. "She was a free spirit and believed in free love." He opened his eyes and looked at me. "That was the era of free love, you know. I was much younger than she, but my age didn't matter to her. We were lovers for a few short weeks, and I look back on that time with fondness. Over the years, we crossed paths a few more times, but those weeks when she helped me come of age couldn't be repeated, and we both knew that and didn't try. Truth be told, I loved her. Still do. And in her fashion, she loved me." He chuckled. "But remember, that was the era of free love. Jane loved a lot of young men." "What about her art?" I asked. Jane Wilson, I remembered, had not loved Winn Crane. He was nothing more than some sexy fun and games. "She was a good artist. She had perfect command of any media she used, but she wasn't a great artist. You have it in you to be great, young Brent. She did, too, but she chose to stay with the tried-and-true — her landscapes — rather than experiment with any of the new styles of painting that came into vogue during her life. She was a phenomenal colorist, and I believe she could've moved from competent to great with some form of non-objective painting, even micro-landscapes like yours." He gave me a hard look. "So don't squander your talent by becoming complacent. Experiment. Change directions. Grow!" "I understand. I started a new direction with my large painting. I made a small move from a micro-landscape toward a microscopic landscape, and I see that direction evolving further as scientists understand the intricacies of our universe and how it functions and pass on their new knowledge to the rest of us. I'm starting to play with how the microcosm apes the swirling controlled chaos of the cosmos we can only glimpse with our naked eyes. Change is difficult, though. If I paint a micro-landscape, I can see the finished painting in my mind's eye before I apply the first brush stroke to the canvas. With microscopic landscapes, I start at the micro level and take my mind's eye even closer to the subject, but I haven't yet learned how to focus the entire composition in my mind before I begin." I laughed self-consciously. "I suspect I'll be scraping a lot of paint and starting over, especially when I switch to oils in January." "You're switching to oils?" "Yes." He nodded. "That's good." "I rented a studio this morning so I can work on a dozen canvases at the same time. As you know, oils require drying time between various stages of the painting. Thus, the multiple, simultaneous canvases, and with a conscious effort another positive byproduct will evolve from this method. The dozen paintings should end up representing a theme." "Are you as proficient with oils as you are with acrylics?" he asked. "I believe I am." "What about water colors?" "I did some watercolor paintings to give as gifts this Christmas. With your permission — yours, too, Sherry — I'll paint a watercolor landscape for each of you as a gift. They'll be pure high-desert landscapes, not micro-landscapes. Old-hat landscapes, like Jane Wilson's paintings." "You have my permission, Brent," Sherry said, her eyes glowing. "I'm no dummy. I never refuse a painting from an up-and-coming artist," Dr. Crane said with a laugh. After lunch, Dr. Crane left me alone with Sherry. "What do you do, Sherry? Your work, I mean," I said as I helped her clean up the lunch mess. "I dabble in real estate." "Dabble?" "I buy and sell land. The work demands little of my time but provides a full-time income. That's why I say 'dabble.'" I asked more questions. Her parents had been killed in an accident when she was ten, and her Uncle Harry had taken her under his wing. "He was married then," Sherry said, "and Ellen — that was his wife's name — wasn't happy about me suddenly disrupting her life. I don't know if she was cheating on Uncle Harry before my arrival, but I hadn't been in their house three months when I came upon Aunt Ellen with another man, a graduate student. I said nothing about what I'd seen to anyone, and my aunt incorrectly assumed that my silence meant I feared her, or that I was afraid if I said anything to my uncle that I'd be put into a foster home, because she stopped even making a token effort to hide her infidelities from me." Sherry giggled. "I ratted her out, told Uncle Harry everything I'd seen, which surprisingly didn't surprise him very much. I discovered later that Uncle Harry had already hired a private investigator to gather evidence against the cheating bitch. My corroboration of the investigator's findings was the icing on the cake, and he sent Auntie Ellen packing." "Did he marry again?" "No. A middle-aged, handsome college professor attracts women like flies to a watermelon. After Aunt Ellen, I had a series of sham aunts, some I liked, some I detested." She giggled. "Once for a couple of months, two pretty coeds shared the sham-aunt label at the same time. In a candid conversation not many years ago, Uncle Harry told me that if Ellen had wanted an open marriage, he would have happily complied. It was the cheating, he told me, that created the rift. Deep down, I think my uncle is a product of the free-love era he talked about earlier." "What about you? What is your attitude regarding love and sex and marriage?" I asked. She cocked an eyebrow, indicating I'd gone too far, become too personal with my questions, and then she shrugged, as if to say, why not? "Love, sex and marriage are three topics, not one," she said. "I agree. Tell me about your attitude regarding sex." She didn't speak for a second. "I don't think so." I'd read her body language wrong. "All right. Will you talk about love then? Or marriage?" She grinned. "Nope. I don't know you, Brent Carson, and when I look at you, I see a boy, not a man." As we cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, she bumped against me, tossed her luxurious hair, and with coquettish looks, she teased me, all silent signals announcing interest. Was I reading those signals wrong, too? Did she throw my adolescence in my face to test my reaction? I knew of only one way to determine her true intent, but it would be risky. I turned her and pulled her tightly against me. Her eyes screamed, as if to say, finally! But when I tried to kiss her, she turned her head. My lips brushed her ear, not her lips, but she didn't push at my shoulders, and she rubbed her mound against my erection. Mixed signals. Her eyes, her expression, her body said yes; her mind said no. I wanted it all. I wanted her mind as much as I want her body, so I released her. "I ought to slap you silly," she said, with a smirk. The triumph in her voice grated, so I jerked her back into my arms. "If you do, I'll make your bottom pink." "That'll be the day, little boy." Amazing! She taunted me, dared me to take her — wanted me to take her. I mashed my mouth to hers. She didn't turn away. Instead her hands raked through my hair, and she jerked my mouth even tighter to hers. She growled like the panther I believed she was, low, guttural sounds, and then bit my lip. She laughed when I winced. I tasted blood and kissed her hard again, pushing my stiff cock against her mound. When she responded by grinding against me, I lifted her to the kitchen table, and ripped her sweats down off her hips. I'd smeared my blood from my lip onto her face. "Little boy, huh?" I muttered. "A boy. A child. You won't last thirty seconds," she spat at me as she kicked the sweats away. I didn't try to remove her panties, just pushed them to the side. With my trousers and boxers around my ankles, I rammed my cock into her. Her legs wrapped my hips, and she met my thrust with her own. When I lived as Jane Wilson, I had a lover who could fuck me for an hour, and I'd ask him for his secret. "No clenching," he'd said. "Clenching the muscles of my ass makes me come. I don't clench. My thrusts are full-body waves." I'd tried the method with Terry and Nora, and it worked for me, so I turned my clenching thrusts into a stabbing wave. "Thirty seconds, hell!" I hissed. "I'll fuck you to orgasm, and like the Energizer Bunny, I'll keep on going and going." "Never happen, little boy," she said and hurried my thrusts with ratcheting hips as she jerked my mouth to hers again. I swallowed her defiant growl and matched the speed of her rotating hips, reaching down to grab her ass with my hands, lifting and dropping her at the precise moment that forced her clitoris to rasp against my pubic mound. My retreating cock rubbed the nubbin, lifting its hood, applying direct pressure. Her growls became gasps; gasps became moans. Thirty seconds came and went, and my wave moved to full thrusts, slamming into her. Sixty seconds became history, then two minutes. Three. "Faster, little boy," she gushed. I increased the speed of my wave, crashing against her shore like a thousand tsunamis, one after the other with only split seconds between each roaring, crashing wave. I didn't let her cheat. With each wave, I forced her clitoris to travel down my cock like a surfer riding a wave. Her breathing became ragged. "Harder," she breathed. "What happened to the little-boy tag?" I teased and jerked the zipper at the front of her sweat top. Her tits spilled out, and I sucked a nipple into my mouth as my hand returned to her ass. Her hand at the back of my head held my mouth to her breast, but still the tit popped loose. Seconds later, her other nipple slipped through my teeth. We were moving too fast, fucking too hard for my mouth to suck tit. "God damn you! Goddammit! Goddam you! Damn! Oh, oh, oh. Oh, fuck. No! Fuck!" Some words she screeched. Others sounded like whimpers more than words. Her neck looked red-splotched, her dark eyes wild, rolling from side to side, and then back into her head. Her breasts flopped as her chest heaved when I rammed into her. She was magnificent! Her screams, when the first pulse of orgasm struck, reverberated off the hard walls like ricocheting bullets. Would Dr. Crane come running? I didn't care. I'd finish her first, and then finish myself, even if a crowd appeared. Her fingernails dug into my ass as her body stiffened. She threw her hips up and held them aloft as another wave of rapturous pleasure gripped her body and mind. Her hips crashed down, almost jerking my throbbing cock completely out of her cunt, but they reached for the sky again and stayed there as her spastic cunt fluttered like hummingbird wings around my buried shaft. The pulse of her orgasm rotated her hips four more times, and I started to clench my ass with each powerful thrust, taking control of the fuck. By taking control, I lost control, not to her, but of myself, and I became a rutting animal, bellowing, roaring, slamming her cunt with my plunging, throbbing cock. Had my eyes become as wild as hers? Had I exited reality as she'd fled its grip? These were not conscious questions. They came later, and with the questions, I'd had to say yes and yes. My reality became sensations: the sensation of a tightening scrotum, lifting, clenching; the sensation of semen flying through my throbbing shaft, shooting into her depths; the mind-altering sensations of orgasm that infused each and every atom inside my body with exquisite pleasure. My hands manipulated her, again without conscious effort, pulling her cunt on and off my ejaculating cock to enhance each pulse of my climax. I don't know if she stayed with me. I don't know if she continued to move after her orgasm, but when I crashed and fell on her, she was lying flat on the table, unmoving except for large gasps, as she sucked in air. She looked dazed. My head nuzzled her neck. I felt drool at the corners of my mouth, drool that dripped and smeared her heated flesh. We lay gasping, our heartbeats synchronized. My feet, although still on the floor, weren't holding me up. My hips on hers, my still throbbing cock embedded inside her, kept me from sliding ignominiously to the floor. Finally I gathered enough strength to raise my head. Her dark eyes met mine, but I could read nothing in them. I shifted my weight off her, and raising my back, pushed my still-hard cock deeper inside her. Her whimper was so slight I barely heard it, and I expected her eyes to change, to register some emotion, but they remained black and blank like a moonless night void of wind. "Our secret," I said, my voice hoarse. Her expression didn't change, but she gave me a slight nod. I moved back and my cock moved out of her cunt. My semen was pooled at the bottom of her gaping vagina, and as I bent to pull up my trousers, I watched the viscous liquid slide lower, and then drip onto the table. She didn't move as I zipped up and buckled my belt. "I'll pick up the witness statements another time," I said and walked away. As I was leaving the room, I looked back at her. She hadn't watched me leave. She hadn't moved. She lay on the table, her legs dangling as if boneless. I returned to the table, to her side, not where I'd stood in front of her. Her eyes moved to mine, and I bent and brushed her swollen lips with mine. "You are magnificent," I said, turned and left without looking back. ------- I drove home wondering where I stood with Sherry Crane. That I wasn't a little boy when it came to sex should be glaringly apparent to her, but whether she'd want me between her beautiful legs again was definitely open to question. I'd fucked her into submission, fucked the wildness from her eyes, turned them into emotionless black orbs, but nonetheless, she wouldn't be mine until we'd made tender, sweet love — if then. Which begged the question. Did I want to make her mine? I was still wrestling with that question when I walked into my house. My mother greeted me. "What happened to your lip?" Looking concerned, she stepped closer. Her nostrils flared, and her concerned expression turned contemptuous. "For crissake, Brent, if you go out tomcatting, you should wash away the queen's scent before you bring the stink of her into this house." I blushed. "Sorry. I'll go shower. "Sherry Crane?" she said to my back after I'd walked past her. I said nothing. After showering, I found Mom outside at the patio table snapping snap beans into a metal bowl. Angry fingers snapped, matching the flashing glints of fury in her eyes. "Make the sweet and sour kind with those," I said. "Humph, why should I cater to your whims?" Because I'd come home looking and smelling like a just-fucked tomcat, Mom had decided to punish me. I could have called her on her attitude, but that wouldn't have been smart because she would've become even more vindictive. "I rented a studio this morning," I said. She looked up and the anger in her eyes multiplied. I quickly gave her the details of the transaction. "I'll need to see Cole's lease," she said through tight lips after I asked her to prepare the sublease documents. "Most leases disallow subletting without the prior written consent of the landlord, which means I'll also need to contact the landlord. If the landlord denies consent, you might be out the deposit you so naively handed over without checking with me first." "Why wouldn't the landlord give his consent?" I asked — humbly. Humility was not only warranted but also appropriate. "For starters, Cole's financial statement is probably stronger than yours," she said. The beans snapped under her angry fingers. "Also, if the rent you'll be paying Cole is higher than the rent Cole is paying the landlord, the landlord will want the overage." The financial statements compared wouldn't be Cole's and mine. I didn't have a financial statement. The landlord would compare my parents' financial statement with Cole's, but I didn't want to open a discussion on that subject, not at that moment. "What happens if there's an overage?" I asked. "The landlord will probably cancel Cole's lease and write a new lease with you," she said. "How soon will you know?" She shrugged. "Don't know. Why?" "Cole wanted me to transfer the utilities to my name tomorrow." She gave me a hard look. "That would be incredibly stupid, Brent." She asked for and I gave her Cole's phone number, and I retired to my garage studio to do some painting before Dad arrived home to help me shop for a used pickup truck. ------- I bought a low-mileage, two-year-old Ford F-150, Supercrew, 4 x 4, XLT, with alloy wheels, an automatic transmission, cruise control, a CD player, and power everything. The pickup bed was lined, and the truck came with a trailer tow package, a good thing to have when I bought my boat next summer. After my father displayed his superlative negotiating skills yet again, I drove the vehicle from the lot. Grace grabbed me as soon as Dad and I walked in the door. "Come on," she said. "I wanna drive your truck." She held out her hands for the keys. I gave them to her. "Ride with me, Brent," she added. About a mile from the house, she said, "Mom's pissed. Why?" "I rented that studio I mentioned without consulting with her first," I said, skipping my sojourn into the life of a randy, opportunist tomcat. Another mile down the road, Grace said, "I like your truck." "Me, too." "Bypassing Mom on the lease would tick her off. She's not ticked off. She's pissed off. Why?" "Because I came home with this swollen, cut lip and smelling like a booth in a triple-x movie arcade." Grace jerked her head from the road and gave me a hard look. "Sherry Crane?" I said nothing. Her eyes returned to the road, and she turned the steering wheel slightly to avoid hitting a parked car. She shook her pretty head. "Brent, Mom isn't going to be happy until you find a girlfriend closer to your age." "If you weren't my sister, that could happen," I said. She stiffened with momentary shock, but thankfully her eyes remained fixed on the road. After casting a furtive look in my direction, she relaxed and said, "If I weren't your sister, that not only could happen, Brent, that's exactly what would happen." I didn't respond. She didn't pursue the issue. After all, what else could be said on that subject? "Have you talked with Dean Gibson about sharing the studio with you?" she asked. "No. That's on my list right after I speak to Mom to find out if I can even sublease the studio from Cole." "I don't understand," Grace said. I explained the potential problems with the sublease that our mother had pointed out earlier. "If Mom has spoken to the landlord, and if the sublease is possible, and if Dean wants to see the space tonight, would you like to see the studio at the same time I show it to Dean?" "Yes," she said. ------- Everyone was pleased that evening. My clever and talented mother was pleased because she'd cleared all the hurdles that might have made my verbal agreement to sublease the studio from Chuck Cole null and void. Dean Gibson was pleased that I'd remembered our discussion regarding sharing studio space and agreed to meet me at the studio later that evening. Grace was pleased because she'd have another opportunity to meet and get to know Dean better. Dad was pleased with himself for making such a great deal on the truck. I was pleased when I noticed sweet-and-sour snap beans on the table at dinner. I thanked Mom graciously and sincerely for catering to my whim, which pleased her, and on the surface, it appeared that she'd forgiven me for stinking up her house with the odors of recently consummated copulation. I wondered if Dad had applied the calming influence that had softened her belligerent earlier attitude. I didn't try to satisfy my curiosity about the source of her improved demeanor by asking. I left well enough alone and cleaned up the dinner mess. Grace helped, and shortly we hopped in my pickup for the short drive to the studio. A freshman at ASU, Dean was only a year older than Grace, but he was a college boy, a distinction not lost on my sister. His blond hair was bleached lighter by the Arizona sun, not from a bottle, and he wore it parted at the front. Straggly bangs curled inward at the outer edges of his distinctive eyes. They were light, a soft green, not unlike some wild animals. Would they glow in the dark? He had dark brown eyebrows and eyelashes, and his nose was long but narrow, like his pleasing masculine face. Physically, he was in prime shape. He was standing by his car, a BMW, in front of the dark studio when we drove into the parking lot. He greeted me enthusiastically when I stepped from the pickup. He was about an inch shorter than I, and he wouldn't get any taller. I would — hopefully. I still looked forward to growing to my dad's six-two height. "Dean, do you remember my sister, Grace?" I asked as she joined us in front of the pickup. "Sure do. Hi, Grace." He studied her battered face. "Not bad. I expected a larger bruise." "Humph," Grace said. "A black eye is a black eye anyway you cut it." "And black eye or no black eye, you're dazzling," Dean said. Grace grinned. "Thanks." "Let's take a look at the studio," I said, unlocked the door and flipped on the lights. The three of us stepped inside. "The ground floor is the studio. It's hard to see at night, but that glass up there..." I pointed. "... casts northern sunlight throughout the studio except under the loft. Notice the counter and double stainless steel sink over there." I pointed again. "The studio space is twenty by fifty feet, including the demising and outside walls, more than enough for my needs, Dean." "Perfect," Dean said softly. "What's in the loft?" "A studio apartment," I said. "You're kidding." "Nope. It's small, but there's a living room, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom with a shower," I said as we climbed the stairs. "Chuck included the furniture in the deal. The sofa makes into a queen-sized bed, which will come in handy for me after an all-nighter on weekends." "All-nighter?" Dean said. I explained how I often painted through the night, crashing when I could no longer stay awake. When I pointed out that we'd need a microwave oven and a table with four chairs, Dean said he'd provide them. "How much?" he asked. I told him. "The lease will be in my name, or rather my parents' name, and I'll own the furniture. My mother says it would be best if you and I just had a gentlemen's agreement for your share. That way if for some reason our arrangement doesn't work, you can just go away, no harm, no foul. If that happens and you've supplied the microwave and table and chairs, you could, of course, take them with you. I'll be using more than half the studio space, but I'm liable for the lease and the utilities. I'd be willing to split the rent and utilities fifty/fifty with you." "Deal!" Dean said and stuck out his hand. I took it and we sealed the agreement with a handshake. There was more to the deal, rules I'd insist on, but that discussion needed to be private because some rules involved females visiting the studio. "The kitchen and bathroom will need to be stocked," Grace said. "Towels, TP, soap, shampoo, dishes, flatware, those kinds of things. I'll shop for everything if you guys will cough up the money." "Make a shopping list," Dean said. "I'll drive you to the stores tonight and pay for everything." He glanced at me. "We can divvy up the cost tomorrow, Brent." In other words, I thought, I'm not invited. I didn't mind. "Fine by me," I said. "I'll change the utilities into my name tomorrow, including the telephone. Cole didn't leave any phones, but I noticed some outlets. Buy two phones, one for the apartment and the other for the studio floor." "Portable?" Grace said. "Yeah. Is part of stocking the kitchen stocking the refrigerator?" I asked. "You bet," Grace said. "You know what I like," I said with a grin. "Yep, IBC Root Beer, juices, bottled water," Grace said. "And you'll need snacks: mixed nuts, yogurt, trail mix, cheeses." She was writing furiously in a little notebook she'd dug from her purse. She looked up at Dean. "You can tell me what you like while we're shopping." I drove home alone — happily. My sister deserved an "older" boyfriend. ------- I extended my morning swim to thirty laps and had just wrapped a towel around my waist when Mom stepped outside for a talk and to enjoy the dawning of a new day with me. After taking a sip of her coffee, she said, "I'm sorry for the way I acted yesterday, Brent. I don't know why, but the thought of a twenty-something woman bedding my sixteen-year-old son feels like a row of thumbtacks has been pushed into my brain." Except for a silent nod acknowledging her apology, I said nothing. "Is Sherry your new twenty-something girlfriend?" she asked. "I don't know. She might not have the guts to cope with me." Mom snorted derisively. "Sherry Crane doesn't strike me as a woman short on courage." "Terry was a submissive. Sherry isn't. With the exception of her uncle, Sherry is used to dominating the men around her. I'm not easily dominated." Mom laughed. "That's for sure." "She taunted me, goaded me with insults, ridiculed my age, until I put up to shut her up. That's it. That's what happened. We don't have... an arrangement. What happened might be a one-time event, and if that's all that happens, I'll live with it." Mom nodded and blew air over the rim of her cup. "Maybe she's more woman than you can handle." A second later, she added, "Now." I grinned. "I can handle her. I handled her yesterday by screwing her into submission. My goal isn't domination, though. If she became a submissive, her soul would shrink like plastic wrap under a hair dryer. She'd become an empty husk, which would be a damned shame. For our current non-arrangement to go anywhere, she must accept equality. That's what I meant when I said she might not have the guts to cope with me. Tell me true, Mom. Did you dominate some men or boys in your youth?" "Yes." "Did some boys or men dominate you, if only for a brief time?" "Yes." "Those relationships, both kinds, did they have an edge to them?" She frowned. "No. No they didn't. They were... easy. Too easy. Your father and I are equals. We sprout edges all the time." She chortled. "Makes life more interesting." I gazed at the sunrise, watched shadows form and stretch long, as if by magic, and march in lockstep across the chilled desert floor, followed by the golden glow and warmth of reflected sunshine. "Edges, Mom. As you know, edges are important. Successful relationships have edges; some are soft, others hard, but in relationships where one person dominates the other, the edges are all soft, too soft, like marshmallow cubes, easily molded, ultimately mind numbing and predictable. Sherry Crane is competent and smart. She's her own person. I like that. She's also incredibly beautiful and sexy. I really like that. I could but won't dominate her, and I won't allow her to dominate me." My eyes left the stunning sunrise to gaze upon an even more picturesque sight: my beautiful mother's awed countenance. "So, I told you true, Mom. I don't know about Sherry and me." "All right. Tell me about Dean Gibson, then." ------- Chapter 5 I shivered and hugged myself. I'd dutifully swum my morning laps, but the dawn of a new day in December, even in Phoenix, Arizona, is no time to sit outside by a swimming pool wearing nothing but a towel. "Let's take this inside, Mom," I said. Not long ago, I'd discovered that my mother and I enjoyed sharing a sunrise. It was also our time for serious conversations, a time when we revealed more about our inner selves, our strengths, our weaknesses, and laid these inner selves in the other's cupped hands, trusting that applause wouldn't follow. We'd just talked about my non-arrangement with Sherry Crane, and satisfied that she understood that situation, Mom had switched topics. She'd wanted to know about Dean Gibson. "Mom, I know less about Dean than I know about Sherry," I said as we stepped through the patio doors into the kitchen. "Dig deeper, then," Mom said. "It was three o'clock this morning when Grace came home. I was up worried half-sick, doing my mother hen bit, when your sister came flowing through the door with the gleam of love in her eyes. She ignored my angry questions as if I were mute, or she was deaf, gave me a goodnight hug, and skittered off to bed." I nodded and said, "I'll have a private talk with Dean today, Mom." I'd planned such a talk with him anyway. I glanced at my mother. Did she have some room in her worry place for some teasing? Yeah, she did. "What should I do? Tell Dean if he touches Grace that I'll neuter him?" "No!" I laughed. "Gotcha." Her face went slack, and then she smiled. "I won't get even, young man. I'll get ahead." "Gulp," I said feigning fear, which made her laugh. "Mom, if Grace came floating through the door with the gleam of love in her eyes, it was new love. I saw the same gleam when she met another young man named Troy at the Crane cocktail party. She was atwitter, so taken with Troy that she hardly noticed Dean. Grace falls hard and fast, but behind the gleam in her eyes, she maintains a strong grip on reality. If Dean turns out to be a cad, Grace will be fine. Even if he uses her, Grace will be fine. Do you know why?" "Tell me." "Because she'll understand she's been used and will drop him without hesitating. Then she'll give her stunning body a shake and a shudder and move on with the rest of her life without looking back at Dean Gibson, or any other man who uses her." I grinned. "Regardless, as you suggested, I'll dig deeper into Dean Gibson's personality." ------- I painted with acrylics in my garage studio until Grace called me to lunch. Dad was at work, and Mom was out showing office space to a client. Lunch was simple: soup and sandwiches. "After three in the morning, huh?" I said to Grace while trying to look miffed. I couldn't maintain the subterfuge and grinned. She glared at me and said, "It's not what you think." "Ah, you've added mind reading to your many talents. What am I thinking?" "That Dean and I tested the sofa bed in the studio." "The idea must have crossed your mind last night for you to put it in my mind this morning," I said and took a bite from the ham and cheese sandwich on my plate. After swallowing, I said, "Mom must be working half-asleep today. She greeted you at three this morning and shared a sunrise with me four hours later. She said you came through the door with the gleam of love in your eyes, and if I'm not mistaken, I detect a good bit of glitter still hanging around." I chuckled. "Does the gleam of love have a half-life like radioactive material?" "Stop making fun of me, little brother." "You're reading me wrong. If I'm making fun of anyone, it's Mom. She is such a mother hen." Grace laughed. "Yes she is." "Tell me about Dean Gibson. After last night, you've spent a thousand times more minutes with him than I. Was I wrong to ask him to share studio space with me?" Grace shrugged, an arousing gesture. She wore a t-shirt, and her dusky nipples tented the thin fabric. They were darker than the white cotton shirt, so I could also see a hint of their texture and color. Form, texture, and color: three important tenets of my art. I saw form, texture and color in everything my eyes took in, but I've gotta admit that these tenets of my art rarely excited me sexually like the hint of my sister's stiff nipples. She gazed into the distance and said, "I like his eyes." Then she shook herself and laughed. "Which tells you nothing that would help you know if he'll make a good studio-mate or a bad one. My guess is the former. He's very impressed with your work. He says your ability with the tools of painting far exceeds that of any art student at the university. He added that he's a competent painter, but that he'll never be your equal, not with paint and canvas. Dean's true love is photography, Brent. To his mind, Ansel Adams is the greatest artist of all times, not Rembrandt or Michelangelo." I frowned. "Which means he'll want to put a darkroom in the studio." "Yep, under the loft where the northern light you need won't interfere with the controlled light his photography requires. Your individual needs and uses for the space shouldn't conflict." She paused to sip some iced tea. "The apartment is set up and stocked, little brother. I did my job last night, and Dean helped. I came home at three in the morning because setting up and stocking that apartment took that much time." "Okay, I hear you, but you can't say that he didn't kiss you." She blushed. "No, I can't say that." ------- "I'm sorry, Brent," Dr. Crane said. "Sherry isn't here. She left this morning." I'd called the Crane residence to arrange a time to give them the watercolor landscapes I'd painted for them, and yes, the paintings were an excuse for me to speak with Sherry. I ached to see her again. "When will she return?" I said. "I'm asking because I'd like to deliver the watercolor landscapes I promised the two of you." "I don't know. She owns a retreat in the White Mountains. She did say she'd be back to spend Christmas Day with me." To say that I was disappointed would be a gross understatement. "Please tell her to call me," I said. "I will, but it's likely that I won't be able to pass on your message until she returns." I wanted to ask a thousand questions. Instead I said goodbye and ended the call. Was Sherry alone at her retreat or with someone? Was our wild fuck a brief interruption of a love affair with another man that she'd started before our luncheon, an affair that she hadn't ended yet? I wasn't conceited enough to believe she'd fled the city for the quiet solitude of a retreat to think about us, but the thought crossed my mind. Our time together had affected me greatly, but it would be foolish of me to even think that Sherry felt the same upheaval in her life from some impromptu sex on a kitchen table. She was sophisticated and worldly, a conqueror of men. She wouldn't sneak away to avoid me. Would she? ------- "Rules, Dean. We'll need some rules," I said. We sat in the studio apartment. I sipped chilled IBC Root Beer in a non-frosted mug. Dean chugged from a can of Pepsi. "I agree," he said. "No parties," I said. "Agreed, unless it's one we plan together." I nodded a silent agreement to his altered rule and said, "Are you a slob or a neat-freak, or somewhere in between." "In between but a little toward the neat-freak end of the scale." "I'm slightly off center toward the slob side. If I get too sloppy, say so, and I'll clean up my act. If you get too compulsively neat, I'll say so, which means you'll need to relax a little and go with the flow." "That sounds workable," he said. "Next item," I said, "and this one is touchy. The sofa you're sitting on is also a bed. I live with my parents, but I'm sexually active. I'll be using that bed for more than taking a nap, and my sexual preference involves women in their twenties. A woman that age screwing a sixteen-year-old is against the law, so I'll need your promise that my relationships, should you learn of any, will remain a secret." He nodded. "That's a promise, Brent." "Thanks, but my sexual preference isn't our only problem. If I'm not mistaken, you and my sister might become lovers. If that happens, don't use that bed." He shook his head. "I can't make that promise. I will say this. If we use the bed, you'll never know." "Fair enough, and I'll try not to flaunt my secret liaisons, as well." "I'll be installing a darkroom," he said. "Grace told me. I don't have a problem with that. Under our gentlemen's agreement, if you go away for any reason, I'll expect you to restore the space to its original condition." "Of course," he said. "Some construction is involved, which means noise and a mess for about a week, maybe a little longer." "No problem. I won't start moving my work into the studio until the first of the year. I'm in the process of completing twelve acrylic paintings for a one-man show in San Diego in February. Those paintings should be finished by mid-January, but I'll start my transition to oils here at the studio before then." "Besides a darkroom, I'll be building two changing rooms, and a modeling platform, and I might need to beef up the electrical system for the lighting I'll need. I want to be a fashion photographer, Brent." He grinned. "I hope long-legged, beautiful models wandering in and out won't be too distracting." I chuckled. "I'd like to give you an unequivocal no on that, but I can't. I'm serious about my work, Dean. If what you do affects the volume or quality of my work, I'll ask you to find a new studio. With that said, I'm not opposed to a three-month trial period. By then, we'll both know if sharing studio space is workable." A darkroom. Changing rooms for models. Upgrading the electrical system for hot stage lighting. Flashbulbs popping. Long-legged, sexy women strolling in and out of the studio. Dean and Grace fucking on the sofa bed. Perhaps sharing my studio with Dean wasn't such a good idea. It wasn't the money, either. Not that I was sneering at saving half the rental and utility costs, but my main reason for sharing had been the possible companionship of another artist. I was a high school student who didn't relate to the other students. I needed some friends. Everyone needed friends. I had none, and I'd just figured out that Dean wouldn't even partially fill that void in my life. He'd be Grace's friend — lover, too, probably. If I were honest with myself, that was half the problem. The idea of Grace fucking any man bothered me, an unreasonable attitude, I admit. She wasn't a virgin, or at least I assumed she'd had sex with one or more of her boyfriends over the last few years. Why should Grace and Dean having sex upset me? Regardless, if Dean made Grace happy, I'd put up with the distractions he'd mentioned — to a point. I gave Dean his key to the studio and drove away in my pickup truck. It was four days until Christmas. The San Diego show called for twelve paintings. I'd completed seven. Perhaps with some all-nighters combined with some short periods of rest I could finish two or three more. I didn't have anything or anyone else pressing me. ------- While searching for subjects for microscopic landscapes, I came across bacteria, the building blocks of life. They occupy and are indispensable to every living being on the planet. Without bacteria, life's essential progression would grind to a screeching halt. Current biological theories have also altered our view of evolution as a relentless, gory competition among individuals and species. Life, biologists now believe, does not evolve just through combat. It also evolves through networking. Life forms grew more complex by co-opting others, not just by killing them. I liked that. Our planet became fertile and inhabitable for larger, more complex life forms through a planet-wide system of communicating, gene-exchanging bacteria. Discovering the microcosm within and around me changed the way I looked at other living organisms. Knowing that all life on the planet evolved from bacteria, I started to look at living things as communities of former bacteria. What's more, the microscopic images I found representing bacteria boggled my mind. The forms! The colors! The textures! My mind's eye configured new realities using these building blocks of life, converting them into new communities of bacteria, new images to render on canvas. My mind's eye became a microscope, and like I could envision a completed painting while working with micro-landscapes, I could now see a finished microscopic landscape before applying the first brush stroke to a blank canvas. I added materials to the paint like sand and ashes for texture, and the creative zone I occupied became frenzied. I worked until my muscles cramped and my eyes felt like they were being scratched from the inside out. Then I'd crash, sleep for a few hours, but even while sleeping I created. When my eyes opened, I rushed back to the canvas, changing the composition, forms and colors to match the painting I'd conceived in my dream state. "Brent!" someone said. "Go away!" I shouted as my palette knife ladled and mixed paint directly on the canvas. "Brent!" The interloper pounded at the door. "Brent!" "God damn it!" I muttered as a brush feathered an unwanted edge the palette knife had left in its wake. "Brent! Unlock this door, or I'll kick it in!" I threw the brush to the floor. Stepped back and gazed at the painting. "Almost," I said and picked up a clean sponge. I'd need more sponges soon. More paint, too. I dabbed with the sponge, dropped it, picked up a wide, soft brush and waved it over still-wet paint with a feather-like touch. I stepped back again, picked up a different brush, hesitated, and dropped the brush. "Finished." Wood splintered. The door flew open and slammed against the wall. "Jeez, Dad, all you had to do was knock," I said. ------- The sunrise Christmas morning was exceptional, well worth the effort to step outside and watch the birth of a new day. I didn't swim. It was too damned cold, but bundled in some old sweats, I sat in comfort and enjoyed the changing landscape as night became day. I felt rested. After Dad kicked in my door, I showered and ate dinner with the family, and then crashed, sleeping ten hours, a record for me. Mom joined me. She shivered as she sat at the patio table. The coffee in her cup steamed. "Merry Christmas," I said brightly. "Humph." She sipped the hot liquid and swallowed. "I looked. I didn't see any toys under the tree left by a jolly old man who came down the chimney while I slept," I said. "You pushed yourself too hard this time, Brent," Mom said. "I know. I'd planned to concentrate on my work, but my creative juices took control, and I lost track of the days." "It's not healthy to work for three days without stopping. You need to get a life, son. A life includes more than work. I had to have this same talk with your father a few years ago." She shook her head. "He didn't get it, either. He took up golf." I nodded and said, "I need some friends, but boys and girls my age shy away from me, which doesn't truly bother me. Their view of life is childish to me. Grace is a friend. You, too, Mom, but the two of you are family first and friends second. I'd hoped Terry would become a friend, but that won't happen. The main reason I decided to share the studio with Dean was the hope that he'd be a friend, but his relationship with Grace dashed that hope. Being a prodigy isn't without its problems, and making friends is one of them." Mom shrugged. "What do you want or expect from a friend?" I shrugged. I'd never considered that question. She said, "Make a list that defines what you want and expect from a friend and another list that describes what you're willing to give in return. Friendship is a two-way street, Brent. To get you've got to give." "I know that." "Also, you have an advantage you haven't exploited. The way you are, your friends can be any age." My jaw gaped. She was right! I slammed my jaw shut and grinned. "Mom, you are wonder!" She giggled, very pleased with herself. "What happened during my four-day creative surge? Has Grace and Dean's relationship deepened? Did Sherry Crane call? Bring me up to date." According to my mother, Grace was of two minds regarding Dean Gibson. The young man intrigued her, and his attention gave her ego a lift, but Grace had told Mom that she didn't see herself falling in love with him. "They're friends, Brent," Mom said. "Are they lovers, too?" I asked. Mom looked away from me. "That would be my guess. Grace isn't innocent about sex, Son." "I figured." "She's handling the affair well, though. I'm proud of her." "Sharing the studio might be a short-lived experiment, Mom." "Don't write Dean off as a potential friend," Mom said. She'd misunderstood me, so I explained why I felt the shared studio experiment might not work without even considering Grace and Dean's relationship. "Maybe, but remember, to get you've got to give." I nodded. "Sherry Crane didn't call," she said. I nodded again. ------- Sherry Crane hadn't called, but I had Christmas gifts for her and her uncle, and I hadn't picked up the written statements from the witnesses to my altercation with Carl Ballard. So, with a portfolio case containing the watercolor landscapes under my arm, I hopped into my truck and drove to the Crane residence. Dr. Crane answered the door. "Merry Christmas," I said with a grin. He returned my greeting and invited me in. I followed him to the great room at the rear of his house. He asked if I'd like something to drink, and I selected eggnog from the choices he offered. "Sit," he said. "I'll get your drink and tell Sherry you're here. She arrived late last night, and I must admit I forgot to tell her to call you." "No problem," I said. Sherry arrived before Dr. Crane returned with the eggnog, but she didn't step into the room alone. A beautiful woman was with her. She looked older than Sherry, about thirty, give or take a year. She was a blonde with gray eyes, pale white skin, and a lush body. Her extra long, sensuous neck added an inch or more to her height, which I guessed at five-ten in her bare feet. She wore high heels, though, so when I stood to greet her, she looked me straight in the eye. Her name was Vivian Kincaid, and it took a while to sink in, but I finally realized that Sherry and Vivian were much more than mere friends. They were lovers, and their love wasn't new. I gave Dr. Crane and Sherry the watercolor landscapes; Sherry gave me the written statements she'd gathered for me during the Crane cocktail party, and I rose to leave. Dr. Crane walked me to the door. "I'm sorry, Brent," he said, referring, I was certain, to Sherry and Vivian's Sapphic relationship. He verified my assumption when he added, "During the time they spent together in the White Mountains, they decided to stop trying to hide how they feel about each other." I nodded. Could Dr. Crane be a friend? Possibly. We had some commonalities: art and Jane Wilson. I forced a smile and said, "I'll live, Dr. Crane. How about lunch next week? And after we eat, I'd like you to see the paintings I'll be presenting in a one-man show in San Diego in February next year." He gave me a curious look but smiled and nodded. "I'd like that. What day?" We made a definite appointment, and I drove away feeling a little schizophrenic. My heart was heavy. A future with some sexy liaisons with Sherry Crane was unlikely to nil, probably the latter, but with a little luck, Dr. Crane would become a friend. I've got to admit, though, that I was more down than up. I felt a loss. Intellectually, I'd known that Sherry and I had no future as a couple, but the intimacies I'd shared with the beautiful woman had made mush out my intellect, and deep down, I'd had hopes. I'd loved her. Not deeply, but I'd loved her. Tears misted in my eyes, but I shook off the sadness I felt. Perhaps some long-legged, sexy models strolling in and out of the studio wouldn't be a negative disruption after all. ------- I made a friend the next day. I covered one of my paintings in bubble wrap, lashed it down with bungee cords in the bed of my truck and drove to the studio. As I was pulling the painting out of the truck, Agnes Porter walked up. "Happy holidays, Brent," she said. "Let me put this bottle of wine on the seat in the truck, and I'll help you with that." "Thanks," I said. Agnes was the sculptor who referred me to Cole that led me to rent the studio. I'd meant to drop by her nearby studio to thank you, but I hadn't gotten around to the chore. Chore? Why did I think a simple thank you was a chore? No wonder I didn't have any friends. "What is this?" she asked as we muscled the painting out of the truck. "One of my paintings that's scheduled to be shown in February, so I thought I'd enjoy it hanging in the apartment until it's time to crate it and ship it to San Diego. Thanks for referring me to Cole, by the way." "I'm happy it worked out for you. I met Dean, the other young man sharing the studio with you. I liked him." Agnes's frizzy hair looked orange in the sunlight, and her freckles shined brighter. Her ready smile warmed me, and I felt myself smiling, too. She wore blue jeans, not the low-rider kind, thank goodness. She was a bit too broad and curvy for low-rider jeans. The top three buttons of her plaid shirt were open, and her ample cleavage spilled out, barely contained by an industrial-strength bra as she moved around. We took the painting up the stairs to the loft and unwrapped it. I looked around the room. Some framed photographs — I assumed they were Dean's — were hanging on the wall where I'd planned to hang the painting. The photographs would look just as good, maybe better, on a narrower wall at the left. I removed them, and Agnes helped me hang the large painting in their place. "It's magnificent, Brent!" she exclaimed when she stepped back to view the painting. She stood with a manly posture, her hands on her ample hips and her sturdy legs spread slightly for balance as she gazed at the microscopic landscape, one of three bacteria paintings I'd finished during my creative surge. "Thanks. Would you help me hang Dean's photos on the other blank wall? I hope he doesn't get upset because I moved them." "Phooey on him if he does." She pointed. "That's the only wall in the room that will take your painting. He'll understand." When we finished hanging the photos, I said, "Sit. I'll grab your wine and we'll have a drink and talk." Her wine was a burgundy, I noticed, and I saw only white wine in the refrigerator. "Open the burgundy," she said, "and keep it on a shelf for my visits. I prefer the full flavor of red wines, and red wines should not be refrigerated." I bumbled around searching for something that would open the bottle of wine. "The corkscrew is in top drawer on your right," she said. Yep, she'd spent some time in the studio with Dean. Grace, too, probably. I pulled the cork without making a mess, a major achievement to my mind, poured some wine in a wine glass, and found a frosted glass mug in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. I dumped some mixed nuts in a bowl and set it on the table before I sat down across from her. The IBC Root Beer quenched my thirst, and she laughed at my brown-foam mustache before I wiped it off with the back of my hand. "Your sister told me you've been working," she said. "Yep. I finished three paintings in four days." I nodded toward the painting on the wall. "That's one of them." We chatted. She had a show scheduled for March in Frazier's new gallery. "He wanted ten pieces," she said. "I told him I'd give him six. He said okay." "Why not give him ten?" "Because he can't sell ten, and the remaining four would languish unsold in his gallery for a year. He knows this, Brent. He wants the extra sculptures in that gallery to help fill some of the space. Do him a favor and let him hang one of your big paintings if you can." "I will. I'll paint an extra acrylic, a large one like that one, but nine by seven, not five by seven." She looked at my painting and shook her head. "You are immensely talented, young man. I bet you'll end up in the history books." I had a watercolor landscape in the truck that I'd brought with me in case I ran into Dean. It dawned on me that I could paint a new one for him that evening. "I painted some old-hat, high-desert landscapes as gifts this year. I have yours in my truck. I'll be right back." I'd used photographs I'd taken over the years during daytrips around Arizona as the models for the landscapes. I could dash off a watercolor painting in an hour or two, and the one in the truck was one of my better efforts. It was a waterscape with a lichen-covered rock in the foreground. The rock had a bacteria-like look to it. From all indications, Agnes loved my gift. She gave me a wet kiss on my cheek and a huge hug. "Do you have any examples of your work in your studio?" I asked. "Sure do. Three pieces." "May I see them?" She grinned. "I thought you'd never ask." We trooped to her studio, which was within easy walking distance from mine. I don't know why, but I expected to see a bunch of junk piled high and welded together. Agnes's work surprised me. "Wow!" I said. "Is that a DNA helix?" She giggled. "Sure is." The seven-foot high piece of sculpture was made from scrap metal on a carved stone base, but she'd polished many of the pieces of scrap, forcibly dulled others, and it looked like she'd forged some of the shapes. "Agnes, I love your work!" I exclaimed. "Thank you, Brent. Coming from you, that means a lot." "And that one! That represents a protein, doesn't it?" "Hey, you're good. I usually have to explain that one." "Where's your forge?" "At the back. I've got two of them: an old-fashioned coal forge, and a ten-inch propane gas pipe forge for the smaller pieces. How did... ?" I pointed. "There are some forged pieces in the helix. Agnes, if you need any help working the coal forge, I'm your boy." She frowned. "Where and when did you learn about forges? It's a dying art." I grinned. "I think I was a smith in a previous life." Maybe my life as Josh Randall would do me some good in this life after all, that is, in addition to his knack for street fighting. And along with swimming, perhaps I'd found the second form of exercise needed for my growing body. Anvil work developed muscle. "What's the best heat for forging wrought iron?" she asked with defiant glints in her eyes. "Light yellow." My correct answer surprised her, but she persisted. "What about sparkling or sizzling heat?" "Never used. It'd destroy the alloy content and grain structure of the metal," I said. "What's quenching?" I grinned. "The rapid cooling of metal, usually done in water or oil or some other medium suitable for the specific type of material being cooled." "How should iron be placed in the fire?" "Whatever way that least disturbs the fire, but it's seldom laid over the fire, except perhaps for light tempering when only a small amount of heat is needed. The iron should be pushed into the heart of the fire where the highest temperatures are present. The heart burns at a white-hot heat capable of literally melting and burning the iron. Only an experienced smith knows how far the iron should be placed in a fire to heat a given section of the iron, not to mention how long to heat the iron." "Okay, I give up. You'll do. When I need some help with the forge, you'll be my man." "I'll expect payment." She frowned. "Teach me how to weld," I said. "No pressure, only when it's convenient." She grinned. "Deal." ------- Dean and Grace were at the studio when I returned from Agnes's place. They were sitting at the table drinking hot chocolate. When asked, I said yes, and Grace hopped up to nuke some water in the microwave to make a cup of hot chocolate for me. "As you can see, I moved your photographs," I said to Dean. "I hope you don't mind." "Not a bit," Dean said. "In fact, they look better on that smaller wall, not as lost in too much space. Your painting is phenomenal, Brent. Will it be a permanent fixture here?" "No, I'll ship it to San Diego in mid-January, but I'll try to hang one of my paintings on that wall all the time. I expected to see construction underway, Dean. Did your schedule change?" He looked sheepish. "I was just telling, Grace. I rented my own studio this morning, so I won't be sharing this one with you." I said nothing. "My dad threw a hissy fit. He said the cost to retrofit this studio to fit my needs under the threat of a three-month trial occupancy didn't make good fiscal sense. I'm sorry, but it's his money, not mine. If it were up to me, I'd share this studio with you." Grace set a cup of hot chocolate in front of me. I thanked her and turned to Dean. "Your father was right, Dean. No harm, no foul. You and I never got around to divvying up the rent and utilities, but you paid for everything to set up and stock the apartment. Give me the receipts for my items. I'll give them to my father, and he'll cut a check for the total amount. What about the table and chairs and the microwave? Will you be taking them with you, or may I buy them from you?" "I'll be taking them with me." He pushed a manila envelope toward me. "The receipts are in the envelope. Can you check them now and call your father. I'll stop by your house..." "He's at his office," I said. "Okay, I'll stop by his office and pick up the check." What the hell was going on? His family was wealthy. He didn't need the money that soon. Was he afraid I wasn't good for the money? "No, Dean, you won't. I'll give these receipts to Dad tonight. He'll cut the check then, and you can pick it up tomorrow." "But..." "I'm good for the money, Dean." "I know, but my dad..." I didn't stop him from completing the sentence. He just stopped speaking. He was also embarrassed. His father had a ring through his nose and jerked on it from time to time, was my guess. He nodded. "All right, tomorrow then. May I borrow your pickup to move the table and chairs?" "No." My refusal shocked him, I noticed. Grace giggled, which tickled me. She'd picked up on what was happening. I held out my hand. "Key, please." "Oh, oh, yes, of course." He handed me a key. "Did you make an extra key?" I asked. He was closer to the neat-freak end of the scale than the slob-side. He would've made an extra key — just in case. "Ah, yes." "I'll need that key, too, or I'll be forced to call a locksmith. The cost to re-key would be yours, Dean." "I don't have it with me. I'll give it to you when I pick up the check tomorrow." "Fair enough. Take the microwave with you now, and call me in advance for an appointment to pick up the table and chairs after you arrange for a truck." "Go ahead, Dean," Grace said. "I'll hang around with Brent and get a ride home with him." "But..." "Goodbye, Dean," I said. He stood, unplugged the microwave, bundled it under his arm, and left without speaking to either of us again. When we were alone, Grace said, "What a jerk!" "No, Grace. Dean isn't a jerk. He's actually a nice guy, a little anal, maybe, but I liked him. So did you. His father is the jerk, and if money is involved, Dean must answer to him. Dean's father sent him here to pick up a check, and the skinflint will belittle Dean when he arrives home without it. I feel bad about that, but the implication that I wasn't good for the money pissed me off. In that sense, I acted like a jerk, too. In fact, I was as big a jerk as Dean's father, and I'm going to rectify the situation right now." I called Dean's cell number. When he answered, I said, "What's the address of your new studio?" He told me. "Grace and I will load the table and chairs into the pickup and meet you there right now. Okay?" "Ah, yes, sure." "How much trouble will you be in if you don't get that check until tomorrow?" "Some, but I can live with it. My dad, when it comes to money, he doesn't trust anyone, Brent. I'm really sorry about this." "I'll call my father. You can pick up the check this afternoon. For what it's worth, you have my permission to tell your father that I think he's a jerk." Dean laughed. "I'll tell him, and for what it's worth, I agree with you." When I hung up, Grace wrapped her arms around me and gave me a huge hug. "Why can't I meet a guy like you, little brother?" "Cause I'm one of a kind, big sister. Grab a chair. After we deliver the furniture, will you help me buy the replacements?" "You bet. And plants. This place needs plants, Brent. Indoor trees in big pots in the studio. A plant that will creep along the top of the kitchen cabinets as it grows. A smaller tree up here. Plants that hang from the loft down into the studio, a hanging garden, if you will. I mentioned plants when I went out with Dean to set up and stock the apartment, but he pooh-poohed the idea, not in the budget, he said." I grinned. "Well, plants are in my budget. This place will look like an indoor jungle when we're finished with it." ------- Two days later, Sherry Crane called me. "We need to talk," she said. "All right. Where and when?" "Your studio. Now, if possible." I agreed and gave her the studio's address. "Twenty minutes," she said. Which gave me time to shower. I'd been transplanting a ficus benjamina tree into a bigger pot when she called. Would Josh Randall's green thumb come through for me? Some hot water was pelting my head and neck and upper back when I reviewed Sherry's words. We need to talk, she'd said. Talk about what? Talk about how thinking about her gave me erections so hard they couldn't be flesh and blood. Petrified wood, maybe. Flesh and blood, uh-uh. I fisted my hard-on. Wrought iron came to mind. Talk about how I'd fucked her into submission on her kitchen table while her uncle listened to her groans and moans and entreaties for me to fuck her faster and harder with her calling me a little boy between moans? No, she wouldn't want to talk about that. Talk about how well Vivian could eat her cunt, how no man could eat cunt like another woman? Well, Sherry, my dear, I've been a woman, and when I was a woman, I'd had sex with other women, quite a few of them, so this is one teenaged boy who knows how to eat cunt, a boy that can match and exceed sexy Vivian's oral talents. I was still hard when I opened the door to her knock. She held a live plant in her hands. "For your loft apartment," she said and gave it to me. I took it, and she moved inside and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the jungle Grace and I had created. She looked at me, at the small plant she'd given me, and laughed. "Hey, a guy can't have too many plants. Thanks, Sherry." She eyed the bulge in my pants. "Are you hard?" "Like tempered steel. Thinking about you does that to me." "We need to talk about that," she said, but my hard-on wasn't interesting enough to hold her attention. Her eyes darted, taking in not only the jungle but also the paintings I'd hung — another Grace suggestion that had held merit. "Why leave them leaning face in against the wall in the garage studio," Grace had said. "Hang them in your new studio, Brent. Enjoy them until it's time to ship them to San Diego." I said, "Go ahead, Sherry. Browse. Check out my paintings while I make us a cup of hot chocolate. Do you like hot chocolate?" "Uh-huh," she said as she walked to a viewpoint to take in the first painting. I wondered if she'd heard me, but I left her on the studio floor and climbed the stairs to the apartment, which isn't easy with tempered steel trying to rip a hole in your pants. I put the live plant she'd given me on an end table next to the sofa and nuked two cups of hot water in the microwave. After spooning in the hot chocolate mix, I added a few marshmallows, and set the cups on the table. I limped to the railing and looked down into the studio. She hadn't finished looking at my paintings, and I watched her for a minute. Deep down, I knew she was here to let me down, but I still had hopes. I loved her. Not a lot, just a little. And I wanted her. Not a little, but desperately. As I watched her move, my lust fogged, became a light-yellow haze behind my eyes, 2200° Fahrenheit, the best heat for forging wrought iron or mild steel. I suddenly realized that I loved two women, and their beauty and grace were like a matched pair of carriage horses, separate beings but in lockstep in my brain. When I saw Grace, I saw Sherry, and now looking at Sherry, I was reminded of Grace. I wanted them both, but I wanted Grace more. I wanted to fuck Sherry. I wanted Grace as my mate. These truths struck me like a blow from a smith's hammer, and for the first time I understood the burden I'd been given to carry during this life. Every life held its burdens. Josh Randall was born with a hair-trigger temper. Jane Wilson couldn't be satisfied with one man or one woman. I suspected Sherry was like Jane in that regard. My burden was wanting my sister as a mate. That wouldn't happen, couldn't happen. I adjusted my hard-on, and the movement caught Sherry's eye. She looked up at me and smiled. "They're wonderful, Brent!" she exclaimed, referring to my paintings, I assumed. "The hot chocolate is on the table," I said and watched her bound up the stairs like a gazelle. I turned and limped to a chair. "You're still hard?" she said behind a coy smile. "Of course. I watched you for a minute before you noticed me." She sat and sipped the hot chocolate. "Tempered steel hard?" "Worse. I could cut diamonds." "Show me." "Huh?" "Show me. I love Vivian, Brent, but..." She took a deep breath. "Let me just say that I'm not built like her. She craves sex with a woman, only women, and specifically with me, and she satisfies me, makes me come over and over again, but she can't satisfy all the cravings I have." She set her cup on the table and looked me in the eye. "There are times when I crave cock, a hard-as-steel, flesh-and-blood cock. Sometimes, I crave the feel of a hard-muscled man thrusting, filling my cunt with a thick shaft, bellowing like the animal he is when he empties his seed inside me. There are times that I crave masculine smells, masculine tastes. Rough hands. Grasping hands, not tender, sweet touches." "Jesus," I breathed. "I don't love you, Brent. I'll never love you, but I'll fuck you. You said we could be secret lovers. Did you mean what you said?" I swallowed and nodded. "I'm talking about one or two times a week, Brent. That's it. And the time and place must be of my choosing, not yours. I'll be using you. I wanted you to know that up front. I love Vivian, and I don't want to hurt her, so your offer to be my secret lover fits. It fits my situation, fits my cravings. She doesn't know about you. She saw what I saw when I first met you, a sixteen-year-old boy. She won't suspect you. She doesn't know that you've given me the best fuck I've ever had with a man. Is this arrangement acceptable to you?" "Are you expecting monogamy from me?" "No." "Then my answer is yes." She nodded. "Show me." I showed her. I pushed my chair from the table, stood up and dropped my pants and boxers, kicking them away from me. My cock bobbed. It was so hard it stood straight up. "Sit," she said. I sat back on the chair. "I have a craving I didn't tell you about. I love to suck cock, Brent." She rose from her chair, walked around the table and lowered herself to her knees in front of me. "I adore the feel of a hard cock in my mouth, the taste, the throbbing heat, the sound of a man groaning when I give him pleasure." She reached and her dainty hand wrapped my hard-on. Her tongue darted out and licked around the purplish head. "And most of all, secret lover, I love to feel a cock spurting juices into my throat. The taste of man come, its slimy texture, its warmth satisfies one of my cravings. Every time I looked at you on Christmas day, I thought about sucking your cock. It's the perfect size for sucking. I can swallow it whole." She proceeded to demonstrate her point. Terry and Nora enjoyed sucking my cock, and because they enjoyed it, they were good at it, but they were amateurs compared to Sherry. Her only match in all three of my lives was Josh Randall's wife, Hattie. I recognized Hattie's techniques in Sherry, and I reveled in the exquisite sensations rolling over me like a swirling wind in a heavy fog. "Don't hold back," Sherry said. "Come when you get the urge. I'll let you rest for a minute or two and get you hard again. You're young. It won't take long. Then I want you to pull out that sofa bed so I can ride you, fuck you until I come all over your cock. That's what I want today. The next time we meet, you get to choose." Her mouth returned to my cock. She'd coated it with a luxurious sheen of saliva. Her tongue twirled as she bobbed, swallowing me whole, and a few minutes later I gave her what she craved when my semen blasted into her gulping mouth. ------- Chapter 6 If my luncheon with Dr. Crane proved anything, it was that we could never be friends. My advanced maturity to the contrary, he couldn't get past the age gap. What's more, he was thoroughly ensconced in academia. I wasn't, which made me an inferior outsider, and with the exception of our discussion about Jane Wilson, he treated the luncheon as an art critic interviewing an up-and-coming young artist. Neither of us brought up Sherry and Vivian. After lunch, he followed me to my studio to view my paintings. He was effusive with his praise, congratulated me for taking a risk with the direction my work was taking, and drove away. Following my mother's advice, I tried to remain friendly with Dean, but after Grace dumped him, he refused to make any time for me. Two failures, but my one resounding success made up for the failures. Agnes Porter became a true friend. We gave and we got. One evening she asked me to shut down the coal forge for the night. She didn't trust me. The request was obviously a test, and she watched me perform the task. I didn't mind. Like me, I noticed that Agnes believed that maintaining a full fire not only offered a more efficient heat source but also insured plenty of fuel to light a new fire the next day. Coke lights much easier than coal, so before I pulled the fire apart, I pulled out an ample supply of coke and left it near the fire pot to light the fire the next day. I didn't douse the fire with water. As long as the bulk of the fuel is pulled out of the fire, the fire will go out on its own. The following morning, only fines would remain in the firepot — mostly. Agnes would remove those with a shovel, sifted first to separate the good coke from small pieces of clinker. "Yep, you'll do," she said. "Come on, I'll give you your first welding lesson." After that afternoon, if I was around at the end of the day, I stopped by Agnes's studio and shut down her fire, and one morning I stopped by early enough to light the fire. Soon we worked side by side, forging specific pieces of metal for her sculptures, and I was starting to get a handle on welding. Welding was a quick study for me because many of the principles of forging and welding overlapped. Agnes didn't have a kitchen in her studio, so I gave her free reign of mine. She was polite enough not to bother me if I were working and didn't bang on the door if it was locked. Still, it didn't take her long to realize that Sherry Crane was visiting me for some fun and games, but I'm getting ahead of myself. ------- "You want to do what?" Sherry said the second time she visited my studio. "You heard me the first time," I said. "Brent, I'm here to satisfy my craving for a stiff male organ, not to get my pussy eaten. Vivian makes sure that craving is satisfied on a daily basis." "Hey, I have cravings, too. I love the flavors and fragrances of an aroused cunt. After I eat you, I'll fuck you. Guaranteed. Take the position, babe." "Position?" "Yeah, you know, spread your legs and pull up your knees, and then, using your fingers, spread the lips of you amazing pussy." "Like this, you mean?" she said with a schoolgirl giggle. "Uh-huh," I said just before my open mouth covered her entire cunt. I lapped my tongue up through her crease, rolling it over her clitoris. The lick wasn't soft or tender. I wanted her to feel and appreciate the difference. I'd eat her like a man, not a woman, and I had a treat for her, something I'd learned when I was Jane Wilson. After lapping her cunt like a large male dog for a minute or two, I inserted two fingers inside her and searched for a small rough area, her G-spot. I found it, and with my hand turned up, I started to tap the spot, a sort of come-hither motion with my fingers, while I continued to lick her inner lips and clit. "Oh, fuck, Brent, that feels so good. Viva la difference!" My fingers tapped with a steady rhythm; my tongue did its thing, and soon Sherry was thrashing around on the bed under my face. That's when I sucked her clitoris into my mouth and lashed it with my tongue. She screeched with pleasure, and her hips rose up off the bed as her body stiffened in orgasm. That would be her first and last clitoral orgasm that afternoon, but nowhere near her last climax before our lovemaking ended for the day. When she collapsed, I let her relax for a few seconds, and then started to tap her G-spot again. My licking tongue stopped being male and gave her the kind of licks Vivian probably gave her. Soft licks. Sweet. "I'm getting hot again," she said. "Fuck me now." "Later." "Now!" I ignored her and continued my tapping, my little licks, and a few minutes later she said, "I can't believe it. I'm coming again. Coming, Brent! Come... !" Her words became unintelligible. Her hips waved, and she tossed her head back and forth. I felt her second orgasm start when her cunt tried to expel my fingers. I let the digits be pushed a little, pushed them back inside and tapped, using the same insistent rhythm I'd used before. I slackened off, and her interior muscles pushed my fingers all the way out. But I knew what I had to do, and my fingers slipped back inside her and did their thing again. She wailed and went stiff, her cunt fluttering very fast, as she squirted a small amount of orgasmic juices into my mouth and over my face. They were delicious, my favorite flavor. Thanks for the memories, Jane. Sherry thought I was finished, but I was just getting started. Tap, tap, tap, went my fingers, and my tongue got busy again. "What are you doing to me?" she gushed. I said nothing. My mouth was busy. "Whatever it is, don't stop," she said. One more orgasm, and I'd have her where I wanted her. The moment her cunt convulsed, I let my fingers pop loose, but shoved them back inside and tapped. She exploded, went into convulsions, and her squirting juices doubled in volume and power. I worked her, kept her on an orgasmic plateau. She didn't have one, long continuous climax, but the peaks came at about thirty-second intervals, one after the other, and each orgasm was more powerful than the one before. I waited for the big one, possibly the most terrifyingly intense climax she'd ever experience, and it came upon her suddenly. That's when I moved up over her and jammed my cock into her with one powerful thrust. After so many orgasms, the interior membranes of her vagina were convulsing, squeezing and releasing my shaft astonishingly fast. I thought she'd collapse before I could climax, but her orgasm went on and on, and in the end, I screamed with her, and expelled my seed into the depths of her pulsating cunt with five powerful squirts of my own. We collapsed together. I maintained consciousness. She didn't. I held her in my arms until she came around. "What did you do to me?" she whispered between gasps. "Ate you." "No, you ate me through my first climax. The ones that followed... I don't know, but I've never come that hard or as often in my life. And the last one! The last one fried my brains." She reached down and touched herself. "You fucked me, came in me. I thought that's what happened, but I was so out of it I wasn't sure." I brushed her hair from her face and gave her a soft kiss. "You were magnificent." "Your face is sopping wet." "You squirted." "I don't squirt." "Feel the bed under you." She rubbed her hand on the sheet between her legs and giggled. "I squirted." "More than once. Lick my face. Taste yourself. It's a different flavor than your normal juices." Her tongue reached out and licked. "It's lighter," I said. "Not as viscous. I prefer it to your normal spend." She leaned back from me and held her head up with the heel of her hand, using her elbow as a fulcrum. "I thought I'd tried everything, done everything at least once. I was wrong. Where did you... ? When... ? Who... ? Fuck! You're sixteen years old. You can't be that good." I laughed. "I told you. Before I met you, I had two girl friends, one twenty years old, the other twenty-one. I watched them do that to each other. I wanted to learn the techniques. They taught me." A lie, but I couldn't tell her about Jane Wilson. She frowned. "You watched them? They taught you. Are you saying that you had sex with both of them at the same time?" I frowned. "Isn't that what I just said?" "They taught you?" "Yes." "Can you teach me?" "So you can do to Vivian what I did to you?" She had the humility to blush. I laughed. "She'll want to know who taught you." "I'll say I read about it in a magazine." "Okay. I'll teach you, but to get, you've got to give. Eat me while I describe the technique to you." "Deal." She giggled as she scooted down on the bed. "I love sucking cock. I'll be getting to get." ------- "What's wrong, Grace?" I asked. She'd been dispirited, and I believed I knew why. "It's New Year's Eve, and I have nowhere to go and no one to go with me." I laughed. "You've got me, babe. I'm paddling the same canoe. Put on your glad rags. I'll do the same, and we'll go out and about and bring in the New Year with a bang, not a whimper." She hooted. "Criminy, Brent, in three short sentences, you slaughtered four clichés, and mixed some metaphors, to boot." "Which reminds me, how's your writing coming along?" "It's cliché ridden. I talked with Mom this morning. She said she had to talk to Dad, but she all but promised to arrange some expert tutoring for me." She sighed. "Were you serious about going out?" "Sure, if that's what you'd like to do." "I don't, but I do want to bring in the New Year with you." "Then that's what we'll do." She put a CD in the player and soft music filled the room. Her shoes went flying. "Take off your shoes and dance with me," she said. My shoes went flying. I held out my arms, and she moved into them, pressing her lush body against me. She kissed my cheek, and we moved gracefully around the floor. My cock lengthened. I didn't pull back. Neither did she. Instead, she nuzzled her face in my neck. "I excite you, don't I?" she said. "Always have, always will." "Sometimes, I wish I wasn't your sister." I said nothing. "If I wasn't, you'd fuck me, wouldn't you?" "Yes. I'd make love with you, too." "I'd like that." I said nothing. We danced. I led. She followed. But we moved as if we were one. The song ended, another started. We continued to hold each other, barely moving. She looked up at me. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears. I kissed the edge of each eye, tasting her salty emotional offering. "Life played a dirty trick on us, Brent," she said so softly I could barely hear her. "I know." She nuzzled her damp face in my neck again. "If I wasn't your sister, and I asked, would you stop fucking Sherry Crane?" "Yes." "Would you stop fucking her anyway?" "No." "Are you in love with her?" "A little, not a lot. She's in love with someone else, a woman. Sherry and I have no future together. We're using each other to satisfy some basic cravings." Grace leaned back. "A woman?" "Yes." She snickered. "How about that? Is Sherry's lover bisexual?" "No." "Too bad. Otherwise, you could fuck both of them, like you did Terry and Nora." I said nothing, but she sensed that she'd gone too far. "I'm sorry," she said. "Apology accepted." "Let's open a bottle of wine." "All right." She spun out of my arms. I followed her to the wine rack in the kitchen, adjusting my erection when she couldn't see me. "Have you ever gotten drunk, Brent?" "No, not in this life." She gave me a curious look. "You say that a lot, talk about this life versus other lives, I mean. Red or white?" "Red. Red wine doesn't need refrigeration. So says Agnes." "I like Agnes." Grace deftly peeled off the waxed surface around the stem of the bottle. "So do I. She's my only friend." "Why do you talk about other lives?" "Because I remember parts of them." "Really?" She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew. "Yes. I believe my previous lives are the source of my advanced maturity." She pulled the cork and poured the wine. I took one glass; she took the other, and we clicked them together. "Happy New Year," we said simultaneously, and then laughed together. She gulped at the wine. I sipped. "Then you must believe in reincarnation," she said. "Yes." "Tell me about some of the things you remember about your past lives," she said and grabbed the bottle. "Let's sit on the sofa for this theological discussion." As we walked back to the family room, I debated with myself about how much to tell her. I wanted to tell her everything. I'd wanted to tell someone everything since the first Jane Wilson memory entered my mind. Dribble it out, I told myself. Test her reactions. Go as far as she'll allow without her thinking that you've lost your ever lovin' mind. She curled her feet under her, something I couldn't do, not in this life, and in the process exposed a lot of leg. She noticed that I noticed and offered me a coy smile. For safety reasons, I sat at the opposite end of the sofa. While we'd danced, I'd come close to kissing her with passion. That's what she wanted; that's what I wanted. And if I'd kissed her the way I'd wanted to kiss her, we would've ended up making love, which in the end would've been an unmitigated disaster. "If I tell you about what I remember about my past lives, do you promise to tell no one?" "Yes." "Not Mom or Dad, not any of your friends, not any future lovers. No one, Grace." "I promise, Brent. Why are you making this such a big deal?" "Because it is. I've told no one about my past lives, Grace. If I tell you, you'll be the first, and it's likely that you'll be the only person I'll ever tell." She shook her head. "I still don't understand why it's such a big deal." "I'll give you one example. Like Agnes, have you been curious about how much I know about her coal forge? You've known me all my life. When in this life could I have learned what I know about forging metal?" "I don't know, but you do so many things like that, Brent, that I just... well, accept them. I'm not the only one that does this, either. Mom and Dad react the same way." "I know about coal forges because I was a smith in a previous life. At the turn of the century — that's the year 1900, Grace, not 2000 — I was born as a man who lived thirty-one years. For much of my adult life during that life, I worked as an industrial blacksmith for a copper company in Nevada. Now, do you understand why keeping my secret is such a big deal?" "Jesus! Are you serious?" "As a heart attack." I waited. I needed her reaction beyond shock before I'd proceed. She gulped at the wine, emptying the glass. She filled it from the bottle she'd carried with us from the kitchen. "Were you an artist in a different past life?" "Yes." "Is that why suddenly one day you asked Dad to buy you some art supplies and turn the garage into a studio, and then, out of the blue, painted the most magnificent works of art I've ever seen?" "Yes." "Jesus." She gulped at the wine again. "How much detail do you remember?" "Similar to the detail I remember about this life. I lived those lives, Grace, like I'm living this one." "How many past lives do you remember?" "Two." "The artist and the blacksmith?" "Yes." "Amazing!" "Do you believe me?" "Yes! It explains everything, all the incredible things that you do. You're not sixteen years old. You're older than dirt." I laughed. She laughed with me. "Our secret?" I said. "Oh, yeah. Nobody would believe me if I blabbed anyway. Wow! What a way to bring in a New Year! By finding out my little brother is over a hundred years old!" She slipped across the sofa and cuddled against my side. I put an arm around her shoulder, and she brought my other arm around her waist. "There, I'm comfy now. Okay buster, tell me everything." I talked the old year out, kissed my sister at the moment of the birth of a New Year, keeping the heat of the kiss manageable, and then talked some more, running down just before my parents arrived home blitzed from their New Year's Eve party. ------- "School days, school days/Dear old golden rule days," I sang as I drove the pickup into the student parking lot at the high school for our first day back to school after the Christmas break. Education. I needed all the education I could get in this life. Josh Randall finished the eighth grade — barely. Jane Wilson finished high school, but she took her talent as an artist seriously, not her education. That had to change during my current incarnation, if only for future incarnations to use, which begged the question. Would I remember my previous two lives, and this one, when I reached puberty in my next life? I'd searched Jane Wilson's memories for any Josh Randall memories. Likewise, with Josh Randall and his previous life. Nothing. "Don't quit your day job to go on a concert tour," Grace said, referring to my terrible singing voice. I was a talented artist with perfect vision and above-average hand/eye coordination, but my body was flawed. I suffered from tinnitus. I heard the sounds of rushing air in both ears. Some days the rushing roared; other days it quieted somewhat. Because of this rushing, roaring air, I was musically challenged. I didn't hear what everyone else heard. What's more my memory retrieval system for this life was almost entirely visual. In other words, if I saw something, I could remember it. If I heard something, I'd probably forget it. Even my memories from my previous lives were imagery oriented. Accordingly, unless I took notes, lectures — to use a slightly altered cliché — went in one roaring ear and out the other. I didn't continue the school-day ditty. In truth the first two lines of the song were the only lyrics I remembered — typical for me. I couldn't hear the words to most songs, let alone remember them. As Grace and I were walking into the east entrance to the school, I noticed a crowd gathered at the rear corner of the building. I couldn't see whatever had assembled the crowd. I was curious, but my bully-avoidance system kicked in, and I continued toward the entrance. Grace didn't. She stepped off the sidewalk and walked into the crowd. Being the protective little brother that I was, I followed her. Exceptionally large males aren't necessarily stupid and mean, but it had always seemed to me that a preponderance of them exhibited one or both flaws. When I joined Grace at the front of the crowd, I saw three hulks manhandling a skinny kid. They were pantsing him. To pants someone, according to slang, means to pull a person's trousers down as a sophomoric prank. I'd been pantsed by some bullies once. The large, mean and stupid boys who'd pantsed me had at least left me with my boxers. The bullies manhandling the skinny kid had already removed his trousers and were in the process of stripping off his underwear. The kid was fighting back, kicking, screaming, but he was too small, and he was outnumbered. He didn't have a chance. A red haze filled my eyes and brain, and I felt as if someone had pounded a railroad spike into my head. "Stop it!" I yelled, and without thinking, moved from the crowd onto the battlefield. "You've pantsed him! That's enough. Leave him alone!" The kid's briefs were around his knees when I pushed one of his assailants away from him. "That's enough!" I shouted again. The hulk I pushed fell over his friend's feet and landed on his ass with a thud. The crowd tittered, and the malevolent look in the bully's eyes informed me that I was in deep shit. "You queer, too?" a different hulk said. "Are you a cock sucker like queer boy here?" The third hulk wasn't a talker; he was a doer. He rose up from holding down the kid and rushed me, smashing his bulk against my chest like an NFL tackle sacking a quarterback. When I hit the grass, he landed on top of me, knocking all the air from my lungs. I couldn't breathe, but I could jerk my head to the side to turn the effect of the boot flying at me from a near decapitating strike into a glancing blow. Still, I literally saw stars. "Grab his pants," one of them said. Half unconscious, I felt my trousers being jerked down off my hips; my boxers went with the pants. I gasped, trying to replenish the air in my lungs, and shook my head, trying to clear the super nova swirling in the red haze in front of my eyes. I kicked out with both feet, connecting mostly air, but one lucky kick struck a grinning, belligerent face. Blood spurted — the assailant's blood, not mine. That's when they stopped being nice guys. A meaty fist struck my left ear. The toe of a large shoe dug into my ribs. I felt the ribs collapse, but they did their job. They were damaged, but they'd protected what they covered. Instead of debilitating me, the pain from their blows energized me, and memories from a distant past flashed into my mind, not the street-fighting techniques that Josh Randall had passed on to me, but different memories from a past back beyond Randall's. The heel of my hand struck another face, and my shoe walloped the bully's shoulder holding me down at my left. I struggled from their grasp, and rolled over twice to get away from them, kicking my shoes and trousers and boxer shorts away as I rolled. They were impeding my movement, and nudity wasn't anywhere near my largest concern at the moment. Naked from the waist down, I faced my assailants. "Come on," I said, taunting them by gesturing with come-hither hand waves. "Cowards, that's what you are, picking on that skinny kid. I'm closer to your size. Pick on me." As expected, the doer attacked. I don't know how I did it, but what I did felt natural and right. Using his off-balance momentum and his bulk as leverage, I grabbed his arm and hand and tossed him head over heels away from me. At the same time, my right foot kicked straight out and buried itself in another bully's diaphragm. The side of my right hand struck the third bully's collarbone. I felt it shatter under the blow, the collarbone, not my hand. I bruised the hell out of my hand, though. That's when a school security guard and a couple of teachers joined the fray — too late to do any good, as usual. The security guard manhandled me. I let him. The two teachers stopped the doer from attacking me again. I was pleased to note his flattened, bloody nose. The other two bullies were out of it. One was trying desperately to breathe after my kick to his stomach; the other one was on the ground whimpering in pain from his broken collarbone. "I'm fine," I said to the security guard. "May I please put on my pants?" ------- The five of us were suspended for fighting on school property. Yes, the skinny kid was punished, too. Dumb, huh? Fearing a possible civil suit, I asked Grace to obtain written statements from the students in the crowd. Most of them refused; they didn't want to get involved. But a few brave souls stepped forward. I spent my week's suspension getting reacquainted with oil paint. I wasn't much help to Agnes, though. My cracked ribs disallowed work on her forge, and for the first time I had to tell Sherry no when she called to arrange an assignation for her semi-weekly cock fix. The altercation did produce four positive results. Bullies now avoided me, instead of the other way around; the memories from a third past life that started with the fight came to me one after the other, but randomly instead of in reverse order like the others; the skinny kid became a friend, and Liz Cornwell asked me to be her date for the senior prom. She'd been the first to give Grace a written statement, and although it was flowery, it contained the relevant facts. Liz, not Grace, delivered the statement to me at my studio, which told me that I had Grace's blessings regarding the beautiful girl, because Grace had given Liz the studio's address. Liz was a mature eighteen-year-old senior. Like Nora, Liz was a petite girl, slim but not skinny. She often wore her straight, dark hair pulled tight behind her head into a ponytail or bun, which emphasized her long neck, high cheekbones and classically beautiful face. Her skin glowed with a peachy complexion, rather than looking tanned or golden, and was without blemish of any kind. Liz crossed the lines of various high-school cliques. Because she was beautiful and her parents had money, she was a fringe member of the in-crowd. Because she would graduate third in her class, she was friendly with her fellow geeks. She could play the piano like a pro and sing like an angel, so she got along with the artsy crowd, and her gymnastic talents made her a jock. Elizabeth Cornwell was, in a word, impressive. Jeff Cox, the skinny kid being pantsed when I weighed in on the bullies, was helping me stretch a large canvas when Liz knocked on the studio door. I opened the door to what looked like a cynical smile, but I found out later that was just her way of smiling. She told me the purpose of her visit. I invited her in, introduced her to Jeff, who stammered and stuttered, but still managed to be gracious. At her insistence, I gave her time to walk through the studio and view the twelve finished paintings ready to be shipped to San Diego. She was effusive with her praise, and her in-depth knowledge of my art surprised me. Finally, the three of us settled around the kitchen table in the loft apartment. Jeff made hot chocolate for us while I read Liz's statement. "Thanks," I said when I finished. "You have a good eye for detail." I snorted a laugh. "You saw more than I did." "That's not unusual. I was an observer; you were a participant. I asked Grace to let me deliver the statement in person because I have an ulterior motive. You, I believe, have a habit of rescuing the downtrodden or someone in distress. I'm not a fair maiden, but I am in distress. I need a date for the Senior Prom at the end of the month." I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me. "Before you agree or tell me to take a flying leap, you should know all the facts. I purchased my prom dress two months ago and put up with three fittings since to make it perfect. It's hanging in my closet. The dress is accessorized: shoes, clutch purse, sexy undies, and various female members of my immediate and extended family have contributed jewelry for that night. I won't be going to school the day of the prom, because I'll be at a beauty salon and spa: hair, nails, skin, the works. Are you starting to get the picture?" I nodded but said nothing. "My boyfriend of two years — the cad — called me from college last week and told me he'd fallen in love with another woman. I shed a few tears; no, that wouldn't be accurate. I shed a lot of tears and did some even more unladylike cussing, but except for no one to take me to the prom, I'm all right now. I spoke with my parents last night. They agreed to contribute the money for the social affair, which includes the pre-dance dinner, your tuxedo rental, a limo, and a hotel suite, so if you say yes, the only out-of-pocket expense you'll be liable for is a simple wrist corsage, and if that's a problem, I'll handle that myself. I know it's late to be asking, and with my candid admission that you weren't my first choice, I'll understand if you say no." Her full, kissable lips curled into her normal cynical smile. "Waddaya say?" "No," I said but hastened to add, "not under the conditions you presented. I'll be happy to be your date to the prom, Liz, but only if you'll allow me to pay my way. I'll make the reservations and pay for the pre-dance dinner. I won't wear a standard tuxedo because a tuxedo doesn't fit my look, but what I wear will appear formal enough to make you happy. I'll also arrange and pay for the limo and hotel suite, but we won't be alone in the limo or suite. My sister and her date will be going with us." She frowned. "When I told Grace my motive for delivering the statement in person, she told me she understood because, like me, she didn't have a date for the prom." I nodded and said, "That's got to change. If you can ask me, she can ask someone, and I don't want her to miss her senior prom." I'd toyed with the idea of asking Grace to be my date for her senior prom, but worried she'd consider the offer demeaning. Liz's grin broadened, which destroyed all touches of cynicism on her pretty face. Then she frowned again. "What happens if she doesn't get a date?" "Then we'll go alone. I have one other condition." "What's that?" "A couple of dates before the prom, simple dates, dinner, a movie, whatever, so we can get to know each other better before the big event." She nodded. "I can live with that." ------- From approximately 1845 to 1900, I lived as a Chinese man named Fang Hong, with Hong being my first name. Talk about culture shock! To understand that life, some history is necessary. During the nineteenth century, the major European powers compelled a reluctant Chinese Empire to start trading with them, but the Chinese government wanted little from the West. However, the Chinese population created a strong demand for opium, and during the Opium Wars of the 1860s, the British forced the Chinese to accept the import of opium in return for Chinese goods. Trading centers were established at major ports. The largest of these was Shanghai, where French, German, British and United States merchants demanded large tracts of land in which they asserted "extra-territorial" rights, meaning that they were subject to the laws of their own country, not those of China. It was in Shanghai that the legendary sign, No dogs or Chinamen, appeared in a park near one of these European compounds. Because the Chinese government couldn't resist these inroads on its sovereignty, large sections of the population grew resentful and antagonistic. By the end of the nineteenth century the balance of the lucrative trade between China and merchants from America and Europe, particularly Britain, lay almost entirely in the West's favor. As Western influence increased, anti-European secret societies began to form. Among the most violent and popular of these was the I-ho-ch'uan, which translates as the "Righteous and Harmonious Fists." Dubbed "the Boxers" by Western correspondents, they gave the Boxer Rebellion its name. As Fang Hong, I was killed in the Boxer Rebellion. For full understanding, another history is important: Shaolin history. In 1647 AD, Ching loyal troops, armed with cannons, destroyed the original Shaolin temple in Henan. The monks who remained to defend the temple were slaughtered, but many fled to the Fukien Temple and, for thirty years, continued their resistance and their support of resistance fighters. This led to the destruction of the Fukien temple, the other remaining major temples, and most of the lesser temples. At this time, the practice of Shaolin Kung Fu was declared punishable by death, and most of the priceless scrolls of Shaolin Kung Fu were lost. Early in the 19th Century, the Shaolin Temples were reopened, but the rulers of the day still feared the power of the fighting Shaolin Monks, so they allowed Shaolin to be used for purely religious purposes without allowing Kung Fu or other martial art training, once again by order of death. Near the end of the 19th Century, the two histories came together with the Boxer Rebellion. Practitioners of Chinese martial arts prepared for this event by training in hard Kung Fu and Chi Kung body hardening. The Manchu's, armed with handguns and rifles, totally destroyed the Boxers, which brought an end to the rebellion. What did all this mean for me? To start with, I could read, write and speak the Chinese languages of the 19th Century, which for my current life were as useless as tits on a boar hog. Still, there was one aspect of my life as Fang Hong that I figured would come in handy. I was an adept in Kung Fu. What I remembered most was my ability with Shaolin wushu weapons, particularly the cudgel, the father of all weapons. I surfed the Internet and purchased an "authentic" Shaolin cudgel for sale on Ebay. Whether it was authentic or not was open to question, but along with swimming each morning, weather permitting, I started each day with a couple of sets of tai chi, some kuen or forms from Kung Fu, and some exercises with the cudgel. I also started to carry the cudgel with me everywhere it was permitted. Startled by the new skills I suddenly demonstrated, my mother questioned their origin. "Like with my knowledge of art and coal forges, they came to me in the form of memories from a previous life," I said. Would my mother accept my past lives as readily as Grace? Apparently not. She looked confused and upset by my answer. I chuckled and, to relieve her anxiety, reverted to an old standby she'd accepted as an explanation for my strange behavior in the past. "Gotcha!" I said with a grin. "I gleaned the details from websites on the Internet and taught myself through trial and error, Mom." "Oh, okay." "I'm going to join a kwoon." "Kwoon?" "Yeah, that's a training hall for Kung Fu." "Is that what you're practicing every morning?" "That and tai chi. I use tai chi more for meditation than as a martial art form. Tai chi is a good exercise, though. Want me to teach you how to do it?" She grinned. "I think I'd like that." ------- "School days, school days/Dear old golden rule days," I sang as I drove the pickup into the student parking lot at the high school for my first day back to school after my suspension. Grace groaned as if in pain. "How's your writing progressing?" I asked. "It's dead in the water." "Who's the lucky guy you're going to ask to the prom today?" "That's dead in the water, too." "My threat holds. If by midnight tonight you haven't found a date, I'll find one for you." "Hah! Like Dean Gibson?" I shoved the transmission in park and reached awkwardly behind my back. "What are you doing?" "Trying to pull out the knife you stabbed in my back." "Funny. You're tight with Jeff Cox. I could invite him." "He's a smart boy. He'd know you were playing with his affections. Besides, I think he's found a girlfriend." Jeff adored Grace. She treated him like an equal, instead of a little kid. Although Jeff had a bad case of hero worship regarding me, he handled the situation without being ridiculous about it, and he had a great sense of humor. He made me laugh. What's more, he was the smartest person I'd ever met. His IQ was in the stratosphere, which had caused him to skip two grades. Instead of fifteen, the age for most freshmen, he was thirteen, and the lad was a late developer, to boot. I think we became friends because neither of us fit well in any of the high school social structures. "Oh, who?" Grace said, referring to Jeff's girlfriend. "A freshman girl named Tracy. I can't remember her last name. Like Jeff, she's a brainiac." "Tracy Bentwood?" "That's the girl." Grace giggled. "She's a foot taller than Jeff." "Be nice, missy. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." "Are you going out with Liz tonight?" "Yep." Grace nodded. "She's better for you than Sherry Crane." "Liz is a foot shorter than I." "Be nice, buster." We stepped out of the pickup into a brisk, clear morning. I could see my breath when I breathed. ------- Chapter 7 The air was cold and wet, the stars obscured by heavy clouds. I shivered and put my arm around Liz's waist, pulling her close, as much for her body heat as a friendly gesture. We were walking toward the pickup after going to a movie. "Hot chocolate," I said. "The night calls for hot chocolate." "Sounds good," Liz said. "My studio. We can warm our insides and talk." "All right. I would like to take another look at your paintings before you ship them to San Diego." Twenty minutes later, I flipped on the lights in the studio and disarmed the burglar alarm. The alarm was recent, a requirement of my insurance company after I informed them about the value of the paintings I stored in the studio. "Do you know another artist, a man named Carl Ballard?" Liz asked as we settled on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate in hand. "Yes," I said. "Why?" "When I told my older sister about you, she said she'd overheard Ballard talking about a punk kid named Brent Carson, and she asked me if you were that punk kid." "I'm he," I said. "What was Ballard saying?" "That he was going to break every bone in your body." I nodded. I'd wondered if Ballard's busted balls were going to come back to haunt me. When she asked, I told Liz what had happened at the Crane cocktail party. I ended the story with a chuckle and said, "So, ask your sister if Ballard is talking with a slightly higher voice lately." Liz giggled. "Abby, that's my sister, says he's huge, that he looks like a mountain man, authentic scraggly beard and all. Do me a favor and try to avoid him until after the prom." "After which you won't care if he breaks my bones?" She blushed. "I didn't mean it that way. Remember, I watched you with those bullies, Brent. They outnumbered you three to one, and you prevailed. Ballard might be big, but there's just one of him, so you'll take him. Still, you won't come out of a fight with a big man completely unscathed. I'd rather you were bruise free and lively for the prom." I grinned. "Good save." I got a cynical smile for that. "Let's change the subject," I said. "All right. What would you like to talk about?" "Dancing. Can you dance?" "Sure. Can you?" "Slow dances, yes. I look like a frightened chicken during fast dances." She laughed. "Not unlike most boys. Drop by my house Saturday afternoon, and I'll give you a lesson in fast dancing." "Let's meet here. Between now and Saturday, I'll buy a CD player. Just bring the music you want to play." She grinned and said, "I like your plan better." I told her about my tinnitus, and that I was musically challenged, and promptly changed the subject again. "Let's talk about sex now." Her aplomb surprised me. "What would you like to know?" My expression made her laugh again. I recovered and said, "Am I to infer from your question that you could teach me a few things?" She looked at me over the rim of her mug. Her blue eyes danced with mischief. "Maybe." "Probably. You are, after all, robbing the cradle," I conceded. "Hah! You're more mature than my ex-boyfriend, and he's a college sophomore." "Pretend I'm a blank slate. Pretend I'm pliable and amenable to training. If you wanted to train me in the ways of sex, what would you teach me first?" She blushed. I laughed. "Something came to mind," I said. "Go ahead. Tell me. You won't shock or offend, and I won't think less of you for saying it." "Easy for you to say. Let's turn the tables. What would you teach me first? How to give head?" "No! That'd be way down the list. My first lesson would be how to relax so you can accept and expect the wonderful sensations a sexual partner can give you." She looked at me as if I were suddenly two-headed. Still, the look was positive. I laughed. "Your turn." "I don't think so. Tell me about lesson number two?" "A tour to promote self-discovery. Most women don't know, beyond the obvious places, what parts of their body excite them if caressed, kissed, licked or fondled. This relates to my first rule of sexual competency: know what turns you on. My third lesson would be another tour, and relates to my second rule of sexual competency: know what turns your partner on. There, I've described my first three lessons. To be fair, you must now reciprocate." "I don't think so." She blushed. "I think I'd rather have you as a teacher than a student." I cocked one eyebrow. "I doubt that would work very long. I don't see you as a submissive." "No, I'm not, but you're a dominant male." "I prefer equality in a sex partner. Equality encourages edges, and edges makes sex and love, any kind of interaction, for that matter, more interesting." "What do you mean by edges?" "Unexpected reactions, small surprises, intense passion, those sorts of things. In a dominant/submissive relationship, unexpected reactions or surprises would be frowned upon because the roles are set. Equality allows switching dominant and submissive roles between the partners." I chuckled thinking about my first time with Sherry. "A dominant/dominant session can be... ah, exciting, but very tiring if constant. A submissive/submissive session, by definition, can't happen. Each would be waiting for the other to provide direction." "You sound as if you've experienced many types of sex partners and roles." I grinned. She thought she had me in a vice. She didn't. I said, "I have — in my mind. I have a rich and varied imagination that feeds my fantasy world with interesting females of all ilks. I must admit that since you asked me to be your date to the prom, you've taken center stage in my fantasy world." Her eyes became mischievous again. "Tell me about the roles I've played on that stage." "You defy conventional style and wear your sleek hair in a bun, which on another woman would be dowdy. You make the look stylish, intriguing, even sexy. In one fantasy, I removed the pins in your hair, used my fingers as a brush and let it fall down your back, or over your soft shoulders, or across your bare breasts." I moved next to her, reached and removed one pin from her hair. "Sometimes my fantasies have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Other times, I have what I call fantasy flashes." I took out another pin. "Whether pulled back tight behind your classically beautiful face, or let down and flying in the wind, or waving to the movement of your head, your luxurious hair comes to me in fantasy flashes." Her hair fell free, and I used my fingers as a brush. "I've seen and felt the tips of your hair brushing across my naked chest when you throw your head from side to side in passion as you move on me. Another time, I saw and felt your hair wrapped around my erect member. In yet another fantasy we shared a shower, and I shampooed your hair." I leaned and gave her a very soft, romantic kiss. "What about you? Do all your fantasies have a beginning, middle and end, or like me, do you sometimes see flashes of arousing scenes, only one or two slides in a slide show, instead of full-length fantasy videos?" She kissed me back. "Both, but mostly flashes, and the full-length fantasies are disjointed, cutting from one scene to the next without rhyme or reason." She kissed me again. Her lips moved on mine, and I felt the tip of her tongue. I let it in my mouth and twirled my tongue with hers. Her hands moved to the back of my head, and she pulled me closer as the kiss deepened. "I and others in the crowd saw you naked from the waist down," she said. "You were soft, but still, you looked long and thick to me, and in my fantasy flashes, I saw it half-hard, then hard, and finally it was huge, like in those old-time Japanese pillow books." My lips traveled down her long neck while I undid the top three buttons on her silk blouse. She didn't stop me. She said, "I used both hands to fondle you, one on top of the other, but still you stuck out above the top hand, and my hands couldn't encircle your normal girth." My kisses moved lower over the tops of her lovely breasts. Another button came undone. I felt a nipple brush across the cheek of my face. "You're not that large, I know," she said, "probably average, or a little longer and thicker, but those were my fantasy flashes." I turned my head a little, and my lips found a nipple. I kissed it and licked with the tip of my tongue. Her hand dropped to my lap, and she explored my erection over my pants. She giggled. "One hand will be enough." I stopped kissing and nibbling and licking. Instead, I sucked most of one breast into my mouth. She gasped and said, "Does this sofa make into a bed?" "Yes." "Make it so." I chuckled at her Star Trek reference and pulled her to her feet with me. Wrapping my arms around her, I kissed her with passion, and then moved her to the side of the couch. The cushions flew, and the bed, when I pulled it out, was made up with fresh sheets. I stepped to the closet and grabbed a couple of pillows, tossing them onto the bed where Liz had already settled. She was naked, a perfect, sexy little doll. Full breasts, a tiny waist, narrow hips, and she'd shaved her pubic hair away, which made her cunt look like a little girl's, except her clitoris poked out from between her outer lips. It was huge. No little girl ever had a clit that size. The outsized bundle of nerves made my mouth water. She watched me while I awkwardly removed my clothes. I nearly fell on my face while trying to remove a recalcitrant sock from one foot. She laughed at my antics, which didn't bother me at all. Laughter should be part of sex. "Maybe I'll need two hands after all," she said when she saw my bobbing hard-on. "Not likely. Do I need a condom?" "Uh-uh. I'm on the pill, but thanks for asking." I moved to the bed and gathered her into my arms. Her flesh was warm and silky smooth, blemish free. When I kissed the top of one soft shoulder, I felt a dainty hand encircle my erection. She stroked it, spreading the natural lubricant that was oozing from the tip. Her legs drifted apart when my hand slid up an inner thigh. She was wet, wet enough to take the finger I pushed inside her. Her hips rose a little, pushing my finger deeper, as far as it would go. "I want to taste you first," I said. I couldn't get the picture of her large clit out of my mind. Wrapping my lips around it had become a compulsion. Besides, as Jane Wilson, I'd preferred being eaten for my first climax. Perhaps Liz had the same preference. After moving onto my knees between her spread legs, I grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under her delightful bottom. Then I started at the soft places behind her knees, kissing, nibbling, licking, moving up one inner thigh and moving down the over. "I love your aroused fragrances," I said just before my mouth covered her cunt. With Sherry, I had to search for her clit. Not with Liz. Hers was prominent, easily recognized by the nerves in my mouth and tongue that sensed touch. Liz's clit was the only part of her body out of proportion with the rest. "I adore your aroused flavors," I said and smacked my lips. She laughed gaily as I returned to my oral explorations. She started to moan, and soon her moans became continuous, except when she interspersed a "yes," or "yes, yes." A minute later, she said, "Suck it." I assumed she was referring to her clit. I'd been avoiding direct contact with that sensitive bundle of nerves. No longer. I sucked the outsized nubbin into my mouth and lashed it with my tongue, reveling in its size and throbbing texture. At the same time, I started to finger-fuck her with two fingers. She moaned with pleasure, and her hips moved, not a lot but enough to let me know she was enjoying what I was doing to her. "Yes! Yes, yes!" she gushed, and her fingers raked through my hair, grabbing handfuls at each side of my head. She fucked my face, her moans and yeses becoming more pronounced, until suddenly she pulled my head tightly to her cunt as she screamed and climaxed. I wanted to move up over her and push my throbbing cock into her convulsing cunt, but her grip on my hair remained steadfast as her hips danced to the primitive beat of her orgasm. Even after she collapsed, I had to pry her fingers loose to extract my hair from her steely grip, and when I could finally raise my head, she looked so out of it that I decided to defer fucking her until she recovered a little. I rose erect while remaining on my knees between her limp legs, and let my hands roam over her flesh, not to arouse, but rather to appreciate. A minute later, she opened her eyes and smiled at me, her normal cynical smile. "Whew," she breathed. "I needed that. Thank you." "You're welcome," I said as I waved the head of my throbbing cock through her sodden crease. She winced when the crown bumped her clitoris. "Still sensitive?" I asked. "Uh-huh, but put it in." She moved up onto her elbows and watched as I slowly buried my length inside her. When I hit bottom, her eyes rolled back in her head and she smiled again. "I needed that, too. Go slow, and I'll come again." We made love — slowly. She climaxed before I was ready, but she stayed with me until I collapsed. We rested for a while and talked some more. I told her that Grace had finally found a date to the prom, a college boy named Aaron Tibbett. Grace had met him while dating Dean Gibson. While we talked, Liz played with my cock, and it wasn't long before it started to lengthen again. She helped it along with her mouth, but she wanted it inside her cunt, and she wanted the dominant position. That's where I wanted her, too. She was so short compared to my length that it was difficult to kiss her when in the missionary position, let alone suck on her sensitive breasts. She rode me, coming twice before I climaxed again. She was verbal and fun, laughing and moaning, and saying, "Yes, yes, yes!" Afterwards, she pulled me from the bed and down the stairs so she could see and study my paintings. Because we were naked, I felt a little awkward. She didn't. She was completely at ease in her skin. Before she finished gazing at each of my paintings in turn, I started to appreciate her confident and free spirit. We showered separately — she didn't want to get her hair wet — got dressed, and I drove her home. As first dates go, my date with Liz had to be right up there with the best of them. ------- As the night turned into morning, my mother and I flowed from one pose in a tai chi form to the next. We were synchronized, smooth and fluid. Although she was still struggling with the proper breathing necessary at different stages of the form, for the short time she'd been learning the ancient exercise, she was doing extremely well. We finished, and Mom shook out her long muscles, causing her breasts to wave. "I love this, Brent," she said with a wide smile. "I'll do tai chi for the rest of my life. Thank you." "You should check around. Classes in tai chi are offered in a lot of places. Sign up for one but don't stay with the same teacher long. Move around. Each instructor will be different, emphasizing different moves or philosophies." "I prefer you as my teacher," she said. "So sorry. I am not a very good teacher," I said, using a Chinese accent. She laughed. How would she have reacted if I'd spoken to her in Cantonese or Mandarin? I spoke both languages well, not the present-day languages, though. All languages had changed dramatically over the last 150 years, and I suspected that Cantonese and Mandarin were no different in that way. She moved inside, and I started the kuen for Kung Fu. I specialized in Wing Chun, arguably the most famous style in the Shaolin system. The style was popularized by the Bruce Lee movies, although he'd altered the pure style, creating one of his own. As was my habit, I let my fingers do some walking on the keyboard of my computer, and found references to Wing Chun on the Internet. I was surprised to discover that the style had recently received new publicity. Following the death of long time grandmaster, Yip Man, his three senior disciples were waging an acrimonious battle over who would inherit the supreme mantle for the style. Shame on them. They weren't following the Way, or if not Taoists, then the teachings of Buddha, especially the fourth of the Four Noble Truths of Mahayana. The fourth truth says that adherence to the Eight-Fold Path is the route to the extinction of desire, one of the life goals of a Shaolin monk. I finished the Wing Chun kuen, and picked up my cudgel. Cudgel play stresses a sweeping action, but chopping, jabbing, hanging, leaping, smashing, pointing, blocking, sheltering, holding, floating, and lifting also come into play. Different schools of cudgel sparring emphasize different actions. Cudgel play is quick, like heavy rainfall, and combines always changing offensive and defensive moves. Like equal sex partners, I thought. I joined my mother in the kitchen, and she handed me a cup of green tea, a habit I'd recently acquired. She sat, blew air over the rim of her cup of coffee and said, "How was your date with Liz Cornwell?" "Great. We went to a movie." "Movies aren't shown after midnight." "No, they're not," I said and sipped tea. "Well?" I laughed. "Mom, you are incredibly nosy." "A mother's work is never done." She grinned coyly. "After the movie, we went to the studio. She wanted to see my paintings before I shipped them to San Diego, which reminds me. The crew Darrell hired to crate the paintings will be at the studio this afternoon at two o'clock. They wouldn't come any later. If I meet them, I'll need to skip my last two classes." "I'll meet them," she said. "Thanks. I'll drive there immediately after school and relieve you." "It doesn't take two hours to look at twelve paintings, and that's assuming you didn't leave the movie theater until ten o'clock." "It was cold and wet last night. We also made hot chocolate, and that's all you'll pry from me, so..." "What about Sherry Crane?" she asked, interrupting me. "What do you mean?" "If... ah, things get interesting with Liz, will you stop seeing that woman?" I laughed heartily. "Mom, you wear your emotions on your sleeve." She grinned. "I do, don't I? Answer my question." "No, I won't answer your question because I don't know the answer." She nodded and bit her lower lip with her upper teeth, a nervous habit I found endearing. "Did you find a kwoon?" she asked. "No, I decided to wait until school ends for the year. I have enough on my plate already." Besides, I worried about how I could explain my expertise with Wing Chun and Shaolin wushu weapons at my age and in this century to a venerable Chinese teacher of Kung Fu. Sifu, I corrected silently. A Chinese teacher is referred to as Sifu. ------- Watching carpenters build crates for my paintings wasn't my idea of a good time, and that attitude was exacerbated because Sherry had called and wanted to meet me after school. When I explained my circumstances, I'd noticed that the tone of her voice changed, taking on a definite chill. She'd commented that I didn't seem to have time for her lately. I'd responded by saying that I wasn't trying to avoid her and added that I'd only been unable to meet her twice, once because of broken ribs, and today because my paintings were being crated. "You established the rules, Sherry, and I'm following them. You choose the time and place, and although you don't give me much notice, I try to oblige. You know I'm right." I was angry, and I'm certain my voice telegraphed how I felt. She sighed. "Yes, of course you're right. I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I've missed you. I was disappointed, that's all." Before she said goodbye, she didn't try to arrange a different time, which also annoyed me. Agnes relieved my boredom when she dropped by with a new bottle of red wine. I opened the bottle and poured her some wine, and then fixed me a cup of green tea. "When did you start drinking tea?" she asked after sipping some wine. "When I realized I was a Chinese man during one of my past lives." She nodded, accepting my explanation at face value without question. "What skills did that life pass on to you?" she asked. "Kung fu, expertise in Shaolin wushu weapons, like the cudgel I carry with me now," I said, motioning with my head at the cudgel leaning against the sofa. And then for the first time, I spoke to someone using Mandarin. I'd told Grace about my new past life memories as a Chinese man, but I hadn't mentioned that I could speak the languages of the time and place for that past life. Agnes gave me a curious look. "What did you say?" I grinned. "That the freckles dotting your cleavage are appealing." She blushed. "What was the language? Chinese?" "Mandarin. I also speak Cantonese, but I speak both languages using old dialects no longer used. I feel like wielding a hammer. Do you have anything that needs forge and anvil work?" She shook her head. "I tore down my fire before I came here. Sorry." "No problem. I'm just restless." "I haven't seen Sherry Crane's car here recently." I gave her a hard look. Agnes laughed and said, "Don't worry. I haven't mentioned her visits to anyone." I relaxed and said, "Thanks. I agreed to keep her visits a secret." "Then tell her that she shouldn't drive her car here for your afternoons of delight. I heard she has a female lover." "She does." Agnes nodded. "She's a switch hitter, huh?" I said nothing. "I also heard that Ballard is out and about again. He's threatening to tear your limbs off, Brent." She chuckled. "Good thing you know Kung Fu now. Keep that cudgel handy, okay?" I nodded. "A pistol would be better," she said. "I don't know how to use a pistol. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot." She laughed. "Consider learning something new in this life, Brent, if only to have the ability handy in your next life." She had a point. "Yoo-hoo," a feminine voice cried out from the studio floor. I stood and walked to the railing. "Liz, hi. Come on up." "Liz?" Agnes said when I returned to the table. "Yeah, my date to the senior prom." Agnes looked dumbfounded. Liz arrived before I could respond to Agnes, and Liz stopped me when I started to introduce the two women. "Brent, my sister is waiting in the parking lot in her car. Can you give me a ride home later?" "Sure." "I'll tell Abby she can leave and be right back." After Liz left, Agnes said, "You actually have a date with a girl your age?" "No, she's eighteen, a senior. When her college boyfriend dumped her, she'd already purchased the gown and accessories for the prom, so she asked me to take her." "Why you?" I grinned. "Probably because she saw my swinging dick." Agnes hooted. "She was in the crowd when you got pantsed, huh?" "Yep." Liz returned and this time she let me introduce her to Agnes. "Agnes is my best friend, Liz. She's also an artist, a sculptor. She has a studio here in the complex." "A studio without a kitchen," Agnes said. "Brent is kind enough to let me use his whenever I want. He tells me you're a senior. Have you picked your college? Your major?" "I've been accepted at Harvard with a scholarship. I wanna be a scientist. Right now I'm leaning toward biology, but that changes with the wind. I figure by the time I earn my undergraduate degree that I'll know what I want to do in graduate school." Agnes gave me a studied look. "She's too smart for you." "Too true," I admitted. "Would you like something to drink, Liz?" "Is that red wine?" she said, eyeing Agnes's glass. "Yep, but it belongs to my friend," I said. "Pour her a glass, you lummox," Agnes said. "Liz, I asked lummox why you asked him to take you to the prom. He said you saw his swinging dick and couldn't resist him." Liz grimaced. "Sad but true. Have you flipped through a Japanese pillow book?" Agnes's eyes widened, and then she grinned. "As a matter of fact, I have." "Brent has an enticing dick but probably not as enticing as I made it. In my imagination, it became huge and rampant, like those portrayed in pillow books." Liz sighed. "I'm sure I'm in for a huge letdown." She grinned. "So to speak." Agnes laughed so hard she almost cried. "You'll do, young lady. You'll do." I set a glass of wine in front of Liz and filled Agnes's glass, leaving the half-empty bottle on the table. "Is Brent as talented as I think he is?" Liz asked Agnes. "Don't know. Unlike you, I haven't seen his swinging dick." I groaned. They laughed. Agnes patted my hand and said, "If you're referring to his talent as an artist, I'd say he's more talented that you think. You might be too smart for him, but unless you become an extraordinary scientist and win a Nobel Prize, or something almost as prestigious, you won't be in the history books. My friend, Brent, will." Liz nodded. "That's the way I see it, too. You're a sculptor, huh?" "Yes," Agnes said. The lead carpenter crating my paintings took that moment to walk up into the loft. "Mr. Carson, we're finished," he said. I left Liz and Agnes to inspect the work. I saw no problems. They'd even cleaned up their mess. As the carpenters walked out the door, Agnes and Liz walked down the stairs. Agnes was carrying my cudgel. She tossed it to me. "Liz wants to see my work," Agnes said. "Join us." "Okay." We were about halfway to Agnes's studio when Carl Ballard and two other men almost as large as he stepped out in front of us. I also heard heavy footfalls behind us. A glance back le me know that we were bracketed. Two large men stood behind us. ------- When I was a boy in China, I was trained in the martial arts and the Way, the Tao, and Sifu, my teacher, emphasized the Buddhist principals of non-violence, which confused me. I asked him how he could justify the use of martial arts, which could be very violent, even cause death, and still espouse non-violence as a way of life. "I hurt no one purposefully. I merely refuse delivery of intended harm," he'd told me with an enigmatic smile. Soon I would refuse delivery of intended harm. "You blindsided me, asshole," Ballard growled as he took a step forward. "You kicked me in the nuts. The doctors had to cut one of them out. I'm deformed because of you. It's payback time. I'm going to tear you apart." "Let the women go," I said. He laughed, malevolent sounds, and said, "Jake, Kurt, take the women." The men behind us moved forward — Jake and Kurt, I assumed. I'd need to dispatch them first, and quickly, because Ballard and his two friends in front of me would attack at almost the same time. I spun on the balls of my feet, and swinging my cudgel, I swept Jake or Kurt off his feet, and then jabbed the remaining man in the mouth with the end of the cudgel. I chopped the first man's leg with the side of the cudgel and heard the sound of a breaking bone, followed by a scream of pain. Time elapsed: one or two seconds. Ignoring those men, I turned back to the three men in front of me. They hadn't moved, which surprised me. I attacked. The cudgel should be quick, like heavy rain, and steady, and accurate and fierce. My cudgel was all of these things. I moved with speed and agility, striking hard, moving from man to man, feinting one direction and attacking another, sweeping, jabbing, chopping, smashing. Additional time elapsed: two or three seconds. All five men lay on the asphalt of the roadway. One was unconscious, the other four writhing in pain, including Ballard. Sifu, my Buddhist mentor from my past life would not have been happy with me. When it came to Ballard, I'd exceeded inflicting only that which was necessary to refuse delivery of intended harm. I'd broken both his legs and shattered a kneecap. I bent to him. He cringed away from me, which sent him into spasms of pain. "Don't come at me or mine again, or next time I will turn you into a vegetable. Do you believe me?" "Yes," he said between gasps of pain. I dug out my cell phone and dialed 911. "Five men assaulted me and the two women with me," I said. "Send the police and two ambulances. The injuries are not life threatening. Broken bones, mostly, but one man is unconscious, so he probably has a concussion." I gave the operator my name and the address. "We're on the driveway between Building D and Building E." I hung up and called my father, quickly telling him what had happened. "Are you hurt?" "No, they didn't touch me. Please call your lawyer. I might need his help." "All right, and your mother and I are on the way. Grace, too, I suspect." "Thanks, Dad." I hung up and turned my attention to Liz and Agnes. "I'm sorry you had to see that." "I'm not," Agnes said. "Holy cow, Brent! Five of them! And you're not breathing hard." "Hah! My heart is about to pound out of my chest, and my knees are so wobbly I can hardly remain standing. I'm suffering from massive adrenalin dump. If I don't sit down soon, I'll fall down." Agnes rushed to me and threw one of my arms over her shoulder. Liz stood as if rooted to the ground. "Help me, Liz," Agnes said. "He wasn't kidding." That energized her, and Liz helped me stay on my feet on the opposite side from Agnes. Shortly, sirens sounded in the distance and became louder as they approached. I handed my cudgel to Agnes. "Lean it against the building over there. The cops will be nervous. A weapon in hand will increase their anxiety. Let's try to keep them as calm as possible." I yawned, nearly breaking my jaw. "Tired, so tired." "That's the adrenalin dump you mentioned," Liz said. "Yeah, but it's getting better. I could stand by myself now." I grinned. "I just don't want to." "You were amazing, Brent," Liz said. "You looked like Bruce Lee, leaping, striking, jabbing, sweeping those men off their feet. Spinning, chopping. Amazing! I'm a gymnast, but I've never seen anyone move as fast or as graceful as you." "Yeah, well, they were going to take you and Agnes, and they planned to harm me, tear me apart, Ballard said, so I refused the delivery of their intended harm, and hopefully inflicted as little damage as possible to stop them. Still, I broke bones. One of them has a concussion, which can be serious, and a couple of them might be bleeding inside, which would require surgery. The police won't be happy with me. They might even arrest me." "Why? What you did you did to protect Agnes and me, and you acted in self-defense." "The authorities don't appreciate citizens who act in self-defense. Protecting the citizenry is their job, and they don't want amateurs like me messing in their nest." A patrol car entered the parking lot, it's lights spinning, casting alternating red and blue glowing shadows. The siren died, and two uniformed officers stepped from the vehicle. They walked toward us. Their equipment clanked, and they had their hands on the handles of their guns. Big men, like Ballard. Were they stupid and mean like him? Another patrol car pulled into the parking lot. The police officers walking toward us stopped and waited for their fellow officers. One of them was a woman. "Are you Brent Carson?" the lead cop said. "Yes, sir." He looked at me, and then looked at the injured men on the ground. "You did this?" His tone of voice projected his disbelief. "Yes, sir." "No way," a different officer said. "He had help, Ned. That boy couldn't take down those five men, not without help, a lot of help. I know two of those men. They're hard cases. Besides the boy doesn't have a scratch on him. He's lying." An ambulance drove into the lot. The police officers scattered to let it through. One of the officers, the woman, directed the driver. Two paramedics rushed to the fallen men. "May I talk to the paramedics?" I asked. "I can tell them what to look for." "You stay right where you are," the cop who first spoke with me said. "Ned, we'd better put him in the back of the cruiser until we sort this out," Ned's partner said and turned me to a wall of a building. "Take the position, boy," he said and roughly patted me down for weapons. "He's clean, Ned." "Cuff him and put him in the cruiser," Ned said. "I'll start interviewing witnesses." Dad drove up as the cop was walking me to a patrol car. His car jerked when he slammed the transmission into park too soon. He jumped from the car. "That's my son. Is he under arrest?" "You'll need to move your vehicle, sir. Another ambulance will get here soon, and they'll need access to those injured men." "Answer my question," Dad said. "Is my son under arrest?" "No, sir," the cop said. "Not yet." "Then remove the handcuffs." "No, sir, I can't do that. He'll be in the backseat of that cruiser until we sort out what happened here. Now move your vehicle." I could see that Dad was about to lose it. "I'm fine, Dad," I said. "Move your car. I did call for two ambulances." Dad glared at the cop holding my arm, but spun away and parked his car. Grace and Mom stepped from the parked car with Dad. "Mom," I said, "a police officer is interviewing Agnes and Liz. Would you please make sure he doesn't abuse their rights, like this man is abusing mine." I winked at her. The wink did it. She calmed down. "Come on, boy," the cop said and pulled at my arm, propelling me toward the patrol car. I pretended to stumble. "Easy, officer," I said. "Dad, did you call our lawyer?" "Yes. He's on his way here, but it will be a while." The cop opened the cruiser door and put his hand on my head. I slid into the vehicle. "Roll the window down an inch or two, officer, so I can talk with my sister without yelling. As you can see, she's very upset." He closed the door and walked away. Stupid and mean. "Are you all right, Brent?" Grace yelled through the closed window. "I'm fine. Do me a favor, Grace. Open the studio and make some coffee. Put the teapot on a burner, too. I'll want a cup of green tea when this is over. Okay?" "Sure." She took two steps and turned back to me. "No key," she said. "Agnes has one." "Right." The other ambulance arrived, and a few minutes later, the first ambulance on the scene drove away. I looked around. The scene was actually calmer than I expected. Mother and Grace were busy. They'd be all right. Agnes was a rock. I didn't worry about her. Liz... I didn't know about Liz, but I suspected that she'd be just fine. Dad worried me, though. He was too emotional. I hoped the lawyer would arrive soon. Dad would calm down then. I was stuck where I was, and I was sleepy. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Sometime later, the door opening startled me awake. It was Officer Ned. He was carrying my cudgel. "Is this stick yours?" "Yes, sir. It's a cudgel, not a stick." He looked confused and angry. Not good. "Did you attack those men with it?" "My dad says my lawyer is on the way. I'll wait for him before I say anything more," I said. "Shit!" He slammed the door and stomped off. A little later Mom walked up to the car. "How ya doin', son?" she said. "I'm fine. I just pissed off that cop, though. I told him I wouldn't talk to him without my lawyer present." She chuckled. "Good for you. The cops think you're lying. They think Agnes and Liz are lying, too. They don't believe you took down Ballard and his cohorts by yourself, and frankly, I understand their doubts." "You've watched me working with my cudgel every morning, Mom. I just applied what I've been practicing." "I know. I believe you. I'm just saying I understand why they don't." "How's Dad? Is he staying calm?" "Sort of." "Take him to the studio. Agnes and Liz, too. Grace made a pot of coffee." She nodded, kissed her hand and placed it on the window. As she was walking away, another car entered the parking lot. My lawyer, I hoped. Instead, two men dressed in civilian clothes stepped from the vehicle. They wore guns. Detectives, I figured. The situation was spiraling out of control. Where was the damned lawyer? I watched the detectives speak with the uniformed officers. Finally one of them broke away and walked to the cruiser where I was sitting. He opened the door. "Son," he said, "I'm Detective Anthony Lynds. From what I've been told, you could be in a lot of trouble, or you could be in no trouble. I know you've said you won't talk until your lawyer gets here, but if the witnesses weren't lying, you and I can clear up this matter right now." The truth shall set you free, I thought and told Detective Lynds what had happened. He asked questions. I answered them. The event at Dr. Crane's cocktail party came up — Ballard's motive for attacking me tonight. So I walked Lynds step by step through that altercation, too. "I have dated photographs of my sister's bruises and written statements from witnesses describing what they saw and heard that back up what I just told you." He shook his head with dismay. "How old are you?" "Sixteen. You now know everything, Detective Lynds. I'd appreciate it if you'd remove these handcuffs and let me go to my studio. I'm no danger to anyone here. This situation has become ridiculous." I grinned. "Or is it a snafu?" He laughed. "Snafu. Situation normal, all fucked up?" I grinned. "You've got it." He helped me out of the vehicle and removed the cuffs. "Let's go talk to your parents." "They're in my studio." "Your studio?" "Yes, I'm an artist, a painter." "Are you that kid, that prodigy, that was in the paper a while back?" "Dr. Crane praised my work in his weekly column, and he did refer to me as a prodigy, so yes, I'm probably that kid." Dad, Mom, Grace, Agnes and Liz were happy to see me. I got a lot of hugs and kisses. Liz's kiss curled my toes, which raised Mom's eyebrows. Then Mom winked at me and grinned. "I'm releasing your son, Mr. Carson, but this is an ongoing investigation, and we will be speaking with him again," Detective Lynds said. I breathed a sigh of relief, and Grace handed me a cup of green tea. At my request, Dad called the lawyer and told him that he wasn't needed. I yawned again. "I'm wiped," I said. "It's early, but my bed is beckoning. Dad, Mom, would you drive Liz home? And Grace, would you drive me home in the pickup?" I received yeses to my plan. I thanked Agnes, and she headed to her studio to lock it up for the day. I locked up my studio, gave Liz a goodnight kiss, and Grace drove me away in the pickup. I fell asleep on the drive home. ------- Grace glanced at me. She was driving us to school. "You look depressed. What's the problem?" she said. "I've got to buy a new cudgel." The police had kept mine. Evidence, they'd told my father, according to Mom at dawn that morning. "What else?" Grace asked. "The need to buy a new cudgel wouldn't depress you." My sister knew me well. I said, "That call I got just before we left the house, that was a newspaper reporter. I'm afraid the press will blow what happened last night out of proportion. I'm too young for what Andy Warhol labeled everyone's fifteen minutes of fame. I'd rather wait until I'm older so I can appreciate it more." She laughed. "What did you tell the reporter?" "No comment, and I'd advise you to do the same should any reporters approach you because I won't speak with them. If nobody talks, maybe this mess will go away." "You'd better tell Liz, then. She's so proud of you she's ready to burst." "I will as soon as I see her." "She's also in love with you, you know?" "Infatuated, yes. Love, no. This fall, she'll leave Phoenix and head to Boston to start her college education at Harvard, and that's when our little affair will end. Tell me about Aaron Tibbett." Tibbett was Grace's date to the prom. I hadn't met him. "He's tall, a little gangly, wears his hair long, usually in a pony tail. He has one pierced ear and wears a gold-loop earring but has no other piercings, thank goodness. No tattoos, either. His clothes always look wrinkled, but they're clean. He doesn't shave everyday, but he has an honest ready smile for everyone. I like him. Like Dean, he's an art student, but animation is Aaron's hot button, not photography or fine art. He's seen your work and thinks you're a genius. He's a date for the prom, Brent. That's all." "No chemistry, huh?" "Not on my part." She grinned. "I stir his chemistry beaker, though." I laughed. "More likely you're the Bunsen burner under his beaker." She laughed with me. "That, too." ------- Detective Lynds and his partner talked to me two more times, the first time to go over my story again, the second to return my cudgel. Three of the five men who attacked me confirmed my rendition of the event. Ballard and another man weren't talking. I didn't press charges. I didn't want the publicity a trial would generate. Dad wasn't happy with that decision, but he went along with it. With everyone involved saying the ubiquitous "no comment" when approached by the press, the media soon moved on to other crimes and tragedies for their sensational form of public entertainment. Some details from the altercation found their way onto the school grapevine, and as usually happens with that mode of communication, the details became so exaggerated that no one believed them, which was fine by me. Sherry Crane called. I met her. She assumed the dominant role that day and fucked my brains out. Then she ended our affair, which wasn't fine by me. She didn't say, but I figured that she'd found another young artist to give her what she needed once or twice a week. I didn't try to talk Sherry out of her decision. Liz was giving me all the loving I needed. That girl enjoyed sex almost as much I. The prom was a success. Grace and Liz were the most beautiful women at the social event. Grace held the number one slot in the beauty contest, but I kept that opinion to myself. Aaron was fun, and he was a gentlemen. I don't know if Grace gave it up for him in the other bedroom of the two-bedroom hotel suite I rented for that night. She didn't say, and I didn't ask. Liz gave it up for me — over and over again. My transition to oils from acrylics was going well. Useful Jane Wilson memories came forth when I needed them to guide my hand, my eyes, and my brain. I spent most evenings and weekends at the studio painting like crazy. Agnes dropped by often, and our friendship deepened. She gave me keys to her studio, and I spent a few hours most Sundays when she didn't work wielding a hammer against iron heated to a high yellow. The pieces I forged were made to her specifications, and she used them in her sculptures. Jeff, the skinny kid I'd rescued, spent most of his time with his new girlfriend and the clique she ran with, and Jeff and I drifted apart. Like the prom, my first one-man show in San Diego was a success. Even with the increased prices, all twelve of my paintings sold to collectors during the pre-show. Dad negotiated a 55/45 split with the gallery owner in San Francisco for my next show, which was scheduled for the middle of June, and the gallery agreed to cover all other expenses. The contract also called for the prices on my paintings to increase another twenty percent. Mom and Dad and Grace attended the show in San Diego with me, with Grace as my date, a tradition, I told Liz, who wasn't happy with that decision. I think that's when Liz started to understand how much I loved my big sister. I anticipated future problems with my girlfriend along those lines. Agnes asked me to accompany her to her show in Frazier's gallery in March. I accepted enthusiastically, and we arrived at the gallery in style in a limo I'd engaged for the event. With the hours I spent at her forge on Sundays, Agnes finished an extra piece of sculpture in time to include it in the show. Before the opening ended that night, Frazier sold all seven pieces, her most successful show. That night, Frazier also sold the large acrylic I'd given him to hang in his gallery. He begged me for one of my new oil paintings when they were finished. I caved when he suggested a 60/40 split. A couple of days later, I stretched four new canvases and added them to my painting schedule. One would hang in Frazier's gallery. The other three were my initial investments in my retirement plan. I'd squirrel them away in insured secure storage. With my prices increasing as they were, they'd be much more valuable later. Besides, if for some reason I couldn't finish all the paintings required for an opening, I could pull whatever I needed out of storage to fulfill my contract with the gallery involved. Mom enrolled in two different tai chi classes, and we continued our dawn exercises and talks. She was still my mom, and at times she mothered me more than I wanted, but she had also become a friend. Grace dated Aaron through March but sent him packing after attending a college party with him that turned into a drunken orgy. "I wasn't ready for that scene, Brent," she told me. Grace had become more serious about her writing, mostly because she felt some small degrees of success. She attributed those successes to the tutor our parents had engaged to help her. I attributed them to her dogged tenacity. She finished her first novel in April, and we hosted a book-burning party at the studio in early May. "Later when I'm a much better writer, I'd be embarrassed to tears if anyone came across this novel, Brent," she said by way of explanation when she asked me to co-host the book-burning party. She made me proud. Life was good. But life doesn't appreciate too much goodness, too much happiness, and takes action to balance the scales. The tragedy life suddenly forced me to face was life altering and heartrending. ------- Chapter 8 I was at the studio when I received the call. "Brent," Grace said, "come home. Please come home." "What's wrong? Are you crying?" "Just come home. I need you here now." "All right, but tell me..." "When you get here," she said and broke down completely before she ended the call. I left the studio without cleaning my brushes or my hands, without setting the alarm. I did lock the door. I noticed I still wore my painting smock because the garment made climbing into the truck awkward. I took it off, ripping away a button, and tossed it on the floorboard on the passenger side of the pickup. Something terrible had happened. Was Mom okay? Dad? I'd already lost three of my grandparents. Grace was very close to Grandma Carson. Was Grandmother Carson okay? The last I'd heard she was healthy and active. Accidents happened, though, at any age. Tires screeched when I stomped on the brakes in our driveway. I jumped from the truck, leaving the headlights on, and ran into the house. Grace was at the door. She was sobbing and rushed into my arms. "Brent," she said between sobs, "it's Mom and Dad." She couldn't speak for a few seconds. Finally she said, "They're gone." Gone? "What happened?" I asked. "An accident?" That's when I noticed two men sitting on the sofa in the living room. I recognized one of them, Detective Lynds. My heart felt as if it had dropped out of my chest. Tears stung my eyes. I could barely breathe. "No, someone killed them," Grace said. "Who?" "I don't know. The police... they came to the door. They said not to tell you on the phone. Oh, Brent! Mom and Dad... What are we to do?" My knees were shaking. I had to sit down, but my sister was clinging to me. I walked her to a large chair. Dad's chair. I swallowed a sob. I had to be strong. Grace needed me. I sat in the chair, pulling Grace onto my lap. She buried her face in my chest and cried. Mom and Dad. Dead. Killed. Tears streamed down my face. I pulled Grace closer and surrendered to my grief. We cried together. ------- "What happened?" I said to Detective Lynds. Grace was making a pot of coffee for the police officers and a cup of green tea for me, chores I'd given her after we gained a little control so I could speak with the police. "Is there someone we can call?" Lynds's partner said. "A grandparent? Aunt? Uncle?" "I'll call them," I said. "Tell me what happened, Detective Lynds." "Tony, do you know this boy?" Lynds's partner said to Lynds. "Yes. He's the young man I told you about who took down those five men with a cudgel." "Oh." Lynds turned to me and outlined what had happened to my parents. It took a while because I interrupted frequently to ask questions, most of which he couldn't answer. Dad and Mom were at a hotel lounge having a drink (having a drink was an assumption) when a homemade bomb exploded destroying the lounge, part of the hotel lobby and part of the kitchen adjacent to the lounge that served a coffee shop. Besides my parents, the explosion killed twelve other customers and five hotel employees. Eighteen more were wounded, some critically. Was this an act of terror? Using the definition of an act of terror, the answer was yes, but it was unknown whether it was related to the War on Terror or homegrown. No one as yet had claimed responsibility for the explosion, and the bomber's motive was unknown. Yes, a group or organization, as opposed to an individual, could very well be behind the wanton act of destruction. Homemade bomb, Lynds had said. What did that mean? Items like nails and ball bearings were components of the bomb, he told me. The bomb was constructed to kill or maim everyone in the lounge. Was it possible that a specific person was the target and everyone else including my parents became collateral damage? Yes. Was the FBI involved? Yes. Also Homeland Security and ATF. Special Agent Tim Garber was in charge of the investigation. Would he speak with me? Not likely. Why? Because I was a minor. Besides, Garber wasn't known for being forthcoming or cooperative with anyone outside the FBI. Funeral arrangements needed to be made. When would my parents' bodies be released? They didn't know. That was the bottom line. They didn't know much of anything. They'd been assigned to be the bearers of the horrible news. That was their job, and their job was finished. Lynds and his partner left without having a cup of coffee. I held Grace's hand and sipped green tea while I made the necessary calls to friends and relatives. Besides Grandma Carson, who all but collapsed when I told her what had happened, Mom had a sister in Denver and a brother in Houston. Dad had two sisters, one in Seattle and the other in Salt Lake City. I called Liz and Agnes. Grace called a couple of her friends, and I called Dad's lawyer, the executor of my parents' estate. Agnes and Liz wanted to come to me. I refused their offers. I didn't want to be with anyone except Grace. I hoped I'd never have to make calls like those again, not in this life, or any future lives. I'd lost parents in my previous lives, but never both at the same time. Still, I had a reservoir of memories to call on, ways to handle grief. When Josh Randall's mother died, he got drunk and picked a fight in a saloon, taking on all comers. He took out his anger and grief on belligerent fellow drinkers, smashing them with his huge fists, breaking furniture and glass. He was finally subdued and spent the night behind bars. That wasn't my style. When Jane Wilson's mother died, she handled that death with relative ease compared to the death of her father. She grieved deeply for him. He'd been her confidant and friend as well as a father. To lesson her grief, she worked, painted night and day for weeks, and finally after becoming completely exhausted, she collapsed. That was closer to my style, but I had to help Grace with her grief. I couldn't go into my studio and not come out for weeks. As Fang Hong, I believed that as soon as my father died that his personality went into a state of trance for four days. During this time, my father did not know he was dead. This period was called the First Bardo. Monks chanted, claiming to reach the dead person through special verses. Toward the end of the First Bardo, my father would see a brilliant light. If the radiance of the Clear Light didn't terrify him, and he welcomed it, then he would not be reborn. If my father fled the Light, it would fade, and my father would become conscious that death had occurred. This was the start of the Second Bardo. All that my father had ever done or thought would pass in front of him. While he watched this procession of thoughts and deeds, he would feel like he had a body, but soon he would realize that he didn't and would long to possess one again. This realization started the Third Bardo, which is the state of seeking another birth. All previous thoughts and actions would direct my father to choose new parents who would give him his next body. I was living proof that reincarnation was real. The concept that Mom and Dad would be reborn was consoling. I clung to that thought without the Bardos and Clear Lights confusing the issue. I was in bed staring into the darkness, remembering, when Grace came to my room. "May I sleep with you, Brent? Please?" I turned the sheet down and scooted over. "Just hold me. I need your arms around me, Brent." She fell asleep in seconds. I didn't. I stared into the darkness, remembering. ------- I tried. As the new sun cast a golden glow across the desert floor, I tried to flow from one pose to the next, but faltered, stumbled. My movements weren't graceful; they were jerky. I started the tai chi form over again. "Move with me, Mom," I whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks. "You loved this, but you loved your time with me more. Move with me. That's it. You are beautiful, and I love you, and I shall miss you every moment of this life, and I shall miss you most at sunrise, at the dawning of each new day." I faltered again. My body felt too heavy to hold erect, and I crumpled onto the cool deck around the pool. A sob jerked my shoulders and back. My mother, my friend was gone. Never again would she flow gracefully through a tai chi form with me. Never again would she listen to my dreams while she blew air over the rim of her cup of coffee, or nibble on her lower lip with her upper teeth when she worried if I was doing something wrong. Grace knelt beside me, put her arms around me and held me, held me that morning like I'd held her the night before. "Teach me," she said when I stopped sobbing. "Teach me tai chi." I nodded, and she helped me to my feet. I had purpose. Purpose pushed grief aside. The pushing was temporary, but purpose did offer some short respites from the overwhelming sadness and feeling of loss that the death of my parents evoked. I taught Grace the basics of tai chi that morning. We worked at it for over an hour. When we finished, Grace said, "Tomorrow, same place, same time." I nodded and pulled her into my arms, hugging her fiercely. "Thank you." That's when she fell apart again. A pattern was formed. I was there for my sister. She was there for me. We took turns falling apart and being strong for each other, and our bond, our love, grew and strengthened beyond any bond I'd had during all three of my lives. ------- Problems. Mom, Dad and Grace accepted me as an adult, Agnes, too, but Grandma Carson and my aunts and uncles didn't. Mom and Dad had executed a Last Will and Testament, and they'd shown Grace and me where it was kept. I read the Will, and it contained their wishes for their funerals. They elected cremation and wanted their ashes scattered during a private ceremony at dawn in the desert at a place where wildflowers grew in abundance every spring. I knew about that place. They also wanted a memorial service in a non-denominational church in Scottsdale. I made the arrangements accordingly. Grandma Carson tried to change the funeral arrangements. She was opposed to cremation. One of my father's sisters, the aunt from Salt Lake City, didn't think the memorial service should be held in a non-denominational church. She had become a convert of the Mormon Church and started proselytizing the moment she arrived. Her husband was worse. Dad's sister from Seattle jumped into the middle of that argument. Politically, she was to the left of Stalin. She detested the religious right currently in power and stated if her brother and sister-in-law wanted a non-denominational memorial service, then that's what they'd get. Their bickering irritated me, and I asked both of them to leave, which was a mistake. I had no right to tell any of the adults anything. I was, after all, a minor, I was told. Grace stood up for me. "I'm not," she said. "Stop your bickering right now or leave. The funeral arrangements have been made. Brent made them, and they are in accordance with Mom and Dad's wishes. They will not be changed." The biggest problem, though, came from the Last Will and Testament. Mom and Dad had drafted the legal document years ago, and they'd named Uncle Samuel Torrance, my mother's brother who lived in Houston, guardian to their minor children. The guardianship didn't apply to Grace. She was eighteen, an adult, but it did apply to me, and Uncle Sam took his role seriously. After the funeral, he expected me to move to Houston with him and his wife, Gloria. "Never happen," I said. "You don't have a choice in the matter, Brent," he said. "Sure I do. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and tomorrow, I will petition the courts for emancipation and ask that the guardianship be set aside. If that petition is rejected, which is unlikely, Grace will ask the courts to appoint her as my guardian. I will not move to Houston with you, Uncle Sam." "Humph, take care of yourself, huh. How?" "My art." That made him laugh. Grace said, "What is your annual income, Uncle Sam?" "That's none of your business," he grumbled. "Brent will make over $200,000 this year with his art." Aunt Gloria gasped, and she wasn't alone. Shocked faces stared at me. "Which I won't share with you, Uncle Sam," I said to put a stop to the look of greed I noticed creeping onto my uncle's face. I could have been wrong. I didn't care. "Nor will you get a share of the proceeds from Mom and Dad's insurance policies," Grace said. "I graduate from high school at the end of the month. I'll work here in Phoenix this summer, or not. I say, or not, because I won't work a menial job. I don't need to, and this fall I will attend college at ASU. I've been accepted there. They even offered me a scholarship. Brent will finish high school at Scottsdale High. We will live here in this house, which Mom and Dad left to us. The house will be free and clear. One of the insurance policies I mentioned pays off the mortgage on the house. With Brent's income, the proceeds from insurance policies, and the other assets Mom and Dad accumulated and left to us, we'll be fine financially. My half of the insurance money, not counting the mortgage insurance, comes to $1,000,000. Uncle Sam, listen to me. Listen very carefully. I will spend every dime of that money to stop you from taking Brent with you to Houston." My sister made me proud. But the sums mentioned hardened my uncle's resolve to be my guardian. I'd read him right. He wanted to get his greedy hands on my share of the insurance money and control of my income for the next year and a half. The next day while Grace and I were hiring an attorney to petition the courts for emancipation, Uncle Sam was talking with a different attorney to fight my petition and force me to accept him and his wife as my guardians. Grace and I also had a hurried meeting with the executor of the estate. It cost us, but he promised to support our effort. And that wasn't the end of the problems. Probate should be against the law. I won't bore you with the details of that mess. Fortunately, the proceeds from insurance policies are not subject to probate, so Grace wouldn't need to worry about money. Insurance companies aren't quick to pay, though, and she wasn't signatory to our parents' or my bank accounts, which Uncle Sam's shyster lawyer managed to freeze. That was more a harassing tactic than anything because, with a $1,000,000 check soon to arrive, Grace had no trouble borrowing money to tide us over for a month or two and pay the retainers for the lawyers we hired to counter Uncle Sam's legal gymnastics. She also opened an account where we could deposit the proceeds from my opening in San Francisco in June. I'd already shipped the paintings for that show. We did receive some support. Aunt Celia and her husband, George, were on our side. She was my mother's sister, from Denver. And Grandma Carson gave us tacit support. Deep down, I don't think Grandma liked my mother's brother, and she made it obvious to everyone that she didn't trust him. My dad's sister, the extreme liberal from Seattle, voiced her approval for Grace and my plans. My Mormon aunt from Salt Lake City took a neutral position. After the memorial service, and after Grace and I had scattered Mom and Dad's ashes over a beautiful field of desert marigolds and globe mallow, I did not go to Houston with my uncle. Not that the issue was settled, but with the school so close to finishing for the year, the courts said I could remain with Gloria until after my emancipation hearing. One positive result came from all the wrangling. Besides the love and trust and emotional support Grace and I gave each other, our bond deepened to include our financial affairs. ------- Liz wasn't happy with me. During my time of grief, she'd wanted to be there for me, support me, but I looked to Grace for the support Liz offered, and I didn't try very hard to disguise my preference. Graduation night, Liz wanted to celebrate; after all, you only graduate from high school once in your life, and before my parents were killed, we'd made tentative plans for an all-night party, including our own hotel room. With the death of our parents so recent, and the fact that they weren't there to see her graduation ceremony, Grace didn't feel like celebrating. I was of like mind, and when I cancelled my date with Liz to support Grace, the small rift that had developed between Liz and me became a chasm. Liz didn't come right out and say it, but she implied that she wanted me to choose between Grace and her. I chose Grace, and Liz stomped away in a huff. She called me later and apologized. I could hear the sounds of revelry in the background, and Liz's voice slurred a little. Then she negated her apology when she said, "You've been so morose, understandably, of course, but life goes on, Brent, and you need to get on with the rest of your life. You need to have some fun. Join me, not for all night, just for a few hours. It'll do you some good." "That's not going to happen, Liz," I said. "You care more about your sister than you do me," she said petulantly. She's been drinking. She isn't thinking straight, I told myself. End the conversation before one of you says something you can't take back. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Liz," I said. "No, we'll talk about it now. Are you fucking her?" "Goodbye," I said and ended the call. I was so angry my hands were shaking. The phone rang again a few seconds later. I let the machine take the call. Liz apologized to the machine. "I'm so sorry, Brent. I didn't mean what I said. That was the wine talking, not me. It's just that I love you so much, and I've felt us drifting apart. I've missed you, and I wanted to be with you tonight to help me celebrate one of the milestones in my life. I really, really looked forward to this night and being with you, making love with you. Please forgive me. Call me tomorrow. Please." I didn't call her, and she didn't call me. The next day, she rang the doorbell at my house. I let her in but shied away when she tried to embrace me. "Sit," I said. "We need to talk." I turned to my sister. "Grace, please leave us alone." Grace nodded and left the room. Liz took the sofa. I sat across from her in Dad's chair. "I'll start," I said. "You said that I care more for my sister than I do you. You were correct. I love Grace and I do care for her more than I care for you. Grace will always be my sister, but you won't always be my lover. This fall you will move a few thousand miles away to start your college education. Is it still your intent to go to Harvard in three months?" She nodded, and I could see tears brimming in her eyes. "Good. I applaud your life goals, and I hope you won't let anything or anyone get in the way of achieving them, including me. Now lets address your extremely rude remark. I am not fucking Grace. Got it?" "Yes," she said, the affirmation turning into a blubbering sound. "What we had, Liz, was a high-school romance, a romance that would have ended in three months when you went on with the rest of your life, leaving me here to do the same with mine. Do you agree with that assessment?" Tears streamed from her eyes. I did care for her, and I hated to see her so unhappy. I wanted to take her into my arms and comfort her. She nodded agreement. "But it's more than that for me. I love you. I fell in love with you, Brent." "But you will walk away from that love in September," I said. "You don't love me," she said and tried unsuccessfully to swallow a sob. It shook her petite body. "I care deeply for you, Liz. I'd hoped that we could have extended our romance through the summer, and I would've missed you terribly when you left me in the fall, but I knew you would, in fact, leave me, and knowing this, I didn't allow myself to fall in love with you." She held herself with her arms around her waist, her shoulders shaking with her unhappiness. "You're breaking up with me, aren't you?" "Yes. If we don't end it now, we'll go through this same pain again in three months. I don't want that. Do you?" "No! I want you to love me. I want us to stay close and love each other, and after you graduate, I want you to join me in Boston and paint your wonderful paintings there. With me." "Liz, what about college for me? I plan to go to college, too, not Harvard, but somewhere." "Why? Your art is your career?" "I want a business education so I can manage what I earn with my art." "You can get that at Harvard." "No, I'm not smart enough for Harvard. Liz, I hope you never have to go through the pain I've felt with the loss of my parents. My grief is deep and abiding. I believe I'll grieve for Mom and Dad for the rest of my life. You said I needed some fun. I can't have fun, not yet. I'm too fucking sad. Over time, that sadness will lighten somewhat. I know that, but I can't cope with your needs, not now. I'm barely coping, period. I'm sorry." She hugged herself tighter and said nothing. "About Grace and me, yes, we've grown even closer than we were before my parents were killed. She understands my grief. I understand hers. No one else can truly understand what we're feeling, what we're going through. When I need help with my grief, I go to Grace, and she does the same with me. She needed me last night. She graduated from high school, and her parents weren't there to share the achievement with her. I chose Grace's needs over yours. This upset you, and if we don't end our relationship today, I'll upset you again and again and again over the summer. Grace will go to San Francisco for my opening there in a few weeks, not you, and when that happens, you'll be upset again, but that's not material. What matters right now is the fact that I don't have any loving feelings for you, or anyone. Sometimes tears form and slide down my cheeks without reason. They just fucking happen. I feel so heavy I can hardly get up out of a chair or walk across a room. I can't be your lover, or anyone's lover, and I don't know how long I'll be this way. If you love me, Liz, let me go now, today." She wailed with pain, hugged herself, but then jumped to her feet and rushed to the door. She left it open when she left. She called me an hour later. "Goodbye, Brent. I love you, so I'm letting you go." She sobbed and hung up. I cried then. I felt another loss. I'd done the right thing, but it hurt, and I'd hurt Liz deeply. I'd miss her terribly. ------- I did accept support from one other person besides Grace. Agnes was a rock, and sometimes I needed her strength. I also needed her forge. Nothing tamped down my grief like beating the crap out of hot iron. Anger is part of grief. I was angry that my parents let themselves be killed. That's not rational, I know, but overwhelming grief often produces irrational thoughts and behavior. I was also angry because they left me before I was ready to leave them, and anvil work let me slough off my anger. One morning at dawn while talking with Grace, I suddenly realized that I'd stopped being angry, but my big sister's anger hadn't lessoned. It had grown. She was using anger to push away her grief. In the end, her approach would fail. That afternoon while working at her forge, I told Agnes about the revelation I'd experienced that morning. "Grace won't start to heal until she gets rid of her anger," I said. "Hmm, I might know a way to help you. I'll be right back." She left, and I heard her talking on the telephone but couldn't distinguish her words. She returned a minute later and grinned at me. "It's all set up. Call Grace and have her meet us at your studio in an hour." "What's all set up?" Agnes explained her telephone call and what she had in mind. "That might help," I said. "No, I'm positive it'll help." I called Grace and she agreed to the meeting. I didn't tell her the purpose of the meeting. The teakettle was whistling when Grace walked up the stairs and into the loft apartment. She said hi to Agnes and gave me a questioning look. I told her to sit and poured hot water over a tea bag for me and popped the tab on a diet Pepsi for Grace. Agnes was sipping red wine. I opened the conversation with a discussion on anger without referencing my sister's anger. When Grace agreed that anger could lead to irrational or aberrant behavior, Agnes said, "It's time." "Time for what?" Grace said. "You'll see," I said with a grin. Agnes led us to a vacant warehouse. The door was unlocked. We walked in. I flipped the light switch. The power was off, but the light washing the cluttered, vacant space through clerestory glass let us to see well enough for the task at hand. "Do you see the big red Xs painted on some of the walls?" Agnes said to Grace. "Yes. You guys are acting weird." We laughed. "They're going to demolish those walls," Agnes said. "I called and received permission for us to knock those walls down with sledge hammers. I've done this before, Grace. It's very therapeutic." "Therapeutic?" Grace said. "Yep. Grab one of those sledge hammers leaning against the wall and do what I do, and you'll see what I mean. You, too, Brent." Agnes picked up a sledge and swung it at the wall. The drywall screwed to steel studs broke. She swung again, striking one of the studs, and the wall moved. "Your turn, Brent," she said. I swung and punched a hole in the drywall. "Uh-uh, you swung too hard," Agnes said. "The idea is to knock down the wall, not punch holes in it. Your turn, Grace." Grace swung the sledge. It was too heavy for her to swing with much force, so her blow to the wall did more real damage than mine. "Again," Agnes said to Grace. "Brent, knock down that wall other there." She pointed at another wall with a big red X. "Again Grace," Agnes said. "Pretend that wall is someone or something you don't like, or someone or something you want to hit. Yeah, like that." "Damn, this feels good," I said a minute later as I pounded the wall with the sledge. "Yeah, it does," Grace said. Ten minutes later the wall Grace was bludgeoning with the sledge was a mass of broken drywall and twisted steel studs lying in a heap on the concrete slab floor. She stood breathing hard from exertion. "Break time," Agnes said and we trooped back to the loft apartment. I reverted and quaffed a root beer instead of tea. "Did that help?" I asked Grace. "Did it help you get rid of some of your anger?" Grace's eyes widened, and then she smiled. "A little." That's when I told her how I'd eliminated my anger and what I'd been angry about. Grace nodded, gulped down the rest of her Pepsi and said, "Let's go knock down another wall." ------- "It's Brent Carson, Detective Lynds," I said. I'd been shuffled around on phones before but the Scottsdale Police Department had phone shuffling down to a science. It had taken me twenty minutes to make a direct connection with the detective. "What can I do for you?" he said. "I've forgotten the name of the FBI agent in charge of the hotel lounge bombing that killed my parents." "That would be Special Agent Tim Garber. If you're planning to talk to him, all I can say is good luck." "Oh, he'll talk with me one way or the other. Did you have any further involvement in that tragic event? Can you tell me about any progress that's been made?" "No. That's why I said good luck with Tim Garber." "I thought one of the reasons Homeland Security was formed was to insure interagency support and cooperation." "Hah! Tell that to Garber. Gotta run. Good luck. You'll need it." Dial tone. The FBI made the SPD look like an amateur when it came to phone shuffling. Getting a live person on the line was almost impossible, but I did it. To be fair, if I'd been in an emergency situation, I probably would've gotten through easier, but they sent Martha Stewart to jail for lying to a Federal Officer, so I stayed with the truth when the disembodied voice told me to press button #2 or #3. A word of advice. If you are fortunate to attract the attention of a live person, the first words out of your mouth should be: what is your name, your direct telephone number and your extension. Why? Because this person will transfer you to another person, and you'll get choices to press different numbers again. I can't prove it, but I suspect the live person I managed to get on the line called the person at the FBI in charge of the phone system to report a breach in their front-line defense immediately after he shuffled me off to another recording. I say this because when I tried to repeat the process that led me to that live person, the path I'd used before was blocked. I finally gave up and called Detective Lynds. I had his direct number and extension. He laughed at my irritation with bureaucratic telephone systems in general and the FBI's in particular, and gave me Garber's phone number and extension. "Don't tell him who gave you the number," Lynds said just before he offered my ear another dial tone. I dialed the number he gave me. A machine answered my call, and with a curse, I left a message. "What's your problem, little brother?" Grace said. She'd heard me cursing. I told her and added, "You ought to write an article about how government bureaucracies hide from those they're supposed to serve behind telephone systems impossible to breach." She frowned, then smiled. "I know exactly what you mean. I ran into the same runaround when I tried to get the utilities here moved into my name. What an ordeal!" "It's infuriating at the time and hilarious later, a perfect opportunity for satire — your forte. You could compare one bureaucracy to another: the FBI versus the IRS, for instance." "The IRS would win hands down," Grace said. "I take it you didn't talk with the FBI agent in charge of our parents' case." "I left a message for him to call me." "He won't call." "I know, so on my fourth or fifth message, I'll suggest that I will go to the media if he doesn't. The loved ones of victims to an act of terror have a right to know the progress of the investigation into who did it and why. If the FBI ignores that message, I will go the media. Whether he likes it or not, Special Agent Tim Garber will speak with me, and he will give me more information than the ubiquitous 'we can't speak about the details of an ongoing investigation' retort police authorities rely on to avoid questions." Grace laughed and said, "Go get 'em, tiger." It was great to hear her laugh again. She was starting to heal. Garber didn't return my call, but after my threat, one of his minions called me. Of course, he said, "We can't discuss the details of an ongoing investigation." I said, "That's not good enough, Agent Warner. My parents were murdered in an act of terror. I want the person or persons responsible for the cowardly act brought to justice, but I can't do this myself. That's Special Agent Garber's job and yours. So in an around about way you and your boss are working for me. I want to know the results of your investigation to date as well as your future plans to get the job done, or I'll go to the media with my complaint." "Do what you have to do," he said, and like Detective Lynds, gave me a dial tone for my trouble. ------- "Ms. Campbell, my name is Brent Carson. My parents we're killed in that lounge bombing last month. Because no one in authority involved in the investigation of that horrible and devastating event has called me, I called the FBI for a progress report on the investigation into that cowardly act. In essence, the FBI agent I spoke with told me my inquiry was out of line." "That's not surprising," Barbara Campbell said. "But why call me?" "You're a television reporter, one of the best, I'm told. There's a great human-interest story behind my comment. The FBI is treating my sister and me worse than mushrooms because, although they're keeping us in the dark, they aren't feeding us anything. I'm sure the FBI is dealing with the loved ones of the other victims in a like manner. Interview me. Interview a few others being told that although they lost loved ones in that act of terror that it's none of their business what the FBI is doing about it, if anything. What's more, Homeland Security and the ATF are involved. Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't one of the reasons Homeland Security was created with our tax dollars was to insure cooperation between the many bureaucracies that are designed to protect and serve the citizenry? I also just spoke with a police officer. The FBI is treating the Scottsdale Police Department the same way I was treated. If you don't see a story here, I'll call a different reporter. Faye Boswell at Channel Five might be interested." "You convinced me before the threat, Mr. Carson. I'll look into your allegation, and if what you say is accurate, I'll interview you," she said with a tinge of anger obvious in her voice. "The threat rubbed your fur the wrong way, huh?" I said. "Yes." "I'd apologize, Ms. Campbell, but the apology wouldn't be sincere. I'll do whatever it takes, including any legal threats I can dream up, to find out if the FBI and any other government agency involved are doing their jobs to bring my parents' killers to justice. Frankly, that the media is no longer tracking the investigation makes me wonder about the motives of your group. If that also ruffles your feathers, so be it. I'll be available for an interview tomorrow at ten in the morning at my studio." I gave her the address. "If you're interested, you'll be there. If you don't show up, I'll approach Faye Boswell. If she's not interested, I'll go to the print media. I know Dr. Crane, the columnist and art critic for the Republic Gazette. Perhaps he can point me at the right person. If that approach fails, I'll come up with another avenue to follow because I will get satisfaction, Ms. Campbell. Special Agent Tim Garber will brief my sister and me regarding the results of his investigation. Goodbye." I pushed the end button on my cell phone and sighed. ------- "Will she show up?" Grace asked. We were in the loft apartment drinking iced tea waiting for Barbara Campbell's arrival. "Yes," I said. "Why?" "Because she's smart and ambitious, and the story I offered her will help her career. She didn't know me from Adam when I spoke with her yesterday morning. By now she knows I'm an art prodigy. A prodigy makes good press. From my conversation with her, she knows I won't stutter and stammer, and I'll tell it like it is." I chuckled. "She'll also suggest that we use one of my paintings as a backdrop for the interview." My cell phone rang. I answered the call, and Barbara Campbell told me she was running a little late. I told her we'd wait for her. ------- I stood in front of one of my paintings and looked at the camera, not Barbara Campbell, although I must admit Ms. Campbell presented the better view. But for her heavy makeup and stiff, contrived expressions, both designed for the camera, I guessed, she was a beautiful young woman. She stood five-ten in stylish high heels, wore a business suit over a soft white silk blouse, the blouse open at the top offering a hint of alluring cleavage. A bottle blonde with dark green eyes — probably tinted contact lenses — and full red lips, she was a little hippy for my tastes but slim otherwise. "It's difficult to express the effects that tragedy has wrought upon my sister and me," I said into the camera as an answer to a question Campbell had asked. "One second we were a family: a father, a mother, a daughter, and a son. The next second, the white-hot heat of an explosion hurled rusty nails and ball bearings through the air and ripped my mother and father's bodies into pieces unrecognizable as human. That was bad enough, and my sister and I will never recover fully from that fateful day, but now I'm told that what the authorities are doing about that despicable act of cowardice is none of my business." I sighed with disgust. "Until yesterday, the FBI, the agency leading the investigation, had contacted neither my sister nor me. The contact yesterday came about after I left five messages with Special Agent Tim Garber's voice mail. Mr. Garber is the agent in charge of the investigation. Did he return any of my calls? No. I finally received a call from one of his minions. That was fine with me. I didn't care who called as long as someone responded. I asked the agent who called me about the progress of the investigation, and he told me he couldn't discuss the details of an ongoing investigation. I told him that wasn't good enough, and he hung up on me." Honest tears stung my eyes. "I lost my loving parents. At my age, such a loss is almost unbearable. Without the support of my wonderful sister, I don't think I could have gone on living myself. Is it wrong for me to want the cowards who performed that despicable act brought to justice?" I sniffed and wiped my face with my hands. "Sorry," I mumbled, and continued. "I didn't call the FBI to harangue them about the lack of progress. How could I? I didn't know if the FBI had made a lot of progress or only a little. I called the FBI for a progress report. That they refused to give me one is, to my mind, unconscionable. If you're listening, Special Agent Tim Garber, hear me now. You've been given the job to identify, arrest and bring my parents' killers to justice. As an interested party, I demand to know what you've done to date and what you plan to do to achieve this purpose. This is your job, and because I'm a tax payer, you work for me, and you will answer to me and others like me who lost loved ones on that terrible day." I took a deep breath and turned to Barbara Campbell. "Am I asking for too much, Ms. Campbell?" "No, Brent," she said. "I don't believe you are." She turned and faced the camera. "We at Channel Three value our listening audience's input. We have placed an opinion poll on our website." She gave the URL. I suspected that it would be graphically displayed below her on the television screen when the video clip was aired. "Vote No if you believe the FBI should not cooperate and inform the loved ones of the victims of that tragedy of their progress, using the excuse that they can't comment on an ongoing investigation. Vote Yes if you believe the FBI not only has the duty but also the obligation to inform Brent Carson and others directly involved with this tragic event about the development and results of the investigation to bring those terrorists to justice. We'll let you, our viewing audience, know the outcome of that poll." She drew a hand across her throat, and the camera went dead. She turned to me. "Brent, that was great!" I nodded. "Thanks. Will it force Tim Garber out from under the veil of secrecy he's hiding behind?" "If it doesn't, I'll put you in front of the camera again, and my producer will engage some talking heads to discuss the issue. In the end, you'll get your audience with the FBI, but when you do, they won't tell you everything. That's their nature." "Grace and I are flying to San Francisco later this week. I have an opening in a gallery there on Friday night. We'll be back Monday. May I call you then?" She laughed. "I don't know Dr. Crane, Brent, but I know his niece, Sherry. I called her to check you out, not her uncle. She told me to put your age aside, and then watch out, that you were a dangerous man with the ladies." I laughed. "I don't know whether to be glad or sad about Sherry's opinion of me. How about lunch, and you can decide for yourself." She gave me a hard look. "All right." "I'll call you Monday." ------- "You are beauty and grace," I said to my sister as she flowed through a tai chi form with me. "Thank you, kind sir," she said without faltering. At first, Grace had forced herself from her bed to meet the new day with me, a way to support me, to help me get through the worst of my grief. No longer, she'd told me. Like Mom before her, Grace loved tai chi. She said the exercise did more to help her heal than knocking down walls. At almost the precise moment we finished our final tai chi form, we heard the faint sound of our doorbell ringing inside the house. "I'll get it," Grace said. "I know you want to practice your kuen." She grabbed a towel and dashed away before I could warn her to be careful. My plea to the masses to force the FBI to deal with me had been aired on television the previous night. I anticipated that some con artists, garden-variety kooks, political extremists, and other unsavory characters would start creeping out the woodwork to greet me. My face, my voice, my heartfelt pleas on television would make me famous if only for a few days, and the newly famous attracted the fringe members of society like watermelon attracted pesky house flies. That's why if there had been any other way to breach Garber's defenses, I would have avoided the media like the plague. I wiped my face with a towel and followed Grace inside the house. She'd opened the door to a tall Eurasian woman. The beautiful creature carried a baby in her arms. Con artist, I thought. She'd be five-nine in her bare feet, but she was wearing athletic shoes that had seen better days. Her clothes were all well worn, I noticed, but they were clean. Straight black hair fell to the lower part of her back and shined in the golden light pouring through our living room window. Her lovely face looked scrubbed clean, and she wore no makeup except lipstick. Her almond-shaped eyes looked frightened. Was she a con artist? I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt until I learned more about the purpose of her early-morning visit. When she saw me approaching, she looked relieved. "Mr. Carson, thank goodness I have the right house," she said, and then introduced herself as Mary Stewart. As I grew nearer, I detected the scent of lavender, whether from shampoo or soap, I did not know. Perhaps both. "The people who killed your parents, killed my brother," she said to me. "In fact, my brother might have been the person the killers wanted dead that horrible day, and your parents lost their lives because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time." ------- Chapter 9 Grace recovered from Mary Stewart's astonishing statement before I could close my gaping jaw. "You look tired, Mary," Grace said. "Please come in. We were about to have a hot drink. I drink coffee. Brent prefers green tea. Which would you like?" While Grace talked, she guided the Eurasian through our living room to the kitchen table near the back of the house, the place where most of our serious family discussions were conducted, both before and after our parents' death. "Tea, please," Mary said. "Brent, would you fix our drinks?" Grace said. "I'd like to see Mary's baby. A girl or boy?" Grace asked as she settled next to our guest at the table. Mary smiled, which took all the weariness from her pretty face. "A girl. Would you like to hold her?" "Oh my, yes!" Grace exclaimed and took the sleeping child into her arms. Grace gazed at the angelic, tiny face with longing. "Her name is Joy," Mary said. "In an around about way, I named her after my mother whose given name was Jia dan, which means..." "Joyful or auspicious dawn or morning," I said and chuckled softly when I noticed Mary Stewart's shocked expression. Touché, I thought. "I speak Cantonese and Mandarin," I said in Cantonese, "but in an old-fashioned manner." "You speak the language better than I," Mary said in Cantonese. She was being gracious. She spoke Cantonese perfectly. Grace looked from Mary to me. "What did you say? Brent, do you speak Chinese?" Mary looked as confused as Grace. "Surely you knew your brother speaks Cantonese and Mandarin fluently," she said in English. Grace shook her head, and then glared at me. "No, somehow he failed to mention that talent to me." I laughed. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Grace. I speak Cantonese and Mandarin but as the languages were spoken in the 19th Century. Languages change dramatically over a hundred plus years, so this talent, as you called it, isn't very useful to me now." I set cups in front of Grace and Mary, and took a seat with my hot tea. I blew air over the rim of the cup and tears stung my eyes. I miss you, Mom, I thought. I shook the sad memory away, and turning my attention to Mary Stewart, I said, "Have you informed the FBI of your belief that your brother was the target of that despicable act of cowardice?" "No, and to be accurate, Jules was my half-brother, same father, different mothers. As you've probably gathered, my mother was Chinese. She met my father in Shanghai twenty-five years ago. He married her and brought her to the United States, where I was born a year later. I didn't know that I had a half-brother until shortly after my parents were murdered." She hung her head as if shamed. "That was a little less than two years ago. I was gang raped at the same time, and left for dead. That's when Jules introduced himself. His name was Julian Stewart. Everyone called him Jules." "We'll be patient," I said in Cantonese when she hesitated, and then switched to English for Grace's benefit. "Tell your story at your own pace and in any order you wish. Grace and I will interrupt with questions, if we may?" She nodded. "Were your parents' deaths related to your half-brother's?" I asked. "I don't know. Maybe, but it's more likely that the two events were unrelated. We lived in Chinatown in San Francisco, a boon for my mother from my father, I believe. My mother tried diligently but couldn't assimilate the culture here in the United States, not completely, and at her death she could speak only broken English, so my father maintained our residence where my mother could spend some of each day with Chinese friends. This irritated me when I was younger. I wanted to be an American, not a Eurasian. Eurasians in China are shunned, considered neither white nor Chinese. The prejudice runs deep. By living in Chinatown, I was subjected to some of this prejudice that, I believed at the time, I wouldn't have experienced if we'd lived elsewhere. That my belief was false I didn't discover until I left home for college. Prejudice is not place oriented. It's in the heart and brain and must be taught from childhood. I'm sorry, I've wandered off subject." "No problem," Grace said. "Joy arrived nine months after the fateful day." Grace gasped. "Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry. Are you a single mother?" "Yes, but I do know the father, not by name, of course. One of the rapists was a light-skinned black man. If you look closely at my daughter, you will see some faint characteristics of the black race." I reached and caressed the baby's face. "She will become an astonishingly beautiful woman." I looked up at Mary. "You know that, don't you?" She nodded and tears brimmed in her eyes. She said, "But you are the first person to say so, the first person to see what I see in her." "Brent and I were carefully taught from childhood not to harbor racial prejudices," Grace said. "Our mother was almost rabid on this subject. 'Judge people by their character, ' she'd say, 'not by the color of their skin.' Brent is right. This baby girl will grow into a beautiful woman." She grinned. "Like her mother," Grace added. Mary blushed but said, "Thank you." I noticed her hand trembled when she drank some tea. Was she still frightened? No, we'd put her at ease. What was making her hands shake? I studied her. She looked gaunt. I'd considered her slim at first, but she was too thin. Then it hit me. Mary Stewart was starving. Was she anorexic or was she flat broke, unable to buy food for herself and her baby? I knew how to answer my question without asking it. "I'm getting hungry. Will you join us for breakfast, Mary, while you continue your story?" She nodded eagerly. "I am a little hungry," she said. I rose and checked the refrigerator. While Mary talked, I started to cook, setting a glass of orange juice in front of her right away. Mary told us that she'd seen Julian Stewart for the first time when he walked into her room at the hospital where she was recovering from the beating the rapists had given her. Mary's father had divorced Jules mother before the trip to the Orient where he met Mary's mother. Jules was his son from that marriage. Julian's mother detested his father, and although the boy would have been better cared for and loved with his father, his mother gained custody in the divorce, and in subsequent hearings, his father had lost visitation rights. Still, his father had maintained secret contact with the boy over the years, and when Mary's parents were murdered, Jules traveled from Phoenix to California for the funeral and to finally meet his half-sister. He stayed with her for two weeks but had to return to his job in Phoenix. The trip cost Jules dearly. His mother disowned him, told him that she never wanted to see him again. Mary's father had owned and operated an import/export business with a partner. While Mary was in the hospital, her father's partner had visited her and told her the business was in shambles and would soon go into bankruptcy. With Mary penniless, pregnant, without a place to live, and without a job, she called the only person she knew who could help her: her half-brother. He drove to San Francisco and brought her back to Phoenix to live with him. Jules was a bartender, a good one, Mary told us, and shortly after Joy was born, Jules went to work for the hotel where my parents were killed, first as a shift bartender, then as bar manager, and at the time of his death, he was the manager of the lounge. "My brother was a good man," Mary said with tears in her eyes. "When I had no one, he took me in and took care of my baby and me." She sniffed. "I loved him a lot, and now he's gone." Grace pushed a box of facial tissues toward her. "We understand," Grace said. As Mary was dabbing her eyes, I set the food on the table — bad timing. The baby woke up and was obviously hungry. "Are you breast feeding your daughter?" I asked. "Yes, may I feed her in the other room?" Mary said. "Feed her here while you eat, or your breakfast will get cold. I'll turn away until you get Joy settled and you cover yourself." I rose and walked to the patio doors, my back to the table. Why would her brother be the target of such a heinous act? So far, I could see no reason for Mary's initial shocking statement. A couple of other statements she made didn't make sense, either. Were we being conned? "Okay," Mary said. I returned to the table, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I watched Mary eat. She wasn't anorexic. She was starving, and at first gulped at the food, but then seemed to realize she was telegraphing how hungry she truly was. Also, she couldn't eat all the food she'd placed on her plate, and she hadn't heaped her plate, just dished up normal amounts. Her stomach had shrunk. Joy fussed through the meal. The baby wasn't getting enough milk. "Thank you," Mary said. "That was excellent. I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was." I stood, walked to the living room and looked outside. No vehicle except ours. How had Mary arrived at our house? I returned to the kitchen, bent and rummaged through the small bag Mary had carried inside with her. "What are you doing, Brent?" Grace asked, obviously irritated with my brazen, snoopy behavior. "Grace, Mary's milk is drying up. The baby is still hungry, and if I were to guess, I'd say that Mary has been missing a lot of meals. The baby needs food, and she's old enough for those small jars of smashed food. There's none in the bag, and the diapers in the bag won't last the day. Unless someone drove Mary here this morning, she walked. There's no vehicle out front." I turned to Mary. "Make a list of what you need, and Grace will go to the store for you. Meanwhile, will Joy eat mush? You know, cream of wheat. We have cream of wheat, and I could scramble her an egg." Mary burst into tears. A few seconds later, she jumped to her feet. Her breast flopped out when she reached for her bag. Joy started to cry. "I'm sorry," Mary said. "I shouldn't have come here. It's just that I heard you on television last night, and I thought I could help." "Sit down, Mary, please," I said. "Let's get Joy fed. Then if you still want to leave, one of us will drive you wherever you want to go. Okay." "I don't want to impose. That's not why I came here this morning." That's when Grace took charge. "Sit down, you ninny!" Grace said, not a shout, but close to one. "Brent's right. Think of Joy, not how embarrassed you are. Here." She held out her arms. "Give me that pretty little girl, fix your dress, and sit down. Scramble an egg, Brent, and mash it up real fine. Can she eat an egg, Mary?" Mary nodded as she buttoned her blouse. "Feed her the egg yolk in the fried egg that's left," I said to Grace. "Mary, I don't know if you are who you say you are, but I suspect you are an honest person." I smiled. "You still haven't tied your brother to the person or persons who planted that bomb in the hotel lounge. You can't leave before you tell us that much, at the very least." Mary took Joy back from Grace and started to feed the baby from her plate. "If her little belly is as shrunken as yours, don't feed her too much, too fast," I said. "I won't," Mary said. Grace consulted with Mary and left to make the purchases needed to take care of the child, and I asked Mary to go over why she was suddenly penniless, one of the inconsistencies I'd noticed. "Your parents were not without resources, Mary. You said you were going to college. They lived somewhere. Did they own their home?" She shook her head. "I thought they did. They didn't. The company my father owned and operated owned the house, and the company was going bankrupt. My parents also died without doing a Will, and I wasn't listed as a signer on their checking and saving accounts, if indeed they had a saving account. I owed the hospital a lot of money. Jules helped me sell all my parents' things, which wasn't much, just some used furniture, those sorts of things, to pay the doctors and hospital, so I still owe the hospital a lot of money. They dun me every month, and last month they turned the debt over to a collection agency. I'd quit school in mid-year that year. There wasn't money to pay the tuition for the second semester. That's why I was living back at the house in Chinatown in March when..." She swallowed a sob. "Jules, saved my life, Brent, and someone took his. Goddammit! I want his killer brought to justice! That's why I came here this morning, why I walked five miles in the dark to be here first thing. Before he was killed, Jules was nervous, which wasn't normal for him. He was an easy-going man, happy, not nervous or frightened, looking over his shoulder all the time. I asked him if there was something wrong, and he said he'd learned something he wasn't supposed to know. He said he couldn't tell me what it was, or I'd be in danger, too. And he made me promise that if anything happened to him, that I'd just disappear. 'Don't stay at our apartment, ' he said, 'and don't go to the police. Just disappear.' That's what I did, but it's hard to disappear without money or a place to stay, and my money ran out a while back. I've been staying in a homeless shelter, and while at a mission last night, I saw you on television. So I begged for money, went to a Laundromat, washed my clothes, and Joy's, and I bundled her up, begged some more money for bus fare, and took the bus as close as I could to your house. Your father's name and address were listed in the phone book, or I would've never found you, and still I worried this might not be the house where you lived. I feel so... Brent, I've never begged for money, not before last night. Never!" "Okay," I said as I finished scrambling an egg. "I'm a prudent man, so I'll check out your story, but I'll tell you right now that I believe you. I also promise that you that you'll never have to beg for money again, Mary." She started to cry quietly, more from relief than pain. I took the baby out of her arms and fed the child the scrambled egg. The little bundle of joy chomped that egg right down, too, and gave me a couple of happy smiles in the process. ------- As the sun peeked up over the horizon flashing pink and orange spires across a pewter sky, Grace and I flowed like oil from a two separate cans, smooth and synchronized, not just with our postures but also with our breathing. Mary Stewart stepped out of the house and, without saying a word, flowed into our exercise in mid-form, and the three of us moved as one. The day before, after Grace bought out the baby store with enough food and baby paraphernalia for six babies, I made some calls. As I'd anticipated, I couldn't punch any holes in Mary's story. She'd told us the truth. I did hire a private investigator in San Francisco to check out her father's business, including his partner. That situation carried too much potential for fraud to ignore. I also retained a San Francisco attorney to look into the status of the probate of Mary's parents' estate, as well as the hospital bills that had been turned over for collection. Then Grace and I convinced Mary to stay with us in our guest room until we could determine when she could come out of hiding. We fed Mary and her baby a number of small meals throughout the day, and made Mary swallow a bunch of vitamins that we had on hand. The three of us finished one tai chi form and slipped into another one. Mary knew the new form and, without a word or a bobble, we completed the exercise. "You guys are something!" Mary exclaimed. "You didn't tell me you knew tai chi. My mother and I did tai chi together when I was younger." That reminded me of my mother, and my eyes misted. "Brent will practice his kuen now, Mary. Will you help me fix breakfast?" "Sure," she said and looked at me. "Kuen, huh? Kung Fu?" "Yes." "Is that your cudgel?" she asked, nodding toward my staff leaning against the wall. "Yes." She shook her head, as if amazed. "Are you sure you're not Chinese?" she said in Cantonese. "Not in this life," I replied in the same language. "Are you a Buddhist?" "No, but some tenets of the faith appeal to me. The Tao, as well." "My mother would have adored you," she said and walked inside. A little later, I noticed her by the patio doors watching my cudgel play. Grace joined her. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but my ears were burning. After I showered, I joined Grace and Mary for breakfast. Little Joy, too. She sat bright-eyed in a highchair. With the haul Grace had made to shop for the baby yesterday it'd been a good thing that she'd driven my pickup truck. Besides the high chair, she returned to the house with a crib, a stroller, a car seat, and a playpen, not to mention the food, diapers and other stuff babies need. While we were eating, I said, "Decision time, Grace. Should Mary and Joy travel to San Francisco with us, or should they stay here and housesit until we get back Sunday night?" "Ah, guys," Mary said, "I can't go to San Francisco with you. I don't have any money." "Brent's in the same dire straights," Grace said and laughed. Having Mary and Joy with us was the best medicine a doctor could have prescribed for Grace's melancholy, and Grace laughing was the best medicine for me. Grace added, "Our jerk uncle, trying to get his mitts on Brent's money, froze all the bank accounts." Mary looked confused, so Grace explained my situation. "I'm a kept man," I said when Grace finished outlining our dysfunctional family fiasco. "Considering your age," Grace said, "the appropriate label would be boy toy." After Mary laughed with Grace, she frowned. "I've gotta ask, Brent. How old are you?" "Sixteen, but I'm mature for my age." "Hah, that's an understatement," Grace said. "He says he prefers older women, and they seem to agree with him. His youngest girlfriend was eighteen, but women your age and older have tripped him so he fell between their nubile legs, and none of them have complained, I'm here to tell you." I blushed. Grace laughed. Mary raised an eyebrow. I ignored her silent query. Then she asked, "Why are you going to San Francisco?" "My brother is a prodigy, an artist. His one-man show opens at Eleanor's Gallery on Market Street Friday evening. We'd planned to fly to San Francisco tomorrow morning, a day early, and explore your city, Mary." Grace looked at me. "Brent, I think Mary and her baby should go with us for two reasons. Number one, she's in jeopardy here. I don't think we should leave her alone, and number two, she can be our San Francisco guide." Mary shook her head. "I won't let you spend that much money on me. I'll stay here and housesit." "Uh-uh," I said. "Grace is right. I want you with us in San Francisco where I can protect you and your baby." "But..." "Is your only concern the money?" I asked. "Yes. I..." "Stop it!" I said forcefully, and then I softened my voice. "Just stop it. Listen to me, Mary. Grace and I have money. That's good because it lets us do what we want without worrying about financial burdens that we can't handle, and what we want is you and little Joy with us in San Francisco. I also want you on one arm and Grace on the other at my show, which means..." I looked at Grace. Would she figure it out? "Shopping!" Grace exclaimed, her eyes taking on the immanent-shopping-spree look. I laughed. Was there any doubt? Nope. "Yes, shopping," I said. "Mary has one outfit, the one she's wearing. She needs a wardrobe. That's your mission today, Grace. I'll tend this little bundle of joy. She seems to like that formula you bought, and I want to introduce her to Agnes." "Agnes?" Mary said. "Yeah, she's teaching me how to be a welder." Grace cracked up. "Agnes is a sculptor, Brent's best friend." "Go on," I said to Mary. "Load up that new diaper bag with anything I'll need today and scoot. What I don't know about babies, Agnes will teach me." I looked at little Joy. "Wanna learn welding, sweet thing? Or how to forge hot iron? I'll be your sifu." Joy grinned and cooed at me. "See. It's settled. Joy wants to spend the day with me." ------- Because we'd considered the extra day before the show, and the day after, as well as Sunday morning, as a mini-vacation, Grace and I had gone all out and booked rooms at the Four Seasons Hotel. The hotel was happy to oblige when I asked for an additional room for Mary and her daughter. My sister and I had also talked about the potentially harrowing experiences while driving a rental car in a strange city, so for our trip to San Francisco, we hired a limo and driver for ground transportation. Mary had oohed and ahed when she slipped across the leather seats of the limo. She'd never been in one, and I admired the good bit of leg she showed while doing the slipping. The new wardrobe had performed wonders with her appearance. She'd been beautiful before, but the new packaging made her drop-dead gorgeous. Every man at my opening would be insanely envious when they saw me with Grace on one arm and Mary on the other. On the drive into the city from the airport, I asked Mary if there was anyone she wished to contact while in San Francisco. "Consider the peril you're in before you answer," I added. "If you believe the incident that took your parents' lives was even remotely connected to the act of cowardice that took your brother's life, then you should avoid anyone you know in this city. On the other hand, as an example, I would trust Agnes with my life. Perhaps there is someone here you can trust like I trust Agnes." "Brent," she said, "I know of absolutely no connection between the two incidents, but I can't rule out the possibility that they are related, either. Saying that, there is someone, a Chinese woman named Ding Xio-ren, a dear friend of my mother's that I am very close to. I've missed her terribly. Like most Chinese women, she is an inveterate gossip, but if she knows that saying anything to anyone about my presence in the city could put my life at risk, she'd die while being tortured before she'd utter a word. She can keep secrets, Brent. I've tested her. Besides, I'll need a babysitter for your show, and possibly other times while we're here. Xio-ren will happily fill that role for me." "She lives in Chinatown?" I asked. "Yes." "Will she leave Chinatown to come to you?" "Yes." "Okay, when we get settled in our rooms, I will call her," I said in Cantonese. "Will my old-fashioned way of speaking be adequate to the task?" Mary smiled. "More than adequate," she said in the same language. "Some of your expressions are... quaint, but still easily understood. I take great pleasure in the way you speak my mother's language." "If after speaking with Xio-ren, and I feel that it is safe for you to speak with her, I will put her on the phone with us, and we will work out a safe way for her to come to you." I switched back to English. "Okay?" "You bet," Mary said with a grin. "One other thing, Mary. Do you know of a kwoon in Chinatown where I can spar with a master using Shaolin wushu weapons?" She nodded. "My father had a friend, a sifu." "Will he speak to me?" "If I called him, yes." "No, that could put you in danger." She grinned. "No. Sifu was to my father as Agnes is to you. Besides, I will apply subterfuge. I will tell him I am calling from Phoenix when I ask the favor." "Let her make the call, Brent," Grace said. ------- The Four Seasons Hotel is located on Market Street in the chic, cultural Yerba Buena district. I liked the hotel immediately. It seemed to be full of art, and the service was impeccable and intuitive. What's more, the Museum of Modern Art was just around the corner. My room offered a stunning, floor-to-ceiling view of the city. It was spacious, decorated with soft earth tones and modern furniture. Pottery and small sculptures dotted horizontal surfaces, and the art on the walls were original pieces. Live plants and flower arrangements brought nature inside. I set my notebook computer on the desk and plugged it into the high speed Internet connection the hotel offered and answered the knock on the door that connected my room with my sister's. She stood smiling at me looking happier than I'd seen her since our parents' death. "Nice hotel," she said. "Uh-uh, fantastic hotel! And the ride into the city in a limo was just as fantastic. This is just what we needed, Grace. A mini-vacation. New experiences in a new city." "Did you visit San Francisco as Jane Wilson?" she asked as she stepped into my room and sat on a sofa. "Yes, for a show, in and out like we did for the San Diego show. I've never experienced the city, Grace. We'll discover San Francisco together." "Us and your new girlfriend." That surprised me. I gave my sister a hard look. "I haven't made a pass at Mary," I said. "I know, but when you do, she won't say no." Grace grinned. "I'm not unhappy that Mary is with us, Brent. While shopping yesterday, Mary and I became friends, and her baby is a delight. Little Joy has stolen my heart." "Mine, too," I said. "I noticed. I knocked on your door to tell you that if you want some private time with Mary, I'll understand." "Uh-uh, this mini-vacation is for us, Grace. Tonight we'll visit and eat at Fisherman's Wharf and ride in the limo to a viewpoint of the Golden Gate Bridge. Tomorrow we'll visit the Museum of Modern Art and ride on a cable car." "About the Museum of Modern Art, Brent. Would you mind terribly if I skipped that? I mean..." I laughed. "Of course not. What did you have in mind instead?" "I don't know. Maybe a cruise on Golden Gate Bay. Mary might have a better idea, though. After all, she is our guide for the city." I'd been selfish. "What else have I planned that doesn't appeal to you?" "That's it, just the Museum of Modern Art." "Besides a cruise on Golden Gate Bay, what would you like to do that isn't on our schedule?" She blushed. "Brent, I'm healing. I'm starting to feel some urges again, if you get my drift. What would really make this mini-vacation special for me would be getting well and truly laid." My jaw dropped. She laughed gaily, but her blush deepened. "I bring the subject up because if I meet an interesting man at your show or elsewhere, I might disappear for a while to satisfy the urges I mentioned. If I do, I don't want any crap out of you about a smooth, unscrupulous man taking advantage of me, when in truth, it'll be the other way around. I'm not looking for love, Brent. I just want to have some fun on this trip, some sexy fun. Okay?" I said nothing, but I did nod, giving her silent approval, if not my understanding. "Since our parents were killed, we've been involved only with each other," she said. "You've spent some time with Agnes, and I briefly met with some of my friends, but... let me put it this way. I'm happy Mary came along. If she hadn't, I would have climbed into your bed to satisfy my reawakening urges." My jaw dropping was starting to become a habit. "And that, little brother, would've been a disaster." I nodded again. She said, "I love you, Brent. We've become so close that we're incestuous without the sex, and a few times recently, I wanted the sex, too. And I believe there were times when you felt the same way. When Liz accused you of fucking me, she made you angry, not so much because she was wrong, but because she was right. You wanted to fuck me. You still want to fuck me, don't you?" "Yes. You've been candid with me. I'll be candid with you. I love you. I want you. I admit it. And I want more than a furtive fuck. I want you as my mate. My feelings aren't new. They didn't change with our parents' death, except to deepen. But like you, I knew that if I pursued my dream that disaster would be the only result. That point was driven home to me when I watched you hold little Joy in your arms. Putting the incest taboo aside, we can't have children together, and you want children, don't you?" "Yes, later, not now." "So, I'll put my dream back in my pocket where I've been keeping it all these years, and I'll pursue other dreams, as will you, but know this, big sister. I love you and want you, and I'll always love you and want you, but I will never take you into my bed. Your happiness is more important to me than my dream, a dream that shouldn't be, can't be realized. " I sighed. "Okay?" Tears dampened her eyes. "Okay. Thank you for understanding." ------- I called Xio-ren, and my old-fashioned Cantonese did the job. After putting Mary on the phone with her friend, I sent a cab to pick up Xio-ren at her home and bring her to the hotel. While we waited for her arrival, Mary called her father's friend and set up a sparring session for me for Saturday morning. We left Joy with Xio-ren, and Grace and Mary accompanied me to Aliotos, a restaurant at Fisherman's Wharf. The fresh-fish meals were delicious, and more importantly, we had fun laughing and teasing each other. Later as we strolled around Fisherman's Wharf taking in the sights, shops and galleries, I realized that I didn't need to wait for my opening to showcase the beautiful women accompanying me. Everywhere we went, Mary and Grace made me the envy of every straight man who saw us, as well as some of the not-so-straight women. The postcard views at every turn were outstanding, and I enjoyed strolling through some of the art galleries, but those excursions I kept brief, and Grace gave me a thumbs-up when she noticed I was making an effort to experience everything the area had to offer, not just the art galleries. We did some shopping. I bought Agnes some Ghirardelli chocolate and a hand-forged jewelry stand for her funky costume jewelry, and later found an original sterling silver necklace featuring polished onyx stones to hang on the jewelry stand when I gave it to her. The night view of the Golden Gate Bridge was everything I expected, and more, especially the drive away from the viewpoint bracketed by two beautiful women who let me know that they had enjoyed being with me that evening. After we stepped from the elevator on our floor at the hotel, I hugged them both, said goodnight, and we all went to our respective rooms. The next morning, I thoroughly enjoyed my time in the Museum of Modern Art. I toured the museum alone. Grace and Mary were cruising Golden Gate Bay while I studied the history of modern art. I didn't mind being alone. In fact, I enjoyed it. I could go at my pace, even go back and study a work of art I'd already seen, which I did more than once. My pace and repetitive meanderings would've driven Grace up the wall. She was right to leave me alone and take the cruise. The women weren't back when I returned, so I took a cab to Eleanor's Gallery. She was delighted to see me but didn't truly have any time to spend with me. I wandered her gallery, congratulated her on how my paintings had been framed and hung, and then left her to handle the myriad details she was juggling. Orchestrating a successful opening is a hectic job. Back at the hotel, I found Grace and Mary in the lobby, rosy-cheeked from the cruise, little Joy, too. They'd taken her with them, and the little girl was fussing. "She needs to be fed and have a nap," Mary said. "Go ahead with your lunch plans. I'll have room service bring me a sandwich, and I'll pass on the Trolley Car Tour, as well." I glanced at my wristwatch. "If we eat, we'll be too late for that tour, anyway, and I've got to eat." I looked at Grace. "I don't know about you, but I have museum feet. Let's grab a late lunch here at the hotel's coffee shop, and then rest up for the show tonight." "Fine by me," Grace said. ------- While we were eating, Grace said, "You'll need to go slow with Mary, little brother." I waited without responding. "She hasn't been with a man since she was gang raped. What those animals did to her..." Grace shuddered, and her pretty eyes rolled back in her head as her imagination took control of her mind. She swallowed as if nauseous. "What they did wasn't sex, Brent." "I know. As Jane Wilson, I was raped once, but not like Mary, not by five violent men. What happened to Jane would be called date-rape nowadays, but I understand in part what she went through, what she's still trying to cope with. Add that her parents were murdered at the same time, and I don't know how she's maintained her sanity. Then suddenly in yet another violent act, her brother is also taken from her. I admire her indomitable spirit and tenacity, Grace." "Me, too. We've gotten pretty close, Mary and me, Brent. Take care with her. Try not to hurt her. Okay?" "You're acting as if Mary and I becoming a couple is a given, Grace. I don't see us that way. I'm too young for serious romantic entanglements." I chuckled. "I'm more likely to get tangled up with someone like Barbara Campbell than Mary Stewart. The knots of an entanglement with a woman like Barbara Campbell can be easily untied." Grace rolled her eyes. "As mature as you are, little brother, sometimes you just don't get it. Sign for lunch when you're finished. I'm going to see if Mary wants to join me for a session at the spa here at the hotel. By canceling that Trolley Car Tour, we have time for a massage and some serious beauty treatments. You do want us looking our best when we make our grand entrance at your opening, don't you?" A rhetorical question I didn't answer. Instead, I finished my tea and signed for the lunch. ------- We were late arriving for the opening, so our entrance was grand indeed. All eyes fell on us as I stepped through the doors with a gorgeous creature on each arm. Grace and Mary made my stylish look dowdy by comparison. As usual, I was dressed in black from head to toe with a splash of color. At Grace's suggestion, I selected a brilliant blue for the color splash that night, and after seeing the ladies' gowns, I understood Grace's suggestion. Iridescent blue threads were interwoven through my sister's black sheath cocktail dress. She wore a lapis lazuli necklace and bracelet, and her clutch purse sparkled with blue sequins. As usual, she was the most stunning woman in the gallery. Mary was a very close second, though. She wore a glistening black gown that was cinched high on her long, graceful neck, but the bodice was open to her narrow waist. Strings of aquamarine dangled between her breasts, which were completely exposed, except for her nipples and outer curves. Her hair was pulled tight back from her face, emphasizing her exotic Eurasian face. A shimmering blue comb gathered her hair high at the back, but still her dark, luxurious hair hung straight halfway to her waist. A translucent blue shawl that looked as light as a spider's web draped her bare shoulders. I'd been nervous about being late, but from the approving, stunned looks we received at our grand entrance, I was happy the ladies had held us up. Besides, we weren't that late. Eleanor rushed to us but skidded to a stop. Her eyes went from me to Grace, and then to Mary. "Wow!" she gushed. "In a city that prides itself as the epitome of style, the three of you just raised the bar." I held out my arms, and she moved into them for a hug. "Did you peddle all of my paintings during the pre-opening," I whispered, "or must I put on my pompous artist persona and convince a few more patrons to part with their money?" She laughed. "Ten pieces carry sold stickers, but don't be too pompous, please. Just be yourself. That's all it'll take. Let me introduce you to some new fans, and you might recognize a few collectors who have purchased your paintings before in other shows. You're acquiring a following, young man." And away we went. What was truly fun was Mary's response to my work. I'd forgotten that she'd seen not even one of my paintings. She had noticed the watercolors I'd given away at Christmas as gifts that were hanging in our home in Scottsdale, and I think that's what she expected. While I spoke with one of my buyers, I noticed Mary glancing at my paintings. Her eyes flitted from one to the next and then back at me. I chuckled and said, "Go ahead, Mary. Take a better look." She stepped away from me, and the look of awe on her exotic face as she stood in front of one of my paintings pleased me more than I wanted to admit. Until that moment, I hadn't realized how important Mary's good opinion of me and my work had become. I moved from buyer to buyer, spoke to some patrons on the fence, kicked two of them off the fence, and then all of my paintings carried sold stickers. I spoke with two art critics. One liked my work and would give me a good review. The other preferred writing negative columns to positive ones. His scathing comments in the Sunday newspaper wouldn't bother me because I wouldn't read his column. I'd learned to ignore negative reviews when I lived as Jane Wilson, and negative reviews were as inevitable as the sun rising every morning and setting every evening. That's when I noticed my Uncle Sam talking with Eleanor. She was smiling and being gracious to the bandit. What the hell was he doing here? I strode to them with blood in my eye. "I don't remember putting you on my invitation list, Sam?" I said by way of a greeting. "I'm your guardian, Brent. I have every right to be here." I turned to Eleanor. "You didn't know, so I can't blame you, but this man is a crook. He wants to manage my money and me until I turn eighteen, sifting as much of my money to his own account as is legally possible. That will never happen." Eleanor swallowed. "I didn't know." "Has he told you to pay him my proceeds from this show?" I asked. "Yes. He faxed me that portion of your parents' Last Will and Testament naming him your guardian, Brent." "If you pay him, I'll never show in your gallery again, Eleanor. I have petitioned the courts for emancipation. Concurrently, in case that petition fails, Grace has asked the courts to assign her as my guardian. Even with all the delays and legal shenanigans this brigand has initiated, my emancipation or Grace's request to be my guardian will be settled my mid-July. Hold any payments until then." "I will," she said. I grinned. "Thank you." I turned to man I used to call uncle. "I'd appreciate it if you'd leave." He shook his head. "I have an appointment with Craig Harris to negotiate the contract for the opening in Denver. You need me. A contract with a minor isn't binding." I'd spoken briefly with Harris earlier that night. "Get Craig, Eleanor. I'll find Grace, and we'll meet you in your office." I pointed at Sam. "He isn't invited." Eleanor nodded. I turned to Sam. "If you're still here when I'm finished with Craig Harris, I'll throw you out myself." It took two minutes to negotiate the contract with Harris. I told him I wanted a 55/45 split and that he had to cover all expenses. I added that my paintings should increase in price by 20%. He agreed. Then I explained my situation with my uncle. "If you even speak with him again, Mr. Harris, I will not show my paintings at your gallery. Prepare our contract and fax it to me." I gave him my fax number. "I'll sign it after the courts have declared me an adult, or Grace will sign it when she is named my guardian, one or the other. How many paintings do you want?" "Fourteen." "I'll have fourteen ready to ship the first of September. When would you like to schedule the show?" "The third Friday in September." I stuck out my hand. "Deal." He took it, and we had a gentleman's agreement. Uncle Sam was not in the gallery when Grace and I left Eleanor's office. ------- I got to know him before Grace. She was away somewhere flirting with a loser. Pete Turner wasn't a loser. He'd purchased one of my paintings after I kicked him off the fence he was sitting on wondering whether to buy or not. We hooked up again after I'd negotiated my contract with Harris. I guessed his age at twenty-five. I found out later that he was twenty-four. He was tall, the height I strove for (six-two), very fit, a good dresser, handsome, with an honest smile that dazzled. He was a venture capitalist, he told me. His company funded new businesses, mostly restaurants. "How does one become a venture capitalist?" I asked. He laughed and said, "Inherit a shit-pot full of money and a genetic propensity to take risks. An MBA helps but sometimes hinders." "Do you use only your own money for the investments, or do you accept partners?" I asked. "So far just my own. My clients become my partners, though. Why are you asking?" "I might want to put some of my money to work one of these days." He cocked his head. "If that happens, give me a call." We chatted some more. He was single and currently not in a serious relationship. He complimented me about Grace and Mary without using Grace's name. Mary had been on my arm when I'd twisted his into buying a painting. He hadn't met Grace. "The Eurasian is exotic," he said. "But the other one, she's so beautiful she makes my teeth ache. You are a fortunate man." That's when Grace returned to my arm. Introductions were in order. "Grace, this is Pete Turner. He has excellent taste, both in art and women. He purchased one of my paintings and told me you were so beautiful you made his teeth ache." Grace fluttered her eyes and said, "Mr. Turner, I'm sorry my appearance pains you so." Pete and I laughed boisterously. "Pete," I said to complete the introduction, "this is Grace Carson, by big sister." "Sister!" The word exploded from his mouth. Then he grinned like a fool and muttered, "Sorry." He took a deep breath and added. "Grace, seeing you is painful only if I'm viewing you from afar and can't touch you. Up close, you take my breath away." "Hmm," Grace said. "You need medical attention, Mr. Turner. A dentist and someone to give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I'm not a dentist." I wasn't about to comment on that. "Excuse me," I said. "Mary needs rescuing. That boor, Jenkins, has her hogtied." I strode away leaving my sister to hogtie Turner or send him packing — her choice. Later, Grace pulled me to the side. "Pete Turner asked me to have a drink with him after the show. I accepted." "Good choice," I said with a grin. "Have fun. Mary and I will manage without you." We did, too. In the limo on the drive to the hotel, Mary cuddled next to me and said, "Thank you, Brent. This has been the most exciting night of my life." I put my arm around her and hugged her close. "You're welcome," I said. She turned to me. I could see her dark almond-shaped eyes and her facial expressions as the limo moved under streetlights. I didn't see passion. I saw longing. "I don't want the night to end," she said. ------- Chapter 10 I didn't think. I ignored my sister's warnings. I ignored my own reservations. I knew I couldn't have a casual relationship with Mary, but she was looking at me with such longing that's all I saw, all I thought about. I kissed her. I kissed her and she melted. Her lips melted into mine, and she twisted her lithe body until her breasts melted against my chest. She moaned into my mouth, and our embrace deepened but still remained soft somehow. I felt the tip of her tongue on my lips, and I let it into my mouth. Her fingers raked through my hair, and she pulled my mouth tighter to hers. Then she jerked her head back and stared into my eyes. "Here. Now," she hissed and kissed me again. Without taking my eyes off hers, I hit the intercom and told the chauffer to drive around until told otherwise. Mary reached behind her and unfastened something. Her gown fell around her waist, exposing her magnificent breasts. They were larger than I expected, perfectly shaped, proportional, with dark, crinkled nipples, hard with arousal. I reached and caressed both breasts, one in each hand. A nipple slipped between two fingers. I closed the fingers, squeezing. She didn't squirt, but baby's milk dampened my fingers. She sucked in air, more a sigh than a gasp, and covered both of my hands with hers. Leaning forward, she kissed me again. After the kiss, she straddled my lap and pushed my jacket off my shoulders. I shrugged out of the garment and pulled my shirt over my head. "Beautiful," she said so quietly I barely heard her. She ran her hands over my chest. "No hair. I like that. Hard muscles. Masculine. Male." She leaned forward and licked one of my nipples. Her teeth nipped at the other one. "Remove your dress," I said softly, matching her quiet tone of voice. She scooted off me to my right, and the gossamer garment fluttered to the floorboard of the limo. After straddling me again, she released the buckle on my belt. She watched my eyes as she unzipped my trousers. It was a struggle, but with my help, she soon had my trousers down around my ankles. I didn't kick them off. Her hand dug into the opening at the front of my boxers, and she snaked my erection out through the hole. She didn't look at it. Her eyes remained on mine. She did stroke it with unhurried, natural turns of her wrist. She took one of my hands back to her breast. I raised the other and palmed her other breast. She licked her lips. "I want to fuck you," she said, again so softly I had to strain to hear her. "I want to fuck you. I don't want you to fuck me. Just sit there." She rose up on her knees, pulled her panties to one side, and moved the head of my cock around and around between very wet labia. I pinched a nipple. "No," she said. "Just hold them, please. Don't move." By then she'd settled my cock at the entrance to her cunt, and very slowly, she sat down around my length. "So good," she whispered, more to herself than to me. "So good." I bottomed out. "So good." She didn't move on me. She used three fingers on her clitoris, flattened and held together, rubbing them in a small circle. "Yes," she purred. "Yes." It took all the willpower I had not to thrust. Barring that, I wanted her to move on me. She didn't. She did start to shake. No, she shivered as if very cold. She wasn't cold, though. She was very hot. Her eyes, still fixed on mine, rolled back in her head, and the shiver became more pronounced. Suddenly, she stiffened and cried out, not loudly but louder than she'd been speaking. I felt the spasms of her orgasm squeeze and release my very hard erection. Still, she didn't move on me, and her eyes held mine. A small smile curled her lips. "So good," she said as loudly as her orgasmic cry. She leaned and kissed me. "Fuck me now," she said. "Gently, but fuck me." I thrust upwards, burying my length to the hilt. "Perfect," she said. I kept my slow thrusts short, two inches in, two inches out. She started moving on me as my thrusts lengthened, and her fingers returned to her clitoris. A nipple slipped between two of my fingers, the hard button resting against the web between the fingers. I squeezed a little. "Harder," she said. "Your fingers," she clarified. "Yes," she said a little louder and increased the speed of her rotating hips. "Yes." With both of us moving, I lengthened my thrusts, and her fingers flashed in a tight circle on her clitoris. Sticky with baby's milk, my hands squeezed her breasts and nipples. Her eyes never left mine. "Come in me," she said. The shivering and shaking started again. As soon as she started to go stiff, I let myself go and climaxed. I'd waited for it, retarded its arrival, so the orgasm was very powerful. Still, I didn't cry out. Mary did, not a shout, but louder than before. She collapsed against my chest. I wrapped her in my arms and held her loosely. She started to cry. I held her while she cried. I didn't speak, but my hands soothed her, petting her heated flesh. Finally, she straightened her back and looked at me. Then she kissed me hard. "Thank you," she said and buried her wet face at my neck. "I'll be better next time," she said. "I had to do it this way, Brent. If you had taken charge, I wouldn't have gone through with it. I had to be in control. Do you understand?" "Yes," I said. "I won't always be this way. My second time, that was better, better for you, better for me. Soon, I'll be like I was before..." She didn't finish; she shuddered. I lifted her face with my fingers and kissed her lips, and then her wet eyes. "Let's get dressed," I said. "I have a sparring match tomorrow morning." "I'm going with you," she said. "No, that would be too dangerous for you." She grinned. "Uh-uh, I have a disguise. ------- His age was indeterminable, somewhere between forty and sixty, and the Chinese gentleman didn't look happy. He saw through Mary's disguise, though, and motioned for us to enter. I'd arrived at the kwoon with an audience of three: Mary, Grace and Pete Turner. En route to the kwoon in the limo, I said to my entourage, "You just want to see me get my ass kicked." Grace giggled and said, "There's that, little brother." "If Sifu spars with you, that will be a given," Mary said. "I've never seen Sifu beaten. Most likely, he will turn you over to one of his students, Brent." "Tell me about Shaolin wushu weapons," Pete Turner said to me. "They're ancient martial arts weapons that have experienced a recent resurgence in popularity. I'm adept with four of them: the saber, broadsword, spear, and my favorite, the cudgel." "Sounds dangerous," Pete said. I didn't respond to his comment, and the limo stopped in front of the kwoon. Now I had to convince a master of the martial arts to spar with me. "Sifu, you do me a great honor," I said, using Mandarin, and bowed again. "I'm sorry. I am ill prepared. I have no sparring clothing and arrived only with my cudgel. May I demonstrate my cudgel play before we begin?" His eyes didn't widen. He didn't smile or frown. He gave me a brief nod, accepting my suggestion. I removed my jacket and shirt, and took off my shoes and socks. After moving to the center of the kwoon, I bowed to Sifu, and then performed a routine with my cudgel that I'd perfected shortly before my death during the Boxer Rebellion. The exercise was intricate, demonstrating my flexibility, agility and quickness. I performed no aerobatics. I saved those moves for the sparring match. When I finished, I turned to Sifu and bowed. "I will spar with you," he said in Mandarin. "One of my students will help you with padding." "Will you be wearing padding, Sifu?" I asked in the same language. "No." "Then I will spar without padding, as well." He smiled, which surprised me. "Are you certain? Accidents happen." "I trust in your ability, Sifu." "As you wish. Cudgels?" He held one in his hand. "To start with. I'm also adept with the saber, broadsword and spear. Alas, I don't own any of them, and if I did, I wouldn't travel with them." "They will be provided," he said and struck without warning. I blocked his strike and spun away from him. He pressed forward. For his age, he was amazingly quick. I was quicker and blocked his side and overhead chops. Leaping over a sweep, I did a midair somersault, striking while turning in the air. He blocked my cudgel with his, but barely, and then leaped high. I jumped with him, and we engaged while aloft. I struck three times. He blocked two of them, and ducked under the third. I kept him on the defensive, and ten minutes later, my youthful stamina started to wear him down. I backed away to give him some breathing time, and then with a silent roar, I attacked, driving him backwards, stopping strikes he didn't block only inches from his body to avoid hurting him. I'd won, so I backed away and bowed. He returned my bow, going deeper than before. He said, "I am no match for you." "I have the advantage of youth, Sifu." "No, it's more." He stared at me. "You have an old soul." "Yes," I said. "Your Mandarin is excellent, but... out of date." "Yes, from the 19th Century." He nodded. "Saber, broadsword or spear?" he asked. "Saber," I said. He clapped his hands. A student — a Caucasian boy — hurried to him and bowed. "Bring two sabers," Sifu said, using English. Sifu fought like a fierce tiger, and his balance was superb, but he was no match for me. I won the saber sparring session, stopping the sword inches from his neck. If I hadn't pulled the strike, I would've taken his head. We bowed to each other. "Enough," he said, reverting to Cantonese. "You have my gratitude, Sifu," I said, also switching to Cantonese. "Sparring with an unknown without full-body padding is an enormous compliment. I wish your kwoon were in the Phoenix area. We would become great friends, I believe." "I know a master in that city. Like me, he will be no match for you." The old Chinese gentleman surprised me again when he chuckled. "Also like me, he needs to learn humility. If you wish, I will give you his name and telephone number before you leave, and I will tell him to expect your call." I bowed. "Thank you, Sifu." "I am thirsty, Mr. Carson. May I offer you and your friends tea?" "I'd like tea. I can't speak for them. When we arrived, you recognized Mary. Please keep her visit here, as well as her association with me, confidential. To do otherwise could place her in jeopardy." "Of course. She is under your protection?" "Yes." "Then I will be less concerned about her future safety. Her father was an old and trusted friend." ------- Pete Turner took us to Chez Philippe for lunch, one of the restaurants he'd backed with his venture capital company. Talk about service! The maitre d' was fawning. Waiters hovered over us, and the chef even came out to greet us. Pete said the owner, Philippe, didn't come in on Saturdays during the day, or he would have joined us for lunch. The ride to Chez Philippe was all about the sparring matches and my weird abilities. Pete was effusive with his compliments, and although I think she would have preferred that Sifu had kicked my ass, Grace indicated that she'd expected the results. "Brent does things like you just witnessed all the time," she said to Pete. "Did your parents speak Mandarin and Cantonese?" Pete asked. "No," Grace said. "I didn't know Brent was fluent in those languages until a few days ago." "You're kidding," Pete said, looking flabbergasted. Grace shook her head. "Nope. He did the same thing with art. About this time last year, he went to my father with a list of art supplies he needed, and then started to paint. He had his first opening last December in Phoenix, and his first one-man show in San Diego in February." Pete looked upset. "Are you saying that Brent has only been painting for about one year?" "Hey, Pete," I said. "I'm here. There's no need to talk about me as if I weren't." "Sorry," Pete muttered. "Sifu says he has an old soul," Mary said. She'd been curiously quiet since the sparring matches. "I don't understand," Pete said. Grace laughed gaily and squeezed his hand affectionately. "Join the club, buster." That's when we'd spilled out of the limo into Chez Philippe for lunch. Between the soup and the main course, Pete said, "Make me understand, Brent." I smiled. "You're asking me to explain the inexplicable. I can't do that. I do have a theory. It relates to Sifu's comment that I have an old soul. Pete, have you ever had a dream or a flashback about someone, knowing that that someone is you, but at the same time the person isn't you, and this person is in a place you've never been, a place you are familiar with from the past before you were born?" Pete concentrated and finally said, "Yes, once in my early teens. I was ill with a high fever. I attributed the hallucination or vision to my illness." I nodded. "Well, that happens to me... a lot. And not just when I'm sick. I believe they're memories from past lives. During puberty, I noticed that not only could I remember some past events from those lives, I could also assimilate skill sets from those lives into this one. Art, forging iron, kung fu, and the Chinese languages represent those skill sets. I have other skill sets, but they're minor, not as life altering. "Forging iron?" Pete said. "Yes, in one of my past lives I believe I was a blacksmith." "Reincarnation," Mary whispered, more to herself than anyone at the table. "Of course! Memories and skill sets from past lives. That explains everything." "It's a workable theory," I said. "Jesus!" Pete huffed. The waiters arrived with our meals. ------- Saturday afternoon, I called Clarence Kitt, the private detective I'd hired to check out the partner in the failed import/export business that Mary's father owned. Kitt didn't have any hard news for me. He did have an opinion. "Mr. Carson, I can't prove it," Kitt said, "but I sense chicanery." I chuckled. Chicanery? No one talked like that. "Explain," I said. "The business was placed in bankruptcy. That's a matter of public record and easy to check, but Mr. Stewart's partner isn't poverty stricken, not by a long shot. He recently purchased a new Mercedes, paid cash for it." "Perhaps he had money not related to the business," I said. "I'm looking into that. I think you should hire a CPA to peruse the accounting ledgers of the failed business." Peruse? Accounting ledgers? Clarence Kitt was a kick, a real character. "Hire the accountant for me and add his fee to yours," I said. "What happened to the Stewart family home?" "It was sold at auction to satisfy part of the outstanding dept owed by the bankrupt company." "Was the sale price close to fair market value?" "I don't know. Good point. I'll look into it. If it wasn't, I'll check out the successful bidder, as well." "Ms. Stewart's parents were murdered, Clarence. If the partner was involved in their deaths, and I'm not saying he was, then checking on the partner could prove dangerous. So, be careful. All right?" "Gracious! I hadn't thought of that. Yes, of course, I'll be careful." Gracious? I stifled a chuckle and wondered if Kitt were gay. San Francisco was a known haven for gay men. "If you run across a link that points to the partner's involvement, no matter how tenuous, I want to know about it immediately," I said. "I understand." I hung up and called Jack Stark, the attorney I hired to check on the status of probate for the Stewart estate. "I've got good news and bad news," Stark said. "The good news is probate is complete. The bad news is the liabilities and fees ate up the assets. About the hospital and doctor bills. There are none. The hospital is a charity hospital. They accrue the expenses and invoice the patients but don't pursue collection. I spoke with the collection agency. They won't bother Ms. Stewart again." He chuckled. "I think I uncovered some larceny going on between some hospital employees and the collection agency. I wouldn't be surprised if some heads roll at the hospital." "Okay, send me your bill, Jack. No, wait. I'd like you to do something else for me. Check with the police. Find out the status of the investigation into Mr. and Mrs. Stewart's murders." "All right." "Jack, did the San Francisco media report on the recent bombing in Phoenix?" "Yes." "My parents and Mary Stewart's half-brother, Julian Stewart, were killed in that despicable act. It's highly possible that Julian Stewart may have been the target for that bombing. Although I have no reason to believe that Mary Stewart's parents were killed by the same person or persons who planted that bomb, if any links exist that tie the two crimes together, I'd like to know about them." "Are you asking me to search for possible links?" "No, I mentioned the possibility only so you'd have it in mind when you talk to the police about the investigation into Mr. and Mrs. Stewart's deaths." "I understand. You didn't let me finish my report on your initial assignment, although what I did exceeded that assignment. During my discussions with the probate officer, he indicated that Mr. Stewart carried a term life insurance policy. Knowing you'd be interested, I checked with the insurance company. His wife was the beneficiary, but Mary Stewart was named as secondary beneficiary should Mrs. Stewart predecease Mr. Stewart. The law is clear. Mary Stewart is due the proceeds from that policy." "That is good news. What was the face amount on the policy?" "$100,000, but Mr. Stewart's violent death triggered the double indemnity clause." "What does Mary have to do to collect?" "Contact the insurance company." "She can't do that. As you know, she's in hiding. If she gives you a power of attorney, can you get the check and then mail it to her?" "Yes." "We're staying at the Four Seasons Hotel on Market Street. Would you prepare the power of attorney and meet with her this afternoon? "No problem." ------- Mary's reaction to my good news wasn't what I expected, which was an excited squeal, a happy hug and a thank you kiss. Uh-uh, when I gave her the good news, she nodded and seconds later tears rolled down her cheeks. She sat down and put her face in her hands and cried. She didn't sob, just cried quietly for a minute or two. Then I got a hug, a kiss, and a breathy thank you. Mary just wasn't a squealer, I figured. A little later, Jack arrived with the power of attorney and a notary. Mary signed the document, and the notary witnessed her signature. I let Jack and the notary out the door, and turned back into the room. Mary was standing at the window holding little Joy in her arms. The sunlight streaming through the glass, streaked by vertical blinds, created an interesting study in shadow and light. Madonna and Child, I thought. Mary kissed the baby and said, "Your grandfather came through for us, little one. No matter what, we'll be all right now." That was ten times better than an excited squeal, a happy hug, and a thank you kiss. ------- My sister had made a conquest. Pete Turner became her constant companion for the rest of our mini-vacation, and for all intents and purposes, he also became our San Francisco guide. Saturday evening, we dined in another restaurant his venture capital company had funded, and he arranged tickets for a ballet at the Palace of Fine Arts that night, which thrilled Grace after so many years of ballet training in her youth. We joined Pete for brunch late Sunday morning back at Chez Philippe, and from there, he also rode with us in the limo to the airport. The goodbye kiss Grace gave him wasn't platonic. If I were to guess, I'd say the kiss curled his toes. I also guessed that my big sister had been well and truly laid during our mini-vacation. I hadn't. I'd been tentatively laid in the back of a limo. Although, I'd expected otherwise, Saturday night I'd slept alone in my bed. I hadn't seen another look of longing in Mary's eyes, just the opposite. She'd avoided being alone with me. I considered giving voice to the subject, but she'd initiated what had happened between us and controlled the pace, and although she'd said there would be a next time, I was beginning to wonder if she regretted her words, wondered if she'd said them in a moment of passion and, in the cold light of day, wanted to retract them. On the flight to Phoenix, we played musical chairs to tend Joy. I had the little girl giggling when Mary arrived to take her turn with the baby. I sat next to Grace. She took my hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "You're good with children, Brent." "With that one I am," I said. "I've got a question for you." "Fire away." "You weren't looking for love. Did you find it anyway?" She grinned. "Love, no. Lust, yeah." She hugged herself and shivered. "Love can happen, though. Pete will be in Phoenix Thursday night for a meeting Friday morning. He's looking at funding a restaurant deal in Scottsdale." She huffed a little laugh. "I doubt it's a good deal. I think he's looking at it more as an opportunity to be with me again than anything. He'll layover for the weekend." I nodded. Her mini-vacation romance had turned into something more. I should have been happy for her. I wasn't. I felt her slipping away from me, away from the closeness we'd shared while grieving for the loss of our parents. Regardless, I would do nothing to impede her romance or the widening gap between us. The gap was necessary and appropriate, but that didn't mean I had to like it. "What about you and Mary?" Grace asked. "Waddaya mean?" I said. "She's in love with you." "I don't think so. She's been avoiding me." Grace snorted derisively and said, "You are such a ninny. For a man who has been a woman, you don't understand women very well. She's not avoiding you. In her mind, the ball's in your court, buster, and she's trembling inside, terrified that you won't toss her the ball so the game can go on." "Huh?" "Women talk to other women they're close to. They confide in each other. They talk about their feelings. Think back, Brent, back to the time you lived as Jane Wilson, and you'll know what I'm saying is the truth. Mary took some tiny steps with you and broke through, no that would be exaggerating the situation. She cracked the shell surrounding her that she constructed to protect her after she was assaulted. I don't think you realize how much courage that took. She didn't tell me the details about what happened between you two, but she fears her response was inadequate." Next time will be better, Mary had said to me. "I understand — I think. Thank you," I said. "There is a problem, though. I'm not in love with Mary." "She knows that. She might be lacking in self-confidence, but she's not stupid, little brother." "Grace, I admire Mary immensely. Her courage, spunk and tenacity are praiseworthy. She's beautiful and sexy and smart, and a casual relationship with her would excite me, thrill me, but I don't believe a casual relationship is possible between Mary and me." "I think you're right, but a casual relationship is the approach you must take. Keep it fun and light. Chip away at that shell she's wearing until it's lying at her feet in tiny pieces, and yes, she's very vulnerable, so whatever happens, don't make any promises you can't or don't intend to keep." "I'm too young for any life-time romantic commitments, Grace. If she's in love with me, like you say she is, the pain she'll feel when I don't fall in love with her will be less traumatic now than later," I said, thinking about Liz's reaction. "Uh-uh, Brent. Help her relearn how to enjoy being with a man, and then if you want to back off, fine, but don't you dare leave her in that black, lonely hole she dug to climb into after five violent men murdered her parents in front of her eyes and then assaulted her. If you back away now, she'll dig in deeper, so deep that she might not be able to climb out — ever." She pursed her lips and looked me in the eyes. "It's a dilemma, I know, and maybe it's not fair of me to ask you to help her, but I'm asking anyway." I nodded. ------- Wonder of wonders! While we were in San Francisco, Special Agent Tim Garber had called and left a message on our answering machine. The message was brief. He told me to call him and left his direct number and extension. It was a step in the right direction. My vocation was calling me. I unpacked quickly and was headed out the door when Grace said, "Where are you going?" "My studio." "Take Mary with you. She hasn't seen your studio. "I've got to work, Grace. I committed fourteen finished paintings for my Denver show by the first of September." She shrugged. "Okay." I painted all night, arriving back at the house at dawn. I took off my clothes and put on bathing trunks. The house was still quiet when I left my room. Perhaps I could finish my laps in the pool before the ladies joined me for tai chi. I did, but Grace and Mary remained in their rooms, still asleep for all I knew. I started a tai chi form, but tai chi by myself didn't feel right to me, so I practiced kuen for Kung Fu for twenty minutes, and then worked on my cudgel play. When I finished with the cudgel, Grace and Mary still hadn't arrived. I felt abandoned, which was immature, I knew, perhaps even childish, but that's the way I felt. I skipped tai chi, showered and went to bed, waking up at ten o'clock, feeling refreshed. The house was empty. No note. I ate cereal with a banana and drank a cup of hot tea. Special Agent Tim Garber answered my call. Yes, he would meet with my sister and me. Ten o'clock the next morning would be fine. Dial tone. I called Barbara Campbell. "You're back, huh?" the pretty reporter said. "Was your opening a success?" "Yes, as was my television debut. I have an appointment to meet with Special Agent Tim Garber tomorrow morning." She laughed. "Did you have any doubts?" "Sure." "Never, ever, underestimate the power of television to sway public opinion," she said. Which is the problem with the broadcast and print media today, I thought. They spin the news to sway opinion one way or the other. What had happened to just plain reporting the news? "The broadcast swayed Garber, not the public," I said. "Uh-uh. My interview with you swayed the public, and Garber knew it. That's why he called." She had a point. "That's true. How about lunch one day this week?" "I don't think so, Brent." I said nothing. Her reply surprised me. "Let me know how your meeting with Garber turns out," she said. "All right." Dial tone. I was getting a lot of dial tones instead of friendly goodbyes that morning. I'd also been abandoned, I remembered. I debated with myself about calling Grace and decided she and Mary were big girls, and big girls could do whatever they wanted. The possibility that something bad had happened to Grace or Mary or little Joy while I painted all night didn't occur to me until I walked into my studio. Maybe they hadn't abandoned me. Maybe they weren't in the house at dawn this morning. I called Grace on her cell phone, breathing a sigh of relief when she answered. "You resurrected after all," she said. "When I poked my head in your door at nine this morning you were sawing logs." "I painted all night." "I figured." I waited, hoping she'd give me an explanation for missing our tai chi session. "You called me, Brent," she said. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Are Mary and Joy with you?" "Yes, and we're all fine. I'm helping Mary find an apartment." "What?" I huffed. "She can't do that, not yet, Grace. I can't protect her if she doesn't live with us." "Like you could have protected her last night? Get real, buster. You're in your painting mode now. You'll be spending more time in your studio than at the house. Tell me I'm wrong." She was angry with me. Is that why she hadn't made an effort to join me for tai chi at dawn? Ignoring her jibe, I said, "I called Garber. We have an appointment at ten o'clock tomorrow morning at the FBI field offices. Can you be there?" "Yes." "If you want to reach me, I'm at the studio." "That figures." Dial tone. I wanted to slam the phone down. Instead, I placed it gently on its cradle. After all, supposedly I was mature for my age. Fuck! ------- I threw the brush onto a table and cursed. My work wasn't going well, and I knew why. I heard a laugh that sounded like a smoker's cough and smiled. "Agnes," I said turning to her, "just the person I needed to see." "Such language!" she teased and laughed again, just before she gave me a fierce hug. "I missed you, Brent." We walked up the stairs to the loft apartment. She asked, so I told her about my opening while I made a cup of tea. She poured herself a glass of wine, and I sat at the table with her, but jumped up when I remembered the gifts I purchased for her in San Francisco. I'd brought them to the studio with me the previous night. My gesture pleased her, and she loved the onyx necklace. "I'll wear it to my next opening," she said as she nibbled at a square of Ghirardelli chocolate. "Now, what's your problem?" I grinned. "Nothing some anvil work wouldn't alleviate." "Girl problems?" she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Sister problems. Grace is angry with me, and before you ask, I'm really not sure why? She hooked up with a man in San Francisco, by the way. I liked him. He'll be in Phoenix this weekend. Maybe you'll get a chance to meet him." "Good for her," Agnes said. "She's healing, getting on with the rest of her life. What about you? Did you hook up with someone? A beautiful Eurasian single mother, for instance?" "Agnes, you are an inveterate snoop." She giggled. "I am, aren't I? Well... ?" "Yes and no is the honest answer, which won't satisfy you, but it's the only answer you'll get from me. I was serious about some anvil work. Do you need a piece of forged iron for one of your sculptures?" She grinned. "Always. Let's go." ------- I was soaking in the hot tub when Grace came home. "I'm surprised to see you here," Grace said when she stepped outside and spotted me. She had little Joy in her arms. "I figured you'd be at your studio." "I came home to have dinner with you and Mary," I said. "That's big of you, but that won't happen. Mary's out shopping to stock her apartment." I moved up out of the hot tub and grabbed a towel. "Stupid," I muttered. "What did you say?" Grace said. "I said stupid, characterizing Mary getting her own apartment. And you! You didn't try to dissuade her from that potentially dangerous course. You helped her." I walked into the house. Grace followed me. She said, "You're wrong about that. I did try to talk her out of it, but..." "But you lent her the money for the deposit, her first month's rent, and the cost to stock the apartment until she can cash the insurance check and pay you back. What's more, if you tried to talk her out of it, you didn't try very hard. You didn't call me or wake me up to help you change her mind. I'm not difficult to find, missy. Instead, you make snide remarks like it was big of me to come home to have dinner with you. Well, I not only came home to have dinner with you and Mary, I also came home at dawn this morning for a tai chi session with the two of you, but... ah never mind." Tears stung my eyes. "You're angry with me. I'm disappointed in you. Let's leave it at that." I stomped off. She didn't follow me. I dressed and as I was leaving, I said, "I'll be at my studio." "What about dinner?" she said. She was feeding the baby. "I'll grab something on the way." ------- Surprisingly, my work went well that night. I didn't paint all night, though. I had a ten o'clock appointment with the FBI, and I wanted to be alert for that meeting. I worked until about midnight, drove home and crashed. Still, I was up at dawn, and when I walked out of the pool after my morning laps, Grace and Mary stepped outside. Without saying a word, we moved into a tai chi form, finished that one and two more, and I was once again at peace with the world around me. I held out my arms, and Grace moved into them. We hugged each other, and then I hugged Mary. "Do your Kung Fu things," Grace said. "Mary and I will fix some breakfast." We ate as a family. I fed Joy, except throwing her scrambled eggs was more fun for the little girl than eating them. She chomped down on the applesauce, though. "Okay, where's this apartment?" I said, opening the subject we needed to talk about. Mary told me. "It's a gated community," she added. "Is there a guard at the gate, or just a keypad entry?" "Keypad," she said. "I don't recognize the address. How long does it take to drive from here to your apartment?" "Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty," Mary said. "What about from my studio?" "I don't know. I've never been to your studio." Ignoring the dig, I turned to Grace. "You have. How long?" "About the same, I'd guess. The apartment is about halfway between the house and your studio, but north of us." I gave Mary a hard look. "You know I'm opposed to this move, don't you?" She nodded. "Did you order a phone?" I said. "Yes." "In your name?" I asked. "Yes, but I asked for an unlisted number." "Cancel it." "I will not. I need a phone." "I'd rather you buy a couple of cell phones with prepaid minutes that can't be traced to you." "Oh, okay. I'll cancel the phone order this morning and buy the cell phones." "Thank you. Make sure the phones have speed-dial functions, and program my cell phone for speed-dial number one; program number two for the phone here at the house, and number three for Grace's cell phone. Does the apartment have an intrusion alarm?" "No." "What about a chain lock?" She grinned. "It's got a chain lock." "Is the apartment on the ground floor?" "Yes." "Shit," I muttered. "What's the problem with a ground floor apartment?" she asked. "Security is more difficult to arrange. Doors can be secured. Windows can't unless they're barred, and ground-floor windows are easier to breach than windows on higher floors. Okay, I'll send a security specialist out to your apartment to do a security survey. You'll need an alarm system and whatever else the specialist recommends, if anything. Okay?" She nodded. I shook my head. "This could not have happened at a worse time. In a few hours, Grace and I will be meeting with the FBI. We'll listen and ask questions, but Garber won't tell us anything of any real importance. To get him to open up, I'd planned to hit him with your belief that Jules might have been the bomber's target. I can't do that now." "Why not?" Mary asked. "Because he'll want to know who told me that Jules might have been the target. Oh, I hadn't planned to give him your name in any case, but knew that eventually he'd figure out you were my source. With you living alone where I can't protect you, I won't even risk bringing up Jules as the possible target of the bombing." "If you don't, I will," Mary said, obviously angry, no not just angry, upset, too. "Let's play our meeting with Garber by ear," Grace said. "By now, he might know who the bomber targeted, if anyone. Brent, for all we know, that bomb was a random act of terror." Not likely, I thought. Islamic extremists would have claimed credit the next day. A homegrown terrorist organization, as well. A specific person was meant to die in that explosion, and Julian Stewart was the most likely candidate for that dubious distinction. ------- Chapter 11 Special Agent Tim Garber was a short man, five-eight or nine, with short-cropped hair, graying at the temples, a fighting bantam rooster with sharp knives strapped to his tongue, not his legs. Speaking with the man was a bloody experience. His voice grated like a dentist's drill without Novocain, and what he had to say was much ado about nothing. He spent the first half of our meeting talking about the explosive device as if Grace and I were bomb experts. I spoke English, Mandarin and Cantonese. Garber spoke Greek. Oh, it was English, but it was Greek to me. I finally interrupted his litany about the bomb's components. "That's interesting, Special Agent Garber, but what does knowing about how the bomb was made tell you?" I said. He gave me a superior smile and said, "A bomb is like a fingerprint or a signature, young man. It tells us who made it." That made me sit up in my chair. "Usually," Garber hurried to add. "Unfortunately this bomb hasn't given up the identity of the person who assembled it." I relaxed back into my slump. "But," Garber said, "we have other forensic evidence that points us toward the perpetrator." "Perpetrator, you said, not perpetrators," I said. "So, you're looking for one person, not a group or an organization." "I didn't say that," Garber said. "Are you saying that you don't know whether one person or an organization is responsible for that heinous crime?" "I didn't say that either," he said. "We are purposefully keeping all lines of inquiry open," he said. I shook my head with frustration. "Can you say that a perpetrator targeted one or more of the victims for death, which made the other victims collateral damage, including my parents?" "I cannot." "So, you believe the bombing was an act of terror." "I didn't say that." "I know you didn't say that, Agent Garber. I'm trying to determine what you know." If anything, I added silently. "That's Special Agent Garber, please," he said. "Special Agent Garber, besides the components of the bomb, which you seem to know in excruciating detail, what do you know?" He glared at me. I stifled a laugh. "Has anyone claimed responsibility for the despicable crime?" I asked. He said nothing. "Surely you know the answer to that question," I said. "I don't appreciate your attitude, young man." "Which makes us even, sir. But how we feel about each other doesn't matter. Please, answer my question." He didn't speak. I waited. The seconds ticked away. Finally he spoke through tight lips. "We received over one hundred calls claiming responsibility." "Did any of them prove valid?" I asked. "We're still investigating them, but at this point, none appear valid." "Thank you for your candor, Special Agent Garber. If a terrorist organization, homegrown or foreign, didn't commit the crime, have you concluded that a lone madman planted the bomb for some sick reason only the madman would understand?" "We have made no such conclusion." Here we go again, I thought. Round and round. Where we stop no one knows, most of all me. "So," I said, "a lone madman scenario is a possibility that you're still investigating." "Yes." "Have you ruled out that one person wanted to kill one or two of the victims and was willing to indiscriminately kill so many others to achieve that end?" "We have not." "Then may I assume that you have thoroughly investigated the background of each of the victims to determine if someone had a grudge or another reason to kill one or two of them?" "That would be a correct assumption." It was also a lie. Grace and I hadn't been contacted or questioned. "Was your investigation fruitful?" I asked. "That avenue of our investigation is ongoing." "Does that mean that so far you haven't found a specific victim you can point at as the bomber's target?" "Over half of the victims had enemies, young man." "I'm pressing you on this line of inquiry because after my interview with Ms. Campbell on television, I received an anonymous telephone call from someone who claimed that Julian Stewart was the bomber's target. His exact and only words were, 'Your parents died because Julian Stewart learned about something he wasn't supposed to know.' That's it, Special Agent Garber. That's all he said. I don't know if he was a nutcase, or if he actually knew Stewart was the target, or if he was guessing. I will say that after my television debut, I received a number of calls from nutcases. Still, for some reason, that particular call rang true, so I thought I'd pass it on to you today." Before driving to the FBI offices, Grace and I had agreed to present Mary's theory. Mary had remained steadfast. I had to name her half-brother as the possible target, or she would. "You should have called me immediately after receiving that call," Garber said, his pale eyes glinting with anger. "Withholding information about a Federal crime is a crime in and of itself, young man." "And leave yet another message in your voice mail to go unnoticed like my other calls. I don't think so," I said. "And I've withheld nothing. I just told you what I know." We were going nowhere fast. I took a deep breath. "To summarize, the FBI lab did a crackerjack job identifying the components and makeup of the bomb, but your subsequent investigation of those components and the 'signature' of the bomber produced no suspects. Correct?" He said nothing, but his face started to turn red. "To continue," I said. "The FBI does not know or refuses to tell my sister and me whether this heinous crime was committed by a terrorist organization, home grown or foreign, by a lone madman with a motive we wouldn't understand if we knew it, or by a person who wanted to kill one or more of the victims and was evil enough to kill the other patrons and employees in the lounge to achieve his end. Correct?" He said nothing. His face got redder. "Special Agent Garber, do you have any suspects?" I asked. "Yes," he hissed. "One or more than one?" "More than one." "In which scenario do these suspects fall: the terrorist organization scenario, the lone madman scenario, or the murderer willing to kill others to achieve his end scenario?" He said nothing. His face got redder still. "Surely you can classify your suspects," I said. "We have suspects in all three of your scenarios, young man." "Your emphasis implies that there are other scenarios. If so, I'd like to hear them," I said. "That's your inference, not my implication," he said. "Will you meet with me again in two weeks to review your progress in solving my parents' murders?" "You'll be contacted when it's appropriate." "What does that mean?" "My words weren't ambiguous." "You, sir, are the epitome of ambiguity. You have told me nothing today." "I answered your questions." His face was swollen and red, ready to explode. Could I pop his gasket? "You did not. You were very careful to phrase every answer in a way that told me nothing. I've been here an hour, but I still don't know if you've made any progress in solving this crime. In fact, except for the makeup of the bomb, I know nothing more about your secret investigation than when I arrived here for this meeting. You've demeaned me by referring to me as 'young man' in a belligerent tone of voice, yet demanded that I refer to you using your full title. You are not a public servant, sir. You are a pompous ass, and I'm going over your head to get the answers I deserve." I pushed back my chair. "Let's go, Grace." ------- Grace was curiously silent during the drive to our house after our meeting with Garber. "What?" I huffed when I couldn't take her silence any longer. She looked at me and shook her head. "You went too far, Brent. You made that man your enemy. When he finds out you've been helping Mary, the source of your disclosure that Julian Stewart was targeted by the bomber, he's going to arrest you for misleading a federal officer." "Interesting," I said. "You're distancing yourself from me. I helped Mary, you said, as if you haven't helped her. The source of my disclosure, you said, as if you and I hadn't agreed how to make the disclosure before the meeting started. I don't understand, Grace" "That's not what I meant. You're twisting my words now like you twisted Garber's" All the air whooshed from my lungs. I didn't say anything until I pulled onto our driveway at the house. I put the transmission in park but didn't turn off the engine. Grace sat staring straight ahead. "I don't understand," I said again. "I didn't twist Garber's words. He twisted his own words. I couldn't have twisted them into tighter knots if I'd tried. I spent our time with him trying to untwist them, unsuccessfully, I might add. My caustic reaction to your comments that made me feel like you were distancing yourself from me was out of line. I apologize, but in my defense, I have been feeling like you've been distancing yourself from me since our return from San Francisco. That's what I don't understand, Grace." She didn't look at me. She continued to stare straight ahead. "I could be wrong. If I am, tell me, but if I'm not, I'd like to know why?" I said. She spun toward me. "You hurt Mary. I asked you to help her, and instead you went to your studio and painted all night. This morning, you pushed Mary around about her apartment until I was embarrassed for you, because you certainly weren't embarrassed for yourself. And then you met with an FBI agent and pushed him around, too. You called him a pompous ass, for chissake! If anyone was a pompous ass in that meeting, it was you. How much cooperation do you think he'll give us after the way you treated him?" I turned off the engine and stepped from the truck. I went directly to my room and packed a bag. I put it in my truck and drove away. I'd need money, but I figured Agnes was good for a loan until the courts declared me an adult, so I could finally manage my own money. I painted until my eyes felt like two burnt holes in a blanket. I crashed, woke up, made a cup of tea, and started to paint again. My work was different, darker, almost ominous, but it was good work. I broke new ground. My understanding of the tools of my art moved beyond what I'd learned as Jane Wilson. Time slipped by. Sunlight coming through the clerestory glass let me know when it was daytime. I turned on the lights to work at night. I ate when I got hungry enough to notice. I let the machine answer my calls and refused to answer the door when someone banged on it. I didn't take a shower or change my clothes. When I ran out of food, I went to an all-night grocery and didn't have enough cash to pay for everything in my basket. I didn't care. I let them take back what I couldn't pay for and returned to my studio and my art. I painted and ate and slept. That's it. No, that's not it. I cried too. Not out loud. Tears just happened. For no apparent reason, they formed in my eyes and overflowed, streaking my dirty cheeks. In other words, I went off the deep end. ------- Agnes saved me when I went to her for a loan. I'd run out of food again, and I needed oil paints and other art supplies. "You look like shit," she said. "I'm doing good work," I said. "Do you know what day it is?" I said nothing. "Thought so," she said. "Okay, I'll loan you some money but there are conditions attached to the loan." "What conditions? I'm completely out of white paint. I can't work without white. You know that." "Condition number one. You stink. Go take a shower and change clothes." "I can do that. What else?" "Talk to your sister." I shook my head. "She doesn't want to talk with me. She thinks I'm a pompous ass." I giggled. "She's probably right about that." Agnes shrugged. "Call her or no loan." "What are your other conditions?" "Answer your phone when it rings. Open your door when someone knocks. Shower and change your clothes every day. Eat one meal a day somewhere besides your studio. Exercise daily. And last but not least, let me use your kitchen again." "I'll agree to everything except calling Grace," I said. "Will you talk to her if she calls you?" "Yes. I'd have to. I agreed to answer my phones. What day is it?" She laughed and shook her head. "It's Thursday. You locked yourself in your studio a week ago last Tuesday. That's nine days, Brent." "Come on," I said. "I've been doing good work. You can look it over while I shower and change clothes. How much cash to you have? I don't have any food, either." "Not much, but I have a debit card," she said. "I'll buy the art supplies and groceries you need today, and we'll stop by my bank and get you some cash, but if you don't abide by my conditions, Brent, don't come to me for money again." "I'm good for the money, Agnes," I said as we walked toward my studio. "I know you are. That's not the point." I nodded. "Thanks, Agnes. You're a friend." "Yes, I am. Your only friend. I almost made making other friends a condition of the loan, but I figured that might be too difficult for you handle." I laughed. "You figured right." ------- After taking a shower and dressing, I found Agnes and Grace on the studio floor looking at my work. Agnes noticed me standing at the loft railing above them. "You were right, Brent," she yelled up at me. "This is very good work." I nodded. I wasn't looking at Agnes. Grace had captured my entire attention. "Hello, Grace," I said. I didn't yell. She heard me, though. "Hi, Brent. Agnes called me," Grace said. "I figured, the traitor." Agnes hooted. "Guilty as charged and proud of it," she said when she stopped laughing. I walked down the stairs and approached them. "Grace, you get more beautiful every day," I said. Tears welled in her eyes. "I need a hug," she said. I held out my arms, and she moved into them. She hugged me fiercely. "I'm sorry," she said. "No need to be sorry," I said. "You were right on all counts. I was being a pompous ass. I did make an enemy out of Garber. I pushed Mary around about her apartment, and most of all you were right to distance yourself from me. How's Mary, by the way? Little Bundle, too?" "Fine." "I was going to send out a security specialist to do a security survey of Mary's apartment. It occurs to me that I didn't do that. I didn't do a lot of things. I... I sort of went off the deep end, Grace." "Mary handled the security issue herself," Grace said. "You need to call her. Like me, she's been very worried about you." "I will. I also missed Pete's visit. How is he? Did he do the deal here in Phoenix?" "Pete's fine. He passed on the deal. At my request, he did bang on your door while he was here. You told him to go away. You told everyone to go away." "I'm sorry. I went a little nuts, Grace." My belly growled. I shrugged and, with a sheepish look, said, "I ran out of food a while back." "How far back?" Grace asked, looking worried. Agnes laughed. "Hell, Grace, when he came to me, he didn't know what day it was. Come on, bucko, we'll get you some food, and then shop for what you need." "You don't need to borrow money from Agnes," Grace said. "I'd rather," I said. That was the wrong thing to say. Grace started to cry. Agnes glared at me and shook her head. I started to take Grace into my arms again, but she squared her shoulders and brushed the tears away with the tips of her fingers. She said, "You don't need to borrow money from Agnes because Uncle Sam backed off his ill-conceived attempt to be your guardian, Brent. He said that after the San Francisco encounter he realized you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself and would support your petition for emancipation. He released the holds on the bank accounts, so I met with the executor of Mom and Dad's estate, and he transferred your money to me, except the insurance settlement. He'll transfer that money directly to you after the emancipation hearing." "What caused Uncle Sam's attitude change was his realization that he couldn't win. That's why he backed off," I said. "Probably, anyway you don't need a loan. You have access to your own money." "Shit," Agnes said. "I had it all worked out so that Brent could become human again. Shit." I laughed. "Fair's fair, my only friend. Loan or not, I'll abide by your conditions," I said. "Let's go eat. I'm buying." I looked at Grace. "If you'll give me a loan until I can get at my money." That produced a happy smile. ------- I didn't call Mary. I knocked on her apartment door. She opened it, saw me, and slammed the door in my face. I turned to walk away, stopping when I heard her door open again. "Come back, Brent," Mary said. "You're welcome here. After all, you made it possible for me to have my own place. It's just that I'm so angry with you, I could... I don't know what I could do. I'd say I'd slap you silly, but I'm not a violent person. I'm usually pretty calm, but... oh, God, I'm babbling." She wrapped her arms around my neck, and moving against me, she kissed me silly instead of slapping me silly. She leaned back from the kiss, gazed into my eyes and shook her head. "Come in, come in," she said. "When did you climb out from under the rock where you've been hiding?" "Today. I came to apologize. I went a little crazy, Mary." "I know about being a little crazy. I've visited that frame of mind a few times. What you did, Brent, it wasn't right. You broke Grace's heart. She was wrong; she knew she was wrong, but she couldn't move that rock you crawled under to tell you how badly she felt about what she said to you, about what she was doing to you. Have you spoken with her?" "Yes. This is a nice apartment, Mary." I was looking around, but not at the apartment. "Ah, there she is. Hi, little Joy! How's my favorite little girl in the whole wide world?" She was lying on a blanket on the floor, so I stretched out beside her. She grinned at me and I melted. "You get prettier every day, Little Bundle," I said and tickled her under her cute chin. She crawled up closer to me. "Hey, you're crawling!" I looked up at Mary. "When did she start crawling?" "Oh, she's been crawling for ages. She's pulling herself up onto her feet now. She stands there proud as punch but hangs on for dear life. I think she's missed you. I know I have." Joy crawled on top of my chest and gave me a wet kiss. I hugged her and rolled back and forth on my back. She giggled. "Grace tells me you're working, Mary," I said. "A crap job until I start college at ASU this fall, but it makes me feel independent, and I need to feel independent more than anything, Brent. That's why I had to have my own place. I didn't have an opportunity to explain some of the things I did before your hiatus with that rock." "I appreciate your need to feel independent. I've been struggling with the same need, but I worry about you, Mary. As far as I know, nothing's changed. If you come out of hiding, your life and this little baby's life are at risk, and it appears that's exactly what you've done." "I did what you suggested about the phones, Brent, and I had an alarm system installed." "Thank you for that. What about the utilities here? Are they in your name?" She frowned and said, "Yes." "Did you give your employer your social security number?" "Yes." "Have you opened a bank account in your name?" "Yes." "Mary, a professional skip-tracer could find you in a heartbeat." She slumped onto a chair and sighed. Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed — no crying sounds, no sobs, just tears. "I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. It's been that way since the night..." She stopped speaking and shuddered. "I'm so sick of being frightened, Brent. I want to move on with the rest of my life. I want a normal life. I want a normal life so much that I'm trying to make it happen." She straightened her back in the chair and looked at me. "I will make it happen. I know you feel responsible for my safety. I don't want you responsible. That was another reason I had to have my own place." "That's one of the reasons I dropped by today. I agree with you. I can't be responsible for your safety, not if you live alone here with Joy. Now that you've explained why you had to have your own place, I'm more understanding, but I won't be comfortable until you and I have done everything possible to maximize your safety in these circumstances. Before coming here, I spoke with a professional, an executive protector. She'll check out your apartment, your vehicle, your habits, where you work, everything, and she'll make recommendations, which I hope you'll take to heart. I'll give you an example. When you opened the door to my knock, you didn't know who was at your door. The door has a peephole, and you didn't use it. I suppose I'm being pushy again. Grace told me that I pushed you around about your apartment, and I did, but... Mary, I care about you and Little Bundle here." I hugged the baby. "I don't want anything to happen to either of you. Will you meet with the executive protector and work with her to maximize your safety?" She nodded, and then smiled. "I'd like that." "Good. Now, what I'm about to tell you only one other person knows." "Grace?" "Yes. I lived as a Chinese man during the latter half of the 19th Century. I was expert in the martial arts. You've seen me spar with wushu weapons, so you know I've assimilated those skill sets into this life. That life ended during the Boxer Rebellion. Have you heard of that rebellion?" "Yes, of course. My mother was Chinese." "To make a long story short, Mary, as adept as I was in the martial arts and with wushu weapons, I was killed during the rebellion. The rebellion was put down because the other side had firearms. As far as I know, I don't have the skill set for firing a pistol. I decided that had to change, if only to pass it on to my next life. To that end, I have enrolled in some classes at the Ben Avery Shooting Facility to learn how to shoot a pistol." I switched to Cantonese and said, "You would do me a great honor if you would take those classes with me." She bowed acceptance in the Chinese manner and said, "With humility, I accept your proposal." With a happy laugh, she ended up on the floor with Joy and me. Joy fussed when Mary hugged me and gave me a kiss. Mary looked at her. "I'll be dipped. I think the little tart is jealous?" "Tart! How dare you call Little Bundle a tart." I nuzzled Joy's neck. "Your naughty momma deserves a spanking for that remark. What do you think, Little Bundle?" I felt Mary stiffen. "No spankings, Brent," she said seriously. Recognizing the seriousness of her tone of voice, I caressed her face with my fingers. "No spankings," I said softly. "This humble servant has a request," she said in Cantonese. "Tell me," I said in the same language. "I wish to enjoy experiencing the clouds and rain again. Will you guide me toward this greatest of pleasures?" She switched back to English. "I know you don't love me, Brent, but I feel safe with you, a critical element to achieving my goal. Before that horrible night that destroyed my life, I enjoyed sex — a lot. Enjoying sex is part of living a normal life. Will you help me get past the trauma that took the pleasure of sex out my life?" I nodded. "Of course. No spankings, huh?" She smiled. "Nope." "How about love pats?" "Love pats are acceptable, even recommended." My hand dropped to her denim-covered mound. I patted it. "Like this?" "Uh-huh." "I could do a better job of patting if you weren't wearing all those clothes," I said. She looked at her daughter and raised an eyebrow. I laughed. "As adept as I am with memories, I have no memories of anything that happened to me before age three during any of my lives." She grinned and rose to her feet. "You make a valid point," she said and started to take off her clothes. I watched while cuddling Joy. A minute later, the foreshortened image of Mary standing naked above me thrilled me. "You're stunning, Mary," I said. "Thank you. Your turn." We traded places so I could strip. "Brent Carson, you are a sexy man," she gushed, her eyes shining, when I offered her a view of my foreshortened body. "Hard as tempered steel, too," I said, grinning. "I noticed. Lie down and hold Joy while I go down on you," she said. "If I can reciprocate when you're finished." "That goes without saying." Soon, I cuddled Joy on my chest while Mary cuddled my cock in her hands, and then her mouth. "I used to love to suck cock," she said. With a studied effort, she coated my throbbing shaft with a luxurious sheen of saliva. Fingernails gently scratched my scrotum as her head bobbed, going deeper each time she lowered her head, and her tongue was very active. Her shiny black hair tickled my thighs and belly. She sucked and licked and bobbed, and in less than five minutes, I warned her about the impending explosion. She didn't back off, and with a sharp gasp, I felt semen shoot up through my shaft into her gulping mouth. When the glorious sensations rushing through my body diminished and I fell limply to the floor, she straightened her back and smiled at me. She also smacked her lips. "You taste good, like green tea," she said. Her grin widened. "Guess what?" "What?" I muttered still experiencing small orgasmic aftershocks. "I still like sucking cock, especially your cock. Not long ago, I had a very sexy dream. I was in your studio on my knees in front of you. You were naked but you were painting, and while you painted, I sucked you off. 'Perfect!' you shouted when you climaxed. I didn't know if you were referring to my oral expertise or the painting you'd just finished." I laughed. "That is sexy. Also funny. You are a delight, Mary Stewart." Three flattened fingers rubbed tight circles over her clitoris. She noticed me watching her masturbate and said, "I touch myself a lot. Does that bother you?" "No. It excites me." "Good." "Trade places with me. I want to taste you now," I said. "You bet. I adore being eaten," she said as she rolled onto her back. I placed Joy on her breasts. Her little mouth started a sucking motion, and Grace helped her find a nipple. "I'm completely dry now, but she still likes to suck. I don't mind. In fact, I like it." Mary blushed. "Sometimes I touch myself while she's nursing." When I didn't respond, she added, "Do you think that's sick?" "No." With a chuckle, I added, "If you're still doing it after the age when she can retrieve the memory, that would be sick." "That's for sure. Oh, God! That feels so good, Brent." The natural lubricant my tongue lapped was thick and tasty, sweet almost. Her clitoris was large, as were her inner lips, and her cunt, all of it, was very responsive. I quickly discovered she liked her clit almost mauled. Probably because of the way she masturbates, I thought. She climaxed within minutes but silently urged me to continue. I obliged, and her second orgasm was much more powerful than her first. When I raised my face from her sopping cunt, I noticed that Little Bundle was asleep. I laid her gently to our side, pushed Mary's legs apart and entered her. "Yes," she breathed. Her hips rotated to meet my full thrusts. She urged me with her legs and the speed of her undulating hips to move faster. I believed she'd reach and rub her clitoris with three flattened fingers. She didn't. She did move to meet my thrusts in a manner that insured contact with her clitoris, and she climaxed before I was ready. I don't know why, but I was pleased that she could climax while fucking without touching herself or asking me to touch her. To catch up with me when I started to move inside her again after her orgasm, she did reach and rub her clit with three fingers. I didn't mind. In fact, it was sexy to feel her fingers flashing under me as I bottomed out with each thrust. "Come in me; come in me," she gushed a few minutes later. I obliged, and she climaxed with me. We collapsed together in a sweaty, panting heap. I rolled to the side opposite the sleeping little bundle and gathered Mary into my arms. "Thank you, thank you," she whispered as she kissed me a hundred times. "Ah, Mary, I don't think I can teach you how to enjoy sex. You know how." "With you, because I feel safe with you," she said. "Remember our first time? I was pitiful, but you understood. You were so patient, and your patience let me trust you." She raised her pretty head from my chest and grinned at me. "I still need a lot of therapy, doctor." I groaned. "Now?" "No, silly." I grinned. "Shucks." She slugged my shoulder playfully and very gently. "Dawn, tomorrow, tai chi, breakfast with Grace and me at our house," I said. "You bet," she said. ------- "Tell me about you and Pete," I said to Grace. We were eating a late dinner together — homemade lasagna, homemade by my sister. She grinned. "You want me to kiss and tell, huh? You don't. Why should I?" I groaned. "I'm not asking for the prurient details, big sister. I'm asking if the love bug has bitten either or both of you." "No," she said simply. I waited. "Hey, I answered your question," she said. We ate in silence for a minute or two. "You're mean," I said. She laughed. "Okay, you asked. I'll tell you. Pete is smart, good looking, and wealthy — and knows it. He's what I call a high-maintenance boyfriend. He's easily offended and needs a bunch of stroking, and I'm talking about his ego, not his dick." She laughed. "His dick, too, come to think of it." "Argh, you just told me more than I wanted to know." "Tough. You got me started. Now you've got to listen. When I say wealthy, Brent, I mean really wealthy. I'd say in the range of fifty million plus. I have a theory about what that much money does to someone. Wanna hear it?" "You just told me I've got to listen. I don't have a choice." "True. That much money makes a person paranoid. Here's how that happens. Deep down, the person doesn't believe he deserves such wealth, which exacerbates his belief that everyone is trying to steal chunks of it when he isn't looking. That makes him distrustful. If a person he interacts with senses his distrust — which is easy, by the way — that person reacts negatively in a number of ways. Which avenue the negative reactions take isn't material. The negative reaction is the point, because just about everyone around him is soon giving off negative vibes. Then he starts to think negative reactions are normal, which means that someone who reacts to him in a positive manner is abnormal. Convoluted, huh? Anyway, that's my theory, and I'm standing by it." I chuckled. "He thinks you're abnormal, huh?" "Yeah. He can't figure me out, which is driving him bonkers. I'm not chasing him, and he's used to women chasing him." She rubbed her fingers with her thumb. "You know — the moolah. He considers himself quite a catch, and I suppose he is by many women's standards. I don't care about his goldurned money, but he doesn't believe me." She snorted a laugh. "I tried to tell him I was in it for the sex, which as you know was my initial motive, but he thought I was playing games with that remark. The sex is good, Brent. Because so many women have tripped him reaching for the golden ring, he knows his way around female anatomy." She sighed. "Regardless, if the romance lasts through the summer, I'll be surprised." "Mary and I are going to take pistol lessons at the Ben Avery Shooting Facility. Do you want to join us?" "Good heavens no! I don't have it in me to shoot someone, so the bad guys would just take the gun away from me and shoot me. I can understand why Mary would take shooting lessons, but why are you?" I explained about the Boxer Rebellion and the new skill set I could pass on to my next life. "That's assuming that the memories from this life will come to me in my next life, which isn't likely. None of my previous lives remembered their past lives. Besides, I thought it would be a way for me to spend some time with Mary." "I don't think you need an excuse to spend time with Mary. All you'll need to do is crook your finger. She's half oriental, so it's likely that she's submissive by nature. After a while you'll have a hard time finding some interesting edges with Mary Stewart." I raised an eyebrow. "I don't remember discussing my edge theory with you." "You haven't. Mom told me about it. She was bragging to me about you. She considered you clever and intuitive for developing the theory. Me, too, by the way." I nodded and the heavy feeling of grief pressed down on me. "I miss her." "Yeah, so do I. Dad, too." The subject needed changing. "Garber is a lost cause for us. You were right. He'll never cooperate with us, not after the way I treated him." "How you treated him is immaterial, Brent. He doesn't have it in him to cooperate with anyone." "Probably. Should I try to set up a meeting with someone in Homeland Security?" "Great minds think alike," Grace said with a grin. "While you were... ah, painting, I spoke with a man named Grant Peterson with Homeland Security. He told me that they've ruled out terrorist organizations, both homegrown and foreign, so Homeland Security is no longer involved with the investigation. He was open and candid with me, Brent, so I asked him what directions the FBI was pursuing to determine who planted and detonated that bomb, and why. He said that the FBI hadn't ruled out the lone-madman scenario — he didn't put it that way, but that's what he meant. And he also said that the FBI was concentrating most of their resources looking for a perpetrator who used the bomb to kill one of the victims and selected an act of terror as his weapon to disguise his real motive. Peterson was aware of your disclosure regarding Jules Stewart, Brent. I asked him if the FBI had taken the disclosure seriously, and he said definitely. There is an all out effort underway to learn everything about Julian Stewart and everyone associated with him in any way." She sighed. "You're not going to like what I have to say next. The day before yesterday, some agents from the FBI interviewed Mary. She told them everything she knew and suspected, Brent." "Did she tell them about us, that she knew us, that we were involved?" "No. If they'd asked, she would have told them. They didn't ask. I figured that it wouldn't take Garber very long to make the connection, though, and that worried me, so I called Dad's lawyer. He referred me to another lawyer, a defense attorney named Deloris Kerner. I spoke with her and told her everything. She didn't seem too concerned, but she did say that we shouldn't meet or speak with Garber or anyone from the police or the FBI again without her present. I sent her a small retainer." "You're a wonder, Grace. You're doing a much better job on this issue than I. I think you should take the lead from now on." "Uh-uh," Grace said. "What I said about you regarding our meeting with Garber was way out of line, Brent. Garber is a pompous ass. You're not. And I could not have pulled off the television interview that got us our audience with Garber, not even close. Let's do this. With someone like Garber, you take the lead and push the SOB around. When a softer touch is needed, I'll lead." She giggled. "We'll good-girl/bad-boy 'em." I laughed boisterously. "As opposed to good-cop/bad-cop?" "You've got it, little brother." ------- I read Clarence Kitt's report with interest. He was the private investigator I hired to check out the failed business that Mary's father operated. The Stewart family home owned by the business had sold at the bankruptcy auction below fair market value, but not dramatically below value. A corporation purchased the home, rented it and then flipped it six months later at a substantial profit. Kitt investigated the corporation and discovered that Stewart's partner owned the entity; or rather, the partner's wife owned it. Chicanery, no doubt, I thought, using Kitt's atypical description. Kitt had included the audit on the failed business's accounting ledgers in his report. As ignorant as I was regarding balance sheets, profit and loss statements, and so forth, even I could see that chicanery had turned into fraud. Mr. Stewart's partner was a crook. Kitt concluded that, although it was possible, he could find no evidence that the partner had been involved in the deaths of Mary's parents. Jack Stark made a similar statement in his report. He was the San Francisco attorney who discovered that Mary's parents hadn't left her destitute after all. Stark had found no evidence that even remotely connected Mr. and Mrs. Stewart's murders with the bombing in Phoenix. He also informed me that the investigations to solve Mr. and Mrs. Stewart's murders and the assault and gang rape that Mary suffered were officially still open, but that, in truth, both cases had been shuffled into the cold files. I didn't know what to do about the fraud committed by Mr. Stewart's partner and tabled any further action on that problem until I cleared up a few of my own. ------- Chapter 12 As planned, Mary joined Grace and me for tai chi at dawn. I use tai chi to meditate, which means that the slow-motion moves performed with grace and combined with proper breathing allow me to relax and look inward. I didn't meditate that morning. I fantasized. Some might argue that fantasizing is a form of meditation because to fantasize one looks inward. They'd be wrong. Watching two beautiful women wearing bikinis move slowly and gracefully as they searched for their centers produced a fantasy that gave me an erection. When we finished the form, I had not found my center. I didn't care. I didn't ask the ladies if they'd found theirs. Grace eyed the bulge in my sweat shorts, gave me a grin and said, "Mary, I think our boy needs some attention. DNA can't be discounted, not with the obvious task before us, so it's up to you to provide the attention he so obviously needs." "I drew the short straw, huh?" Mary said. Grace giggled. "So to speak." Argh! Grace looked at the lightening sky. "It's a nice day, not too hot, not too cool. I'll leave the two of you out here and ask Little Bundle if she'll help me fix breakfast." I looked at Mary and raised an eyebrow. She grinned. "It is a nice day," she said as she moved against me, put one arm around my neck and kissed me thoroughly while she fondled my hard-on with her other hand. "And it's about to get better," she whispered in my ear. I glanced toward the French doors that led to the family room and the kitchen beyond. If we had an audience, I couldn't see her, which became academic when Mary reached into my sweats and stroked my extended cock with her hand. Interesting, I thought ten minutes later. I wasn't sure what steps we'd taken to put us in the position we were in, but I appreciated where we'd arrived. Mary was standing bent over at her waist with her head resting on one bent arm, and that arm was resting on the patio table. I was standing behind her, and my waving hips, as opposed to a clenching ass, were driving my cock into Mary's cunt with full, smooth strokes. Mary had her head on one arm, because the hand attached to the other arm was busy between her legs. I couldn't see, but I'd wager that she was using three stiff fingers in tight, little circles on her clitoris. Her ass was magnificent. She climaxed before me, but seconds later, I roared with pleasure and jerked her ass back against me as semen spurted, taking the rapturous sensations of my orgasm to the tops of my ears and the tips of my hair, flooding the rest of my body with pleasure en route. A few seconds later, I found a chair and collapsed. Semen still dribbled out the end of my cock, and I could see more of the thick, white liquid puddled in Mary's glistening, swollen and gaping pussy. She looked over her shoulder at me and grinned. "Couldn't stay on your feet, huh?" she said. I chuckled. "Nope. You did me in." ------- After Mary left to get ready for work, I helped Grace clean up the breakfast mess, which offered an opportunity for some chitchat with my big sister. "Who tends Little Bundle while Mary works?" I asked. "A neighbor lady who has a baby boy of her own," Grace said. "She's stuck at home with her baby; one more baby isn't that much more trouble, so her babysitting services are cheap and gives her some money of her own. It's a win/win situation. I met her. She's a born nurturer, Brent." "Checked her out in person, huh?" Grace looked sheepish. "Yeah." "I'm glad you did, or I'd have probably stuck my big nose in where it wasn't wanted. Mary told me she had a crap job, but that's all she told me." Grace said nothing. "You're going to force me to ask, aren't you?" I said. "Ask what?" she said with a giggle. "Mary's job, what does she do; where does she work?" "She's a receptionist for a law firm." "When did she buy her car?" "During your painting frenzy." "Then I assume her insurance check arrived." "Yep." "She says she's going back to college in the fall. ASU, she said. What's her major? Do you know?" "Sure. She's my friend. We talk to each other. Way back when, she wanted to be a doctor, but with the arrival of Little Bundle, the years needed to become a doctor made that dream impractical. Besides, with all that's happened, her dreams and needs have changed. She's mapped out a double major, Brent: Business Management and East Asian Studies. She hopes to follow up with an MBA from an international school of management like Thunderbird. I have a question for you." "What?" "Why are you asking me these questions when you could get the answers from the source?" "Because I'm in catch-up mode. A lot happened during my hiatus. Are you still writing every day?" "You bet. Wanna help plan and co-host my Second Annual Book Burning Party?" she said with a teasing grin. "Do I get to read this one before it goes up in smoke?" "Nope." "You're shy of annual by a lot of months. Quarterly Book Burning Party would almost fit the time frame." "An unimportant detail. You didn't answer my question." "I'd be honored to help you plan and co-host the party. Have you picked a date?" "Yes, the 27th of August." "That's my birthday." "Uh-huh. Clever of me, huh? Two birds. One stone." "I like it. We'll burn your book instead of playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Wanna go looking at boats with me today?" "Boats?" "Yeah, cabin cruisers. Now I'm back among the living, I thought I ought to live a little. Josh Randall and Jane Wilson enjoyed fishing. Randall fished streams, though. And Jane's boat was a pirogue." "Pirogue?" "Yeah, the Cajun version of a dugout canoe, definitely not comfortable for long periods, thus my idea of a cabin cruiser instead. You know, galley, head, staterooms, the whole nine yards. The few times I went boating I enjoyed it. Does a cabin cruiser and a slip at Lake Powell appeal to you?" "Yes! What a good idea!" ------- Monday morning, the courts decreed that I was henceforth an adult. Uncle Sam flew in for the hearing and stipulated to the court that I was capable of handling life as an adult, including my own financial affairs, so I made peace with him. We'd never be close, but he was my mother's brother. That afternoon, I opened my own bank accounts, obtained a Visa debit card, and established a substantial line of credit based upon my earnings and deposits, which included the $1,000,000 insurance money held by the executor of the estate pending the outcome of the guardian issue. I cut a check to Grace for the money she'd loaned me and to reimburse her for the legal retainers and fees she'd spent on my behalf. "What did you do with your insurance money?" I asked Grace when I handed her the check. "Checking account, savings account? What?" "I invested most of it," she said. "Pete helped me. He wouldn't let me invest in his deals, though. Too risky, he said. He introduced me to a stockbroker friend of his. After Pete reviewed the portfolio his friend suggested, he made a few changes, and then gave it his blessing. I put $500,000 in stocks and bonds. Then Pete introduced me to a real estate agent, and I invested $300,000 in various real estate transactions, mostly land, again only after Pete gave me the go-ahead. I paid the legal fees to fight Uncle Sam and loaned some of the proceeds to you and Mary. The rest is in the money market and my savings and checking accounts. Mary paid me what I'd loaned her as soon as she received the proceeds from her father's insurance policy, and with this check, I should probably invest another $100,000 somewhere." "How are your investments performing?" "Don't know. Haven't checked." I hooted with laughter. "Hoo boy! You're a trusting soul." She shrugged. "Pete said I'd drive myself batty tracking the investments, so I set up quarterly meetings with the stockbroker and real estate agent, and I'll make adjustments then, if needed. Pete said he'd monitor them on a monthly basis. That's all well and good as long as Pete and I are dating. When that romance goes south, I suppose I'll need to become more active, but frankly, Brent, I don't understand high finance." "I'm no different. Mom didn't think I'd go to college. She was wrong. I'm going to college, not as an art major, but to learn how to take care of my money so I'm not required to rely on conmen, shysters and bad money managers. In the interim, how about introducing me to your stockbroker and real estate agent?" "All right. Pete likes you. If you ask him, he'll probably do for you what he did for me." "I'll ask him, then. Well, to prove that judge made a serious mistake declaring me an adult this morning, the first thing I'm going to do is spend, spend, spend." Grace laughed. "You're going to buy that boat aren't you?" "Yep." Grace and I had shopped for boats Friday and part of Saturday and ran into a problem. Slips at Wahweap Marina at Lake Powell were difficult to come by, but a yacht broker pointed me at a used Sea Ray 340 Sundancer that came with a slip. On Sunday, Grace, Mary and Little Bundle flew with me to Lake Powell in a chartered single-engine airplane to check out the boat. It was a beauty. "Wanna partner?" Grace said. I grinned. "You bet." "Can we close on the boat by Friday?" "Don't know. Probably. Why?" "Pete's flying in. He could join us on the shakedown cruise. Mary, too." "I'd planned on more than a weekend," I said. "Me, too. Pete and Mary can fly back to Phoenix on Sunday, and you and I can continue the cruise, and fly back on the following Sunday." "Perfect. Does Pete know anything about boats?" "Don't know. Why?" "We'll need someone to teach us how to handle the boat. Jane Wilson's skill set with a pirogue won't cut it." Grace laughed. "You've got a point." "As new owners, we can rename the boat, Grace. I think you'll agree with the name I've chosen, but if you don't, too bad." "What name?" she asked, looking a little peeved because I was throwing my weight around, I assumed. "Sweet Rose," I said. Tears sprang to her eyes. "After Mom?" she said. I nodded. "Perfect," she breathed. ------- Tom Burger, our instructor at the Ben Avery Shooting Facility, recommended the Springfield, Inc., Model 1911A1.45 semi-automatic pistol. "The base cost for the 1911A1 is around $450," he said. "Except for three-dot sights, throated barrel and lowered ejection port, the weapon is pure GI, with a trigger pull that will have you wondering why you bought it, but the problems inherent in the factory weapon are fixable and inexpensive to fix. After firing a couple of hundred rounds to break in the pistol, some adjustments are usually advisable. The need for trigger work and a new recoil spring is universal, as is the replacement of the original barrel bushing with a match-grade bushing. You might want a match barrel, but if you get decent groups with the factory barrel, leave well enough alone." I looked at Mary; she looked at me and said, "What did he say?" I shrugged. "Beats me." Burger laughed. "Do you want to spend around $600 total for a good target pistol or go custom for $2,500 to $3,000?" "Oh," Mary said. "I'll go with the cheap one." We filled out the paperwork to buy the pistols, and I handed him my new debit card to pay for them. Being an adult in the eyes of the law had its advantages. Mary objected, saying she'd buy her own gun, thank you very much. I shrugged and let her. "Learning how to shoot was my idea," I said, "so I figured I'd pay your expenses, but if you want to buy your own pistol, be my guest." "I do, Brent," she said. "Thanks for offering, though." "Fill out this form, too," Burger said. "That's to attend our eight-hour CCW Permit class." "CCW Permit?" I inquired. "Yeah, Concealed Carry Weapons Permit. The course covers a lot of what you need to know like firearm safety, personal protection, types of handguns and ballistics, Arizona firearm laws, use of deadly force, interfacing with law enforcement, and other subjects. It's an eight-hour course." "I have a new job," Mary said. "I can't take a day off to take that class, not yet." "There's a Saturday course," Burger said. "Ah, Mary, not this Saturday," I said. "I'm buying that boat, and Friday evening we're flying to Lake Powell for the shakedown cruise." Mary looked off into the distance, and finally her pretty lips curled into a soft smile. "Screw the job," she said. "The net after taxes, less babysitting and commuting expenses isn't enough to justify my loss of freedom. Sign me up, Tom." "Are you sure?" I said. "Yes. Feeling safe is much higher on my priority list than that crap job." She switched to Cantonese. "Besides, I'm not using my language talents working as a receptionist. I'll look around for a translating job, or even better, work for myself offering translation services to a number of clients." "Good thinking," I said in Cantonese. Our first attempts on the shooting range were laughable. Burger was a good — read patient — teacher, though, and kept our spirits high. We improved to the point where we actually hit the target occasionally before our scheduled time with Burger ended and we called it a day. ------- We bowed, and I struck without warning. The middle-aged Chinese man parried my chop easily. The Sifu at the Phoenix Kwoon was younger than his counterpart in San Francisco, so he had more stamina. He was, however, slightly less skilled, so I didn't go all out, and for the first five minutes of the cudgel sparring match, we were equals. During the second five minutes, I increased the speed of my attacks and added some confusing aerobatics that left him befuddled for split seconds. I could have ended the match during his confusion, but I deferred the inevitable. The stick fighting was exhilarating, and I didn't want it to end. That's when Sifu motioned to a student, and another Chinese man attacked from my right. I parried his jab and leaped over the countering sweep, spinning in the air to block Sifu's chop. I backed away, and then charged, feinting toward Sifu, but at the last moment engaging the student instead. I ratcheted up my agility and quickness an extra notch to take the student out of the match by stopping my cudgel an inch from the top of his skull that would have rendered him senseless if I hadn't pulled the strike. Spinning, I engaged Sifu, increasing my attacking speed yet again, which forced him back. I pressed him, keeping him on the defensive, but he adeptly blocked or parried everything I threw at him until the side of my foot struck the side of his knee. I'd pulled the kick, so I didn't hurt him, but he stumbled slightly. I swung thee unblocked blows, stopping each just before they struck his body, ending the match in my favor. I bowed first to the student, and then to the teacher, bending deeper for the teacher. "That was exhilarating," I said in Cantonese. "Thank you." "You are most welcome," Sifu said in English. "Join me for tea, please." "I'd like that," I said. After we'd settled at a table in the student's lounge and each of us had a cup of tea, Sifu said, "Anticipating that my skill would be inadequate, I set up the secondary attack from my student before your arrival. I hope my unilateral effort to make the match more even didn't offend you." "Not at all," I said and sipped the aromatic green tea. He snorted disdainfully. 'I should have sent two or three of my students at you, but I trust only one of them to spar without pads." "I'd be honored if both of you would spar with me again." "Cudgels, yes. I will not spar without full-body padding with other wushu weapons." "As you wish. I'd like to meet your student." He nodded and clapped his hands, not loudly, but the sound carried. The student must have been waiting just outside the room, because he entered, bowed, and sat to my right. Sifu introduced us. His name was Long Chu-yu. He used James for his English given name. I guessed his age at twenty-five. He was an inch or two shorter than my six-one, with a lithe but well-muscled body. I liked his ready smile. James deferred to Sifu until the older gentleman left us alone, and then said, "That spin in midair while leaping my sweep was awesome. Will you teach me that move?" I grinned. "That would please me," I said in Cantonese. "Let's speak English," he said. "English is easier for me." "Me, too," I said. "My Cantonese and Mandarin are old-fashioned. I learned the languages during a past life in the 19th Century." His jaw dropped. "You're shitting me, right?" "Maybe. Come on, I'll show you how to do that midair spin, and then let's have lunch." Would he agree? I liked him, and I needed another friend. "Okay, but no Chinese food. I get enough of that at home. I'm in the mood for a juicy cheeseburger and French fries. Would it upset you if my girlfriend joined us?" "Nope," I said. "I'll call mine and we'll make it a foursome." I wondered what Agnes would say when I told her that she wasn't my only friend anymore. ------- Deanna Graham, James Long's girlfriend, was a beauty. She wore her straight brown hair in a pixie cut, and her pale blue eyes twinkled with mischief. She had a soft voice, and her laugh tinkled like tiny bells. She obviously adored James, and he felt the same way about her. With such short notice, Mary hadn't been able to find a babysitter, so she'd brought Joy with her. As usual when Little Bundle was around, she captured everyone's attention and heart, especially Deanna's that day. James watched Deanna with Little Bundle for a few minutes and shook his head, not as a negative, but in awe. "Babies and women, they go together like bread and butter," he said. Little Bundle turned to the sound of his voice, smiled at him and held out her arms. James took her from Deanna without hesitating, cuddled her and made her giggle. "Little Bundle is her nickname, right?" James said. "Yeah," I said. "I plead guilty to shackling her with the moniker. She'll probably hate me for it later." "Ah, but it's such an apt nickname," he said. "She is a little bundle of joy, that's for sure. Close in age, Deanna and Mary got along famously right from the start. When Mary told Deanna her plans to be a contract translator, Deanna said, "I work for a judge. The courts often need translators. I'll introduce you to the judge, and he'll point you at the person you'll need to impress to get put on their translator list." Throughout the meal, Deanna kept glancing at me, not to flirt, though. She looked troubled. When I raised an eyebrow during a glance, she said, "I've seen you before, Brent, but I can't remember where and when, and it's driving me up the wall." "Probably on TV," Mary said. "That's how I met him. I saw him on TV lambasting the FBI for ignoring his pleas for information about the investigation into his parents' deaths. Along with my brother, his parents were killed in that lounge bombing a while back. The morning after I saw him on television I knocked on his door." "That's it," Deanna exclaimed. "Did the interview on television work for you?" "Yes and no," I said. "Yes, my sister and I met with the FBI agent in charge of the investigation, but he's a master of double-speak. He told me everything and nothing at the same time." I turned to the sound of a scraping chair. A large man had toppled the chair to the floor, and his face was a picture of uncontrolled rage. With his left hand, he grabbed the front of a young woman's blouse and lifted her off the chair where she'd been sitting until her feet were dangling a foot off the floor. She looked terrified. I didn't think. I reacted. As the man's open palm slapped the woman viciously, my cudgel struck the back of his knee. His leg crumpled under him, and to gain his balance, he let go of the woman. She hit the floor with a thud and a sharp cry of pain. The angry man turned his rage on me, throwing a roundhouse punch that I easily evaded. I jabbed him in the solar plexus with the tip of my cudgel, trying valiantly not to break any bones. The blow from my cudgel knocked the wind out of him, the sought-after results, and he doubled over trying to catch his breath. I bent to the young woman, noting that she was younger than I'd originally estimated, and helped her to her feet. The side of her face looked red and swollen. "Go to my friends at that table," I said to her and gave her a gentle push in the right direction at the small of her back. Mary jumped up to help her away. I turned back to the angry man. He'd regained his breath and appeared to have redoubled his rage. With a guttural, animal-like roar, he straightened his back to rush me, so I jabbed him again, striking him in the same place my cudgel had struck before. While he was bent over trying to catch his breath yet again, I set his chair upright, and then kicked him almost gently behind his left knee, simultaneously jabbing the back of his right knee with the point of my cudgel. He had no choice. He sat on the chair. "Don't move from that chair, sir," I said. "I don't want to hurt you." I could see it in his eyes. He wouldn't fight me again. He was a bully, but there was something else going on. His rage had left his face. He looked defeated. A pudgy, red-faced young man rushed up to me. "I'm the manager," he announced. "Leave this restaurant at once, or I will call the police." "All right," I said. I walked to the table and dropped enough money to more than cover our meals. "Let's go," I said. "Deanna, hand the baby to Mary, and bring the young lady with you. James, get everyone into my pickup truck. Mary will show you where it's parked. I'll bring up the rear." "You've got it," he said. The big guy was still sitting in the chair when I backed out the door. The manager was fawning over him. ------- I drove directly home. Grace was there. I introduced her to James and Deanna, and then outlined the clash in the restaurant. My sister grinned and shook her head. "You have a damsel-in-distress thing going, little brother. One of these days, it's going to get you into more trouble than you can handle." "He handled that brute with hardly any fuss or muss," Deanna said. "Let's talk to the damsel," I said and turned to the girl. She was sitting on the sofa, starring straight ahead, as if she were alone. I sat next to her. She turned to me. She wasn't afraid. That was good. But she showed no curiosity. She seemed emotionless, robot-like. That wasn't good. Her dirty-blonde hair was long, worn in a ponytail. Green eyes, a narrow face with high, prominent cheekbones. Her clothing was conservative but looked expensive. She wasn't a waif. I said, "To start with, how are you physically? Should we take you to an emergency room?" She shook her head, the wrong thing to do. I saw pain shoot through her green eyes. "What's your name?" I asked. "Lydia. Lydia Bell." "The man who hit you, who is he to you?" I asked. "My stepfather." "Would you like to swear out a complaint against him for assault? You had witnesses, the four of us and others." "No." She said the word with no inflection, as if she didn't care one way or the other. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "How old are you, Lydia?" "Fifteen." "We should call her mother, or someone who knows her," Deanna said. "My mother's dead. He killed her," Lydia said, tonelessly. She looked me in the eye. "If I sic the cops on him, he'll kill me." She was lying. She and her stepfather were in a restaurant eating — a normal domestic scene. Something she said had provoked him. His rage had been sudden and total, and his anger had made him temporarily insane. "Why did he hit you?" I asked. She shrugged. "That's what he does best." "I don't think so," I said. "Something set him off, something you said. No man, not even a controlling, violent man who gets his kicks beating his wife and children would have hit you in front of dozens of witnesses without provocation. What did you say to him?" She said nothing. "We'll drop you off somewhere," I said. "Where would you like us to take you?" "Anywhere. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters," she said. She's suicidal, I thought. I pulled Grace aside and gave her my thoughts. "Take her into a bathroom, clean her up, talk to her. Maybe she'll talk to a woman," I said. Grace said, "Mary, too. Mary knows about physical and mental pain." "Good idea." Grace and Mary took the girl away. Mary handed me Little Bundle before she left. The baby was sound asleep, so I laid her on a blanket on the floor in the family room. James said something to me. That he spoke registered, but his words didn't. I'd been deep in thought, trying to figure out Lydia's problem. "Huh?" I said. "This painting. It's magnificent," he said. He was standing in front of one of my oils. I had it hanging in the house where Grace and I could enjoy it until I shipped it to Denver. "Thanks," I muttered. "You painted this?" James said, sounding shocked. "Yes, that's what I do. I'm an artist. James, Deanna, I sort of shanghaied you. Do you need to be somewhere?" "I'm clear for the rest of the day," James said. "I took the rest of the day off when I joined James for lunch," Deanna said. She was standing in front of my painting with James, holding his hand. "You're that art prodigy, aren't you, Brent?" she said, looking over her shoulder at me. "I was. Last Monday morning, the courts made me an adult, so the prodigy tag no longer fits. How about something to drink? Iced tea, hot tea, root beer, white or red wine, diet Pepsi, water. Take your pick." "Iced tea," they parroted. While I fixed iced tea for all of us, we talked. "What do you do for a living?" I asked James when I joined them at the kitchen table. "I'm a protector. I'm between assignments right now." I said, "I know a protector, a woman named..." "Her name will be a pseudonym, Brent," James said, interrupting me. "I never use my real name on a job." "Really? She gave me a business card with her name, address and phone numbers listed on it, even her e-mail address. She did a security survey for Mary." James shook his head. "She's not a professional protector, Brent. Professionals don't give out business cards and do security surveys. Does Mary have a security problem?" "Maybe," I said and explained. When I finished the explanation, I added, "It's been a while. She's already told the FBI everything she knows, so she isn't a threat to the bomber, not anymore — maybe. The 'maybe' bothered me, so I hired the security survey so I'd feel more comfortable about her safety, as well as the baby's." We chatted about James's vocation. I found his work fascinating. "Then you're expert with a pistol," I said. "Yes." "Mary and I had our first shooting lesson Tuesday." I laughed. "We were pitiful. We took the CCW Permit course yesterday." Grace walked into the kitchen, poured some iced tea and sat with us. She sighed and said, "Her step-father has been raping her for years. She got pregnant, didn't tell him, and had an abortion. She threw the abortion in his face during their lunch. That's what set him off." "Jesus," Deana breathed. "Did her stepfather kill her mother?" I asked. "Her mother committed suicide. She blames the stepfather. Lydia's mother knew her husband was raping Lydia but did nothing about it. Full of guilt, feeling like a failure as a mother, feeling of no value to anyone, most of all to herself, she slit her wrists. That was a year ago. Six months later, Lydia became pregnant." "Was the stepfather the biological father?" I asked. "That was my assumption," Grace said. "I didn't ask, though, and Lydia didn't say." "We need to ask," I said. Grace nodded. She looked haunted. Lydia's situation was hitting her hard. I wondered why. She said, "Lydia was three or four months along when she had the abortion." "Does she have any brothers and sisters?" "I didn't ask. Why? Never mind. If she does, you'll want to rescue them, too. Right?" "Someone needs to rescue them. Lydia, as well. Not us, though. We're not equipped to deal with the psychological problems involved. Lydia is damaged emotionally. I think we need to bring in the authorities. Did she breakdown and cry while you spoke with her?" I asked. "No." "She's without emotion. She needs professional help, Grace, help that you and I can't give her, and if she has siblings, they'll need the same kind of help. What's more, her stepfather should be behind bars." Grace nodded. "What else should I ask her?" "Find out if she has a relative we can call. It would be best if we weren't directly involved with the authorities." "All right," Grace said and left. A minute later, Mary came in with Little Bundle. She was holding the baby out away from her body. The baby was filthy. "What happened?" I asked, very alarmed. "She was playing in the fireplace," Mary said. "She was asleep, so I laid her on a blanket on the floor," I said. "Well, she woke up. She crawls, Brent. You know that. Jeez! I'll clean up the baby. You clean up the mess in the family room." James laughed. Deanna glared at him and jumped up to help Mary. I looked at James. He laughed some more. "You're on your own, good buddy. I don't do soot and ashes." I did what I could. We'd need to bring in a professional carpet cleaner. Grace and Lydia walked into the room as I was putting the vacuum cleaner away. "What happened?" Grace asked. I told her, but Lydia had my attention. Her right eye was swollen almost completely shut from her stepfather's slap, and her left eye I was red and swollen from crying. Good, she finally let some of her pain out, I thought. Maybe she could be saved after all. "Jeez, Brent!" Grace said. "You can't leave Little Bundle lying on the floor. She crawls. She pulls herself up on things. She's mobile and curious. She explores the world around her. You can't leave her alone for a second unless she's in her crib or playpen." Thoroughly and appropriately chastised, I opted to change the subject. "How are you doing, Lydia?" I asked. She squared her shoulders. "Okay." "Tell him the truth, Lydia," Grace said. The girl's lip quivered. She swallowed a sob and said, "I'm miserable." Grace guided her to the sofa and sat with her. I sat on the chair facing them. When Lydia started to cry, Grace said, "Go wash up, Brent. You look like a chimney sweep." ------- Lydia Bell had a ten-year-old brother, the reason she'd refused to press charges against her stepfather. She wasn't just her little brother's sister; even before the mother's suicide, in Lydia's mind, she'd also become the boy's mother. If her stepfather was arrested, she feared the authorities would put her and her brother in foster homes, might even separate them, which was her greatest fear. The stepfather could have been her aborted baby's father, but she'd also been with three other men, her twenty-year-old stepbrother, being one of the three. He was even more violent than his father. The stepfather was predictable, she told us; the stepbrother wasn't. The father and son had also double-teamed her, her mother as well. Sexually, her little brother was safe. Her stepfather and stepbrother were homophobic. The other two men she'd been with during the time she became pregnant were friends of her stepfather. She refused to name them. "My stepfather is a rich and powerful man, Brent," she said to me. "My little brother and I live well in a multi-million dollar residence. We're given just about anything we want. When I turn sixteen next month, he'll buy me my own car, a new BMW. The beatings are rare. I can put up with the sex." "Why did your stepfather go ballistic when you told him you'd had an abortion?" I asked. "Politically he's an extreme conservative, not necessarily the moral right, but close. He sits squarely on the right-to-life side of the abortion issue." "The moral right? That doesn't make sense, Lydia, not with what he does to you, not with what he did to your mother," I said. "The sex isn't his fault, not in his mind. It's mine. I have the devil in me. I tempt him. That's what he says. When I was thirteen, I ran away. Have you ever lived on the street? An occasional beating, sex with someone you don't care about once or twice a week, that's not so bad, not compared to living on the street. He hired a private investigator. The investigator located and took me back to him. That's when I quit trying to fight it. I go along to get along." "Like your mother?" I said. She glared at me. "You son of a bitch! Leave my mother out of this." "Does he beat your little brother?" "No. He knows if he ever did that I'd turn him over to the police. He'd have to kill me to stop me." "Grace tells me you don't have a relative we can call that will help you. Are you sure?" I asked. "They're all bought and paid for. I told you, my stepfather is rich and powerful. He uses money and influence to get what he wants, and he always gets what he wants." I looked at Grace. "What should we do? In essence, she's saying that she'll go back to her stepfather when she leaves here." "Lydia doesn't need to file the assault complaint," Deanna said. "We witnessed the assault. Anyone or all of us can file the complaint. We can also talk to Child Protective Services. They act on every tip, even anonymous ones." "If you do either of those things, he'll destroy you," Lydia said. "Oh, he won't do anything directly. He'll hire whatever he wants done from burning down your house to maiming or killing you. Vengeance is his favorite pastime. And the law can't touch him." She snorted. "He not only has my relatives in his pocket, he also has some cops and a judge or two in the same place, not to mention a few politicians and captains of industry. To the outside world, my stepfather is a saint. Believe me, you guys don't want him for an enemy." "Okay, let's go. Where do you want me to drop you off?" "Brent, you can't..." Grace said. I glared at her. She shut up. "The restaurant where you took me. I'll call my stepfather on my cell phone from there," Lydia said. Mary and Grace stayed at the house. James and Deanna rode with me. They'd met us at the restaurant in their car. After Lydia hopped out with her cell phone at her ear, I told James and Deanna that I'd like them to follow me back to my house. "We need to talk about this," I said. Deanna grinned. "I didn't think you would back off that easily." "That's what we need to talk about," I said. ------- Chapter 13 As soon as I walked into the house, I pulled Grace to the side. "I know it'll be a little crowded," I said, "but I'd like to invite James and Deanna to join us at Lake Powell for the weekend. They can fly up with us tomorrow, and fly back with Pete and Mary on Sunday evening. That will give us a chance to talk about what we want to do about Lydia Bell, if anything. I don't think we should make that decision now. The ramifications are too serious to act without a lot of thought. Besides, I like James. I think he and I can be friends, and the cruise will give us a chance to get to know each other. Waddaya say?" Grace smiled. "Fine by me, if Pete and I get the V-berth for the weekend." I'd planned to make that offer anyway. "You've got a deal," I said with a grin. "That won't leave an empty bunk for a boat mentor, whoever that is," she said. "If we have to, we'll stay at our slip Friday night, hire someone at the lake to show us the ropes Saturday morning, and drop him back at Wahweap Marina that afternoon. We'll muddle through the learning process by ourselves if we have to." When the doorbell rang, Mary let James and Deanna in the house, and Deanna jumped right into the Lydia topic. "What's your plan?" she asked me. "Don't have one. Considering the consequences, which according to Lydia could be as serious as getting maimed or killed, let's make sure whatever we do doesn't come back to haunt us." "We could leave an anonymous tip on the Child Protective Services' hotline," Deanna said. "Anonymous or otherwise, CPS acts on every accusation of child abuse they receive, acting meaning some shoe leather hits the sidewalk. They'll visit Lydia's house, speak with her, as well as the stepfather, stepbrother, and little brother, and any servants in the house. If they suspect anything, they'll investigate further." "Is that your recommendation?" I asked. "No, I'd rather personally charge the brute with assault," she said, her eyes shining with sudden purpose. "What about you, Mary?" I asked. "I want to help her, but my first responsibility is to my baby." She dropped her eyes. "I'm passing. I'll do nothing that would put Little Bundle at risk. Sorry." "There's no need for you to be sorry, Mary. Your baby's welfare should come first," I said. "Grace, do you have a recommendation?" "Not right now. Lydia wasn't willing to help herself, or let us help her. Parts of her story are inconsistent. You thought she might be suicidal, Brent. Did you change your mind?" "Yes, when I told you I believed she might be suicidal, I didn't know about her relationship with her little brother. She won't kill herself, not as long as her brother needs her protection." Grace said, "Without a possible imminent suicide, I don't think we should rush to action. More information is needed. Was Lydia's entire story or crucial parts of it a lie? If she told the truth, how serious are the threats she mentioned, and if they're serious, how would we counter them? I've got more questions than answers." My big sister made me proud. Mary, too, for that matter. "James, do you have a recommendation?" "Nope," he said. "That's it?" Deanna asked him, sounding surprised. "Yes." She laughed. "Sometimes, baby, you can be maddening." He smiled and shrugged. "I don't know the girl. We live in the fifth largest metro area in the country, so her story isn't unique, not in this city. There are tens of thousands of similar cases, and as Grace said, we don't even know if she told the truth or was lying through her perfect teeth. We saw the man hit her. That's assault, and that's against the law, but with his money and power, he won't spend a day in jail for the crime. If you filed charges, he'd be charged with assault, but the charges would be dropped, or he'd make a deal to do some community service. Perhaps the judge would force him to sit through some anger management classes, but even that much punishment would surprise me. Deanna, you're a big girl. If you feel compelled to file a complaint, have at it. But consider this before you take the plunge. If you file a complaint, and the stepfather hires some thugs to teach you a lesson, I'll be forced to stop them, and after I deal with his hired help, I'll go directly to the source to explain the consequences of his continuing need for vengeance. If I can't persuade him that vengeance isn't in his best interests, I will kill him." He smiled again. "That's definitely against the law." Deanna stared at him. Finally she said, "I hear you, baby." Mary looked at me. "If the stepfather comes after Grace, or me, or Little Bundle, you'd do the same, wouldn't you?" I shrugged. "Kill him? Probably not, but the quality of his life would be seriously degraded. The word 'vegetable' comes to mind. If his hired help managed to maim or kill any of you, I'd kill him without a qualm or a thought for the consequences of my act of retribution." "That's taking the law into your own hands," Grace said. "Yep," I said. "Obviously, we need to think about and discuss this subject some more before any of us takes any action. James, Deanna, we're flying to Lake Powell tomorrow. Grace and I recently purchased a cabin cruiser. We're taking it out on the lake for the shakedown cruise on Friday or Saturday. We'd be pleased if the two of you would be our guests for the weekend. It'll give us time to hash out the Lydia problem and have some fun at the same time. Pete Turner, Grace's friend, will be joining us, and he plans to fly back to Phoenix Sunday afternoon. You can fly back with Mary and him. Waddaya say?" They accepted enthusiastically. ------- "Pete, what do you know about boats?" I asked. We were in a chartered aircraft en route to Page and Lake Powell. "They're a hole in the water in which you pour money," he said and laughed. "Why do you ask?" "Maybe not for you, but for me thirty-four feet is a big boat. I don't know how to drive a boat that big. Grace and I need a boat mentor." "Sorry, Charlie," he said, using an expression from the tuna commercial, I assumed. "I've never owned a boat. I'll never own a boat. I can't help you, and your admission that you don't know how to handle your boat just took my anxiety level to a new high." Grace giggled and patted his cheek. "If you fall in the lake, big guy, I'll dive in and save you." "Tell me about your boat," James said. "It's a Sea Ray 340 Sundancer. It sleeps six, has a galley and a head. It's beautiful and sleek. I named her Sweet Rose, after my mother." James hooted with laughter. "That tells me nothing. Stern drive or inboard engine?" he asked when he settled down. "Inboard. Two of them. MerCruisers," I said. "I can drive it, settle it against a dock with only a whisper, even back it into your slip," James said. "I can't fix anything that goes haywire, though. I'm mechanically challenged." "I've driven a boat that big and bigger," Mary said. "Thirty-four feet is a small boat for the San Francisco area." I grinned. "How about that, Grace? We invited two boat mentors for our shakedown cruise and didn't know it. What about fishing? Do either of you know anything about fishing?" "I do," Deanna quipped. "Part of the luggage stowed in the belly of this airplane includes my fishing gear." "When it comes to water sports," James said, "I'm partial to personal watercraft, and I get a kick out of water boarding." "Argh," Pete complained. "I'm surrounded by a bunch of water babies." ------- In Page where the aircraft landed, I arranged for ground transportation, opting for two SUVs with drivers to deliver our supplies and the six of us to Wahweap Marina. Mary had left Little Bundle with her neighbor lady and planned to return with Pete, James and Deanna on Sunday. "My baby's too active to take boating," she'd said. Deanna helped me buy the fishing gear I'd need, and Mary surprised me when she said she wanted to do some fishing, too. Grace passed on fishing but was enthusiastic about renting a jet ski, so we rented two for the weekend, agreeing that we'd take turns zipping around on the lake riding the personal watercraft. The dealer told us that he'd deliver them at Wahweap Marina at noon the next day, which would give us time to do some fishing or sightseeing on the lake Saturday morning. With James's help, I bought the equipment we'd need for water skiing and wake boarding, and after we hit a grocery store, we were good to go. Two hours later, I sat in the captain's chair with Mary at my side directing me. When Sweet Rose planed flat as her engines roared, and we skimmed over the smooth surface of Wahweap Bay like a dragonfly, a curious thing happened to me, something that had never happened to me before. The tension from stress, the stress of the trip, my parents' death, Mary's problems, the Lydia situation, everything causing tension lost its grip, and I relaxed fully and completely. Skipping over the water in Sweet Rose, I discovered, was better than tai chi for finding my center. I was truly at peace for the first time since Mom and Dad were killed. I grinned at Mary and said, "I love it." She leaned and gave me a quick kiss. "Me, too. I have a present for you. I'll be right back." She returned a minute later with a hat. It was white with a shiny black brim, a gold-braid band, and an embroidered anchor medallion at the peak. "It's a skipper captain's hat," she said and set it on my head. "Thanks," I said. The gesture pleased me immensely. With one hand on the wheel, I wrapped my other arm around Mary's waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. She bent and kissed me again. "Hey," Pete said, "watch the road." "There ain't no road, silly," Grace said as she stepped up from below wearing a bikini. Deanna followed her. Her bikini was even smaller than my sister's. "Hubba, hubba," I quipped and waggled my eyebrows. "Pete," Grace said, "you need to relax." "Easy for you to say," he said. "Everybody listen up," Grace said. "Pete and I plan to have some private fun this weekend, if you get my drift, and I figure we won't be the only couple so inclined." "Hear, hear," James said, raising his bottle of beer with a grin. Deanna slugged his shoulder playfully. "Which means cooperation must be the byword if privacy is to be achieved. The V-berth belongs to Pete and me — at night. We'll loan it out during the day." "In the spirit of cooperation, Mary and I will also make the mid-stateroom available during the day," I said. "That'll help," Grace said. "The hideaway curtains will screen for visual privacy, but they won't dampen sound all that much." She blushed. "I've been known to be a little noisy..." "A little!" Pete exclaimed. "Banshee comes to mind." "Which makes my point," Grace said with a teasing pout at her lips. "Privacy includes not fearing insensitive remarks about the noises we make while enjoying privacy. Agreed?" "You've got that right," Deanna said. "I've generated a few echoes during... ah, moments of passion." "Notice, Pete," James said, "that I made no follow up remarks." He grinned. "That's because I'm a sensitive kind of guy." Pete groaned and rattled the ice in his glass. "I need another drink." "I'll make it for you," Grace said and took his glass. "I'll be right back," Mary said. "I want to change clothes." "I'll join you," I said. "James, would you drive?" "You bet," he said. "Where are we headed?" "We'll drop anchor in Padre Bay for the night," I said and showed him the map. ------- I closed the privacy curtain behind us and took Mary into my arms. She melted against me, and our kiss drifted from romantic to passionate. "I can be quiet," she said softly with a smile. "I know." We watched each other as we removed our clothes. "Mary, you are a beautiful woman," I said as I pulled her to me. Her naked flesh felt hot against me, and her dainty hand went to my erection. She stroked it expertly. "I want to fuck you," she said and pushed me onto the upholstered seating. "That way we won't need to make out the bed." She straddled my thighs with her knees on the seat. I liked the fact that she was taking charge. Perhaps we could create some edges after all. She giggled. "This will be what's called a quickie, huh?" I chuckled. "Yep." I heard the sounds of someone coming down the stairs from the deck. Two people, I deduced. Then I heard a sultry laugh. Grace. "Come on, Pete," Grace said quietly. "I thought we'd be the first to seek some privacy, but I think my little brother and Mary beat us to the punch." She giggled. "So to speak." Mary laughed, rose up on her knees, and waved the crown of my cock through her wet crease. "Punch me," Mary whispered in my ear as her cunt engulfed my shaft. She moaned softly, but the sound of her moan carried. "I heard them, so they heard you," Pete said quietly to Grace, his voice fading as he moved toward the V-berth at the bow. "If they didn't and they hang around, they'll hear me for sure in a few minutes," Grace said. "Let's hang around and listen," Mary whispered as her back arched and straightened producing a sexy sliding motion reminiscent of my wave. I threw my hips up to meet each of her falling slides. Could I listen to Grace have sex without getting upset? I didn't know, and I decided I didn't want to find out. I wet my thumb in my mouth and pressed it to Mary's clitoris. Maybe I could turn our quickie into a lickety-split. "Yes," Mary said with a gasp, but quietly, and adjusted her slide to include a little twist when her clit pressed against my thumb. I kneaded her breast and pinched her nipple with my other hand, and then latched onto her other nipple with my mouth. The volume of Mary's sounds of pleasure increased, but still she remained relatively quiet. From all indications, Grace made no attempt to be quiet. Her yes, yeses sounded louder to my ears than Mary's. Would I lose my erection? No. Grace's sexy verbal expressions excited me, probably because I imagined she was riding my shaft, not Mary. Hot! Maintaining an erection wasn't my problem anymore. Staying the course with Mary became the issue. "Listening to your sister fuck excites you, doesn't it?" Mary said. That dampened my libido enough to let me continue without coming. "Fuck me, fuck me," Grace said, bringing me close to a peak again. I felt like I was on an arousal roller coaster, shooting straight up, and then plunging with a sinking feeling. "Listening to her excites me, too," Mary whispered. Then Mary surprised me with a deeper insight than I'd believed her capable of having. "If she wasn't your sister, she'd fuck you." I said nothing as I buried my shaft in Mary's wet heat and moaned. "And if she wasn't your sister, you'd fuck her," Mary said. Her fingers replaced my thumb. "Open your eyes. Look at me," she said softly. I lifted my eyelids and gazed at her exotic face. Her fingers weren't moving in a tight little circle; they were flashing back and forth like a hummingbird's wings. "Think about it," Mary said. "Think about your sister riding your hard cock, fucking you like I'm fucking you right now." "Fuck," I breathed. "Don't close your eyes. Look at me." "Yes!" Grace squealed. "Harder! Pound me, damn you. Pound me." "She's talking to you, not Pete," Mary said. "Notice that she didn't say his name. She wants you to pound her, fuck her hard. Make some noise. That's what she wants. She wants to hear your voice. Give her what she wants." "I'm coming!" I said. "Louder," Mary whispered. "Coming! Oh, fuck, I'm coming!" I shouted. I let out an orgasmic bellow and stiffened, jerking Mary down around my ejaculating cock at the same time. She climaxed with me without a sound except gasping small moans. I recovered first and moved with her until her orgasm released her to collapse on my chest. I heard whimpers of pleasure from the V-berth. Grace must have climaxed with us. "Fuck, that was intense," I said softly a minute later. Mary giggled. "Fun, though." I gave her a tender kiss. "You surprise me, sweet Mary." She blushed. "Did I go too far?" "No. You created an edge." My comment confused her. "Remind me later, and I'll tell you about my edge theory." "All right." ------- Without city lights obscuring its brilliance, the firmament sparkled with a billion tiny stars. I'd never witnessed a night sky as glorious as the one above me, not in this life, and old memories couldn't compete with reality. I was in awe. "It's a breathtaking world we occupy," I said. "Just look at that sky." Mary squeezed my hand. "You see beauty everywhere you look, don't you?" "I wish. What happened yesterday between Lydia and her stepfather was ugly." "Are we going to get involved with that ugliness?" Grace said, opening the subject I wanted to talk about. Since the incident, I'd had some new thoughts on the issue, and I wanted them included in the discussion. I sighed. "Unfortunately, we don't have an option. If we do nothing more, if we make every attempt to avoid further involvement, that option was removed when we allowed Lydia to return to her stepfather." James chuckled. "I wondered if anyone would figure that out." "I don't get it," Deanna said. "Why don't we have an option?" "I don't get it, either," Grace said. "Explain, please." "Lydia said that vengeance was her stepfather's favorite pastime. Correct?" I said. "Yes," Grace said. "But..." "What did Lydia do or say when her stepfather picked her up at that restaurant?" I said. No one spoke for a few seconds. Finally Grace said, "Oh, no! Even if she wanted to say nothing about us, he'd force her to tell him everything, every detail, force her to name us, tell him where we lived, tell him what she told us about him and his son, everything!" "Give the little lady a kewpie doll," James said. "James, I think you and Deanna will be all right," I said. "You weren't directly involved, and no one mentioned your last names. Mary, its also possible you won't become a target. It depends on how thorough the stepfather investigates us before he acts. He might be satisfied wreaking vengeance on me. Still, Grace, because we live together, whatever punishment he selects for me will most likely rub off on you." "That's cloudy reasoning, Brent," James said. "He's an incestuous pedophile, a rapist, a wife beater, and a child abuser, in other words, a sociopath. We know this about him. With the exception of retaliating for how you humiliated him in that restaurant, vengeance won't be his motive. He's got to put his thumb on us, all of us, before the situation spirals out of control, and control is very important to a man like him. Grace was right. Lydia told him what we know about him, and at that moment his motive became survival, not vengeance." "I know about him now," Pete said. "Will he lump me in with the rest of you?" James shrugged. "Like Brent said, that will depend on how thorough he checks us out before he acts." "Shit," Pete breathed. He looked at Grace. "I didn't sign on for this. I know Walter Bell. He cuts a wide swath in the private financial sector in this country, worldwide for that matter. He could destroy me like that." He snapped his fingers. With an aggravated sigh, Pete stood up and walked to the wet bar to make himself another drink. "If we do nothing, is there a chance that he'll do nothing?" Grace asked James. "A small chance, but..." "Can you drive this boat at night?" Pete said, interrupting James. "Sure," James replied. "Why?" "I can't be involved in this... fiasco. I can't. I want to leave. Tonight. Right now." Grace snorted a derisive laugh and said, "You've got to be kidding." "I think he's serious, Grace," I said. Pete turned to me. "You're damn right I'm serious. Brent Carson, boy wonder! Hah! You had to show off, didn't you? Had to be the big man, the knight in shining armor. Well, you're not a big man. You're not even a man. You're a kid, a fucking teenager, and what you did was a teenage stunt that's going to bite you and everyone associated with you. A man wouldn't have put his sister and others in jeopardy because he just had to show everyone how strong and brave and tough he is. I, for one, want nothing more to do with you." "Ah, come on, Pete," James said with a cynical smile. "You're among friends. You don't need to beat around the bush. Tell us what you really think." "Weigh anchor and crank up those engines, James," Grace said. "The sooner I get shut of this coward, the better." Her voice dripped with disgust. "Pete has a point, Grace," I said. "I didn't insert myself between Lydia and her stepfather to show everyone how strong or brave or tough I am, but I did react without thinking. Then I compounded the problem when I took the girl from the restaurant. Big mistake! When I took her to our home, I made an even bigger mistake." "I'm as guilty as you," Grace said. "After you brought her home, I interrogated her until she told me everything." "I helped Grace make that mistake," Mary said. James laughed. "What is this? The blame game?" he said and turned to me. "Brent, if you hadn't stopped Bell from abusing his daughter, I would have." He grinned and winked at me. "Being a teenager, you're faster than I am, so you put that brute down before I could get out of my chair. Normally what you did would have few or no consequences, especially the way you did it. You put him down without physically hurting him. That he just happens to be someone with the money and power and will to put his foot on the back of your neck and grind your face in the dirt was the luck of the draw. Shit happens. Now, do you want to weigh anchor, or not?" I looked at Pete. He nodded. "Let's go, James," I said. "Show me how to drive this boat at night." ------- I turned the helm over to Mary and moved to the bow of the boat where Grace was leaning on the railing and looking out into the dark night. I put my arm around her waist and leaned my forehead to hers. "I'm sorry," I said. "Don't be. I'm not. He was looking for an excuse to bolt and run." "I wasn't referring to Pete. I'm sorry something I did has put you in jeopardy." "Oh, for crissake, Brent, get off that train. It's going nowhere fast. You didn't do anything wrong. I didn't either, or Mary. We reacted and acted with compassion. James was right. Shit happens." I'd read the circumstances wrong. My sister was upset because Pete had dumped her, not that she harbored fears that Walter Bell might send out his hired help to teach us manners. "You wanted to do the dumping, huh?" I said. She laughed softly. "Yeah. Just before he left on Sunday, I would have given him his walking papers. He started acting petulant when he found out about the cruise. He detests boating, but that wasn't the real issue. He wanted my entire attention, wanted me to be alone with him to cater to his every whim. That you'd be present for the cruise was his biggest problem. You bring out his otherwise tamped down insecurities." She chuckled. "Then he met James. You and James, the two of you are like two peas in a pod, little brother, and Pete's self-worth took another plunge. He's a bigot, too. I didn't know that about him until this trip. He made a veiled comment about James and Deanna's interracial relationship. I wanted to push him overboard." She sighed. "I'll be okay. Brent, let's swim ashore at dawn for tai chi. Mary, too." "All right. By the way, we were wrong about Mary." "Oh? How so?" "She took charge earlier and created an intense edge." Grace grinned. "Good for her. She's my best friend, Brent. She's special, one of a kind. What she's had to endure would have crushed a lesser person. Not Mary." Grace turned to me and placed a hand on my face. "Don't hurt her, okay?" I said nothing. "Okay, I understand," Grace said. "You don't make promises you might not be able to keep. That's one of the things I admire about you." Her eyes returned to the black night of Warm Creek Bay where we planned to drop anchor for the night instead of cruising farther upriver to Padre Bay. "I like our boat, little brother," she said. "Me, too." "I also like your new friend." I said nothing. "If he wasn't taken, I'd take a run at him." I chuckled. "You wouldn't have to run very fast or very far." That made her laugh. "Probably not. I haven't had many problems lassoing a man if I wanted him. Deanna's got James hogtied and branded, though." "That's my take on the matter." "I like Deanna, too. Do you know how they met?" "No." "Deanna and a friend, another woman, were touring Asia. Her friend's father is a rich man, Chinese, Taiwanese though, not Mainland China, and some members of the Heavenly Way Gang kidnapped Deanna and her friend and held them for ransom. The other woman's father hired James to get them back. Four armed and dangerous men were holding Deanna and her friend captive when James entered their stronghold, killed the four men, and took Deanna and her friend to safety." "Jesus," I breathed. "Yeah. If Walter Bell decides to take issue with what you did to him and what his stepdaughter told us about him, I think James would be a good man to have on our side." "I think you're right." ------- James and Deanna joined Grace, Mary and me for tai chi at dawn. Yet again, I failed to find my center, not because I became sexually aroused, though. The glow of the new sun on the calm waters of Warm Creek Bay mesmerized me. After a quick breakfast, we decided to go fishing. Deanna moved to the bow and peered out over the water. I joined her. "What are you looking for?" I asked. "Stripper boils," she said. "The surface water temperature is 80 to 86 degrees Fahrenheit. Big strippers will come up from deep cold water and start boiling..." "Boiling?" I said, interrupting her. "Yes, they'll agitate the surface of the water. There!" She pointed. "See it! That's a stripper boil. The strippers are hitting the top of the water to eat shad. Let's get our poles rigged. Catching strippers is easy if a boil pops up in casting range. They'll hit full-size surface lures and spoons. My favorite is the Rebel Jumpin' minnow. This one," she said, pulling a lure out of her tackle box. "James," Deanna yelled, "when I or anyone spots a stripper boil move the boat close enough for us to cast into the boil." "Gotcha," he said. I decided I really liked fishing after I pulled in two strippers, one four pounds, the other six. Mary and Deanna out fished me. The accuracy of their casts was uncanny, and when the fish dove for colder water after feeding on the surface, Deanna followed the strippers down using a spoon for bait. Deanna taught me how to fillet our catch. Although I knew how from my years as Jane Wilson, I let her teach me. Teaching gave her pleasure. Deanna Graham was a delightful young woman, happy and caring and smart. I liked her a lot. We ate an early lunch. You guessed it — fresh fish. Then we cruised to Wahweap to pick up the jet skis. As it turned out, we should have rented four of them, not two. Zipping over the lake on the personal watercraft was a blast. At mid-afternoon, we tied the jet skis behind us and towed them to Rainbow Bridge. What a sight! It's the largest natural bridge in the world. The second I laid eyes on the wonder of nature I understood why the Navahos considered the bridge sacred. After topping off the tanks with fuel at Dangling Rope Marina and picking the spot where we'd drop anchor for the night in Last Chance Bay, we put the jet skis ashore to try water skiing behind the cabin cruiser. Deanna and James preferred water boarding, and after jumping a few wakes on the board, I agreed with their preference. Grace picked up on water boarding like she'd been doing it all her life. Mary struggled at first, but it didn't take her long to get the hang of it. She took some amazing head-over-heel nosedives flying over wakes, though. Thankfully, she came up laughing every time. Grace offered to stay with the boat, and the rest of us doubled up on the jet skis, Mary behind me, and Deanna behind James, so we could explore the canyons of Last Chance Bay. We roared up the twisting, turning arroyos with red-rock cliffs souring high above us on both sides until venturing farther became impossible. Mother Nature at her best! Awe-inspiring! Grace had dinner ready when we returned. Fresh fish again, but cooked differently, so I didn't mind. We gorged ourselves on the meal and sat back relaxed after the fun-filled day. ------- Without an ounce of shyness, James invoked a desire for privacy, so Mary, Grace and I went topside. "A good day," I said, sighing with satisfied pleasure. "The best," Mary agreed, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze. Grace, I noticed, didn't agree with us. If fact, she didn't look happy. I patted the seat beside me. "Sit here, please, Grace," I said. She sat close to me and leaned her head on my shoulder. "Don't let me take you down," she said. "I'll be fine. Being alone while the rest of you explored on jet skis made me think too much. Can you imagine how much Mom and Dad would have enjoyed today?" I wrapped her with a hug as tears stung my eyes. "Dad, especially," I said. "Uh-huh," she said and sniffed. "He was athletic like you, Brent. He would have turned a jet ski on its nose and jumped the largest wake on the board with verve." "And Mom's eyes would have been shining with pride, pride for Dad, pride for us." "Sweet Rose," Grace said softly. "Jules wasn't athletic," Mary said. "But he loved to fish." She chuckled. "He would have had a line in the water from first light to dark, and then would have done some night fishing. Jules taught me about fishing." I wrapped Mary with my other arm and looked up at the sky. "Somehow the person responsible for taking our loved ones from us will pay," I whispered, a solemn promise I made to myself. Deanna stuck her head up through the hatch. "Grace, could you come below? James and I would like to talk to you about something." "Sure," she said. When we were alone, Mary cuddled close to me. "Thanks for the wonderful day, Brent," she said. "Thanks for sharing it with me. I wish Pete hadn't been such a stick in the mud." Mary laughed gaily. "Stick in the mud, an apt description of the small-minded man. Grace isn't upset that he's gone, Brent." "I know, but I think she's feeling a little like an extra spoke in a wheel." "A little, perhaps, but she had a grand time today. We all did." She brushed my lips with hers. "I'll be right back. I need to visit the head. Pour me a glass of white wine while I'm gone." As wine gurgled into a glass, my thoughts drifted to Lydia and her stepfather. Would the sociopath come at us? Would he try to put his foot at the back of our necks and grind our faces into the dirt, as James had suggested? And if he did, what would we do about it? Maybe James had some ideas along those lines. I resolved to have a private discussion with my new friend on the subject before he left to return to Phoenix. Walter Bell wasn't the only sociopath I had to deal with. Whoever murdered my parents and Mary's brother had to pay for his crimes, and it appeared the FBI couldn't even identify him, let alone bring him to justice. Could I connect a name and face to the crime? I hadn't made the attempt. I'd been content to leave crime busting to the professionals, only hassling the professionals for a progress report. Perhaps it was time to become proactive. Then there was Milton Tucker, Mary's father's partner. I could do something about that crook. He'd committed fraud. He'd embezzled money from the import/export business, purposefully driving it into bankruptcy. If nothing else, I could file a civil suit on Mary's behalf. Tucker would settle with Mary if only to stay out of jail. I saw no avenue to do anything about the five violent men who had gang-raped Mary and murdered her parents. Unless that crime was connected to the lounge bombing that killed my parents and Mary's brother, I added as an afterthought. I turned to sounds of movement. Mary was climbing up through the hatch. She had a strange look on her face, which I forgot about when she kissed me as passionately as she'd ever kissed me, fondling my crotch during the embrace. "Hot!" she breathed. "I'm so fucking hot!" She pushed me back until I sat on the bench seat, and then she ripped my trunks down around my ankles. Without a pause, she slurped my half-hard cock into her mouth, and seconds later it was as stiff as a board. She rose to her feet and threw off her bikini. Pushing me to the side, she stretched out on the upholstered bench, lifting and spreading her legs. "Fuck me," she said. "Cover me and fuck me. Now!" Talk about an edge! Her cunt was sopping. With one thrust, I buried my shaft to the hilt. Three of her fingers dashed back and forth on her clit. "Don't misunderstand. I love it," I said. "But what got your motor running?" "They're fucking her," Mary said. I didn't understand. "What?" "James and Deanna. They're fucking Grace." The visions! Hundreds of them! All at once! With a roar, I grabbed Mary's ass and jammed my cock into her as deep as I could. Semen rushed up through the shaft, blasting into her depths. Mary came with me — I think. As I vacated the here and now and journeyed to that place of exquisite sensations, it was as if my consciousness left my body and hovered over the threesome on the V-berth below. The sights! The sounds! A disembodied tongue tasted aroused cunts. Yes cunts. Two of them. Nostrils flared to the scents and felt the tickle of prickly female pubes. And then I crashed, returned to the present, to the reality of my last ejaculation jerking my body. A cool breeze off the water bathed my fevered flesh. ------- Chapter 14 "I guess Grace isn't feeling like an extra spoke anymore," I said. Mary giggled. "Nope." She rolled her feet to the deck and spied the glass of wine I'd poured for her. She strode naked to the wet bar and picked up the glass, gulping at the wine. "Are you thirsty?" she asked. "May I fix you something?" "Ice water," I said. Using tongs, she dropped some cubes in a glass and added water from a bottle. As she turned to me, I was pulling up my trunks. "Leave them off," she said. "I'm not finished with you yet." Without comment, I finished putting them on. Standing in front of me, her legs spread slightly, she handed me the ice water. I gulped down half the water in the glass before I paused. "I guess I was thirsty." Mary didn't sit next to me. She sipped wine and stood looking down at me as if appraising me in some way. "Sometime — I don't know when — you'll fuck her," she said. "I don't think so," I said. "When you do, I won't feel ill of you for it." "Grace and I have agreed that would be a disaster," I said. "Uh-uh, it might be what you both need so you can get on with the rest of your lives." I finished drinking the water. Ice clicked in the glass. "Explain," I said. "You and Grace have an unusual connection. It's deep and intricate; some would say convoluted. I wouldn't. Love and desire are involved. Respect and trust, as well. I believe that if your parents had lived you would have unraveled this connection so it became an almost normal close and loving brother and sister relationship. But the loss of your parents deepened this connection, added layers of intricacy that I don't believe even the two of you fully understand." "Are you implying that you understand the connection with all its tangled intricacies?" I asked. She snorted a laugh. "Good lord, no. All I know is that the two of you are bound in ways that exclude others. You're like gray wolves. You've mated for life, but your union forbids breeding, a condition of your connection you've both accepted. I and others — Pete, for example — find this acceptance incredible." She sighed and sipped her wine. "After your show in San Francisco, Grace tried to unravel the connection. The attempt wasn't conscious or purposeful on her part, and your devastated reaction cowed her into accepting and continuing the connection as it was. Pete was with her for a few days during your hiatus under that rock. That was the beginning of the end of her relationship with Pete, which meant nothing in the total scheme of things. That relationship was doomed from the start anyway. Even discounting your connection with her, Pete wasn't the man for her." She huffed a soft derisive snort. "He wasn't man enough for her. The man she's with right now is. Man enough for her, I mean." She chuckled. "Note that she's sharing him emotionally, like she shares you." She paused and took a deep breath. "Which brings us to you and me." She tipped up the wine glass. It was empty. She looked at me. "I've changed my mind. I'm not ready to talk about you and me, except to say that I won't run from you like Pete ran from Grace." She turned to sounds of someone coming through the hatch. Grace stepped onto the deck. When my sister noted Mary's nakedness, she stopped and said, "Excuse me. I didn't mean to interrupt." "You interrupted nothing," Mary said, looked around and spied her bikini top and bottom. She picked them up. "Talk to your brother, while I go below and freshen up." She disappeared down the hatch. "Are you and Mary all right?" Grace asked. "Yes," I said. "Good. Mary heard... ah, did she tell you?" "Yes." "Are you and I all right?" "Yes." "How about you and James?" I shrugged. "I need a friend, a male friend. I had hopes that James would fill the role, and I believed our friendship was developing. Whether it will grow or languish now, I can't say." "Do you still want his friendship?" "Yes." She smiled. "Good, then it will happen." I frowned. "I am confused. I thought James and Deanna were a couple." "They are. Brent, James's work separates them nine or ten months every year. A closed relationship didn't work for them. They cheated on each other, and cheating is destructive, so because they truly are a couple, they fashioned an open relationship that does work for them. They're compassionate and caring, and they knew I needed to be close to someone tonight, so they invited me into their bed with them." She hugged herself. "It was amazing. The closeness, not the sex." She laughed self-consciously. "The sex, too, I guess." She walked to the wet bar and poured wine in a glass. "Are you thirsty? May I fix you something?" Déjà vu all over again, I thought. "Ice water," I said. ------- We greeted the dawn dripping lake water from swimming ashore to perform the synchronized dance of tai chi. Five individuals moving as one, looking inward, searching for our centers and the kernel of peace our centers hold. As dawn's light marched across still waters and struck red cliffs with its golden glow, I found peace. I wasn't at peace the previous night. I'd tossed and turned while grappling with the astonishing revelations Mary had outlined, clarifying some aspects of my relationship with my sister that I hadn't understood, some of which I hadn't even known existed. Mary's insight had stunned me, and my opinion of the beautiful Eurasian rose to new heights. Before the night ended, I realized that I loved her. Even with that realization, I knew that I didn't love Grace any less. Mary had been correct. I was like the gray wolf. In my mind, Grace was my mate for this life. But I wasn't a wolf; I was a human male, and human beings have the capacity to think and act beyond the instinctual behavior of wolves. Also, our capacity for love is unbounded. Human love had to be potentially infinite. Otherwise I couldn't love Mary and Grace like I did. What this meant for my future, I couldn't say, but the inherent stress caused by my deep feelings for my sister melted away. Acceptance became an epiphany. The ladies swam to the boat, leaving James and me ashore to practice our kuen. We started separately, and then faced each other to spar, but the sparring wasn't a match; it had no goal, no effort to win, no avoidance of losing, and I think we both reveled in the connection the shared exercise gave us. I know I did. I excelled in aerobatics; James was better grounded in the basics. We could teach each other. We were smiling when we finished and bowed toward each other. We turned to the sound of applause from the boat, and my jaw dropped. Three beautiful women stood topless as they clapped and voiced their approval for the demonstration of the martial arts they'd just witnessed. James laughed boisterously. "Now that's a sight for sore eyes," he said. "Yep," I said, pleased that my sister had finally shown me her tits. My eyes moved from one bare pair to the next. "You're an artist," James said. "With an artist's eye for beauty, who of the three has the best pair of tits?" "Deanna, but if you tell any of them I said so, I'll dig out my cudgel and hurt you." He laughed. "Deal. Grace has the best legs." "I agree." "Over all, Mary excels." I laughed. "You, sir, should have been a diplomat." "Uh-uh, diplomacy is the art of lying. I'm speaking the truth." "As you see it." "Correct." I grinned. "We see alike." My heart beat hard in my chest. For the first time in my life, I'd admitted that another woman was as beautiful to me as my sister. When James and I pulled ourselves out of the water onto the diving platform of the boat and moved onto the deck, Grace tossed us some towels. Her bikini top once again covered her breasts. I smiled and said, "Spoilsport." She laughed. "Only from afar, little brother. Only from afar." ------- We cast lures into stripper boils, jumped wakes on water boards, and roaring over the water, we explored Navaho Canyon on jet skis — my favorite canyon, so far. It had a serenity to it the others couldn't match. Grace took a turn exploring while sitting behind me, and then she drove the jet ski with Mary hanging on to her waist while I stayed with the boat. None of us were happy when James backed Sweet Rose into our slip at Wahweap so Mary, James and Deanna could meet their chartered flight to Scottsdale. Mary clung to me. "I don't want to leave," she said. "At the same time, my heart aches to be with Little Bundle again." "I know. I miss her, too," I said. "How old is she?" Deanna asked. "Almost 14 months," Mary replied. "She's very active." "Well, hell," Deanna said, "baby-proof the boat. Keeping her below deck would be a snap." "I don't know. She's a little behind development-wise, but she's catching up fast. She takes steps alone now, and she's a climber." Mary laughed. "She's started to assert herself already. She can say a few words, 'no' being the most prevalent." "Deanna's right," Grace said. "We could baby-proof the boat to insure Little Bundle stays safe. With a few adjustments, we could even let her up on deck with us, and I think they sell life jackets for babies." "They do," I said. "I saw some in that sporting goods store where I bought my fishing tackle." Deanna looked at James. "You don't want to leave either. Right?" He grinned and said, "We were invited for the weekend, Deanna. The weekend just ended." "You're more than welcome to stay, James," I said. "You, too, Deanna." "That's for sure," Grace said. Deanna said, "Well, I've got to show up for work tomorrow, or the judge will have a conniption fit. I could get away again on Thursday, though. James, if you want, stay here at the lake with Grace and Brent, and I'll join you Thursday evening and stay through the weekend." "All right, I'll stay then," James said. "Okay," Mary said. "We'll try it. Little Bundle and I will fly back here with Deanna on Thursday." "Great!" I said. "I'll arrange the flight for you and Deanna and change the aircraft for our return trip so we can all fly home together." ------- I stood on the bow of Sweet Rose and watched the edge of a thunderstorm moving from the desert toward the lake. The sight was fascinating. Such force! Nothing could stop or impede its progress. Soon the storm would engulf us. Lightning flashed, striking the thirsty desert floor. The following roaring crack of thunder that rolled in every direction seemed to shake the earth. My tongue tasted acrid ozone, and its scent spread my nostrils as the still air around me started to swirl. "Brent, you're going to get wet," Grace shouted from the helm. "Come help James put up the canvas." I scurried along the rail like a cricket and jumped to the deck. "Mother Nature is about to kick ass," I said as lighting cracked and thunder rolled over us and then away from us at the speed of sound. James and I wrestled with the canvas, but managed to get Sweet Rose battened down before the line of the storm I'd been watching kicked the boat everywhere all at once. The deluge that followed rinsed the gunk from the air, gave the thirsty earth a drink, and churned the waters of the lake into a boil the strippers couldn't match. Sweet Rose became a cave as the storm blotted out the sun, a cave with a rolling floor. Grace looked frightened. "Don't fear the storm, sweet Grace. Enjoy it," I said, standing and spinning in a circle with my hands extended like wings. She laughed at my antics, and I could see the tension in her eyes soften until lightning flashed and cracked when it hit the water nearby, immediately followed by the deafening explosion of thunder. "Take the wheel," she said to me. "I'm going below." I grinned. "Head-in-the-sand syndrome, huh?" "Don't tease," she said. "I'll go with her," James said. "Keep the bow pointed into the storm, but stay well away from the shore." "Aye, aye, captain, my captain," I said with a grin and set my skipper's hat on my head. He laughed and followed Grace down the hatch. He'd fuck her, I knew. While the storm raged, and I pointed the bow into the wind, my new friend would fuck my sister... or she'd fuck him. No, he'd be doing the fucking. The storm had cowed my sister. She'd want to be protectively covered as they rolled with the storm-tossed waves, thrusting against each other, holding tight as they experienced the clouds and the rain, both literally and metaphorically. My cock lengthened in my trunks. Curiously, the mental image I conjured wasn't James covering and fucking Grace on the V-berth below. It was the kiss Deanna had given Grace to say a temporary goodbye — a lover's kiss. Oh, the images that kiss provoked! I groaned with passion as my fist squeezed my hard-on. I wouldn't be interrupted, not for a while, I knew, so I fished my erection out of my trunks and stroked it as I pointed Sweet Rose into the wind. Keeping her well away from the shore. Old habits die hard — so to speak. The solitary climax was... pleasant. 5 I had become the extra spoke. No, more like a thorn in their sides, I thought with a grin as I recalled the many times I'd interrupted a kiss, a grope, or both. Never purposefully, of course, but then I didn't make any extraordinary efforts to avoid interrupting them either. Humph! Avoiding them would've been near impossible. It appeared that James and Grace couldn't get enough of each other. That would change the next day when Deanna joined them again. I was curious to see if the time James and Grace spent alone without Deanna would change the dynamics of the threesome. I backed Sweet Rose into her slip without a whisper as James hopped to the pier to tie her down. "Hey," I said, "I'm getting good at driving our boat." "Yeah, you are," Grace said and gave my butt an affectionate pat. We'd returned to the marina to dine at the Rainbow Room, a glass-walled restaurant at the lodge that offered a spectacular view of Wahweap Bay. While I checked the menu the hostess had left me, I found it curious that the restaurant seemed to move as if it were on water like Sweet Rose. I grinned. "I think I still have my sea legs, whatever that means." "I know what you mean. I feel like I'm still on the boat," Grace said. James chuckled. We ordered steaks and baked potatoes that came loaded with everything. I ate like the growing boy I was. James sipped scotch. Grace drank white wine. I quaffed IBC Root Beer and smiled at Grace. Her eyes shined and she returned my smile. "You're living a little, little brother," she said. "And I'm getting a kick out of how much you're enjoying our vacation." "Likewise," I said. "I have a question," James said. "It's personal and probably out of line, but I feel compelled to ask it anyway. Have the two of you been lovers?" "Oh, yeah," I said. "Brent!" Grace said, looking utterly scandalized. "You know that's not true." I smiled. "James, we've been lovers for years, but not in the biblical sense. We've done no begatting, or even practiced begatting, but I love her and she loves me." Grace blushed and sighed. "That's true." James chuckled and shook his head with wonder. "Love is inexplicable," I said. "It's outside the jurisdiction of control. Love happens or it doesn't. Weird." I paused. "But wonderful, too." Neither dining companion spoke. I broke the silence. "Mary told me that Grace and I are like gray wolves. We're mated for life, but the accident of our births disallows the sexual expression of our love." "Mary said that!" Grace exclaimed. "Yes, not in those exact words, but close. She also said that our connection is so entangled, even convoluted, that we don't and can't give parts of us to others." "She's very insightful," James said. "Yes, but also wrong. In the past, Grace and I haven't given parts of ourselves to others, but we can in the future. That inexplicable love I mentioned earlier has to happen, though, and unlike wolves who mate for life, the human capacity for love knows no bounds, so it's possible I can love you, Grace, and still love another woman with all my heart and mind like I love you." I smiled. "As an example, James and Deanna love each other, but they invited you into their loving circle." "For sex, not love," Grace said. "I wonder," I replied and looked at James. He said nothing. I looked at Grace. "Tell him." She shook her head, her fear-filled eyes darting from me to James and back to me. James's eyes widened, which made me laugh. "Love just happens, James. It's beyond our ability to control, at least that's what happened to me. The night before Mary and Deanna left for Phoenix, I was lying wide-awake in bed with Mary asleep next to me. My mind was going a mile a minute when I suddenly realized that I loved Mary. The emotion washed over me like a morning mist." "You love Mary!" Grace said, her voice sounding shocked but happy. "Yes. I haven't told her yet, so mums the word." "Of course! You should be the one to tell her," Grace said. "Oh, I'm so happy for you." She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth, backing away when the embrace threatened to deepen. "For Mary, too," she added. When Grace composed herself, I said, "If you're lucky enough to experience it, the first awareness of love is awesome. Sometimes the blush of love happens without offering a glimpse to the consciousness that it infects. For me, that's how it happened with my love for you, Grace. I never recognized the moment I fell in love with you, not the second, the hour or the day. That I loved you couldn't be denied, but the moment love happened eluded me. Not so with my love for Mary. I felt it happen. The sensations the emotion evoked weren't acute, like an orgasm, for example, but still, they were infinitely more powerful and abiding. I was awed not only by the sensations of new love but also with the realization that I loved you no less, Grace. Isn't that amazing?" They sat speechless. I took Grace's hand in mine, turned it and kissed her palm. "It is my sincerest wish that what happened to me will happen to you." I gazed into her tear-misted eyes. "If it hasn't happened already." The brief nod she gave me could be seen, but James's eyes were on me, so he didn't see the acknowledgement Grace had given me. ------- That was Wednesday evening. We stayed in the slip that night and went to Page the next morning to stock up on drinks and groceries. We also purchased what we'd need to baby-proof the boat (I left that chore to Grace), and I shopped life vests for infants, buying a Mustang Lil' Infant USCG Type II PFD. PFD is short for personal flotation device, by the way. Over lunch in Page, Grace and I decided to buy our own jet skis rather than rent them every time we came to the lake. We settled on two Kawasaki Jet Ski STX-15Fs. With their fuel-injected, four-stroke engines and racing-inspired hulls, they could be turned aggressively and still provide high-speed stability. Each jet ski could carry three passengers, and we could use them for wake boarding instead of Sweet Rose, a feature that really appealed to me. We paid for the machines with debit cards, and the dealer promised to deliver them at the marina the next day at noon. Back at Wahweap, I rented dry storage space where we'd leave the jet skis when we weren't at the lake. "For the trips back and forth to Page, we should store your pickup here, too, little brother," Grace said. "Which means I'd need a new truck for Phoenix." With a chuckle, I said, "You know Pete was right. A boat is a hole in the water in which you pour money." "Are you complaining?" she asked. "Not at all. I love Sweet Rose. I can hardly wait to push down her throttles, feel her bow rise as we accelerate, and then feel all the tension in me melt away as her bow planes down." She grinned. "That happens to you, too, huh?" "Yep." ------- Mary walked off the aircraft with Little Bundle in her arms. The baby was awake, her dark eyes drinking in the sights around her. When she saw me, she started to squirm, holding out her little arms from me to take her. "Bent, Bent," she said. I melted. She knew me! Knew my name! "Little Bundle's got you pegged, Brent, my bent brother," Grace said and hooted with laughter. What did I do? I took the baby, gave her mother a quick hello kiss, and soon had Little Bundle laughing out loud. "Little tart," Mary muttered. "You'll be sorry for that," I said to Mary. "Wait till I get you alone. It'll be love pat after love pat." She grinned. "Promises, promises, that's all I get." With an arm around Mary and Little Bundle cradled in my other arm, we trooped after the rest of the crew. James had one arm around Deanna and his other arm around Grace. Not that it was a bad place before, but suddenly my world seemed a better place, brighter, happier. Pleasant. A shuttle bus took us to Wahweap. We chatted en route. Deanna had introduced Mary to the judge, and he'd introduced her to the keeper of the translator list. Mary had impressed the woman, and Mary's name had been added to the list. "Ms. Collins told me to plan on translating one or two days a week, Brent," Mary said, obviously excited. I gave her an enthusiastic smile. "It's a start." "A good start. Ms. Collins also said if some of the men and women like my work that they'd probably hire me privately outside the courts when they needed translation services. Guess what else I did?" "What?" "Took two more shooting lessons. The next time we shoot, I bet I get a better score than you." I snorted. "As pitiful as I am with a pistol, you probably didn't need more lessons to beat me." "Who's your instructor?" James asked. "Tom Burger at the Ben Avery Shooting Facility," Mary said. James nodded. "A good instructor but stuck on only one way to shoot. I'll go with you guys for your next lesson. Maybe I can give you some pointers that will tighten your groupings." I laughed. "What groupings? I'd need a shotgun to get a grouping. Which is to say that when it comes to shooting, I'll accept any and all help. Thanks, James." At the boat, we stowed away Deanna and Mary's luggage — mostly baby paraphernalia, I noticed — and Mary inspected our baby-proofing efforts, giving us a large smile and a thumbs-up. We cast off, and I pulled Sweet Rose out of our slip. When the bow planed down and stress melted away, James and Deanna slipped below deck. I raised an eyebrow at Grace. She laughed. "A reunion should be private." "Promises, promises," Mary whispered as she teased my ear, teasing me. Instead of love pats, I'd give Mary love taps, I resolved. Tap, tap, tap on her G-spot. I'd yet to make Mary squirt. Yep, it was time to turn her into a sweating husk of orgasmic tremors, one after the other, until she didn't know whether to plead for mercy or beg me to never stop. ------- I can be quiet, she'd said, and she was — then. Not now. "I can't believe it!" Mary said. "Oh, Brent! I'm coming again!" She'd shouted the last few words. Thin fluid squirted, dousing my mouth and face. The bedding was soaked with her sweat and orgasmic juices. Tap, tap, tap went my fingers. "Oh, no, not again!" she cried a minute later. "I'll die. No! Don't stop! Don't ever stop!" More shouts. More squirts. She'd been on an orgasmic plateau for an hour, maybe longer. I'd lost track of how many times she'd climaxed, but they were hitting her every few minutes. Lick, lick, tap, tap, tap. Her throbbing clitoris received the tongue licks. My fingers tapped her G-spot. She's a coming machine, I thought. I'd been waiting for the big one, the mother of all orgasms, but the intensity of each of her climaxes had remained almost level for the last half-hour. Not that they were weak. They were very powerful. Each orgasm wracked her lithe body, stiffened her muscles, and twisted her exotic, beautiful face into concentrated grimaces. Then it hit me. Perhaps she'd been having the mother of all orgasms, one after the other, over and over again. "Again!" she huffed. "Oh, Brent! It's happening again!" When her wasted body quivered and then stiffened, I covered her and pushed my stiff cock into her wet heat. We had a problem, though. I wasn't close to an orgasm, and she'd just finished one of many, probably her last. My cock couldn't tap with a come-hither motion, and she had to be completely exhausted. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Fuck me!" she screamed when her orgasm gave up its grip and released her so she could move again. She wrapped her slim legs around my thighs and met my pile-driving thrusts with raised hips. Her arms went around my neck, and she kissed me hard. "Perfect!" she said as she changed the angle of her hips so my mound and cock rubbed her clitoris. Her moans became loud again, and almost continuous. I'd believed she'd collapse. Not my Mary. I don't know why I was so surprised. She was fucking me hard and reaching for a clitoral climax. Her staying power astonished me. "Can you come again?" I huffed between full, powerful thrusts. "Yes! Don't stop! Perfect! I can feel it gathering, Brent. Yes!" I clenched my ass muscles and felt my orgasm gather. Could we climax together? "Coming!" she screamed. "Come in me! Now!" I buried my shaft in her fluttering cunt and spewed semen into her. I didn't rear back and thrust again. As her waving hips demanded more, I just held on tight. I also spurted again, and then again, giving her what she demanded. Mary was coming with me. We'd climaxed together, and I recognized that I'd been wrong before. She hadn't had a series of big ones. The mother of all orgasms had just hit her. She screamed and all the muscles in her body went completely rigid. As she quivered and shook, her legs and arms and hands held me like a vise. And then she went limp. All at once. I looked down at her and smiled. Sensory overload. She'd passed out. When I recovered from my climax, she was still out, so I padded naked to the head. After I gave myself a quick wash, I wet a cloth and grabbed some towels. When I opened the door, Grace was standing in front of me. "What did you do to her?" she asked looking concerned. Worried or not, her eyes roamed over my naked flesh, pausing briefly on my flaccid cock. "She's fine," I said with a grin. "Too many climaxes. That's all." Grace shook her head, turned and walked away, climbing the stairs to go topside. In the mid-stateroom, I lifted Mary's pretty backside and spread a towel under her so she wouldn't wake up in a wet spot. Then I started to wash her a section at a time, starting with her beautiful face, wiping away her sweat with the damp washcloth and toweling her dry. She came around as I finished her torso. "That feels wonderful," she said, her voice quiet again. I started on her legs. She didn't help, just watched me as I lifted and wiped and used the towel. "You're so gentle," she said. "I love that about you. I love a lot of things about you. Plain and simple, I just love you." "Are you ready to talk about us?" I asked as I washed a foot. "No, not beyond saying that I love you and that I won't run like Pete." "May I talk about us?" I asked and washed her other foot. "I don't know. If what you want to say will hurt, my answer is no. If what you say will let us remain together, go ahead." I dropped the washcloth and towels and stretched out next to her. "Look at me, ' I said and stifled a laugh. "Take that worried look off your pretty face. What I have to say is a good thing. At least, I believe it's good. Okay?" She smiled and nodded, and then gave me a quick kiss. "Okay," she said. Suddenly I reverted to the teenager I was. I didn't know where to start. Finally, I decided a question would get us started and move us in the direction I wanted to go. "When did you fall in love with me? Do you know the moment, that second in time when love happened for you?" "Yes." "Tell me about that moment." "I wasn't not in love with you one second and then in love with you the next second, Brent, but the realization that I was in love with you happened at your show in San Francisco. We'd made our grand entrance, and I was feeling like a princess for the first time in my life, and you were my prince, but that wasn't the moment. Love happened for me when I stood in front of one of your paintings. That was the moment I knew that you were fated for greatness, and that I wanted you to share your future with me. That was the moment I gave over all that I am and all I will ever be to you." Tears misted in her lovely, dark eyes. "Now you've done it. You made me talk about us. I wasn't ready because you're not ready to hear how much I love you. You'll run from me, or push me away. I know you will." She buried her face in the crook of my shoulder and started to cry. I wrapped her in my arms. "You're wrong. Would you like to hear about the moment I fell in love with you?" Her body stiffened, and she jerked her face from my neck to look into my eyes. "You love me?" "Yes." "Really? You love me?" I couldn't help it. I laughed softly. "Yes." "What about Grace?" "I love her, too. I always will. As you said, Grace and I are like a couple of gray wolves. We're mated for life. But we're not wolves. We're human beings, and humans have the capacity to love. Gray wolves mate for life from instinct, not love. I don't' know what damned fool decreed that a man could only love one woman, or a woman could only love one man, but he was wrong. Love isn't limited. We see evidence of unlimited love around us everyday. You love Little Bundle with all your heart, mind and soul. Yet you love me, and don't try to tell me that loving your child is different than loving me. Love is an emotion, and perhaps we can experience degrees of love, a little or a lot, but love is love, Mary, and I love you." She gazed into my eyes, searching for love or subterfuge, I guessed. She must have seen love shining from them because her lips curled into a soft smile, and the love emanating from her eyes wrapped me closer than her arms could ever achieve. "Yes," she said so softly I could barely hear her. "You do love me." ------- When Mary and I finally returned topside, Grace grabbed her and said, "We need to talk." My sister pulled her below. Carrying Little Bundle, Deanna followed them. James shook his head. "Good buddy, either you are the greatest lover of all time, or Mary is the most orgasmic woman of all time, but in either case, you just raised the stud bar so high I can't begin to leap it." I didn't smile because he was frowning. "Blame Mary, not me," I said. He shook his head again. "No woman can climax that many times." "Mary is exceptional, I'll admit, but not that far from the norm. You can do to Deanna and Grace what I just did to Mary." "How?" I said nothing. Could I describe the process to a man? A friend? "If you don't tell me, I'll hurt you," he said and smiled. I laughed. "Okay. You know about the G-spot. Right?" "Yes." I went on to describe the process in as clinical of terms as I could. To do otherwise would have been too embarrassing for both of us. "It might take a little practice, and timing is important, but if you're persistent and the woman is cooperative, success will follow." He shook his head again. "Don't take this wrong. I'm not saying it out of anger, like Pete. I'm in awe, Brent. You're sixteen..." "Almost seventeen," I said, interrupting him. "Whatever. You're a teenager, for crissake. Where the hell did you learn about G-spot orgasms and orgasmic plateaus?" It was time to set the record straight with my friend. Would he accept what I had to say, or would he think I was lying? Worse, would he believe me but think of me as a freak of nature and want to put some distance between us? "I learned about sex and much more during my immediate past life when I lived as a woman named Jane Wilson. She was promiscuous and bisexual, and most of what I know about sex, I gleaned from my memories of that life. She was also an accomplished artist, James. That's when I learned about painting. I know about forging iron and other metals from my life as Josh Randall, the short life I lived immediately before Jane Wilson's body accepted and harbored my soul. Before Randall, from approximately 1845 to 1900, I lived as a Chinese man named Fang Hong. I was a Shaolin monk during that life. Fang bequeathed the Chinese languages and Kung Fu to me." I stopped speaking and waited. His eyes left mine, and he stared out over the water toward the red cliffs in the distance. Finally, he said, "I guess you weren't shitting me the day we met when you told me that you'd learned Cantonese and Mandarin in a past life during the 19th Century." "No, I told you the truth. Do you believe me?" He didn't speak for a few seconds. "Yes," he said, finally. "Good. Knowing this about me, can we remain friends?" Again, he hesitated. "Yes, of course, perhaps closer friends than before," he said and then turned to me. "I couldn't truly get past your age before, Brent. You just shattered that obstacle into a million pieces." He shook his head. "That is, bar none, the most astonishing story I've ever heard, but I believe you, so if you've been putting me on, say so now, because if I find out you lied to me later, we're finished as friends." "I told you the truth, James. If you think about it, no other explanation makes sense. I'm sixteen, but mature well beyond my years because, in truth, I'm over 150 years old. I paint as if I've been an artist for fifty years. My anvil work is reminiscent of a blacksmith's. I speak Cantonese and Mandarin as the languages were spoken in the 19th Century, and I haven't had a sifu for Kung Fu, not in this life, yet I can spar with a Kung Fu master and win. I'm expert with wushu weapons because they were the weapons of my time and place when I lived as Fang Hong." I paused and when he didn't speak, I said, "My memories of past lives don't extend back before Fang Hong, but it's possible that another set of memories belonging to someone who lived before Fang could start entering my mind. Whether this new set of memories would be useful to me in this life, I can't say, but I would try to honor that life in some way, like I honor Jane Wilson, Josh Randall and Fang Hong." He asked questions. I answered them, if I could. I felt our friendship deepen, and reveled in the feeling. James was becoming a true friend. Like Agnes. I wondered if Agnes enjoyed boating. I'd have to ask her. When the ladies returned from below, Deanna said, "You need to talk to Brent about..." "G-spots and orgasmic plateaus. I have. We'll experiment later, but that's nothing. Brent just told me when he learned about sex and all the other amazing things he does." Which forced me to tell Deanna about my past lives. I didn't mind, and in the end, she believed me and didn't consider me a freak of nature. ------- Chapter 15 We all swam ashore at dawn for tai chi, and James and I sparred while the ladies prepared breakfast. When we finished, they applauded our efforts and flashed their tits from afar. We fished; we did some water-boarding behind our new jet skis, and we explored Lake Powell. Mary and I made love often, and James and Deanna, or James and Grace, or all three of them went below for privacy from time to time, and the three of them slept together at night in the V-berth. James must have got the hang of G-spot tapping I'd told him about, because on two occasions, once with Deanna and the other time with Grace, the ladies' enthusiasm and appreciation were too loud to be missed or ignored. Late one afternoon, I was taking a nap in the mid-stateroom when voices awakened me. We were at anchor, and Mary was topside with Little Bundle. I thought James, Grace and Deanna were out zipping around the lake on our new jet skis. I was mistaken. "You're falling in love with him, aren't you?" Deanna said. I assumed that she was speaking to my sister. "No, I'm not falling in love, Deanna. I am in love," Grace said, verifying my assumption. "For me love happened while you were in Phoenix. I'm sorry, but as my brother says, love defies control. It just happens. For what it's worth, James isn't in love with me, and..." "About that, you're wrong," Deanna said. "Huh?" "I know James. I know him in every way. He hasn't said anything, but he loves you. Would you like to know how I know?" Grace said nothing. Perhaps she nodded. I couldn't see them. The privacy screen was closed. "Because he treats you like he treats me, looks at you like he looks at me," Deanna said. I listened to a few seconds of silence. Finally, Grace spoke. "I'm sorry, Deanna. I didn't plan for this to happen, and the last thing I'd ever do is get between the two of you or to take him away from you. I'll fly back to Scottsdale this afternoon." "You'll do no such thing. This is your boat. I'll do the leaving if any leaving is necessary. Do you want me to leave?" "No! I'll back off. I'll..." "You won't do that either, Grace. Think about what I said. I said James treats you like he treats me, looks at you like he looks at me. I didn't say he'd stopped treating and looking at me with love. He loves us both, Grace. I can live with that. Can you?" My sister didn't hesitate. "Yes," she said. "Okay, there's something else we need to talk about." "What?" Grace asked. "Us. You and me." I heard the sound of a kiss, and then a small moan. The moan was my sister's. "I'm not in love with you," Deanna said. "Not yet, but I want you. Grace, my daydreams, my fantasies, since James and I invited you to join us have been about you." "You were my first with a woman, Deanna." Grace moaned again. "Yes, right there. Oh, your touch is so sensuous. As I was saying, you were my first with another woman, and I loved it. I'm happy you want me, because I sure do want you." You can't do this, I told myself. You can't lie here and listen to Deanna and Grace make love. That wouldn't be right. Making a lot of noise and taking my time, I rolled my feet to the floor and opened the privacy screen. Rubbing my eyes, I said, "Hello, ladies. I thought I heard voices." I strode to the head and washed my face. They were lying on the V-berth talking when I stepped out of the head. The privacy screen was still open. I waved at them and went topside. Mary was sitting, holding Little Bundle's hands. The baby was standing, looking mighty proud of herself. I sat heavily on the bench seat, and Little Bundle let go of Mary's hands and took three tentative steps toward me on her own. I pulled her up and tossed her into the air. She squealed with pleasure. "She's walking," I said to Mary as I cuddled the toddler. "Yep," Mary said with a grin. I slid over next to Mary and said, "I have something I need to talk with you about. It has to do with your father's partner." I explained what Clarence Kitt, the private investigator in San Francisco, had uncovered. "The accounting audit confirmed my suspicions. Your father's partner is a crook, Mary. I want your permission for me to file suit on your behalf to recover what he embezzled plus other damages." Mary's eyes danced with anger. "I'll do the suing, not you, Brent. Damn him! Damn him to hell!" She jumped up and started to pace the deck, muttering more curses under her breath, some of them in Cantonese. I laughed. "God, you're beautiful when you're pissed. A tigress!" My laughter, my words took the edge off her anger. She sat next to me again, and I took her hand in mine. "Before you call a lawyer, consider the possibility that your father's partner... what's his name. I forget." "Milton fucking Tucker." I laughed. "Yeah, that's the man. Consider the possibility that Tucker hired those five men who murdered your parents and left you for dead. If he did, if he's that evil, and you file a civil suit against him, he might hire those same men or others to finish the job. I'm not saying he hired those men, Mary. My investigator didn't find an ounce of evidence that connects him to those men, but if your father discovered Tucker's theft, it's reasonable to assume that Tucker saw your father's death as a solution." She listened to me carefully. Then she turned from me and lowered her face into her hands. She started to cry, but not great heaving sobs. She cried softly. Her unhappiness disturbed Little Bundle, and the little girl slid off my lap and walked to her mother, patting her mother's knee just before she fell hard on her diaper-padded backside. Disappointed with herself for falling and upset because her mother was crying, Little Bundle started to cry, too. Mary gathered Joy into her arms and held her close. Little Bundle stopped crying immediately, and Mary soon followed her daughter's lead. Mary held Joy in front of her so the girl could stand in her lap. "I'm going to put us in danger, Joy. I have to. I don't have a choice. I must honor my parents, your grandparents. I'm going to sue my father's partner for every dime he has and every dollar he'll ever make, and if he sends those vile men after me again, your mother will shoot them dead." Mary turned to me. "Will you help me?" "Sure. I and my trusty cudgel are at your disposal." Mary grinned. "God, I love you." ------- Jane Wilson was bisexual with a preference for men, but her longest love affair was with a woman. They were living together when Jane was killed. Jane cheated on the woman, not with another woman, though, always with a man. Different men, too. Jane was like Sherry Crane. She needed an occasional cock fix. She didn't want a relationship with the man, just a little afternoon's delight, as Agnes put it regarding Sherry, so Jane jumped from man to man. Targets of opportunity, if you will. Dr. Crane said that Jane was a product of the free-love era, and she was, but the era was misnamed. It should have been called the free-sex era. The era, like Jane, didn't resolve the love/sex issue; it exacerbated it, lumped the emotion with the physical act and made them one. The concepts of fidelity and cheating also lump the two together. Had James and Deanna's open relationship resolved these issues? Deanna came up from below and sat next to me. I occupied the captain's chair. We were cruising upriver toward Hall's Crossing and Bullfrog Marina to check them out. "Penny for your thoughts," Deanna said. I laughed. "Too cheap." "How about a nickel?" "Perfect. A penny for each subject: bisexuality in women, love, sex, fidelity and cheating." "Whew! Weighty subjects. I thought you were on vacation." "My art tends to capture my mind when not on vacation. Vacation time gives my mind free reign to explore other subjects. I told you about Jane Wilson, the woman I was in my immediate past life." "The artist?" "Yes. She was also bisexual with a preference for men, but her longest love affair was with another woman." "That explains your open mind about a lot of things," Deanna said. "As you probably know, I'm bisexual. What you probably don't know is my preference is for women." "You're right. I didn't know that." "Did your sister's bisexuality surprise you?" she asked. "Yes. I think it surprised her, too." Deanna shook her head. "I don't think so." "Really?" I said, a little shocked. "Really what?" Mary said as she stepped on deck from below. Deanna filled her in on our conversation. "Deanna's right, Brent. Grace has always known she's bisexual." With a small laugh, Mary added, "At least since puberty swooped down on her and gave her sexual urges." I frowned and said to Deanna, "I thought you were Grace's first with a woman." She chuckled. "Suspicions confirmed. You did hear some of our conversation yesterday. Yes, I was her first with a woman in some ways. You'll need to hear the rest from Grace." I shook my head. I'd believed I knew everything important to know about my sister. I'd been mistaken. Then Mary blew my mind. "Ah, Brent," Mary said. "For what it's worth, I'm bisexual, as well." If I'd been driving a car instead of the boat, I'd have run it off the road. Deanna laughed gaily and stood up. "Sit here, Mary. I'll leave the two of you to discuss your startling revelation." She went below, and Mary took the seat next to me. Mary grinned. "Shocked you, huh?" "Surprised me would be more accurate." "Does my... ah, revelation upset you?" "No. Don't forget. I was a bisexual woman in a past life." I turned to her. "From what you said, I take it that you and Grace have discussed your bisexuality and hers. Does Grace turn you on?" "Oh, my, yes!" She grinned again. "Do you excite her?" "I believe I do, yes." "What about Deanna? Are you attracted to her?" "Yes. Beautiful women excite me like they do you, Brent. Handsome men also excite me, more than women because I'm like your Jane Wilson. Men are my sexual preference." She leaned and brushed my lips with hers. "You specifically. Like Grace, I discovered my bisexuality during puberty while experimenting with girlfriends. Unlike Grace, I accepted my attraction to other girls and acted on that attraction by enthusiastically doing everything two girls can do with each other." She chuckled. "But for my preference for men, I'd have become a LUG in college." "LUG?" "Lesbian until graduation." "Oh." "Then five brutal men raped me, beat me and left me for dead. After that terrible experience, until I met you, I'd stopped being attracted to men. I'd look at a handsome man and shake with revulsion." She took my hand in hers and squeezed it. "You saved me, Brent. Your gentle patience and understanding helped me return to the way I was before that awful night." She raised my hand and kissed it. "Thank you for that." I grinned. "Are you saying, because of me, that you can now look at handsome men and get excited?" "Yep." I emitted a fake groan of dismay. "Talk about shooting myself in the foot." "Hardly, you're the only man I'll have sex with for the rest of my life." She chuckled. "However, like you with beautiful women, I check out handsome men. More importantly, I feel urges again while checking them out, urges that I'd believe were lost to me. You helped make me feel... normal, again. You can't imagine how important feeling normal is to me." "Sure I can. With the memories of my past lives, I'm abnormal. There have been times when I craved normalcy, and except for a few individuals I feel very close to, I keep my memories secret because I fear, in part, being considered a freak because of them." "That's silly. You're an alpha male because of them, not a freak." I raised an eyebrow. "Think about what you just said, Mary. A sixteen-year-old boy should not be considered an alpha male by a twenty-something woman. That's... well, it's freakish." She laughed. "Maybe." "Back to your urges. You said Grace excites you, and you excite her. Why didn't you or Grace act on your urges?" She shook her pretty head. "Urges are one thing; acting on them is another matter. Besides, Grace was still fighting her bisexuality, and I fell in love with you." "You're lumping love and sex together," I said. "Yep. I'm not the free thinker that James and Deanna are. Grace, too, I guess. If I love someone, man or woman, they'll have my fidelity." I said nothing. "Can you say the same?" Mary asked. "I don't know is the honest answer," I said without hesitating. Surprisingly undisturbed by my answer, she nodded. Then she cocked her head and smiled. "Little Bundle is awake." She stood up and went below. The extrasensory connection between Mary and her daughter never ceased to amaze me. I'd heard nothing, but then with my tinnitus, perhaps my poor hearing failed to pickup the faint sounds of a baby waking up below deck. No, I'd stay with the extrasensory-connection explanation. It was just as valid and more interesting. ------- We'd dropped anchor in Bullfrog Bay for the night when the sound of a ringing telephone shattered our conversation and appreciation of a star-studded night sky. "Oh, no," Deanna muttered. James rose to his feet and went below. I didn't know he'd brought a cell phone with him. That the phone worked on the lake surprised me, too. My cell phone didn't. "What's the problem?" I asked Deanna. "That's his satellite phone. His agent is calling him. No one else has the number." "Agent?" Grace said. "Yes. Like an actor, James has an agent who arranges protection or retrieval contracts for him. When that phone rings, within a very short time, James leaves to help someone somewhere in the world." "Retrieval?" Mary said. "That's what James calls some of the contracts he takes," Deanna said. "He goes in and retrieves someone who has been kidnapped, abducted, or held hostage. That's how I met him. I'm conflicted every time he takes an assignment. If it's a protection contract, he'll most likely be gone for two weeks to two months. One protection gig lasted six months. During a protection contract he keeps someone from harm, sort of like the Secret Service with the President of the United States. If it's a retrieval contract, he usually won't be gone as long, but the odds that he won't return at all go up exponentially because at the end of most retrieval assignments he will face the guns of the abductors." "Oh! Oh, my!" Grace exclaimed. She hugged herself. "I don't like that." Deanna chuckled. "Neither do I, but that's what he does, what defines him as a man, and because I've been a captive he retrieved, I appreciate what he does more than most. What's really frustrating to me is the fact that I don't hear from him at all while he's gone. I don't know where he is or when he'll return. Then suddenly, my doorbell rings. I open the door, and he says, 'Hi, baby.'" She paused. "It's frustrating, but I love him, so I throw my arms around him, kiss him silly, and invite him back into my life." James came up through the hatch. "We'll need to weigh anchor, Brent. You can drop me off at Bullfrog Marina. A helicopter will pick me up there in an hour." "A retrieval, huh?" Deanna said. James nodded and smiled. "In and out. I won't be gone long." Grace gasped. The sudden tears in her eyes sparkled in the starlight. James ignored her and said, "Brent, Mary, you know what I do for a living. I make no secret about being a protector, but I rarely elaborate as I have with you. There are good reasons for this, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't spread the word." "Of course," I said. "I promise," Mary said. "Deanna, Grace, would you help me pack?" James said. The three of them went below, leaving Mary and me alone. "That's scary," Mary said. "Yeah. I don't know why, but until this moment, I hadn't realized just how dangerous James's profession is. I knew he retrieved Deanna, killing her four kidnappers in the process, but for some reason, that he faced their guns didn't sink in. And I suspect I'm not the only one who failed to fully understand the peril he confronts in the course of his work. Grace was as shocked as I." "Me, too." A little later, James approached me privately and gave me a piece of paper. "If Walter Bell takes any action at all, call that number. State my Chinese name and your name, outline the situation, and appropriate help will arrive within hours. If you don't have an hour or two, call the police. That's the best I can do until I return, Brent." "I understand, and thanks." "Deanna doesn't have that number." "I'll keep the number confidential." "That would be best. During my absence, will you include Deanna in the sphere of your protection?" "Certainly." "Thank you. Because of my work and the way I am, I don't have many friends. Brent, I count you among them." "Likewise." Awkwardly, we gave each other a manly hug. After James's departure, boating and Lake Powell temporarily lost its appeal. We put Sweet Rose in her slip at Wahweap Marina and flew to Scottsdale Saturday afternoon, a day earlier than planned. ------- I painted and did some anvil work for Agnes. Grace started her third novel. Mary had her first gig as a translator for the courts, and Deanna did whatever she did for the judge. Grace worried about James. Deanna, too, but she was more acclimated to his silent absences. I memorized the phone number he gave me and flushed the piece of paper with the number down the toilet. I also tried, unsuccessfully, to keep track of everyone. They were, after all, under my protection. On Monday, with Mary on the phone with me, I called Jack Stark, my San Francisco attorney, and briefed him on my findings regarding Milton Tucker's fraudulent activity with the import/export business that Mary's father had owned jointly with Tucker. Then I set up a conference call with Mary and me, Jack Stark, Clarence Kitt, and Bob Kidrick, the accountant Clarence had hired. Clarence and the accountant agreed to meet with Jack and layout in detail what they'd uncovered. Jack told me he'd call after the meeting, but on the surface it sounded like Mary had a good case. Jack called on Wednesday and said the case was a no-brainer, and after we discussed Jack's fees and court costs, Mary instructed him to file the civil suit. Mary and I spent time everyday at the shooting range. She was serious about learning how to protect herself and her baby. After Tom Burger found out that her life might be in jeopardy now, not some time in the nebulous future, he gave her some lessons with a shotgun, and Mary purchased a Remington 11-87 Police "Entry gun" with a fourteen inch barrel and standard magazine. The Remington 11-87 is a gas-operated, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, twelve-gauge shotgun. The magazine holds five rounds in an under-barrel tube. "This sucker kicks like a mule, Brent, but I don't care," Mary told me as she rubbed her shoulder. "If those men come after me, I won't have to aim. I'll just point and pull the trigger." I purchased two identical shotguns, one for my house and one for the studio. Mary and her daughter were with me at one place of the other much of the time. Little Bundle liked my studio, especially the stairs to the loft apartment. I got a kick out of her climbing the stairs backwards, scooting up from one tread to the next on her little behind. She refused to try going down the stairs, and would make noises when she wanted help, and I'd go to her rescue. Mary said I spoiled her rotten. I suppose I did. I also purchased three sabers, one for each location. "So I can spar with them," I told Mary. I didn't fool her, and secretly, she approved. Because the four of us met at dawn at our house for tai chi, Mary often ended up spending the night with me, with Little Bundle in a crib in the guestroom. Deanna also spent some nights with Grace, supposedly for the same reason. On Thursday after Mary left for her second translation gig at the court, and Deanna left to do her thing for the judge, I helped Grace clean up the breakfast mess, and we talked. "Have you noticed that no one uses the master bedroom?" I said. "Yeah. I can't. Can you?" "Nope. That's Mom and Dad's room. Always has been. Always will be. How would you feel about selling this house and buying or building a new one?" She said nothing. I waited. "Are we talking dream house?" she said, finally. This might be interesting, I thought. "Yep, dream house." "A house with two master suites," she said. "I'll design my master suite, and you can design yours, and they should be at opposite ends of the house. And I'd want a kitchen that would make a master chef envious. I'd also want a casita, a little outbuilding, for my library and writing. Brent, I'm burning my last book, but I'm getting better. By the time I finish college I will be a published novelist. I want the casita because I can't concentrate when you or others are bumping around the house." She snorted. "It's the hostess in me, or rather the hostess that Mom conditioned to be in me." "I agree with everything you've said so far, especially about the outbuilding for a library and writing studio," I said. "What else?" "Writing studio, huh," she said and laughed. "What about your studio? Would you want it on the property?" "Yes. We're talking dreams, right?" "Yes." "Then I'd want to include an adjoining studio for Agnes with enough land for a sculpture garden." "Really?" "Yeah. I don't know if she'd be interested. If she isn't, I'd need my own forge." I grinned. "And a loft apartment." Grace laughed. "We're talking acreage, Brent, not a building lot." "I suppose we are. I'd want it walled and gated for privacy and security." She hugged herself. "A nice dream." "Yeah, too much, too soon, but we can scale it down for now. I'll keep my current studio, but I want you to have your writing studio, and two master suites are a must. Grace, Mary will design my master suite, not me." My sister's smile lit up the kitchen like a new sun brightened the desert floor. Then all the joy left her face. "He'll be fine," I said, referring to James. She understood whom I meant. "Easy for you to say, but that he might not come back to me wasn't what took me down. I love him. He loves me, but... dammit, Brent, I don't really know how I fit in his world. More importantly, I don't know if he wants to fit in my world." "That'll get resolved. In the meantime, find an acre and hire an architect, and we'll build our 'scaled-down' dream house." She looked me in the eye. "You're serious." "Yep." She didn't speak for a few seconds. Finally, she said, "All right. Let's do it." ------- Heartburn saved our lives. We'd had pizza for dinner Friday night, and pizza often gives me heartburn. I'd rolled my feet to the floor to pad to the bathroom to take an Alka-Seltzer when I heard the faint sound of breaking glass. I'd installed an intrusion alarm at all the doors but not the added security at every window. Mary was in my bed, and Little Bundle was in a crib in the guest room. Grace wasn't in the house. She and Deanna had gone to a movie, and she'd called, saying that she was staying at Deanna's house that night and that they'd join us for tai chi at dawn. I debated whether to handle the intruders by myself, but discounted that approach. If I failed, Mary would need to repel them and protect Little Bundle. I grabbed the shoulder holster that held my pistol and put it over my naked torso. Then I retrieved my saber and Mary's shotgun. I kept the weapons on the top shelf in my closet well out of Little Bundle's reach. The pistol and shotgun were loaded. Then I shook Mary. Would she fall apart or stand and be counted? She fell apart — for two seconds. Then she became as steely-eyed and determined as a she-wolf defending her pup because that's what she was: a mother defending her child. She made me proud. She stood naked with a shotgun in her hands, her long, black hair mussed from sleep. A gorgeous Eurasian warrior. I couldn't resist a quick kiss and a whispered, "I love you." I opened the bedroom door and stuck my head into the hall. It was clear. I moved into the hall, stepping silently on bare feet to the guest room where Little Bundle lay sleeping. I opened the door, and Mary moved inside. I moved on down the hall to the family room. It was clear. I slipped around the furniture in the dark and moved into the living room. The intruders had broken a window in the living room, reached in and unlocked it, and then entered the house through the open window. Where had they gone from there? That's when I heard muffled sounds coming from the master-bedroom wing of the house. They'd assumed that's where one of us would be sleeping, I figured. How many intruders would I face? Five? The five violent men who killed Mary's parents and left her for dead? Or had Walter Bell sent the intruders to silence us once and for all? Perhaps it was the bomber assuming that Mary knew more than she'd told the FBI and was, accordingly, still a threat. The identity of the enemy wasn't clear, which mattered little. We were under siege. I stood in the shadows next to the start of the hall leading to the master bedroom. When the intruders found it empty, they'd return to the central part of the house. I watched a hand holding a gun precede a man out of the hall. I was tempted to take off the hand at the wrist, but I needed to know how many men I was up against before I attacked. That man stepped into the family room, and another followed him. They wore something over their eyes, which confounded me for a few seconds. Then it hit me. Night-vision goggles. An advantage I didn't enjoy. The shadows I used for concealment wouldn't hide my presence if either man turned toward me. Still, I waited. Would another man step into the family room? When one of the men started to turn toward me, I couldn't wait any longer. I took his head. The saber sliced cleanly through his neck. Although I saw his head roll off his neck and fall to the floor, although I saw a geyser of blood shoot straight up through the top of the headless torso before the body crumbled, I saw the gory sights only peripherally, because I was attacking the other intruder at the same time. He'd turned to the sounds I made and swung his weapon toward me, but my saber struck his left shoulder before he could point it directly at me. Still, when the sword struck, he pulled the trigger, spraying bullets around the room. My second strike with the sword took his hand, and the hand fell to the floor still squeezing the trigger on the automatic pistol. I felt the sting of a bullet on my lower left leg as I took the second assailant's head. I ignored the pain. As I turned to the hall, I dropped the saber and pulled the pistol from the shoulder holster. Was there another assailant? Perhaps more than one? If so, they'd be alert to my presence. I wouldn't have the advantage of surprise anymore, which made the sword all but useless. No one was in the hall. In a crouch, I held the pistol with both hands, as Tom Burger had taught me, and moved down the hall and to the master bedroom. It was empty. That's when I heard the deafening roar of a shotgun blast. I didn't throw caution to the wind, but almost, and that small effort at caution saved my life when another assailant came out of the hall that led to the other bedroom wing. We saw each other at the same time, but I was ready to shoot and he wasn't. I pulled the trigger twice. When one of the bullets struck his neck — I'd aimed for his chest — he sprayed bullets to my right from his automatic pistol as he flew backwards to the floor. He was down. I ignored him, and with my pistol gripped in front of me, I moved into the hall toward the guest room. A man was sprawled, sitting up against the hall wall in front of the guest-room door. I could see a massive wound at the center of his chest, and as I drew closer, my weapon pointed at him, I noticed his open dead eyes. For some reason, he'd pushed his night-vision goggles up onto his forehead. Little Bundle was crying. "Mary," I said. She didn't answer. "Mary!" I shouted. "Brent?" "Yes." "The shotgun blast deafened me." I moved through the door. "You're bleeding!" she exclaimed. "Not my blood," I said. "Wait here. I need to check the rest of the house. Stay alert. I'll be right back." I moved quickly but carefully from room to room in the house. It was clear. That's when I realized once again that I'd been wounded, a flesh wound, I noted. The bullet had taken only skin and a little muscle, but I was bleeding like a stuck pig. I limped back to Mary, announcing my presence so she wouldn't shoot me. "The house is clear," I said. "Bring Little Bundle. I need my cell phone. It's not likely, but Grace and Deanna might have been attacked, as well." Mary noticed my limp. "You've been shot!" "A flesh wound, nothing serious," I said as I used the speed-dial function on my phone to call Deanna. "I'll get the first-aid kit," Mary said and hurried away with Little Bundle in her arms. The child had stopped crying. The phone rang six times before Deanna answered. I'd started to worry. "What?" she said sleepily, but I could also hear anger in her voice. "Deanna, it's Brent. Are you and Grace all right?" "Yes, what... ?" "Mary and I were attacked by four men a short time ago." "Oh, no! Are you... ?" "We're fine. The two of you should come here. Before you leave, tell Grace to call the defense attorney she retained. I'll call the police. Mary and I killed the four intruders." "Hang on. Grace wants to talk with you." I heard noises, and Grace came on the line. "What happened?" "Grace, I need to call the police. Four men attacked us. Mary and I killed them. We're fine. Call that defense attorney you told me about, and drive here. Okay?" "Okay." As Mary hurried into the room with the first-aid kit, I was dialing 911. ------- The responding uniformed officers freaked out and used their radios. I don't know what they asked for, or what they said, but more uniformed officers and a half-dozen detectives in civilian clothes soon overran the house. A little later, some higher-ranking police officers showed up. A crime scene unit was called in, and the medical examiner. Ambulances showed up. The flashing lights of police cruisers cut through the dark night. Then the press invaded the neighborhood. In other words, our house became a three-ring circus the likes of which Barnum & Bailey had never seen. Headless torsos caused the fuss, I decided. The dead man shot in the neck was commonplace. The dead man with a large hole in his chest from a shotgun blast wasn't commonplace, but almost. Headless torsos were definitely unique. Mary bandaged my wound, roughly wiped the assailants' blood from my face and arms and torso, and we managed to get dressed before the police banged on the door. I let them in, told them briefly what had happened, and led them to the first two men I'd killed. That's when they freaked out. Thankfully, Grace and Deanna arrived before the hoards swooped down on us from police headquarters. Otherwise, I think they'd have been barred entry. I'd told my story to a responding officer. I told it again to one of the detectives, and when a third police officer wanted to hear it yet again, I clammed up and told him my attorney was on the way. Deloris Kerner showed up an hour later (prompt, I figured, for an attorney). She took Mary and me into Dad's home office. At my insistence, Grace and Deanna joined us, and we told her everything, and I mean everything, not just about what had happened that night, but also about what had happened to Mary and her parents, and how Milton Tucker could figure in on what had happened earlier. I told her about the bombing, and how Mary was connected with Grace and me because Mary's brother was also murdered in the bombing, and then pointed out that the bomber could be responsible for the four dead men in my house. And then we described our latest threat from Walter Bell, covering that angle in detail. "I don't know who hired those men, Ms. Kerner," I said. "They could be Milton Tucker's contract killers, or Walter Bell's, or perhaps they were associated with the cowardly bomber who killed my parents as well as Mary's brother." "Deloris, call me Deloris," she said. "What's your best guess?" "Tucker or Bell," I said. "The bomber must be feeling safe by now. Why would he endanger his current well-being by striking again?" Deloris asked Mary the same question. "Bell. The men who attacked us tonight weren't the men who killed my parents and left me for dead," Mary said. "Tucker could have hired different men," I said. Mary shrugged. "Grace, what's your best guess?" Deloris asked. "Bell," Grace said. "Deanna?" Deloris said. "Bell." Deloris shook her head with dismay. "If Walter Bell is responsible, you have a serious enemy. He's an admired icon, not only in the financial world, but also politically and socially. What's more, you no longer have an attorney. Representing you against him puts me in a conflict of interest." She turned to Grace. "He retained me before you. I'll return your retainer tomorrow." She folded up her briefcase and rose to her feet. I stood up and faced her. "If you report to Bell and repeat anything we told you this evening, I will consider you in breach of attorney/client privilege, and will do everything possible to make sure that you're disbarred." "Don't threaten me, young man," she said. "That's not a threat. It's a promise." She turned away from me to leave the room, but spun back toward me before she took her first step. "You don't know me, so I'll forgive your threat. Just know this. I take my obligation to my clients seriously. Nothing said in this room tonight will pass my lips, not to Bell, not to anyone. Understand?" I nodded. "If that's the case, I apologize. You have to remember that four armed men just invaded my house with deadly intent. Like you, I take my obligations seriously, and my prime obligation is the protection of these three women and that sleeping baby in Mary's arms. I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe, and if Bell learns that we believe he is responsible for what happened here tonight, whether he was responsible or not, he will send more men against us. We might not be as lucky next time as we were this time. Accordingly, we will not tell the police that he might be involved." I looked her in the eye. "Understand?" She nodded and left the room. I picked up my cell phone and dialed the number that James had given me, stated his Chinese name, my name, and described the situation. "What do you want from us?" the voice at the other end of the line said. "The name of a very good defense attorney that Walter Bell hasn't bought and can't buy. It's possible that Bell's power will influence the police to unjustly arrest Mary Stewart and me. In any case, I need legal advice." The man chuckled. "All right. An attorney will arrive at your residence within the hour. His name is Newton Kennedy. You can call him Newt." "Thanks." "A protector will arrive with the attorney and stay with you for the rest of the night. We'll talk again tomorrow." Dial tone. ------- Chapter 16 Newt Kennedy looked like a college professor, the absentminded kind. His thin gray hair flew wild in every direction, and his thick spectacles magnified his dark eyes. His clothes didn't fit his gangly body, and his socks didn't match. Still, when he spoke, his sonorous, calming voice removed all the concerns I'd manufactured from his appearance and gave me comfort I needed. Right or wrong, I trusted him. The protector arriving with Kennedy said his name was Rubin Perez, a pseudonym, I presumed. The name fit, though. He was Hispanic, extremely fit, and looked about thirty-five years old. He followed Kennedy into Dad's home office, and we told our story once again, adding Deloris Kerner's comments and reactions. Kennedy disagreed with my decision to keep our run-in with Bell to ourselves. "Your reasoning is flawed, Brent," Kennedy said. "What happened here will be front-page news tomorrow morning, and the television folks will think they've died and gone to heaven after they reconstruct the event from various sources. They will ferret out and broadcast all the gory details. Count on it. As you presumed, if you tell the police about your run-in with Bell, he will know it, but conversely, if his sources in the police department tell him you didn't mention his name, he won't believe them. You're damned if you do and damned if you don't, and because the safer course of action is to alert the police to his threat, my advice to you is: tell all." "I agree with Newt," Perez said. I looked at the ladies. They nodded as one. "All right," I said. "About Deloris Kerner," Kennedy said, "don't worry about her running to Bell. She won't say anything to anyone about what you told her." I nodded. "I didn't see him in among the crowd of police officers but I'd like to tell the complete story to a detective named Tony Lynds. I've dealt with him before, and although I don't trust him implicitly, he's..." "Uh-uh," Kennedy said. "I know Lynds. I also know he's so deep in Bell's pocket I'm surprised he can breathe. Rubin, do you know Lieutenant Dale Moody?" "Yes." "He's milling around in the crowd out there. Tell him we're ready to talk, but only to him." Perez rose to his feet and left the room, returning in less than a minute with the lieutenant, a dapper man in his late fifties. Kennedy introduced everyone, and we told our story yet again. Moody took voluminous notes and asked a lot of questions. Two hours later, he closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair. With a heavy sigh, he said, "If Bell is behind what happened tonight, you folks are in a world of hurt." Kennedy asked, "Will my clients be charged with any crimes?" That made Moody straighten up in his chair. "Captain Giles was making noises in that direction, but the Assistant D.A. on the scene told the captain that the D.A.'s office wouldn't support any charges made along those lines." "Too bad," Kennedy said. "I'd have enjoyed ripping the captain a new one. Let's recap. At approximately three o'clock this morning, four men armed with illegal automatic weapons broke into this house. A sixteen-year-old boy, a single mother and her baby were asleep in the house. The boy heard the break-in, and with a sword in hand and a legal pistol, he killed three of the assailants, two of them with a sword, the third with his pistol. The single mother, to protect her sleeping child, killed the fourth armed home invader with a legal shotgun. That's not to mention the fact that the bad guys fired over fifty rounds from their illegal weapons, one of which wounded the boy who was defending himself, his guest and the guest's baby from lethal intent. What charge did Giles have in mind? Excessive force? Or was he promoting the concept that self-defense didn't justify killing those men?" Lieutenant Moody shrugged and rose to his feet. "I'd like no less than weekly progress reports on the police investigation into this matter," I said. Moody shook his head. "I can't promise that. Two of my detectives caught this case, but Captain Giles will remove it from my purview. With the publicity the case will generate, he'll probably handle it himself. He enjoys the spotlight." Déjà vu all over again, I thought. ------- After everyone but Mary, Grace, Deanna and Rubin Perez left the house, I walked around to survey the damage. We'd need to replace most of the carpet and call in a crew to patch the bullet holes and paint the walls. The leather sofa was trash. The intruder I'd shot in the neck had sprayed the piece of furniture with bullets from his automatic pistol. Dad's big chair had taken a few hits. I hoped the chair could be salvaged. "What a mess," I muttered. "What did you expect?" Grace said, which made me jump. I hadn't known she'd been standing behind me. "You lopped off a couple of heads and shot another man in the neck." I didn't like her tone of voice. "And I blew a hole in a man's chest large enough to push my fist through from front to back," Mary said. She'd been close enough to hear Grace's comment. "What's your point, Grace?" Grace shook her head. "My point is I can't deal with this. I'm outta here. Today." She turned to me. "Will what you did give you nightmares? I don't think so. You've seen worse, haven't you?" Her voice dripped with disdain. "Is tonight the first time you've taken a man's head? I doubt it. The Boxer Rebellion was bloody, so bloody not even you lived through it." "Don't do this, Grace," Mary said. "Don't do this to your brother. To yourself." Grace spun toward her. "And you! You kill a man, and then talk about shoving your fist through his chest like it was a walk in the park. I can't be that casual about violence and death. I'm not made that way." "Would you be happier if we'd let those men kill us instead of defending ourselves?" Mary said. "That's not the point. I see no remorse. I only see pride for a job well done." She signed. "But that's not why I'm leaving. I'm leaving because I'm frightened half out of my mind." She looked at me. "I'm putting some distance between you and me, little brother, because I don't want whatever Bell has planned for you to rub off on me." With a strangled sob, she turned and stumbled away. I started after her, but Mary stopped me. "Let her go, Brent. She'll come around." I shook my head. "I don't think so. Not this time." ------- We'd missed the dawn. We were telling our story to Newt Kennedy or Detective Moody when the sun peeked over the horizon to offer natural color to our visual senses. We'd missed the dawn and tai chi. Still, if there was ever a time I needed to find my center, now was that time. I tried. I made a valiant effort, but my center remained elusive. I couldn't even finish the tai chi form. Silent tears filled my eyes and trickled down my cheeks. I stumbled and started the form over again. An unbidden mantra intruded. Mom. Grace. Mom. Grace. I'd lost them, Mom to a violent, unnecessary death; Grace to her fear and loathing of violence. Grace's words echoed in my mind: You have a damsel-in-distress thing going, little brother. One of these days, it's going to get you into more trouble than you can handle. One of these days was upon me. Mary and I had handled the first wave of violence Walter Bell had sent at us to put his foot on the back of our necks and grind our faces in the dirt. Yes, I believed Bell was behind the attack. Upon reflection, the timing was too tight for Tucker to locate Mary, determine her association with me, and send out four men to kill her. And the bomber would have blown the house into little pieces with us in it. Hiring four assassins wasn't the bomber's style. That left Bell, and from what Lydia Bell had told us about her stepfather, what happened in the middle of the night fit Bell's style. So, we'd dealt with Bell's first attack, but there would be others, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted Grace to put some distance between us. What I didn't understand was my sister's personal attack before she announced she was leaving. And she'd attacked Mary, as well. Of course, Mary had taken my side on the issue. She'd said the words I would have said to defend myself. Maybe that's why Grace had included Mary in her personal verbal assault. Mom. Grace. Mom. Grace. I stumbled and started the form from the beginning. Was Grace's personal attack a way for her to rationalize running away? Or was there more to her motive than simple fear? Were some of the intricacies of our relationship involved, intricacies neither of us fully understood? I sensed someone slightly behind me and to my left, and then someone else at my right. Grace! Mary! Moments before, the massive black hole in the center of our galaxy was exerting too much influence. It had me spiraling inward faster and faster toward its infinite hollowness. With the gravitational strength of love beside me on both sides, the black hole had lost its grip. My movements lost their awkwardness, and my mind and body started to flow and became synchronized with the faint pulse of the galaxy I called my center. The three of us moved as one. When we finished the form, Grace launched herself into my arms, hugging me fiercely. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she said over and over again, kissing my eyes, my cheeks, my lips, tiny little kisses of apology. "You were right to want physical distance between us," I said. "I know, and I'm going to do that, but not because I abhor what you did, what Mary did." Her answer thrilled me, and I hugged her closer. I looked over Grace's head at Mary. "You should go with her," I said. Mary shook her head. "No, my place is with you." I nodded. I don't know why, but I knew I couldn't change her mind. "What about Little Bundle?" I asked. "She'll be with me," Grace said. "Rubin said he'd help us disappear." "And Deanna?" I said. "She's staying, but like you and Mary, she'll have a protector at her side until James returns." I nodded again. The ladies had been busy, and their solution was elegant. I could argue that Mary and Deanna should disappear with Grace and Little Bundle, but my entreaties and rational male arguments would fall on irrational, feminine deaf ears. I knew about irrational, feminine deaf ears. I'd been a female in my previous life. ------- That afternoon after Deanna, Grace and Little Bundle left the house, Rubin handed me a cell phone. "It's James," Rubin said. "I'm glad you called, James," I said into the telephone. "We can speak freely, Brent," he said. "Your cell phone and mine encrypt our conversation. Not even the NSA can listen in. I understand Bell bombarded you with his first volley last night." "Yes, Mary and I dealt with it, but without a lot of luck, we'd be toast." I told him about my heartburn. He chuckled and said, "Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good, but saying that doesn't take anything away from how you handled the threat. You're to be commended. Mary, too." "Thank you," I said. "Brent, this assignment is taking longer than I expected, and I can't leave it unfinished. I can't help you, so some personnel from my organization have assumed that role. We take care of our own. Rubin is a good man. Follow his advice, and you'll be relatively safe. I say relative because, with a threat the magnitude that someone like Bell presents, absolute safety is an illusion. Grace and the baby will be safe. That isn't an illusion, but you and Mary still occupy high-risk positions. Deanna, too, but not as high. I called for a couple of reasons, the first of which is to relieve you of the obligation to protect Deanna. I've transferred that obligation to a woman from my organization. To minimize Deanna's threat from Bell, please don't contact her in any way. That request includes Mary. Okay?" "Of course, and I'm sure Mary will cooperate." "Thank you. Next item. I have to assume that you're contemplating a direct confrontation with Bell. Don't do it, Brent. Wait for my return, and we'll confront him together. Okay?" I hesitated. "Brent, I'm in love with your sister. If something happens to you, she'll be devastated, so devastated that she might not recover. You... we must avoid that eventuality. If we confront Bell together, we'll win and walk away from the confrontation. Guaranteed. You're good, so you might win by yourself, but the word 'might' removes the guarantee. Brent, a good general knows when to pick a fight." "All right, you convinced me. I'll wait," I said. "Thank you. I don't suppose I can convince you and Mary to disappear like Grace." "No, I'm obligated to ship fourteen finished paintings to Denver by the first of September." "How many have you finished?" "Three. You saw one of them hanging in my home. The other eleven are at various stages of completion. I'm actually working on fourteen paintings, not eleven." I quickly explained my retirement plan. "That makes sense," he said. "A word of advice. Lydia mentioned burning down houses as a method for vengeance. Remove the finished paintings to a secure location; also any items that can't be replaced or have sentimental value." "Good thinking, James. I'll do that today," I said, "and I'll put each new painting in secure storage as it's finished." "Keep Mary by your side. Don't let her work or shop or any other activity by herself. Rubin is it. No other colleagues are available to protect the two of you, and Rubin can't be in two places at the same time." "That was my plan, keeping Mary by my side, I mean. I just hope she'll cooperate." "Did the police confiscate your sword and pistol, and Mary's shotgun?" "Yes, but I have a sword at Mary's apartment and another at my studio, and I put a shotgun for Mary at the studio, as well. The shotgun the police took wasn't Mary's. It was the shotgun I kept at my house for her use, so she still has her shotgun and pistol." "Which means that you're only shy a pistol for you?" "Yes." "Rubin will give you a pistol." He chuckled. "A better pistol than that clunker of a forty-five the police confiscated. That was good shooting, considering the weapon and the situation, by the a way." I huffed a disdainful laugh. "I aimed for his chest and got lucky when the bullet hit him in the neck." With a short laugh, he said, "That figures. I've gotta run. If you need to speak with me, tell Rubin, but don't call just to talk." "Gotcha." We said our goodbyes; I hung up and gave the phone to Rubin. "Have Mary join us," Rubin said. "The two of you must outline your planned activities for the next few days, and then I'll tell you what you can or can't do." He grinned. "I won't be unreasonable, but your cooperation is imperative if I'm to keep you as safe as possible under these less than optimum circumstances." ------- After a trip to Mary's apartment to retrieve her weapons and for her to pack a bag with clothes and other necessities for a week's stay, we returned to the house where I packed a bag for myself. While at the house, I gathered what I considered valuable: Mom and Dad's jewelry, Grace's, too; Mom and Dad's strongbox that contained valuable papers; the family computer; every photograph I could find; and anything that I thought Grace or I would classify as having sentimental value. Using my pickup, we took those items and the finished oil painting at the house to my climate-controlled storage vault, which was built into the side of a mountain. At the studio, we loaded up the other two paintings and took them to the vault, as well. Because we'd decided to hunker down in the studio instead of the house until James returned, Rubin checked out the studio and the area around the studio. "Not bad," he said when he returned. "Not good, but not bad either. I'll call in two specialists: a locksmith and an electronics expert. The locksmith will install better locks on the front and overhead doors, as well as put a peephole in the front door." He paused. "Before we talk about the electronics specialist, I'll need a corner somewhere on the ground floor for a bed and a security station." "What do you mean by a security station?" I asked. "My electronics specialist will install video cameras at various locations to cover all areas of approach to the studio, including the roof. The video feeds will be sent to monitors I'll install at the security station inside the studio. My specialist will also install a secondary intrusion alarm system for the front door, the overhead door, and the clerestory glass. The equipment isn't cheap, Brent, but I consider it essential." "Do it," I said. I pointed. "I can clear out that corner under the loft." Rubin nodded. "We'll need groceries, Brent," Mary said, "and you need to tell Rubin about Agnes." "Agnes?" Rubin said. A knock sounded on the door. Rubin drew his pistol and stood to the side of the door. "Who is it?" he said, loudly. "Agnes," she said, not nearly as loudly. "Speak of the devil," I said. "Let her in, Rubin. She's a friend." He opened the door, looked behind Agnes and motioned her inside. She didn't move. She'd seen his pistol. "It's okay, Agnes. Rubin is our protector." "Oh, okay." She stepped in. "As lethal as they say you are on television, Brent, I'm surprised you think you need a protector." "As determined as my enemy is to bring about my demise, I'll take all the protection I can muster," I said. "Smart. I've always said you were smart." She snorted. "That just goes to show you how dumb I am." She handed me a bottle of red wine. "Open this, pour me a large glass and bring me up to speed. Did you really decapitate two men with a sword in the middle of the night?" ------- It had been a long, eventful day. Mary and I crashed early. As was my habit when I went to bed early, I woke up in the middle of the night. I hadn't slept well. I felt heavy, out of sorts. Sorry Grace, I thought. If I had nightmares, I can't remember them. As quietly as I could, and in the dark, I made a cup of green tea. Mary didn't rouse, but Rubin must have heard me moving about. He climbed the stairs with his weapon drawn. When he saw me sitting in the dark at the table, I waved at him, and he returned to the studio floor. I wanted to paint, but one switch turned on all of the lights for the studio not under the loft. That would rouse Mary for sure. Rubin, too. Could I rig an area where I could paint at all hours without disturbing the other occupants of the studio? Yes, but it would take a trip to Lowe's or Home Depot, and Rubin didn't like us moving out and about the city. Maybe Agnes would buy what I needed if I gave her a list. Rubin had given her two code words to use when she knocked on the studio door. One gave us the green light to let her in. The other told us that she was being forced to knock on the door, which I considered silly. If Agnes were in danger, I'd open the door and pull her inside. Rubin just shook his head when I'd made that comment. Still, I appreciated Rubin. He'd made us as safe as possible, considering the circumstances. The studio was constructed with concrete block covered with stucco, and it had with a ceramic tile roof, so burning us out would be difficult. But as Rubin said, "A little C-4 on the door and boom, no door, and a hole big enough for two men to run through without bumping each other." Hopefully, the security cameras and alarms he'd installed would give us advance warning of an assault of that sort. I sipped green tea and wondered where Grace and Little Bundle had gone to do their disappearing act. Mountains had been mentioned. "To get out of the heat," Grace had said, but that was the only clue I had. I'd miss them, both of them. I already missed them, and in a few days Mary would start to yearn for her daughter. I could stay busy with my work, but Mary was without purpose. "My place is with you," she'd said. That was her purpose, but... Cabin fever would set in, for both of us. What could we do to put off the onset of feeling claustrophobic? If I were alone, that wouldn't be a problem. I'd just paint, eat, crash and paint some more. I had the boom box. I'd purchased it so Liz could teach me how to fast dance. Dance. I could take Mary dancing — in the studio. That might be fun for her. I could buy a TV, a flat-screen, one that could be hung on a wall. Plasma TVs, I think they were called. And books. Had Mary brought any books with her? I hadn't. I stood up and made another cup of green tea. The chair scraped when I sat down. "Brent?" Mary said. "Yes. I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep." I heard her yawn. "You want to paint, don't you?" "It's the middle of the night." She chuckled. "Go ahead, paint." "The lights will keep you awake." "I'm awake now. If I get sleepy later, I'll nap." "Are you sure?" "Yes! Paint, dammit!" "All right." I carried my cup of tea down the stairs with me and flipped the switch that turned on most of the lights. "I can't sleep, Rubin," I said when he gave me an inquisitive look. "I'm going to paint." He shrugged, rolled over and went back to sleep. My protector. I painted the rest of the night and worked steadily until about eleven in the morning before I wandered upstairs to check on Mary. She was curled up on the sofa reading a book. She gave me a bright smile. "Are you hungry? Rubin and I ate breakfast a couple of hours ago." "Yes, I'm hungry." "Sit," she said, hopping up. "I'll make you a sandwich." We talked while she bustled around the tiny kitchen. I told her about the boom box and suggested the plasma TV. "Won't the noise bother you?" "No. When I paint, I shut out everything around me." After I ate, Rubin grumbled but took us out to buy the TV and what I needed to rig an area to paint at night that wouldn't keep Mary and him awake. Mary also bought some books, CDs and DVDs. Back at the studio, Rubin helped me rig my painting booth. I used black visqueen for walls and a spotlight that was shielded by the draped plastic. Mary enjoyed the plasma TV for DVD movies, but the reception for normal TV was lousy. I called Cox Cable, and they promised a connection in three days. At the same time, I ordered an Internet connection from them. I'd brought my laptop with me to the studio. Mary could do some surfing on the Internet. I'd just sat down to a frosted mug of IBC Root Beer when Rubin walked upstairs and handed me his encrypted cell phone. "It's Newt," he said. I took the phone and said hello to my attorney. "Captain Giles isn't happy with you," Newt said. "Oh, why?" "You weren't at home when he stopped by to ask you some questions." "Tough. Did he give you a progress report about his investigation into who ordered those killers into my home?" Newt laughed heartily. "That'll never happen. He wants to interview you. The interview you gave Lieutenant Moody isn't enough for him now that he's personally taken over the case." "Tell him to go piss up a rope." "All right. I'll use those exact words. Brent, are you sure you want Captain Giles for an enemy." "Ah, hell, Newt, he's already an enemy." "You have a point." "Tell him the next interview I give anyone will be someone from the press, TV probably. I'm willing to bet big bucks that Barbara Campbell would jump through hoops for an interview with me. Tell Giles to tell Walter Bell that's exactly what I'll do if he sends anyone else at me or mine. When I get through with Bell, everyone in Barbara Campbell's listening audience will know he's an incestuous pedophile, a rapist, a wife beater, and a child abuser, in other words, a sociopath of the worst order. After that interview, I'll meet with someone from the print media, and because of Bell's national stature, I wouldn't be surprised if someone from CNN or Fox News, or both, granted me an interview. Tell Giles to tell that perverted sociopath that if he leaves me in peace I'll forgive the assault at my home and remain silent about his secret, vile character traits. If he doesn't, if he comes at me or mine again, all bets are off." "Jesus, you don't fuck around, do you?" "Newt, I took two heads the night before last, and I slept like a baby last night. No nightmares. No feelings of remorse. Does that sound like a man who will cower in a dark hole like a frightened animal without fighting back?" I sighed. "Everyone keeps telling me that I'm in a world of hurt if I have Bell for an enemy. Bell needs to know that he's the one in a world of hurt if he wants to continue the war he started. Right now, I'm willing to accept a permanent truce. No harm, no foul. If you can, if you have some way to pass that message to him, I'd appreciate it. If he says no to the truce, the gloves come off, and I won't fight fair. I'll take his fucking head." "I thought you agreed to wait for James before confronting Bell." "I did, and I will. That's why I'm hunkered down where I am, but if he comes at me here, I will retaliate. Do you have a way to communicate with the sociopath?" "Sure. I'll call him." "Will you?" "Yes." "Thanks. Leave Giles out of it then and stall him regarding that interview." "All right." "Will you get back to me after you talk with Bell?" "Of course." ------- "I can be quiet," Mary said with a mischievous grin. We'd just watched a movie on the wide-screen plasma TV we'd hung on the wall, a chick flick. I didn't mind. Deep down, I was a romantic guy. She kissed my ear, stuck out her tongue, and rolled it around the intricate folds, and the roaring in my ears trebled, not to mention the shivers racing up and down my spine, and the goose bumps popping out on my arms. "I learned how to be quiet," she whispered, "when I was fourteen and a girlfriend spent the night with me. I had to be quiet because the walls in my house in Chinatown were paper-thin. I didn't want my parents to know my girlfriend was licking my pussy." Talk about instant hard-on! Mary chuckled as she fondled my erection over my trousers. "You're so easy," she said. "Yeah, well your confession produced a memory." "From your life as Jane Wilson?" "No, from my life as Fang Hong. I was fifteen. My sister was fourteen, and she had a girlfriend. I watched them, watched the girlfriend lick my sister's pussy." Mary moaned softly. "You're so easy," I said as I rubbed her mound over her clothes. She laughed and said, "Your memory is sexier than mine. Let's get naked and trade some memories while we fuck." We pulled out the bed and stripped. I arranged us in what Jane Wilson called her talk-and-fuck position. Mary lay on her back with her legs spread and draped over my hips. I was on my side, but not parallel with her, closer to a forty-five degree angle. I pushed my erection into her wet heat, and said, "This position is ideal for talking and fucking. While we talk, I can thrust into you at my pace, and at the same time play with your clitoris, or you can, play with your clitoris, I mean. I can also play with your marvelous breasts, or you can. In this position, I can stay hard and retard my orgasm for an hour, maybe longer, depending on how hot your memories are for me. The only drawback is kissing. Kissing is difficult." "No kidding," she said and brushed my hand away from her clit, replacing it with three stiffened finger from her right hand. "Tell me about your sister and her girlfriend. Did they know you were watching?" she said. "No, not at first." "Did watching make you excited?" "Oh, yeah. I masturbated while I watched. That's how I got caught. I made too much noise when I climaxed." "What did they do?" "Screamed and covered themselves. We struck a deal. I wouldn't tell on them if they wouldn't tell on me." "That's it? That's all there is to your story?" Her fingers opened, and one finger slid down on one side of my thrusting cock with another finger on the other side. I felt the web between the two fingers. Sexy. "Not quite," I said. "I was a pushy kid. Part of my deal included watching them again. I reasoned that their misbehavior exceeded mine, and they bought my reasoning. They didn't have a choice." "Sure they did. You wouldn't have blabbed anyway." "True, but they couldn't see through their guilt to that conclusion. Besides, they countered by saying if I watched them, then they wanted to watch me." Mary said, "Smart girls." "So my sister's girlfriend put her face back on my sister's pussy, and my sister watched me jack off. Then they traded places so the girlfriend could watch me." Mary moaned. "That's so sexy. Did you fuck them?" "The girlfriend, not that night but eventually. Not my sister. Incest was an even bigger taboo in that time and place than it is now." Mary's fingers returned to her clitoris, and her hips waved to some inner pulse. I said, "You're allowed to come as many times as you can during a talk-and-fuck, Mary." "Good... cause... I'm... going... to... come... right... now!" We talked and fucked for over an hour, trading memories. I learned about some of Mary's sexual past. She learned a lot about mine, but mostly about my sex life during my previous lives, not my present one. I climaxed when she was telling me about a threesome she'd had in college. At the same time, she joined my orgasm with her fourth of the night. We agreed to have more talk-and-fuck sessions in the future. "Talk-and-fucks are fun," Mary said. ------- Newt called me the next day. "I passed your message to Walter Bell," he said. "And?" "He laughed at me. Of course, he couldn't and wouldn't admit any involvement or guilt, but what he did say intimated that he'd never accept an offer for a permanent truce from a, quote, pipsqueak teenager still wet behind the ears, unquote." "Was he posturing or serious?" "Serious. I held no great hopes for your truce offer, Brent, but you wanted to make the effort, so I presented it." "Does he understand what I'll do if he comes at me or mine again?" "Yes, I described your intent with the media and referenced your ability with a sword. He laughed, but nervously. I'd say your intent has him bothered, but not enough for him to back off. He has a monstrous ego with the money, power and influence to back up his inordinately high opinion of himself. I left your offer open. I told him that he or someone from his staff could call me during the next twenty-four hours and state a codeword I gave him to indicate he had accepted a permanent truce. Don't hold your breath." "Okay, thanks, Newt." "You're welcome. I admired your effort." ------- "Rubin, can you set it up so Mary can talk with her daughter on your encrypted phone?" "I might be able to set up a call, but it won't be encrypted. Encrypted calls take encrypted phones at both ends. Your sister is safe because she disappeared in a way she can't be traced, so she doesn't have a protector with her." "Oh. How did she disappear so she can't be traced?" A knock sounded at the door, and Rubin let Agnes in. Seeing Agnes brightened my spirit, and I decided to take a break. "On my way here," Agnes said, "I noticed someone messing around with your pickup, Brent." "One person, or more than one?" Rubin asked, looking alarmed. "One, a man, middle-aged, balding, but he was with another man. I didn't get a look at that man. He was in a van." "Did either of them see you?" "No. The man messing with the pickup jumped in the van, and they drove off." "What does 'messing with the pickup' mean?" Rubin asked. "He was under it. I saw him scoot back out from under it and get in the van." "Shit," Rubin muttered. "They've found us. I'll check the pickup," Rubin said to me, "but I want you armed before I go outside. Mary, too." I slipped on the shoulder rig and jammed the loaded Springfield Armory XD-9 tactical pistol in the holster. The XD-9 was the weapon Rubin had given me at James's request after the police took my pistol. My sword was up in the loft. Agnes followed me up the stairs, and when Mary noticed that I was wearing my pistol, she jumped up. "We're not under siege, Mary," I said, "but Rubin wants us armed while he goes outside to check my pickup." While Agnes outlined for Mary what she'd seen, Mary pulled her shotgun out of the pantry, and we returned to the studio floor. "Lock the door and reset the alarm after I go outside," Rubin said. "Mary, please monitor the video feeds while Brent watches the door." Mary and Agnes walked to the security station, and Mary sat in front of the monitors. "You're clear, Rubin," Mary said. Rubin went out the door. I locked it and set the alarm. "I can see him," Mary said. "He's at the pickup. He's looking all around. Now he's crawling under the pickup on his back. He's doing something. I don't know what." "Is the area still clear?" I asked. Mary checked by moving from one video feed to the next. "All clear. Rubin is coming out from under the truck now. He has something in his hands. I don't know what it is. It looks like he's checking the rest of the truck now. He opened the hood." "Check the area, Mary," I said. Seconds later she reported another all clear. "Oh, oh, he's pulling something out of the engine compartment, too." Five minutes later, after Rubin went over every inch of the pickup again, I let him back into the studio. "A tracking device and a car bomb," Rubin said as he entered the studio. "I've disarmed the bomb. A detonator was stuck in a block of plastic explosives and was connected to what looks like a wireless device. That's why they added the tracking device under the vehicle. They planned, I think, to let you drive away, track your movements, pick the moment, and send a signal to the wireless device, which would trigger the detonator and explode the bomb, killing everyone in the vehicle." "Jesus," Agnes breathed. "I'll call my people," Rubin said. "Maybe they can pinpoint the bad guys by how the bomb was made." "And I need to talk with Newt," I said. "Shouldn't you call the police?" Agnes said. I grimaced. "Yeah, but I want to talk with Newt first." Five minutes later, Rubin handed me his encrypted cell phone. "It's Newt," he said. "Do you know about the car bomb?" I said by way of greeting. "Yes." "You were right. Bell refused my offer for a permanent truce." "That's right, but don't go off cocked, young man," Newt said. "My name is Brent, not young man." Newt laughed. "Sorry." "I'm a little sensitive on the issue. Older adults often call me young man when they want to threaten or demean me. What should we do about the bomb? Should we call the police?" "Yes, but... Brent, I believe we've got a serious problem with the police. Captain Giles called me again an hour ago. He told me that you had to make yourself available for an interview or he'd issue a warrant for your arrest as a material witness." "What does that mean?" "It's a way for a police authority to imprison you without filing criminal charges against you. They'll detain you as a material witness, arguing that you're a flight risk or that your life is in danger and your testimony is necessary for a grand jury investigation. What's more, your detention can be under the most severe of prison conditions." "You're kidding." "I wish I were. Frankly, I believe it's an abuse of police power. The Fourth Amendment, by its own language, applies not only to seizures of evidence but also to seizures of persons and imposes two requirements on the government. One clause mandates, and I quote, 'no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, ' unquote. The other clause requires that seizures of persons, like seizures of evidence, must not be unreasonable. To determine when a seizure is unreasonable, the courts must balance the individual's right to liberty against whatever interests the government asserts. The material witness statute circumvents unlawful seizure by stating if the testimony of a person is material in a criminal proceeding, and if it is shown that it may become impracticable to secure the presence of the person by subpoena, a judicial officer may order the arrest of the person." "You've lost me," I said. "By disappearing and refusing to allow Giles to interview you, combined with the fact that your life is at risk, you've given him cause to say to a judge that it isn't practicable to secure your presence by subpoena. The judge Giles will approach for the warrant will be in Bell's pocket. The warrant will be issued." "What happens if I agree to the interview?" "As a guess, as soon as you meet with him he'll slap you with the material witness arrest warrant and detain you." "Why?" "Brent, what's happening is simple. Bell has Giles in his pocket. He told Giles to find and detain you. Once you're imprisoned under the material witness statute..." "I'm a dead man," I said, interrupting him. "Pretty much," Newt said, dryly. "I'm not that difficult to locate, not where I am," I said. "In fact, Bell knows where I am. He hired thugs to plant a bomb and tracking device in my pickup." "Then I strongly suggest that you relocate. Our organization owns a safe house that we'd make available for your use. It's not cheap, but..." "I have work obligations I can't ignore indefinitely." "The safe house includes an air-conditioned garage facility that you can use for your studio." "All right. We'll relocate as soon as possible. I'll need a small moving van to transport my paintings, supplies and equipment." "Talk to Rubin about those details. Rubin will call the police and report the bomb as soon as you and your belongings are relocated. Brent, I'm reluctant to talk about money. We take care of our own. Rubin is donating his time, but you'll need to pay any other expenses. To relocate you, and for the use of the safe house, we'll need a $20,000 retainer." "No problem, and thanks, Newt." "Thank James when he returns." "I'll do that." ------- Chapter 17 The logistics of the move weren't simple. Some of my paintings were wet, which meant they had to be moved with care, and I guess I was acting like a mother hen about them because, completely exasperated, Mary finally said, "Brent, leave everything here for now. We need to leave. Rubin will arrange to move your paintings later." "But..." "Now, Brent! Bell knows where you are. If he knows, Captain Giles knows. I'm surprised the police haven't swooped down on you with that arrest warrant already." "She's right, Brent," Rubin said. I threw my hands in the air. "Okay, let's go." I was still wearing the shoulder holster with the XD-9, so I grabbed my sword. Mary picked up her shotgun, and we drove away in the pickup. As we were leaving the area, I noticed a police cruiser headed toward the studio. They didn't notice us. We'd left in the knick of time. The safe house was luxurious compared to the loft apartment. The air-conditioned garage was adequate as a studio — barely. I didn't complain. I was alive and free. I could also work, and I'd arranged a safe place for Mary. Newt called and told me that arrest warrants had been issued for both Mary and me, but Giles had made a mistake. The warrants weren't the no-knock variety, which meant the police officers sent to the studio to arrest Mary and me didn't breakdown the door. The moving van arrived after the police left, and the moving men loaded up my paintings, painting supplies and paraphernalia, as well as Mary's and my personal belongings, including the new plasma TV. They didn't bring everything directly to the safe house. They took the items to a storage facility. The next day a different moving crew brought everything to the safe house, and Rubin made sure that the moving van wasn't followed. While the initial moving van was being loaded at the studio, Rubin's electronic specialist also moved in and removed the video cameras he'd installed around the exterior of the studio, and then he carted off the cameras, monitors, and the videotapes. Yes, videotapes. One tape captured the man planting the bomb. Another showed Rubin removing the bomb. I didn't know the video feeds were being taped, but the tapes proved valuable later. Also because James's outfit took care of their own, the electronics security company credited me for the cost of the equipment, charging me only for the labor for installation and removal. I sure couldn't complain about how James's company was treating me financially, either. The safe house was wired for cable, so the plasma TV worked perfectly, and we were able to watch the news for the first time since my house was invaded. Mary and I didn't like what we saw and heard. Bell had obviously spent some of his money to make sure he looked like a good guy, and with Giles's public announcement regarding the arrest warrants, we were starting to look like bad guys. What really bothered me was the fact that Barbara Campbell appeared to be leading the pack of media vultures trying to make Mary and me bad guys. "There goes that media source," I grumbled. I called Newt. "I need some help with the media." He chuckled. "That's my take on the matter." "I can't use Barbara Campbell. Bell got to her." "That's not a recent development." "Any suggestions?" "The company retains a public relations gal. She's not cheap." "Can she be trusted enough to come to me here at the safe house?" "Sure. When would you like to meet with her?" "As soon as possible anytime. I'm not going anywhere." "All right." He chuckled. "What's so funny?" "Nothing." "You're having way to much fun at my expense, Newt." "Yes, I am, having fun, that is. I'd apologize but... Brent, I've yearned for years for a client who would meet Walter Bell head on and not flinch, so yes, I'm enjoying myself, but not at your expense. I'm proud to represent you. You don't go off half-cocked. You listen and learn, but you remain steadfast. You also surprise me. You recognized you needed P.R. help and asked for it. What's more, you're willing to pay for it. Whether you know it, or not, that's unusual." "Yeah, well I appreciate you, too, Newt. I appreciate everyone I've met connected with James. To change the subject, what did the police say when you told them about the car bomb?" "I didn't tell them about the bomb. I thought Rubin would tell them." "He's my protector, Newt. He can't leave me." "Please hand the phone to him." "Hang on." I found Rubin in the office he used as a security station and handed him the phone. "Newt wants to talk with you." I sat in the chair in front of the desk and waited. "I turned that chore over to Gary," Rubin said. Seconds later, he said, "I don't know. I haven't heard back from him." Rubin grinned and winked at me. "All right. He's sitting in front of me." Rubin held out the phone. I took it and said, "I take it someone named Gary reported the car bomb." "That's correct." "I brought up the issue because it occurred to me that we have an opportunity to help Giles shoot himself in the foot. What would he do if Gary handed him the bomb but didn't mention the videotapes that recorded the bomb being planted and removed?" Newt chuckled. "I don't know, but it might be fun to find out. I'll call Gary and get back with you." After I hung up, Rubin said, "I don't think Gary knew about the videotapes. What do you have in mind?" I told him. "Do it," he said with an evil grin. ------- A grandmother. If Elsa Twining wasn't someone's grandmother, she was missing a hell of an opportunity. Gray hair, short, softly curled. Light blue eyes that shined with contentment and kindness. Dimples, deep and long. Her wrinkles came more from smiling than frowning. She wore a gray business suit, with pants, not a skirt. Black, flat shoes. No high heels for Elsa, I figured. Comfort first would be her motto. "I'm Newt's P.R. gal," she said, a low, throaty voice, not as low as Agnes's. Elsa's voice had aged well, like the rest of her. Mary had brought her to the garage where I was painting and introduced us. "You're an artist. Newt didn't tell me that you were an artist." She walked from one unfinished painting to the next, stopping in front of the one painting I'd finished. She turned back to me and gave me a deep-dimpled smile that made me feel cherished. "Dr. Crane wrote an article about you and your art," she said. "He referred to you as a prodigy." "Yes," I said. "That'll help. You're not a complete unknown." Her eyes moved up and down my body. I don't believe I'd ever been examined so thoroughly. I felt like I'd just been scanned by an alien space ship. "You're handsome, tall and muscled, but lean. You'll clean up nicely." She frowned, but only briefly, and then flashed the cherishing smile again. "I'd seen you before and couldn't remember where. Then I remembered. Barbara Campbell interviewed you. Something about your parents and the FBI." "That's correct." She looked inward, mentally reviewing the interview, I assumed. "You handled yourself well during that interview. At the time, I thought that you were very mature for a teenager. We'll use Barbara again to help you with your current problem." "She's an opponent, not a friend," I said. "If you're referring to the fact that she's on Walter Bell's payroll, yes, she's an opponent. That's why we'll use her. She'll try too hard to make you look bad, and the viewing audience, the milling masses out there being entertained by TV news, will pick up on her bias and turn it against her. You're the underdog, a boy, being attacked by a powerful, rich man." She laughed softly. "You're my idea of a perfect client: a handsome lad, a prodigy in the arts, well spoken, brave and dangerous, but on the right side of right and wrong. And there's pathos. An orphan at the age of sixteen, but mature enough that the courts decreed you an adult. I referred to you as a boy a moment ago. We won't use the word 'boy' in context with you in our campaigns." "What will you use? Young man?" "No. We'll make no reference to your age. We'll let the other side bring up your age. Our side will refer to you as a man without an age qualifier. You lopped off two heads, Brent. A man defending himself can do this. A boy can't. A boy decapitating a man is too much like an accident, like a child playing with a loaded gun." "That makes sense, Brent," Mary said. Elsa looked at Mary, and then looked at me. "You're lovers?" "Yes," Mary said. Elsa shook her head. "I don't know how that will play." Mary's eyes danced with anger. "Stay calm," I said to her in Cantonese. "She doesn't know your story. Tell her." "What did you say to her?" Elsa said. "What do you know about Mary?" I asked, ignoring her question. "That she's a single mother. That she blew one of the assailants away with a shotgun while defending her daughter. You didn't answer my question." "I told her not to get her panties in a twist until she told you her story." Mary chortled. "He told me to stay calm, Elsa. He didn't mention my panties, twisted or otherwise." While we'd been talking, I'd cleaned up my brushes and hands. I took off my painting smock. "Let's take this conversation inside the house. I'm thirsty." ------- Mary told her story, ending with, "There's nothing about Brent that is boyish in my eyes. He's my man, Elsa. You might not know how that will play to the public, but that's the way it is, so I suggest you figure out a way to make our relationship positive to the 'milling masses out there being entertained by TV news.'" Elsa looked at me and smiled. "She does have her panties in a twist." I laughed heartily. Mary tried not to laugh, but failed. Elsa said, "Mary, you're an independent translator for the courts, which indicates to me that you learned Cantonese and Mandarin on your mother's lap." Elsa turned to me. "But it appears you also speak those languages. From whom and when did you learn them?" "Berlitz," I said with a grin. "Not on my mother's lap." "Yeah, right," Elsa said cynically. "If I told you the truth, you wouldn't believe me, so let's leave it at that. I'm also a master of Kung Fu, expert with wushu weapons, the saber being one of them, and for what it's worth, I'm a fair to middling blacksmith. If you asked me how I came by those abilities, I'd come up with an answer similar to Berlitz language tapes as my explanation for proficiency in Cantonese and Mandarin." She shook her gray head. "Not good enough. The other side will dig and dig and dig until they know everything about you. To do the job you want me to do, I need to know, too. Surprises can be lethal to our campaigns." "I learned the languages, my art, Kung Fu, and how to forge iron during my past lives," I said. She laughed. "Yeah, right." I shrugged. "I told you if I told you the truth that you wouldn't believe me." "He's telling you the truth," Mary said. "His Cantonese and Mandarin are old-fashioned because he learned those languages during the 19th Century when he lived as a Chinese man." Her eyes flashed from Mary to me, and back to Mary. "So," I said, "if the other side digs and digs and digs, that's what they'll find, but they won't use it. No one would believe them. That's why we won't use it, either." I sighed. "Newt told me you're services weren't cheap. If you're willing, I'm willing. I want to hire you, but I don't know if I can afford your services." She named an hourly fee, told me that expenses were in addition to her fee, and stipulated a retainer. I hired her. ------- Elsa, Mary and I spent the next two hours discussing strategies. The arrest warrants limited Mary and my movements, as well as with whom we could meet and where. For instance, I couldn't immediately meet Barbara Campbell for an interview. Captain Giles would show up at that meeting and serve the warrants. I brought Rubin into the discussion. "If we're to turn the public's attitude in my favor, a number of meetings are warranted with various individuals, Rubin. Any suggestions?" I said. He was opposed to any meetings but understood the need. To insure my safety and Mary's, more personnel were needed, he told me. I agreed to pay for the extra help, and we set up our first meeting, a social worker from Child Protective Services. We stipulated a meeting place, but that's not where we met. The social worker, a woman named Penny Lawson, was met at the agreed upon meeting place, and then brought to Mary and me at a different place. Two security specialists (protectors in training) made sure Ms. Lawson wasn't followed. We met with Ms. Lawson so Mary and I could detail our first contact with Walter Bell and his stepdaughter, Lydia, and inform the social worker what Lydia had told us at my home. We'd started with the social worker to put Bell on notice that he was being watched, hoping that would be enough to protect Lydia. As we'd planned regarding all of our meetings, the meeting was videotaped. Ms. Lawson promised to follow up our allegations with an investigation. ------- The next meeting was with a crime reporter named Grant Reed from the Arizona Republic & Gazette. Elsa gave him a press release that detailed our encounter with Bell in the restaurant, what his stepdaughter had told us that same afternoon, and the reasons we were reluctant to allow Captain Giles to serve the material witness arrest warrants. Then we sat and answered his questions. "Are you saying that Captain Giles is dirty?" he asked. "No," I said. "I'm saying it's possible that Walter Bell has influenced him in some way. Wouldn't you agree that the arrest warrants are suspect?" He didn't agree or disagree. "Mr. Reed, four armed men broke into my house and tried to kill me. Later, two men planted a bomb in my pickup. Someone..." "Captain Giles is on record saying that he believes the bomb turned into him was a put-up job on your part," Reed said. I wanted to kiss him. This was related to the plan I'd told Rubin about that would help Giles shoot himself in the foot. "Oh, how so?" "He said there was no evidence, other than the say-so of the man who handed over the bomb, that it was anywhere near your pickup." "Which means he isn't investigating that attempt on my life." "That would be my take on the matter," Reed said. "Is he investigating the initial attempt on my life by trying to find out who hired the men who broke into my house and tried to kill Mary and me?" Reed shrugged. "Shouldn't the media be pressing him on this issue? I find it astonishing that because Mary and I defended ourselves that somehow we've become the bad guys in this sordid mess. What would you do with information that proved the bomb was placed in my pickup? Would you push Giles to investigate, not only the bomb but also the break-in and attempted murder at my house?" He grinned. "Sure." I nodded at the tech videotaping the meeting. He put a tape in the VCR and the television came alive. We watched together as a man planted a bomb in the engine compartment of my pickup, and then crawled under the vehicle to plant the tracking device. "My people have identified that man, Mr. Reed. His name is Frank Dayton. We haven't been able to identify the driver of the van, not yet, but we're working on it. Now watch as my protector, Rubin Perez, removes the bomb and tracking device." I nodded and the second tape followed. "Those tapes were delivered to Captain Giles this morning, along with the identity of the bad guy. Has Captain Giles announced any progress on the investigation into the second attempt on my life? Has Frank Dayton been arrested? You don't need to answer. The answer to both questions is no. The media needs to ask some questions, Mr. Reed. For instance, has Giles interviewed Walter Bell regarding Bell's possible involvement in these crimes? How about asking Giles why the arrest warrants were issued? Material witness arrest warrants are related to grand jury testimonies. What grand jury? Besides Mary and me, what does Captain Giles have to take to a grand jury? You asked me if Giles was dirty. I say if it quacks like a duck, walks like a duck, then it's dirty. You're an investigative crime reporter. Do your fucking job. Investigate Walter Bell. Investigate Captain Giles." I paused and smiled. "Mr. Reed, we chose you for this meeting because we believe you are an honest man and you are very, very good at what you do." "May I have a copy of those tapes?" I wanted to kiss him again. "Sure." ------- Mary walked into the garage carrying a seat cushion from one of the kitchen chairs, which surprised me. It was late. I wasn't sleepy, so I was painting. She dropped the cushion in front of me. "Don't let me stop you," she said. "Keep painting." I grinned as she knelt on the cushion and fumbled with my belt. "The public relation tide is turning," she said as she unzipped my pants. "A little." Her dainty hand squirmed through the hole in my boxers and fished my half-hard cock out through the hole. She pushed the foreskin back to expose the crown. "Are you painting?" she asked between licks. "Yes. Making a dream a reality, huh?" "Yep." She smacked her lips and sucked the head and half my length into the wonderful wet heat of her mouth. "Describe what you're doing," she said and returned her mouth to my hard-on. "I'm painting a colony of bacteria. Bacteria make the food they need from sunlight, and the pigment of different bacteria in a colony varies widely." I groaned with pleasure as her busy tongue licked back and forth on the bottom side of my cock as she bobbed her head. "Keep painting and keep talking," she said. "Plants need nitrogen to make protein and grow new tissue. Nitrogen is plentiful in the air, but it's in a form that plants can't use. Certain bacteria fix, or convert, nitrogen into a form that plants can take up through their roots. The nitrogen-fixing bacteria live in a symbiotic partnership with the plants." Her head moved faster and faster, and my hips started to wave. "Are you painting?" she asked. "No." "Paint, dammit." "I'm loading my palette knife with some alizarin crimson and adding some cerulean blue to the knife. Now I'm mixing the colors directly on the canvas. She sucked and licked. I painted, and suddenly I noticed that the results were exemplary. Mary and I had a symbiotic partnership going. I forgot about the partnership when my juices bubbled up and splashed the back of her throat. She gulped and I squirted — another symbiotic partnership. Somehow I stayed on my feet, loaded up a brush with paint and daubed it on the canvas. "Perfect," I said. She giggled. "You, not the painting," I added. Without another word, she rose to her feet, picked up the cushion and walked out of the garage. Yep, my Mary knew how to create edges. ------- "Newt," I said, "I need a favor. Elsa is looking for an attorney to take my side in a talking-head debate on television about the abuses of the material witness statutes." "I don't do television, Brent. Ah... damn. Look, I'm an attorney, but I don't practice law, and my... ah, livelihood requires a certain amount of anonymity. I'll give Elsa some names..." Doesn't practice law? Needs anonymity? Then it hit me. "You're James's agent, aren't you?" I said interrupting him. He said nothing. "Okay, I understand," I said. "Give Elsa a name. I'll trust your judgment." "Thank you. I take it you've gone on the offensive?" "Yes." I told him about CPS and the Arizona Republic. "Check the morning paper tomorrow. With a little luck, you'll see how we helped Giles shoot himself in the foot." "Will do. Besides some talking heads, what else has Elsa pulled out of her bag of tricks?" "She sent a news release to Barbara Campbell. When Barbara doesn't react, I'll point out her lack of response when I do my television interview with Faye Boswell with Channel Five tomorrow. If perchance Campbell does react, her reaction will be negative, and I'll point that out in the Boswell interview instead. This afternoon, I'll be interviewed via telephone by a radio talk-show host, and then I'll take calls from the listening audience. And Elsa is writing an op-ed piece for my signature that outlines some of Bell's previous vendettas and abuses of power. The same piece will link his vendetta against me with the way he's operated in the past. While I'm on the phone with the radio talk-show host, Mary will be the surprise speaker at a luncheon for a large women's group that supports abused women and children. Supposedly Barbara Campbell is scheduled to cover the luncheon. Her response to Mary's speech should be fodder for my interview with Boswell tomorrow, as well." "Is Rubin aware of Mary's involvement in that luncheon?" "Yes. I'll be at the safe house on the telephone for my radio debut, so he'll be with Mary at the luncheon. Also Elsa set everything up without naming the speaker." Newt chuckled. "You're having way too much fun, Newt," I said. "Yep, but not as much as you." I laughed heartily and said, "I've gotta admit that playing offense is more rewarding than playing defense. With a little luck, Mary and I might even score some points." ------- Elsa returned to the safe house with effusive praise for Mary's luncheon speech and my interview with the radio talk-show host, and then left us so she could do some other chores. Shortly after Elsa left, Rubin received a telephone call. He listened, said yes a few times, no a few times, and concluded with, "Check your back door." He hung up, looked at Mary and me, and said, "Deanna's on her way here. An attempt was made on her life. Before you ask, I don't know the details." He shook his head. "This is going to upset James," he said and shook his head again. "Big mistake. Bell doesn't know about James. Big mistake." He rose to his feet and poured tea in a glass full of ice, and then added sugar and lemon. I cringed. I didn't like sugar in iced tea. I should have. Jane Wilson preferred her tea with sugar, but with a sprig of mint, not lemon. It was sun tea, actually. I'd put a jug of water with tea bags outside in the sun before my radio interview. "What will James do?" Mary asked Rubin. "Don't know, but Bell won't like it," he replied. Ten minutes later, Rubin opened the gates, and a sedan stopped on the circular driveway in front of the house. Two men hustled Deanna inside. When she saw me, she rushed toward me. Because she looked so distraught, I opened my arms, and she moved into them. "They shot her, Brent. They shot Karen." "Oh, shit!" Rubin breathed. He turned to one of the men who had brought Deanna to the safe house. "Karen, is she... ?" "Alive," the man said. "I think. Two men. Automatic weapons. She did her job." He nodded toward Deanna. "Took a bullet for her. Karen's at a hospital by now. Newt said he'd call when he knew anything." "What about the two men?" Rubin asked. "Karen returned their fire." "Dead?" "Yeah, both of them." Rubin shook his head. "Huge mistake. Newt and James!" "Yeah," the man said. "Bell's a dead man walking." "Automatic weapons, huh? Any collateral damage?" Rubin asked. "Yeah, two civilians, one of them a woman." Rubin shook his head. "Hell hath no fury like Newt and James." While we waited for Newt to call, Deanna told us what had happened. Karen, as I'd surmised, was Deanna's protector. Karen went everywhere Deanna went, and Deanna had to deliver some papers to another judge. They stopped in a ladies room en route. The men opened fire when she and Karen stepped out of the bathroom. Karen was hit during the first and only barrage but stayed conscious and returned fire, killing both men with headshots. Obeying Karen, Deanna ducked back into the restroom and called Newt, who told her that when it was possible to return to the judge's chambers and stay with the judge until a couple of his men could arrive to take her away. Using the chaos that ensued after the shooting, Deanna made it to the judge's chambers. "That old guy is something else," Deanna said. "He pulled out the biggest revolver I've every seen and set it on his desk. 'Wait in there, ' the judge said pointing at his private bathroom. That's where I waited until Gary and John showed up and hustled me out of the building." "What about Karen?" Rubin asked. "Paramedics were working on her when I stepped out of the ladies room. They must have been in the building waiting to testify in a trial." "How the hell did those killers get into the courthouse and past the metal detectors carrying automatic weapons?" Rubin asked. Deanna shrugged. "The judge will be asking that question and getting answers mighty quick, I'm here to tell you. Oh, I wish Newt would call." Tears welled in her eyes. "Karen's..." She sniffed. "Karen is a friend." Rubin's encrypted phone rang. He listened and hung up. "Karen's in the operating room. The docs are optimistic," Rubin said. "What does that mean?" Mary asked. Rubin shrugged. "She'll probably make it." "Thank God," Deanna breathed. An hour later, Newt called. He talked with Rubin, and then Rubin handed me the phone. "How's Karen?" I asked. "She's off the critical list. Brent, I need a favor." "Sure, anything." "Put your public relations campaign on hold." I said nothing. He waited. I waited. "Brent, we can't protect you if you or Mary or Deanna move about the city." "Are you asking me to cut and run?" "No, I'm asking you to temporarily suspend your public relations campaign and any activities outside the safe house." "All right. I'll call Elsa." "Thank you. Let me talk to Rubin again." ------- Two days later, my war with Walter Bell ended. According to a television report, sometime during the previous night, one or more individuals circumvented a state-of-the-art electronic security system and entered Bell's estate undetected. This individual or individuals (the television reporter referred to them as alleged assassin or assassins) also successfully evaded four armed bodyguards, silently executed Bell and his twenty-year-old son in their bedrooms, and just as silently left the estate. The bodies weren't discovered until the next morning. To this day, I don't know if James or Newt or both of them, or perhaps other operatives in Newt's employ, were the men who ended my war for me. I wasn't told, and I didn't ask. That Newt was involved I had no doubts, mostly because Grace and Little Bundle arrived at the safe house to join us for breakfast that morning. Uncharacteristically, the taking-the-law-into-your-own-hands approach James and Newt employed to solve my problem didn't seem to bother Grace. If I'd been the individual who killed Bell and his son, would she still have reacted with such calm acceptance? I didn't ask that question either. To justify his previous position, Captain Giles named me the prime suspect in the deaths. Newt went to work behind the scenes, presented my ironclad and honest alibi, and Giles was taken off the case. When the material witness arrest warrants were pulled, I eagerly met with Lieutenant Moody and went over yet again what had happened at my house during the first attack, reviewed the videotapes showing Frank Dayton planting the bomb in my pickup, and gave him the names of the witnesses to my whereabouts the night Bell and his son met their maker. The next day, Moody arrested Dayton, and Dayton sung like a canary, naming Bell as his employer for the attempted murder. He also named his partner, the driver of the van. Moody arrested that man the next day. At Deanna's request, the judge went to bat for Lydia and her little brother, and Bell surprised everyone by leaving a substantial trust fund for the two children. The trustee, an aunt, moved into the estate, and for all I know, Lydia and her brother lived happily ever after. No, that'd be a lie. I knew that years of therapy were in front of Lydia before she could find happiness, if ever. James returned two days after Bell and his son were killed, or at least that was what he wanted everyone to assume, and he, Deanna and Grace flew to Lake Powell for some R & R. I moved all my stuff back to my studio and went to work, finishing the paintings for my Denver show a few days ahead of time. Mary, Little Bundle and I flew to Lake Powell for my seventeenth birthday and Grace's Second Annual Book Burning Party. We had a grand time. Did I learn anything from the Bell mess? You'd better believe it. I learned that my damsel-in-distress syndrome could get me into more trouble than I could handle. I learned I was a poor judge of people. I'd trusted, even admired, Barbara Campbell and Detective Lynds, and both were corrupt. I learned that generally the police protected and served the powerful and wealthy among us and gave lip service to the rest of us, which led me to the corollary: if I wanted me and mine safe, I'd need to protect myself, or... Know someone like James and Newt. And have the wherewithal to pay for their services. ------- School days, school days. Dear old golden rule days. I started my junior year in high school, and Grace started her freshman year at ASU. Although Mary had decided to change majors, she lost only a half-year, so in essence, she started her sophomore year at ASU. I didn't fit before. After all the publicity I'd generated by beheading two men with a saber and using the media to protect myself, fitting into a high school environment was impossible, and my attitude wasn't the major problem. The high school administration didn't want me on the campus, let alone moving from class to class. Walking onto the school grounds the first day with my cudgel in hand was my first mistake. The vice principal met me as I walked through the doors. Two burley security guards flanked him on each side. "That," he said, pointing at my cudgel, "is a deadly weapon." He turned to a security guard. "Take the weapon away from him." I handed my cudgel to the guard. "Bring him to my office," the vice principal said, turned on the balls of his feet and marched away. The security guards flanked me, and we marched to the angry administrator's office, where he promptly expelled me from school, citing my possession of a deadly weapon on school property as grounds for the expulsion. "Expelled, not suspended?" I asked. I've gotta admit it; I was surprised. I'd planned to leave the cudgel in my locker before my first class like I'd done most of the time during the tail end of my sophomore year. "Expelled," he said, puffed up with self-importance. "Argh. More legal fees," I muttered under my breath. "What did you say?" he asked belligerently. "I was just bemoaning the legal fees your action will cost me," I said as I rose to my feet. He cringed away from me. "The state owes me two years of education. You and this school obviously don't want to provide it, so I'll have to sue you, the school, the school district, the school board, and the State of Arizona to get what's due me. I'd rather not do that. I'd opt for home schooling, but my beloved parents were murdered in that lounge bombing, so they aren't around to provide for that educational approach. Any suggestions, sir?" "If you don't leave this office immediately, and if you're still on school property ten minutes from now, I will have you arrested," he said. The security guards walked me to my pickup. One of them carried my cudgel with him and gave it to me at my vehicle. "Sorry about that," he said. "You're getting a raw deal." "Thanks, and thanks for returning my cudgel," I said as I opened the driver's-side door. I tossed it inside the vehicle, climbed in and drove away. At the house, I called around and finally spoke with an attorney who appeared to know something about laws pertaining to expulsion from school and my options. Surprise, surprise, he told me I could sue. Then he gave me some good advice. "Brent, from what you've told me about your situation, and from what I know about you from what I've seen on television, I don't think you'll be any happier with an alternate school. My advice: take the GED test. If you pass it, you're good to go for college. If you fail parts of it, you'll know what you need to study to pass it the second time around. If you have to, spend the first year at a community college, and then transfer to ASU. Phoenix College also has some good online programs that will accept GED for admission." I discussed my alternatives with Grace and Mary that evening, and they agreed with the attorney's advice, so I signed up for the GED test at Mesa Community College and took it just before Mary and I were scheduled to travel to Denver for my show. Grace said she couldn't go with us, which disappointed me, and I started to wonder if she were trying to distance herself from me again. Then the day before we were to fly to Denver, James left on an assignment, and Grace changed her mind, Deanna, too. Not that Deanna changed her mind. She merely asked if she could join us. When Agnes indicated that she'd like to attend the opening with us, I didn't show up with a beautiful woman on each arm. I arrived at the show with an entourage. ------- Chapter 18 I didn't appreciate the general atmosphere at my opening at the C. Harris Gallery of Fine Arts. Financially the show was a success. When my entourage and I arrived at the gallery, sold stickers dotted all my paintings, and Craig Harris was ecstatic. At first, that's how I felt, but after I'd talked with my buyers, I realized some of them had purchased my paintings not so much for their artistic merit or investment potential but rather for the titillating fact that the artist had beheaded two men with a sword. My fame had preceded me, but not my fame as an artist. Argh. I aggravated this attitude when I walked into the gallery holding my cudgel. I had the staff in hand, not to show off, but to have it handy as a weapon should I need it. It wasn't until after I naively explained that the cudgel was a Shaolin wushu weapon, and that I was conversant with it, a saber, spear and broadsword, that I realized my fame with a sword made my fame as an artist an also ran. That's when I started to call my cudgel a walking stick and made a monumental effort to play down the decapitations. The dynamics of the Denver show also presented some other differences from previous shows. Grace, as usual, entered the gallery on my arm — Mary proudly held my other arm — but my sister left my side shortly after our grand entrance. She not only didn't stay close, she rarely made eye contact. "Grace is distancing herself from me again," I said to Mary. "It's an approach/avoidance conflict, Brent," Mary said. "She'll go back and forth for the rest of her life. She loves you but can't have you. You have someone — me. She has... I was going to say no one, but that's not true. She has James and Deanna, but I think the Deanna connection is starting to wear thin." "Waddaya mean?" Mary shrugged. "I'm not sure. James is solid, but he'll be absent nine or ten months every year, and when he's around, Grace has to share him with Deanna. I wouldn't be surprised if Grace hooked up with a man tonight. To do that, she has to put some space between the two of you." "Sounds logical," I said and stopped worrying about my sister yet again. The next difference stepped in front of Mary and me and introduced herself. Katrina Leonard was an artist's agent, and her resemblance to Jane Wilson's lover at the time of Jane's death was startling. I put Katrina's age around forty. Amber shoulder-length hair set off a soft, beautiful face, and her amber eyes seemed to bore into my soul. I felt a strong attraction immediately, but a forty-something female and a seventeen-year-old male didn't fit any better than a brother and sister. "Do you do private commissions?" she asked. "I haven't. I will," I said. "May we meet tomorrow?" "Yes." "Where are you staying?" "The Brown Palace." We agreed to meet for lunch at the hotel. She gave me a dazzling smile and left, and not just my presence. She left the gallery. A couple of minutes later, I understood why she made a hasty departure when Gary Frazier, Craig Harris, Ruth Sage (the Santa Fe gallery owner), and David Bailand (the L.A. gallery owner) swooped down on me like a flock of vultures. "What did Katrina Leonard want?" Frazier asked. "She asked if I did private commissions," I said. "What did you tell her?" Harris asked. "That I haven't but I would. What's the problem?" "I'd like to show your work in mid-December," Ruth Sage said. "And I can schedule a show for you early in April," Bailand added. Frazier gave Bailand an exasperated look. "David, I told you I wanted the spring show in Phoenix." "Whoa, guys," I said, holding up my hands as if surrendering. Ruth chuckled. "And gal," I added. I'd liked Ruth the moment Frazier introduced her earlier. She was a bottle blonde in her late fifties. Stylish Western clothes with splashes of Indian silver and turquoise jewelry gave her a distinctive look, and I appreciated unusual but stylish looks. She was smart with a great sense of humor. I said, "Ruth, a mid-December show will push me. I can't promise twelve or fourteen paintings by the first of December." She grinned. "My gallery is smaller. How about eight?" "That's possible. We'll talk later." She nodded acceptance. I looked at David Bailand. Unlike Ruth, the second I met Bailand I disliked him. I couldn't put my finger on why I disliked him, except to say he seemed too slick, too put-together, sort of unreal, which probably wasn't fair on my part. Still, that's how I reacted to him. Then I remembered that I was a poor judge of character. Crap. I said, "David, a summer show in Phoenix is deadly. Gary graciously put off his show this fall for the opening here in Denver. I won't put him off until next fall because you want a spring show." Frazier smiled and nodded. Bailand didn't look happy. "How about a summer show, David?" I said. He frowned and said, "I'll have to check my bookings." Which was hogwash. A gallery owner knew his schedule like the back of his hand. "Do that and get back to me," I said and looked at each of the gallery owners moving my eyes from one to the other. "About Katrina Leonard and private commissions, if I make a commitment for a show, I'll honor that commitment. As an example, Craig, I was under a serious threat before this show. A powerful, evil man wanted me dead, which forced me into hiding, but even under those trying conditions, I met my obligation to you and shipped fourteen paintings slightly ahead of schedule. As long as I honor my commitments to all of you, whether I accept some private commissions or not is none of your business." "Katrina Leonard has a history of burying an artist in private commissions," Craig Harris said. "That's why we're concerned." "Point taken, but you folks need to know that I'm loyal to a fault. Gary stepped up and helped me start my career. To that end, I gave him an exclusive beyond Phoenix to include your galleries and two others, and so far I've been more than pleased with that decision. Nevertheless, there will come a time when I'll schedule openings in cities other than the six in Gary's network, New York City, for example, as well as later openings in other countries." I smiled. "I owe this expanded exposure and the ancillary increases in the price of my work to my buyers." I pointed at one of my large paintings, a nine-foot by seven-foot canvas. "That painting sold for $20,000 tonight. In five years or less, it should be worth double that amount. That won't happen if I limit my openings to six cities in the Western sector of the United States. Am I right or wrong?" Frazier groaned. "You're right, dammit." Ruth chuckled. "Now I understand why you act as your own agent." "Los Angeles is New York City's equal in the world of art," Bailand said through tight lips. "I don't think so, David," I said and resolved to check out Bailand and his gallery before I made any commitments to him. ------- "What was that confab about?" Agnes asked me after the gallery owners disbursed. Mary was talking to the wife of one of my buyers. "Greed," I said with a sarcastic snort, and then explained the gallery owners' concerns. "Katrina Leonard, huh?" Agnes said, looking surprised. "Katrina Leonard approached you?" She moved her eyes and head as if searching for the agent. "She left the gallery, Agnes," I said. "I'm having lunch with her tomorrow at the hotel." "I want to meet her," Agnes said. "All right, but why?" "Because she can place my work in the corporate or public sector, which is more important to a sculptor than a painter." I nodded. "You act like you know her." "Of her. I've never met her." "Craig Harris said she's known for burying artists with private commissions," I said. "I've heard that. Her buyer list includes not only collectors but also corporate clients. I'm interested in the latter. She made her mark as an artist's agent by introducing up-and-coming artists to buyers who are more interested in art as an investment than the artistic merit of the artist." "Nothing wrong with that," I said. "Nope, but most artists would squeal like stuck pigs if they heard either of us say so." I laughed and said, "Drop by our table at the hotel tomorrow, and I'll introduce you, and then sing your praises after you leave." She moved up on tiptoes, kissed my cheek and thanked me while she wiped away the lipstick mark with her thumb. ------- I made my deal with Ruth Sage. She'd pay all costs and take a forty percent cut. The price of my work would increase approximately twenty percent. "Brent, you're missing a market," she said. "Oh, what market?" "Smaller paintings, say three-by-three or -four." I laughed. "By golly, I think you're right." "Toss in four that size for my show in lieu of two five-by-sevens. I'll price the smaller pieces so they'll sell, but our gross will still be larger than for eight large paintings. Even better, the ten paintings shouldn't represent more work for you than the eight." "All right. Six large paintings and four smaller ones, right?" "Yes. I'll fax the contract to you by the end of next week. Did you make a deal with Katrina?" "No, I'm having lunch with her tomorrow." "She can do you a lot of good, Brent. Just don't let her gain complete control." "The chance of that is zero to zip. Still, I feel compelled to ask. What do you mean by complete control?" "She's the best there is when it comes to private commissions, but as an agent for all your work, she'll derail your career-path vision into something that will work better in the short term but not nearly as well for the long haul. Think ten, twenty, even thirty years into the future when dealing with her." "Thanks, Ruth. That sounds like good advice." "Tell your friend, Agnes, that she's missing a market, too." Ruth's statement hit me like a smith's hammer. "Damn! You're right." I looked around and spied Agnes talking with Deanna. I caught her eye and motioned her to me. When she joined us, I said, "Ruth pointed out that I was missing a market with the size of my paintings. I had to agree with her, and for her show in December, I'll be shipping four smaller paintings in lieu of two large ones. The gross should be higher." Agnes nodded. "That makes sense." "Then she said that you were missing the same market," I said. Agnes looked as stunned as I'd been, but she fought the obvious. "I don't know if my work would be as powerful scaled down," she said. Neither Ruth nor I commented. "It's also possible that a smaller piece would take as much time as a larger one, especially the forged elements," Agnes added. "That's possible, but lets try," I said. "Let's... ?" Ruth said, looking confused. "Yeah," Agnes said, "Brent enjoys anvil work, and he knows as much about a coal forge as I." She laughed. "I beat him every which way with welding, though." She stuck her tongue out at me. "So there." "Interesting," Ruth said. "Brent, would you be willing to share billing with Agnes for your show in December?" "Sure," I said. "Agnes, can you ship two or three small pieces by the first of December?" Ruth asked. "I don't know. I don't know how long it'll take to do small pieces. What size are you talking about?" "Three or four feet tall, including bases. I'll display them on short pedestals." Agnes nodded but made no overt commitment. "I'll give you the same deal I gave Brent. All expenses are mine, and I'll only take a forty percent cut." Agnes pursed her lips. "All right. I'll do it." ------- "And the colorado rocky mountain high / I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky / I know he'd be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly / Rocky mountain high," Deanna sang as the limo rolled down the dark streets to Denver City Park. She had a sweet high voice that pierced the roaring in my ears and let me hear each word of the song distinctly — a rare pleasure for me. We were en route for a sunrise session of tai chi. Grace was conspicuous by her absence. As Mary predicted, my sister had hooked up with a man at the opening. I didn't meet him, didn't know his name. I hoped her time with him would give her joy and pleasure. Agnes was conspicuous by her presence. Unknown to me, she'd taken tai chi lessons, and during the show when Mary suggested tai chi at sunrise the next morning, Agnes had asked if she could join us. "Rocky mountain high," Deanna sang. "High colorado." Mary's voice filled in the chorus. "Rocky mountain high," Deanna sang again. "High colorado," Mary sang. Agnes and I applauded when the chorus ended. Minutes later, the four of us spilled out of the limo onto green grass. Dark grass. The sky was lightening, but the sun had not yet cast its glow across the ground. "What time is sunrise here?" I asked. "7:13," Mary said. "Five minutes from now." I dropped my cudgel on the grass and said, "Let's start the first form anyway." Would the Rocky Mountain light be different than the light of the high desert? We were closer to the sun. The light should be different, I reasoned as my body moved, synchronized with the movements of my companions. Sunlight struck the high buildings to the north before it crept across the ground, and its glow was sweet and clear, pristine but for the normal pollution in the city air. Then I turned toward the majestic mountains. Suddenly, I understood what John Denver was singing about. The purple mountains changed hues, soaking up the light, reflecting it back to our eyes as sunlight danced across its craggy surfaces. "Perfect," I muttered. Mary giggled, and then laughed. "What?" Deanna said. "Private joke," Mary said. Because we'd all stumbled, we started the form again and maintained our concentration until it was complete, moving immediately into the second form. Agnes stayed with us. She was awkward still, but I could see a time in the near future when she would be beauty and grace. Grace. You should be here, Grace. Here with me. ------- Back in our room, Mary and I showered together. Fun. I washed her hair. She washed mine. I washed her pussy. She washed my dick. A lot of fun. Then she went down on me while hot water pelted the back of my head and back. Beyond fun — perfect. We were toweling each other dry when the phone rang. "I'll get it," I said, thinking Grace might be calling. It wasn't Grace. "Mary, it's your neighbor lady," I said and handed her the phone. "Is something wrong with Little Bundle?" Mary asked, fear striking her almond-shaped eyes. Before I could respond, she took the phone and asked her neighbor lady the same question. From Mary's posture as she listened to the answer, I gathered all was well. I finished drying off and walked naked back into the bedroom. Was Grace all right? That she left with a man last night without saying anything to me upset me more than I wanted to admit. That she missed sunrise tai chi upset me further. That she still hadn't called was starting to piss me off. I walked to the window and pushed the drapery back. Those mountains make the mountains around Phoenix look like speed bumps, I thought as I gazed at the rocky peaks. The notes to Rocky Mountain High rumbled through my mind. "Brent, say hi to Little Bundle," Mary said and handed me the phone. "Hello, sweet Little Bundle," I said as my eyes continued to soak in the awesome beauty of the majestic mountains. "Hi, Bent," the girl said and giggled. "Are you having a good morning?" "Bye." Dial tone. I laughed and looked toward Mary to tell her that Little Bundle had hung up on me. I said nothing. I watched as she touched herself. She was in a chair, and her slim legs were draped over the arms. Her eyes were fixed on mine. "Do you ever get the urge to just jack off?" she said. I remembered my time on the boat during the storm. I nodded. "That's how I feel right now," she said. "Sucking you off made me hot, but I don't feel like fucking. I just want to jill off. Do you mind?" I shook my head as I watched her fingers rub tight soft circles over her clitoris. "Good. You can watch or not. I don't care. I just want to give myself a good come." "I'll watch," I said. I looked down. My cock was hard. I fisted it. "Would it bother you if I jacked off?" I said. "Knock yourself out," she said as her eyes rolled back in her head. I took a chair across from her and watched as she stuffed two fingers inside her, and then moved her other hand from her breast to rub her clitoris. "Hmm," she said, "this feels so good." Her eyes met mine again but they lowered and watched as I stroked my cock. "If I tell you a secret, will you promise to keep it to yourself?" she said. "Yes," I said. "Grace and I talked about masturbating." I said nothing, but my cock lengthened a little. "She said she gives herself a good come just about every day." I said nothing. "I told her that I did, too." "When did you have this conversation?" "During your hiatus with that rock. We were at my apartment. She was helping me arrange the furniture, and we were taking a break. I don't know how the subject came up, but we were candid with each other. I liked that. Grace is my best friend, Brent." "She refers to you the same way," I said. Her fingers flashed faster. "Anyway, we talked about how we touched ourselves, what we did to come. Our methods to bring about the happy event are a little different. Most of my sensations come from my clitoris. Grace needs to feel full. Not that her clitoris is insensitive, mind you." Mary groaned and her eyes rolled back in her head again. "There's more. Can I trust you with more? Grace can never know that I told you these things. I'd lose her friendship." Her hips started to undulate in small waves, and she pushed two fingers inside her again. "This is finger-fucking," she said. "I enjoy finger-fucking, but not as much as Grace. You didn't answer my question." "You can trust me, but telling me wouldn't be right." She sagged in the chair. "Yeah. Okay, I'll just come then." Her eyes went to my cock. "Come with me." "All right." My mind was going a mile a minute. What was Mary about to tell me? The possibilities were infinite and almost all of them arousing. Hot! Did they masturbate together? Finger-fuck each other? "Oh, Brent! I'm coming!" Is that what Grace saw? Mary in the throws of an orgasm? What a sight! Beautiful. And Mary, did she see my sister grimace and shudder through a climax? Sperm shot up through my shaft and squirted with force into the air. I groaned and jerked my hand up and down my shaft, causing another jet of the viscous liquid to spurt high and fall down around my hand. Mary watched me as I climaxed without taking her eyes off my spurting cock. That I'd once believed that my Mary couldn't create any edges amazed me. "Hmm," she said, "that was a good one." I figured not knowing what Mary planned to tell me was better than if she'd told me all. Not knowing allowed my imagination to take flight. ------- I met Katrina Leonard in the hotel lobby, and we walked to Ship Tavern, a casual bar and restaurant, the only restaurant open for lunch in the hotel on Saturdays. She wore blue jeans tucked into knee-high boots, and a leather vest covered a silk blouse. How she walked so steadily on heels as high as those on the boots was beyond me. She ordered Ship Tavern Ale; I ordered IBC root beer. "In a frosted glass mug, if you've got it," I added. The waitress/barmaid looked at me like I'd just crawled out from under a rock. While I was looking over the menu, the waitress returned. "No IBC, no glass mug, frosted or otherwise." "Any brand of root beer will do," I said and pointed at the next booth. "That's a glass mug. It's used for beer, but it'll do." I chuckled as the waitress stomped off. "I didn't mean to piss her off." "She's just having a bad-hair day," Katrina said. "What does that mean exactly?" I asked. "PMS." "Oh. What's good here?" I asked. "The lobster salad sandwich or prime rib sandwich." "What are you having?" "The lobster." I closed my menu. "I'll try it then." "You're easy to please." "I'm from Phoenix. I've never had a lobster salad sandwich. I might hate it." "Oh." The waitress returned with our drinks and took our order. "You've had four shows," Katrina said. "Each show you've sold out the first night, and your prices have increased approximately twenty percent for each show." "That's right." "That makes your work a hot property for collectors interested in a good return on their investment." "That's right." "That's assuming your prices continue to increase." "Uh-huh." I sipped the root beer. It was slightly warm. A frosted mug would have made it perfect, that and an IBC label on the bottle. "You're incredibly young considering the sophistication of your work, which can be a plus as well as a minus. Prodigies often take their eye off the ball." "I won't. I enjoy batting a thousand." "You're dangerous." "Is that a plus or a minus?" "I haven't the slightest idea." "It's a plus. Some of my buyers last night bought because I, the artist, lopped off a couple of heads with a sword." She sucked in air and nodded. "For previous shows, you made a grand entrance with one or two stunningly beautiful women at your side," she said. "One is my sister." "Which is intriguing in and of itself." I shook my head. "I don't think so." "Last night your entrance included an additional beautiful woman and an old broad. What's with the old broad?" "For a long time that old broad was my only friend, and she's one of the finest sculptors in the country." I smiled. "You're an old broad. You're welcome to join my entourage for an opening anytime." Katrina looked shocked, and then she laughed so hard she choked. "Touché," she said when she gained control. "The old broad wants to meet you. She'll be dropping by our booth briefly. She wants you to place one of her pieces in the corporate or public sector. You'd be wise to consider her request. I've watched her work mature over the last year." I grinned again. "She's an old broad, but she's up and coming." Katrina shook her lovely amber hair. "You can't be seventeen." "I'm about 150 years old if you count my previous lives," I said. "Please, let's not let this conversation crumble into the realm of theology." "No problem. I'm not devoted to any religion." "But you believe in reincarnation." "Yep, but not from a religious point of view." She nodded. "Good. Religious kooks lose sight of the ball." I said nothing. "And you're masculinity is raw and wild and makes my heart go pity pat, not to mention the churning farther south." "Is that a plus or minus?" She ignored my question and said, "How much time can you give me?" "Some, not much." "My fee is twenty percent. I'd guess you're still at the fifty/fifty level with your galleries." "Sixty/forty in my favor, and if you and I work together, it'll be eighty-five/fifteen in my favor." Anger flared in her amber eyes. "Eighty/twenty or no deal." "What about frames, crating, shipping, and photography?" "Those would be your expenses." I laughed. "Do you do tai chi?" "What?" "I and my entourage, excepting my sister, rose at dawn and greeted the sunlight marching across your splendid mountains as we moved with beauty and grace through tai chi forms to find inner peace. If you enjoyed tai chi, I thought I'd invite you to join us that next time I have a show at the C. Harris Gallery of Fine Art." The waitress set our food on the table. "Good timing," I muttered. She frowned. "Why say that?" "Because it'll give us something to do. I made a deal with Gary Frazier for six galleries on an exclusive basis. I met the owner of the L.A. gallery last night. I didn't like him. I could be wrong. I'll check him out before I finalize my attitude, but there's good a chance that I can give you fifteen large paintings next summer. By then my large paintings will be selling for $30,000 each. That's $450,000. Fifteen percent of that amount is $67,500. On the high side, frames, crating, shipping and photography would cost you less than $7,500, netting you $60,000. Not bad for the cost of a power lunch with no risk. But it's your way or the highway, so I'm taking the highway." I took a bite of the lobster salad sandwich. I liked it, but said, "I hate it." I put the sandwich back on the plate. Then I laughed. "Not really. It's quite good." I picked it up and took another bite. "My way you net $360,000, less $7500 or $352,500. With a gallery, you'll only net $270,000 less $7500." "The galleries pay all expenses for my shows," I said. "Besides, the gallery owners are at risk, and their expenses are ridiculously high. They deserve every penny of the forty percent I pay them. You're not at risk and you have few expenses. Fifteen percent is all you deserve." "I can bring you buyers that will boggle your mind." "No doubt. If I start running out of buyers, I'll consider your offer." I noticed Agnes looking around the restaurant from the hostess station. I waved to get her attention and motioned her toward us. "Agnes, on the other hand would be delighted by your offer," I said before my friend got to the booth. I introduced the two women, praising Agnes's work without getting gushy about it, and then my friend made a gracious exit. "So, you're going to walk away from $90,000," Katrina said when we were alone. "Less expenses," I said. She shook her head. "I can't believe I'm saying this. I haven't said this since my first year in the business. Would we have a deal if I paid the expenses?" "Maybe. How does this work? Would I need to meet the buyers?" "No. For me, they buy sight unseen." "How many buyers? Fifteen, or less?" "At $30,000 for each painting, probably less than ten." "Who pays me? You or the buyer, and when would I get paid?" "The buyer pays me. I take my cut and pay you the balance. I'll pay you as soon as the check from the buyer clears my bank." "Don't be offended by this question, but how will I know you're charging the buyers $30,000?" She chuckled. "That's a good question, and I'm not offended. I'll include copies of the bill of sale I give each buyer with the check I'll forward to you." "Am I free to speak with the buyers?" "Yes, of course." "All right. We have a deal. Fax your contract to me next week, and I'll sign it. Don't try to get cute and change the deal with the wording in the contract. If you do, I'll shred the fax, and we won't do any business — ever." She smiled and took a large swallow of ale. "You can't believe how wet my pussy is right now." My eyes widened. Katrina Leonard had managed to shock me. She laughed gaily. "I get off negotiating, and you, Brent Carson, are a damned good negotiator." ------- It was time to leave for the airport for our return flight to Phoenix, and Grace had yet to surface. I'd stopped being upset and angry and was starting to worry about her. Was she all right? I slammed the dresser drawer shut and cursed. "I can't leave Denver, Mary, not until I know Grace is all right." I looked around and located my cell phone. Like the last two times I'd called my sister's cell phone, a recording told me the phone was out of service. "Fuck!" "Call Deanna's room. Maybe Deanna has heard from her," Mary said. It was something to do, and I was starting to get frantic. "Hello," Deanna said. "Have you heard from Grace?" I said. "Yes, while you were at lunch. She'll meet us at the airport. I'm packing her things." "Oh. Okay then." I hung up. She was all right. I stopped worrying but anger returned and started to fester, becoming an oozing boil in my brain ready to burst. "What did Deanna say?" Mary asked as she stepped out of the bathroom with her makeup bag in hand. "Grace will meet us at the airport," I said through tight lips. I slammed my suitcase shut. "Inconsiderate bitch," I muttered. "Who?" Mary said. "Deanna or Grace?" I said nothing. "Grace, huh?" "Are you packed?" I asked. "Yes. Inconsiderate bitch, huh? Inconsiderate like you when you crawled under that rock?" "She knew where I was." "She also knew you weren't all right. She knew you'd rejected her. She knew..." "I went off the deep end." Mary walked up to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. "Talk with her before you punish her, Brent." All the air whooshed from my lungs, and I relaxed. That sounded like good advice. Could I follow it? "All right," I said and kissed her. "I love you, Mary Stewart." She kissed me back. "And I love you." "Which doesn't change the fact that my sister is an inconsiderate bitch." Mary laughed. "Uh-huh. Tell her like that, without anger. Don't cloud up an rain all over her, and she might, I stress might, tell you why she's been avoiding you." ------- We'd reached cruising altitude when my patience snapped. I released my seat belt and rose to my feet. "Deanna," I said, "please trade seats with me for a while." Deanna looked at my sister. Grace was sitting in the window seat. She nodded at Deanna, and Deanna gave her seat to me. I buckled up and stared straight ahead. Stay calm, I told myself. Grace had arrived at the gate for our flight just minutes before we boarded. She looked good, greeted us with a smile and took a seat next to Deanna, as far away from me as possible. She'd avoided eye contact with me. Now, I was avoiding eye contact with her. "I met him when I did my disappearing act with Little Bundle," Grace said. I said nothing. My eyes faced forward. "Newt put me in a condo his company owns in Aspen. I wanted to get out of the heat, and he said he had the perfect place, and it was, perfect, I mean, but only if I discount the fact that I was an emotional wreck. I was furious with you, Brent. Livid! But I was also terrified, and not just for myself. You stayed behind to play macho man..." I spun toward her. "Let me finish," she said. I gave her a hard look but nodded. "I was terrified that Bell would win, that he'd kill you, Brent." Tears welled in her eyes. "I knew that if you died that I'd die, not literally, but all the joy in my life would fade and never return. We grieved for Mom and Dad together. If I lost you, I'd have to grieve alone, and the sadness, the loss, would overwhelm me. So I was furious with you, terrified for you and myself, but that's not all. I felt guilty. I'd abandoned you." "No..." I said. "Let me finish, dammit!" she said. I nodded again but without the hard look. "So I was angry, afraid and full of guilt. Thank God for Little Bundle. Taking care of her kept me sane, gave me purpose. Then I met Lyle." She hugged herself. "He's beautiful, Brent. Inside and out." Then she huffed a derogatory laugh. "And worthless otherwise." I frowned. "Explain that, please." "He's a ski-bum, Brent. No goals beyond tearing down a mountain on skis or a board. He does what's termed extreme skiing, sailing off cliffs, that sort of thing. I met him wandering into a shop in Aspen where he was working as a clerk until the snows fell on the slopes again. He's blond and tanned and tall. A God physically, with a boyish smile that took away my anger and fear. I hung onto the guilt, though. Meeting Lyle Schroeder and taking him into my bed didn't take away the guilt, just the opposite. You were in Scottsdale at risk. I was in Aspen enjoying cool nights fucking my brains out with a blond God. I started to hate you for making me feel so guilty." She sighed. Her hands were in her lap. She'd been wringing them. "Then Newt called. You were safe. Bell and his evil son were dead, and I came back to you." I reached and took her hand. She jerked it away. "I'm not finished," she said. "When you hugged me the morning I returned, I wanted to stay in your arms forever. My love for you washed over me as it never had before. Powerful. Demanding. That's how it was. That you'd played it safe thrilled me. When Newt first told me that Bell was dead, I thought you'd killed him. Believe it or not, I felt a sense of relief with that thought. If you'd killed him, I could make the break I needed to make. But you didn't kill him. James killed him." "Do you know that for a fact?" "No. That's an assumption. He didn't say, and I didn't ask. Let me finish. That you'd played it safe made you a man in every sense of the word for me, and I loved you that much more. I escaped for Lake Powell as soon as James returned. Then you joined us for your birthday and the book-burning party, and I felt the need to run again. I'd decided against going to your opening in Denver, but James took another contract, and Deanna and I were at loose ends. When she suggested that we go with you, I called Lyle. He drove down to the opening from Aspen, and I left with him." She'd been staring straight ahead while she talked, but she turned toward me. "I'm a basket case, little brother. I'm in love with James, but... well, for a number of reasons I can't give him my heart, my mind, and my soul. And there's Deanna. She says she's in love with me. I don't love her, and I'm starting to push her away from me. Lyle... he's merely respite for my troubled psyche, a happy face, loving arms and a big dick. I'm a mess, little brother, and I don't' know what to do to fix myself. Any suggestions?" Mary's words echoed in my mine. Sometime — I don't know when — you'll fuck her, she'd said. When you do, I won't feel ill of you for it, she'd added. Then I'd told Mary that Grace and I had agreed that that would be a disaster. Uh-uh, she'd said, it might be what you both need so you can get on with the rest of your lives. "No, no suggestions," I said, "except talking like this. Being open and honest with each other, supporting each other helps. You said you felt like you abandoned me. You didn't. Leaving me to be safe wasn't abandoning me. You leaving let me do what I needed to do." "Mary didn't leave you." "I let you talk. It's my turn." "Okay." She gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. "You were in need, Grace, and I didn't know it. I was too wrapped up in myself. Selfish! Just before I left the hotel I called you an inconsiderate bitch." "I was. I am." "Hush. Me, me, me! That's all I've been thinking about. I can't believe how selfish I've been. I love you and you were in pain, and I was too selfish to see it. If anyone did any abandoning, it was I. Never again, Grace. I love you, and although I haven't been acting like it, your happiness is more important to me than my own. From now on, when you feel a need to run, to put some distance between us, I'll try to understand and try not to take it personally. I'll try to accept your need for distance, understand your feelings, and support you in every way. But we need to talk more. Like this. Neither of us reads minds. Talking like this will help. Let's talk before we punish. Okay?" "'Kay," she said with a whimper. I wrapped her in my arms while she cried softly. Tears welled in my eyes, too. Was Mary right? Did Grace and I need to become lovers to get on with the rest of our lives? ------- Chapter 19 Switching from a five-by-seven or larger canvas to a three-by-three painting surface took an effort to shorten my brush strokes so the finished painting would match the vision in my mind. I cursed under my breath and threw the brush on a table. Agnes's gurgling laugh echoed off the studio walls. I looked up and saw her leaning on the loft railing. "Not as easy as you thought it would be, huh?" she said. She held a glass of wine in her hand. I remembered her arriving at the studio but had forgotten that she'd arrived. "No," I said, "but I'm convinced that the discipline to master the switch in size will improve my work overall." I wiped my hands on a rag and bounded up the stairs. "Have you started a smaller piece?" I asked. "Yep. Except for the forged elements, it's easier and faster." I put a cup of water in the microwave and hit the minute button. A cup of hot green tea would hit the spot. "How'd you do on the GED test?" she asked. I groaned. "I'm not as smart as I thought I was. I need a tutor. Do you know one?" "Nope, but I'll make some calls, and you'll need more than one tutor unless you passed all sections in the test but one." "I'll need more than one," I admitted. "One for geometry and algebra in the math section, and another for every part of the science section. I just skinned by in the social studies part of the test, and my essay sucked. I think Grace's tutor will help me with the writing section; so three tutors should get the job done. I want to pass the GED by December, so I can start the University of Phoenix online program in January. They offer an online business degree." "Brent, you skipped half your high-school years. Do you think it's wise to spend your college years in front of a computer? What about college as an experience?" I shrugged. "Online, I can go at my own speed. I won't miss classes because I'm behind in my painting or away for an opening. If I want to experience college, I'll join Mary or Grace on the ASU campus for lunch." Agnes huffed. "You're incorrigible." I sipped the green tea, savoring the flavor and aroma. "You missed our tai chi session at dawn," I said. She blushed, which surprised me. "I was busy," she said, and her blush deepened. I raised an eyebrow. "Believe it or not, you young whippersnapper, I do have a sex life." Tears flushed my eyes. "What?" she said, looking alarmed. "Whippersnapper. My mom called me that sometimes." I snorted a laugh. "Usually when I exasperated her." "Sorry," she said. "No, don't be sorry. It was a bittersweet memory. I hope I have them the rest of my life. You have a sex life, huh?" She grinned. "Not as active as I'd like, but yeah, I have a fella." "Fella?" "Don't make fun of me, Brent." "I'm not making fun of you. I'm having fun, though. What's his name?" "Oscar." "Something serious?" "No. We're friends that enjoy sex together. Neither of us needs or wants more out of the relationship. We usually go out to dinner on Saturday nights, and he stays over for breakfast Sunday. Last night, he just showed up." She frowned. "Unusual. He wouldn't say why, except that he needed to hold me. What he really needed was for me to hold him. He's a nice man, Brent, but he's a confirmed bachelor, and I enjoy living alone. Having a husband underfoot all the time would drive me bonkers." I nodded. "Have you got a small forged piece I can help you with? I feel in need of some anvil work." She smiled. "You bet. While you flex your muscles, I'll make some calls to pin down some names and phone numbers of some potential tutors." ------- I called Clarence Kitt, my San Francisco P.I., for the name of a colleague he could recommend in L.A. "What's the job?" Clarence asked. I told him about David Bailand. "Something's odd about the man, Clarence. Before I do business with him, I want to check him out." "Okey-dokey, call Hector Olbrecht." He gave me a phone number and spelled Olbrecht's last name. Okey-dokey? I chuckled to myself. Clarence was remaining true to form. "Mention my name when you talk to him," Clarence added. "I will." Did private dicks pay finder's fees? Didn't matter. If they did, Clarence deserved one. "What's the status of the Milton Tucker lawsuit?" "Don't know. Jack Stark deposed me. You'll need to call Jack for an update beyond that." I hung up, dialed Stark's phone number, and when he answered my call, I asked him the same question. "Tucker's lawyer responded with the normal denials in time to avoid defaulting," Stark said. "That's about it. We're waiting for a court date." "Any offer to settle?" "No. A settlement offer this early in the game would be a legal blunder. I know Tucker's lawyer. He'd advise his client not to make that kind of mistake. " "Okay, thanks. I called Clarence on another matter, which reminded me to call you." "What are you into now?" he asked. I told him. "I see," he said. I think he was disappointed that my problem was as benign as a business issue. We said our goodbyes, and I called Hector Olbrecht. "Olbrecht, here," he said. He had a deep voice. I pictured a large man to go with the voice, and then chuckled silently. He was probably five feet nothing and thin as a rail. I introduced myself, mentioned Clarence's name as my referral, and told him what I wanted. After we discussed my desired time frame for a report, as well as his fees, I hired him. I hung up and called my banker to wire Olbrecht's retainer, wondering if I was wasting some money. If only to fabricate a modicum of justification for hiring Olbrecht, I called Gary Frazier. He took my call. "Congratulations on your Denver show, Brent," Frazier said enthusiastically. "Thanks. I didn't hear from David Bailand about a summer show in L.A." He said nothing. I waited. "I'll call him," Gary said, finally. "No, don't. Because I didn't hear from him, I committed those paintings to Katrina Leonard. If Bailand wants to show my work, it'll have to be in the fall. What's more, I don't want you to chase him for a commitment, and I won't. What's with him anyway, Gary? I mean, I knew he was upset because I committed the spring show to you, but his reaction was immature. It was as if he wanted to punish me for putting you ahead of him." Frazier sighed. "I don't know what to say, Brent." "The other gallery owners in your network are great, Gary. Very impressive. Professional. Likeable. I'm not sure I want to do business with Bailand. Something's not right about him. I could be wrong, so I'm checking him out before I etch my negative feelings about his approach to business in stone. Still, I'd like an opening in L.A. Bailand was right about L.A. being an important market for an artist." I expelled a derogatory laugh. "But it's not as important as New York City, not by a long shot." "I agree," Frazier said. "I'll be frank with you, Brent. When we made our deal, Bailand was new to my network. Your show would've been the first I referred to him." "Has he referred any to you?" "No. What did you mean when you said you were going to check him out?" "Just that. I'll check with some of the artists he represents, maybe some of his buyers, that sort of thing." "Let me know what you find out." I hesitated, and then thought, Why not? Gary was a friend. "All right. I will." ------- Ominous thunderheads turned the dawn into pockets of fire filled with molten clouds like the yellow heat from the interior of a forge, and sent rays of sunlight streaming in odd directions. The air was heavy with moisture, and I was sweating when we finished tai chi, so I skipped Kung Fu, but stayed outside to watch the gathering storm. Interesting weather in Phoenix didn't happen all that often. Mary wandered out to say goodbye. She had an eight o'clock class. Deanna and Agnes left with her. Grace would leave next, but when she walked out onto the patio, she wasn't dressed for school. She'd showered; her hair was still wet, and she wore shorts and a t-shirt. I couldn't decide what I admired more: her long, long legs, or the allure of the barely hidden as her breasts swayed unfettered under thin cotton, stiff nipples peaking the garment. Lightning flashed, brightening the sky, but the following thunder took its time. "The storm's an hour away," I said. "If it gets here at all," Grace said and handed me a cup of hot tea. She sat next to me at the table. From her comment, I couldn't decide if her glass was half-full or half-empty attitude-wise. So I asked, "How are you, Grace? Are you all right?" Tears misted my eyes when she bit her lower lip with her upper teeth, just like... I miss you, Mom. The silent words, like the mist of tears, happened without volition. I didn't mind. "So, so," Grace said. Her legs, I decided as Grace folded them under the glass tabletop. I admired her legs more. "No classes this morning?" I said. "One. I'm skipping it. The professor tests from the text, not his lectures." "My kind of teacher," I said. "Yeah. I need to break it off with Deanna." I said nothing. "For a gal who maintains an open relationship with a man, she's getting way too possessive with me," Grace said. "Has her relationship with you become more important to her than her relationship with James?" "When he's not around, yes. Otherwise, I don't know. Yesterday, I was having lunch with Carrie, a new friend from my biology class, when Deanna showed up. She was jealous, Brent, and there was no reason for jealousy. Carrie is just a friend, not a lover." "Could she become a lover?" I asked. She blew air over her coffee cup and sipped. "Probably." Her lips curled into an evil grin. "Likely." "Perhaps Deanna sensed the possibility." "No perhaps about it; her comments later referenced that point." "Are you worried that you might lose James if you break it off with Deanna?" She grimaced. "Yeah." "You won't. He loves you." Lightning flashed again, and the interval between the lightning and thunder was brief. The storm would hit before the hour. The clouds had lost their fire and hung heavy without the glow of a new sun. Grace said, "James is around so little that it'll be difficult for him to keep both of us happy when he is around, not to mention my personal promise that I wouldn't get between James and Deanna. I made the same promise to Deanna. It's a mess." "Do you have any candidates for a male lover?" I asked. She sighed. "You and James have raised that bar too high." "I'm conflicted," I said. "Why?" "Your comment pleased and dismayed me at the same time." She laughed. "If you're feeling a little schizophrenic, join the club. I want to talk about something else. A while back we decided to sell this house and build a scaled-down dream house." "Yes we did, but the dynamics have changed since, and they'll change again and again as the years go by." "Yes, they have, and yes, they will. Are you saying you no longer want to build our scaled-down dream house?" "Yes, but..." Sudden tears welled in her eyes, and she started to gather herself to jump up and leave. "Don't even think of walking away," I said, hurriedly. "Let me finish first." She didn't relax, but she didn't stand up either. "I don't want to build our scaled-down dream house," I said, "because I want to build our dream house. I'll earn over $500,000 next year, Grace. If we don't get ridiculous about it, we can go all out, especially if we buy enough land to start with to let us stage growth over the years. And I want you to think about another change. Consider two homes on the property. One for you, and one for me, but joined with communal spaces like a large formal dining room, a big kitchen, a great room, an entertainment room, those sorts of spaces. Outdoor elements can be shared, too, like the swimming pool, hot tub, and bathhouse." She wiped the tears from her eyes and gave me a dazzling smile. "Are you serious about this?" "Yes, it allows the dynamics to change, which means it allows us to stay together, but apart at the same time. It allows us to marry others and have children. What it doesn't allow for is the possibility that we'll stop wanting to live together. I, for one, don't see that happening, but it could, and if it does, I'll buy out your share of the residence. It also lets me invest more in the property than you. I'm thinking four acres: one for you, one for communal spaces, and two for me. That's minimum. I wouldn't be unhappy with an extra acre, or two. Between us, we have about $3,000,000 right now. I'm not suggesting we put all of that into the house, but I'd be willing to put up $1,000,000, in other words, my share from the sale of this house and $500,000 in cash, and I'd sign a mortgage for $2,000,000 more to start with." "I'll put up a million, too, but..." I knew where she was heading, so I interrupted her. "I'll cover the mortgage, Grace." "That doesn't seem right." A gust of wind swirled under the overhang; lightning struck; thunder crashed and rolled. The storm was minutes away, not an hour. I said, "After your first bestseller, if you want to pay for your share of the mortgage, have at it, but that's not a condition of the deal." She looked inward and nodded, and then gave me another dazzling smile. "I adore your happy smiles," I said. "Ah, hell, I adore you, all of you." I watched as love filled her gorgeous eyes, her love for me, and I felt exalted as if I were the subject of parental praise. I miss you Mom and Dad, I said silently. Out loud, I said, "The last time we spoke, I assigned you the task of finding the land. With you in school, I'll do the looking this time. Okay?" "Do what I planned to do. Assign the task to Ed Desmond, and we'll narrow down the choices together," Grace said. Desmond was the real estate agent Pete Turner had pointed Grace at for her real estate investments, and like Grace, I'd invested some of my money in land through Desmond. "All right." Sporadic large raindrops splashed the wind-agitated water of the swimming pool. I smiled when another gust of wind slapped my face just before the large raindrops gave up sporadic and got serious. We stayed dry under the patio roof and watched in silence as the thunderstorm quenched the thirsty earth. It had been a good morning. "I'm going inside to do some writing," Grace said as the storm started to drift east. "Can you fend for yourself for breakfast?" "Sure." While I ate shredded wheat with some sliced bananas, I called Desmond. ------- Others weren't as excited about our dream house as Grace and I. Grace reported that Deanna's agitation was a sight to behold. Upon hearing about the house, she went into a tirade. "You and your brother are going to build a house together!" Deanna exclaimed. "Are you out of your mind? Why don't you just fuck him and get it over with!" With that Deanna stomped off. This happened on the ASU campus the afternoon on the same day that Grace and I made the decision to go ahead with the project. Others heard Deanna's astonishing and angry words, Carrie being one of them, which embarrassed my sister. Carrie was Grace's new friend from biology class. And that wasn't the end of the squabble. I think Grace used the occasion to drive a wedge between her and Deanna, and Deanna cooperated with later, more private comments like: "You own the house you're in with Brent, but that's understandable. You inherited it together. Then you bought a boat together. I can understand owning a boat together. Boat ownership is often parceled out to friends and relatives to reduce the expenses of owning the luxury item. But a dream house! Get real, Grace!" And, "You need a life of your own." And, "You need to break your dependency on Brent, Grace. It's not healthy." That's when Grace turned on her heels and stomped off. That same afternoon, Mary found me in my studio. With an angry expression and her hands on her hips displaying a scolding posture, she said, "I won't cut and run, Brent, but I've got to tell you that sometimes you piss me off." At the time, I didn't know about Grace and Deanna's argument. I also didn't know that Deanna had taken it upon herself to inform Mary about the dream house, a subject I had not brought up with Mary. I stopped painting and started to clean my brushes. "Mary, before we can resolve this problem... I perceive we have a problem. Correct?" "Damned straight we do," she huffed. "Before we can talk about the problem, it would be helpful if I knew what this problem is about." "I understand you and Grace plan to sell your parents' home and build a dream house together." "That's correct. We made that decision this morning." "When did you plan to discuss this with me, if ever?" "At our first opportunity, but it appears that Grace informed you before the opportunity arrived for us. What's your problem with this, Mary?" "Grace didn't inform me about your dream house, and if you can't see why I'm upset about it, maybe..." Tears flushed her eyes. "Damn you!" She rushed up the stairs to the loft. Utterly befuddled, I finished cleaning my brushes and walked up the stairs. If I'd reached down inside and assumed my Jane Wilson persona, perhaps I would've understood, but I didn't, so I approached the problem with a male mind and personality. Worse, the mind and personality that came forward was Fang Hong's. In Fang's time and place, men ruled and women followed — sort of. She was sitting at the table drinking green tea. Another cup sat on the table across from her. I took that chair and sipped the tea. Her tears were gone; and her demeanor had returned to tight-lipped fury. "If Grace didn't tell you, who did?" I said. "Deanna, but that's beside the point." I was slow, perhaps even a little dimwitted, but the first inkling of what the problem might be was starting to glimmer off in the distance like heat lightning. "What did Deanna tell you?" "I told you already. She said that you and Grace planned to sell the house you're in and build your dream house." "That's it? That's all she told you?" "Well, no. Like me, she's pissed. She told your sister that she should just fuck you and get it over with." "Hoo boy!" I huffed, but then I remembered a time when Mary had said something similar. "How did Grace respond to that rude comment?" "I don't know; Deanna didn't say, but at the moment, Deanna and Grace are not speaking to each other." "And at the moment, from the expression on your face and your body language, you're considering taking the same stance with me." Her shoulders sagged, but then she squared them. "I'm more hurt than angry, Brent. Let me be angry. I'll handle this better with anger than tears." "It appears that you and Deanna don't have all the facts, just enough to get your backs up. What I don't understand is why you're taking Deanna's side in this... ah, misunderstanding." "Misunderstanding! Are you or are you not going to build your dream house with your sister?" "I am." I seriously considered letting her stew in her own angry, hurt juices, but I loved her and wanted to make everything right between us again. "What's misunderstood is the configuration of this dream house." I heard the faint sounds of a knock on the studio door. It opened and Agnes yelled, "Brent?" "In the loft, Agnes. Come on up." "I'd rather Agnes didn't join us right now, Brent," Mary said. "Hi, Mary, Brent," Agnes said as she stepped into the loft apartment. "Just the two I wanted to see." She ignored us otherwise and poured herself a glass of wine before she sat with us at the table. I made no attempt to chase her off, and Mary sat silent and sullen. "Deanna called me," Agnes said. I laughed but not with any joy. The laughter sounded cynical — the way I felt. "Deanna is a troublemaker of the first order," I said. Agnes cackled. "Yep. She's like the National Enquirer, only verbal. She paints shocking gossip with verbal words, not the printed kind. Dream house, huh?" "Yep." I sipped tea. "Mary and I were just discussing the issue. She's upset, too." Agnes huffed. "Well, she should be, you young whippersnapper." "Thank you for that," Mary said to Agnes. I heard the door open downstairs, and Grace called out my name. "We're in the loft, Grace. Come on up," I hollered. "Oh, oh," my sister said when she spied Mary. She didn't explain her concerns. Instead, she rummaged in the refrigerator and found a diet Pepsi. She poured the bubbling brown liquid over ice and took the remaining chair at the table. "I didn't call this meeting, Grace," I said, "but all the parties involved are present to discuss our so-called dream house, so let's discuss it. Mary's pissed. Agnes says she ought to be pissed. I understand you're not speaking with Deanna, and Deanna is flitting around causing trouble everywhere she lands." I looked around the table. "Is that a fair assessment of the current state of the problems swirling around the dream-house issue?" "I'm confused," Agnes said. "You implied that I'm involved with your so-called dream house. I'm not. Perhaps I should leave." "Uh-uh," I said. "You're involved, at least I hope you'll be involved, but we'll touch on that element of the dream house in a minute. First, let's deal with Mary's attitude. You're acting as if you've been mistreated, Mary. I can understand why you feel that way, but you're wrong." I turned to Grace. "Please tell Mary about our overall concept for this dream house." She gave Mary a sympathetic smile and said, "Mary, the design will be two houses joined with communal spaces, which will allow Brent and me to stay together, but apart at the same time. We can live with others or even marry them and have children. In other words, the house we've conceived allows the dynamics to change. When Brent and I first discussed the house, we scaled it down with master bedroom suites at opposite ends of the house. The idea formed because Brent and I noticed that neither of us used the master bedroom in the house where we live now. That bedroom belonged to Mom and Dad, and we knew it would always belong to them. Anyway, I wanted to design my bedroom suite, and Brent said that you would be designing his bedroom suite, but with everything that's happened, we didn't follow through with that plan. This morning, I brought up the subject again, and Brent said he didn't want to build the scaled-down version. He said he wanted to go all out — within reason. Our parents' home is worth about $1,000,000. We'll sell it, and Brent and I will put up another $500,000 each, plus Brent's earning power will let him handle a mortgage for another $2,000,000, so our total budget is $4,000,000. That ought to build a dream house, don't you think? Oh, before you answer, Mary, neither of us even considered doing this without your input and total involvement." She turned to me. "Did I leave anything out?" "Yeah, Agnes's involvement," I said. "Agnes, I'm building my studio on the property, but I need you for a neighbor. Notice I said need, not want. If you're willing, I'll build a studio for you on the property as well. I'll rent this studio to you for what you're paying for your current studio. We will share a connecting kitchen and lounge. Also it is my intent to create a sculpture garden on the property for you to display your work. Are you interested?" Her jaw was gaping. I reached over and lifted her chin. With a happy smile, I said, "I take it that you're interested." "Yes," she said so softly I could barely hear her. Soft sounds coming from Agnes were out of character. I'd stunned her. I turned to Mary. "I'm not sure," Mary said before I could speak to her, "but I think you and Grace will owe some taxes if you sell your parents' house." I nodded. "We'll let our accountant work that out. "And isn't the house part of probate?" Mary said. "An obstacle to be worked around," I said. "About us, are we all right now?" "You want me involved?" "In every detail except Grace's house and my studio and Agnes's studio. I want my dream house to be your dream house, Mary. I'd planned to ask you to move into it with me during that first opportunity I mentioned; you know, the opportunity that Deanna's meddlesome shenanigans scuttled." I groaned. "I could ring her pretty neck." "Four choking hands would be more effective," Grace said. "I'll help with the wringing." Agnes cackled. "Well, Mary, will you do it?" I said. "Will you help me design and build our dream house and then move into to it with me, you and Little Bundle?" She looked at Grace. My sister smiled and nodded, and Mary ended up on my lap, which wasn't easy. The chair almost toppled over backwards. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry," she said between kisses. ------- Two days later, I met Carrie Rustand. She arrived to join Grace and me for the evening meal, a meal I noticed that Grace took great care preparing. I'd considered teasing my sister, but after living with her for seventeen years, I knew when I could tease and when I couldn't. Teasing Grace about Carrie Rustand that night would've been a big mistake. A junior pre-med student, Carrie wasn't stunningly beautiful like Grace, and she didn't project the appeal of Mary's exotic beauty. At first, I thought that even Deanna's blonde loveliness exceeded Carrie's somewhat ordinary appearance. Carrie was a pretty brunette. That's it; that's all. She didn't tease; her dark eyes held no mischief. She wasn't cute. But when I heard her sultry voice, when I watched her move, my attitude suddenly changed. Plain and simple, Carrie Rustand exuded raw sex. What's more, her surprising and powerful sex appeal wasn't studied or presented purposefully. It just happened. Shortly after she arrived, I noticed that listening to her and watching her move had given me a hard-on. What's more, she noticed my obvious compliment to her sex appeal but ignored it as if it were her due. Either that or seeing male erections tenting trousers was a common sight for her. Grace also noticed the bulge in my pants. Like Carrie, she said nothing but gave me a hard look that told me I'd better make myself scarce. I shrugged and left the two women to finish dinner preparations while I checked my e-mail, hoping that Desmond had sent some land packages for my review. He had, two of them. One described five very expensive acres in Carefree; the other presented six much cheaper acres in New River, both too far away for an easy commute to ASU. I composed and sent Desmond an e-mail with that comment and suggested Awatukee, anywhere in Scottsdale and Paradise Valley, or Chandler as close in as possible. There was no acreage available in Tempe, the home of ASU, and moving to Mesa didn't appeal to me. My inbox also contained a preliminary report from Hector Olbrecht, the private investigator I'd hired in L.A. to check out David Bailand. After reading the report, I was happy I hadn't committed to a summer show with him. Bailand wasn't paying his artists their share of the proceeds from the paintings he sold. The reason the artists weren't being paid, Olbrecht theorized, was because Bailand was a compulsive gambler. The P.I. had followed the gallery owner to a number of Indian Casinos in the L.A. vicinity. I responded to Olbrecht's e-mail, thanking him for a job well done, taking him off the case, and asking him to forward his final bill. With a little luck, he might even return part of my retainer. I then forwarded Olbrecht's preliminary report to Gary Frazier, fulfilling my earlier promise to let him know what I found out about Bailand. I also asked Gary to amend our contract to allow me to perform my own search for a gallery in L.A. Proving the old adage that the extraordinary can become commonplace, I managed to keep the bulge in my trousers to an acceptable level during dinner. The dinner conversation stayed brisk and jumped from one subject to another. I noticed Grace made an effort to get Carrie to talk about herself. Grace also made an effort to steer Carrie away from asking me too many questions. To cooperate with my sister, I kept my answers brief when I did respond to a question from Carrie. Carrie grew up in Globe, Arizona, an ugly (my modifier, not Carrie's) little town south and east of Phoenix, that was once a thriving mining community. Some mines were still operational, but what I'd noticed most about Globe the last time I rode through the town was the inordinate number of automobile related shops along the main highway. "Was my observation in error, Carrie?" I asked. She huffed a derogatory sound. "Nope. Every swinging dick in Globe thinks he's an automobile mechanic. The good mechanics have the good jobs and actually do repair work. The mediocre mechanics work at tire or automotive parts shops, and the lousy ones — the majority, I might add — are unemployed, a problem in Globe for as long as I remember." She gave me a woody-generating smile and added, "You're astute, Brent, to have noticed." Praise from a sex goddess, I also noticed, tended to move more blood from the big head to the little one. Did Carrie have the same effect on my sister as she was having on me? I didn't ask, of course. Instead I looked for telltale signs of arousal in my sister and found them in abundance: hooded eyes, occasional deep breaths mixed with short fast breathing, rigid nipples, a flushed neck, and occasional squirming in her seat. Yep, my sister was in serious heat. Carrie's father was a doctor, a country doctor, she added. Her mother was a homemaker, and she had two older brothers and one younger. She laughed softly, low sounds that made my dick throb, and then she said, "My oldest brother is one of the best mechanics in town. He owns his own shop and has more business than he can handle. Elliot, my other older brother is gay. He's studying interior decorating in California. My younger brother, Dale, is the star quarterback on the high school football team, which in the total scheme of things doesn't mean shit, but he hasn't figured that out yet. He's in for a rude awaking next fall when he leaves Globe and starts college." Perhaps I shouldn't have asked, but I opened my mouth and inserted a foot anyway. "What about you? Are you gay?" Grace kicked my shin under the table, which made me gasp. Carrie laughed, which lengthened my dick. "I'm a LUG," she said. I nodded when I remembered that Mary had mentioned the acronym early on in our relationship. "Lesbian until graduation, right?" "Yep," she said. "My education is too important for me to get involved with a man right now, and I've got a lot more years ahead of me before I become a doctor. I won't even think about marriage and a family of my own until that happens." Not likely, I thought, but kept the thought to myself. "I imagine you break of lot of male hearts. Your sex appeal is compelling." "I noticed that you noticed," she said with another laugh, and then made her point with a glance at the table that would have zeroed in on my erection if she'd had x-ray vision. "Frankly, I don't understand my sex appeal," she said. "I know I have it, but I don't understand it. I'm not beautiful like Grace, and although I've got a good body, it certainly isn't to die for." She shook her head, causing her long brown tresses to wave and put a twitch in my stiff dick. "It's troublesome. Most of the time, I wish I didn't have it, or that I could tone it down." "I think I can tell you how to tone it down, but I'm reluctant to do it." "Please!" she exclaimed. I laughed. "The change in your tone of voice when you said 'please' did it, toned down your sex appeal, I mean. It's your voice, Carrie, and the way you move." "You aren't the first man to tell me that," she said. "What do you suggest? Take voice lessons to change the way I speak. Learn how to put less wiggle in my walk?" I laughed heartily. "No. Part of your problem is lack of wiggle. Also, there's no tease in you. Learn how to tease, try to entice, and you'll tone down the sex appeal that literally oozes from your pores otherwise. I'm not sure, but I think pheromones are involved, as well. Anyway, what I'm saying is if you make yourself normal by teasing and enticing, I think your sex appeal will dampen some." She looked stunned. "I've gotta admit that's an approach I haven't tried." She sighed. "I can't do anything about my pheromones, if that's what's happening. I've read recent studies about pheromones. Scientifically, whether humans ooze pheromones — as you so indelicately put it — or even have pheromone receptors is still up in the air." "I don't think your problem is pheromones, Carrie. I was close enough to receive them when I first met you, and I didn't react until a little later, after you spoke, after you moved. Try my suggested experiment, not with me tonight, but on campus tomorrow. What have you got to lose?" She smiled. My dick twitched. "I'll try," she said. To give Grace more time with her new lover, I offered to clean up the dinner mess. Grace took me up on my offer, and the two of them disappeared. I didn't see either of them again that night. ------- The next morning, Deanna showed up for sunrise tai chi. I didn't witness the brouhaha that ensued when she saw Carrie. I was swimming my laps, but Mary arrived moments after Deanna and saw most of it. "Brent, I honestly think Deanna came for tai chi with the intent of kissing and making up with Grace," Mary said. "But when Carrie walked into the family room wearing a towel..." "A towel?" I said. "Yeah. She'd just showered and came looking for Grace to ask about an extra toothbrush." Mary giggled. "I guess she didn't arrive last evening expecting to spend the night. Anyway, when Carrie pranced into the family room wearing nothing but a towel, Deanna came unglued. She started ranting and raving, calling Grace names like slut and cunt. Deanna's filthy mouth shocked me, Brent, and you know I'm not easily shocked that way. Then Deanna turned on Carrie, who was just standing there with her mouth agape like me. About then, I'd be willing to bet that Carrie was thinking the lack of a toothbrush was the least of her worries, especially when Deanna reached out and ripped that towel right off Carrie's naked body." "Damn! I'd have liked to have seen that," I said. Mary slugged my shoulder playfully. "I bet." "How did Carrie react?" "She looked befuddled, conflicted, wondering whether to shriek and run or rip into Deanna for an old-fashioned female scratching, hair-pulling fight. She would have run, I think, but when Deanna called her a cunt, a hair-pulling contest became Carrie's more likely course of action. That's when the doorbell rang." "Agnes?" I said with a chuckle. "Uh-huh. Agnes's arrival threw cold water on any possible catfight. Carrie turned and ran. I answered the door and let Agnes in. Grace told Deanna to get out of her house, and she wasn't calm about it. Grace was screaming, Brent, which surprised me. I didn't think Grace had an angry scream in her. I sure was wrong about that. That's when Deanna really lost it. She crumpled to her knees on the carpet and started to sob, hugging herself and saying over and over again that she was sorry." "What a mess," I muttered. "Yeah. Grace was so furious she had no compassion in her. She grabbed Deanna and pulled her to her feet, slapped her purse to her chest, and marched her to the door. 'Get out of my house and don't come back, ' Grace said, and she meant every word. That's when you came in, so you know the rest." The rest wasn't pretty or funny, although the humorous elements that happened before I came on the scene were generated in Mary's agile mind and the manner in which she told the story, not from what actually happened. Carrie dressed and left, and when Grace walked her to the door, my sister saw Deanna still parked in her car. Deanna hadn't stayed to cause more trouble. She was sobbing too hard to drive away. Grace came into the kitchen and told the three of us to go ahead with tai chi without her, that she was going to bring Deanna inside and talk with her. None of us knew what was said in that conversation, but when Deanna and Grace emerged from my sister's room later, Deanna was stable enough to drive away. Deanna didn't say a word to me. She just left. "Are you and Deanna finished?" I asked when Grace and I were alone. Mary and Agnes were long gone by then. I'd hung around to support my sister. "Yes. She wants to stay friends." "That won't happen," I said. "I know, but I'll try." "What about James?" "I don't know how James will react to this mess, but I won't put myself between him and Deanna." Tears welled in her eyes, so I gathered her into my arms and hugged her. She started to cry. "You know what you need?" I said. "What?" "It's Friday. You need to feel Sweet Rose plane down and skim over the waters of Lake Powell." "Oh, yes! That's exactly what I need, Brent. Will you come with me?" I shook my head. "Take Carrie with you." "After this morning, she might not want to have anything to do with me." "If that happens, it's her loss, not yours, and in that case, I'll go with you." Carrie accepted my sister's invitation, and the two of them flew to Page that afternoon for the weekend. ------- Late Saturday morning, Mary showed up with Little Bundle and a suitcase. "We're here for the rest of the weekend," Mary announced. At Little Bundle's insistence, the baby girl got my first cuddle and kiss, but Mary didn't let us dally and kissed me until my toes curled. "I don't want to go out, Brent," she said with her lush body still pressed to mine. "I want to get naked and make love, and once I'm naked, that'll be my state of dress until Grace gets back. Maybe I'll take a break from making love and swim a little, or sit in the hot tub to rest and recover between our sweaty sessions. I also want us to have another talk-and-fuck, and I wouldn't mind if you got the urge to tap my G-spot until I go limp. Are you starting to get the picture?" I rubbed my erection against her and said, "Let's set up the playpen and get naked." I brought up Carrie's sex appeal during a talk-and-fuck. "Does Carrie turn you on?" I asked. "Oh, my, yes!" Mary said. "Almost from the moment I met her, I was either half-hard or fully erect when she was around. I wanted to rip off her clothes and ravage her," I admitted. "I know what you mean," Mary said, her fingers busy in tight, little circles on her clit. "I saw myself wearing a strap-on dildo and fucking her brains out." The mental images those words evoked nearly took me into an orgasm. I jerked my cock out of Mary's cunt and squeezed it with force to diminish the urge to climax. The squeeze worked, and I slipped my throbbing dick back into Mary's wet sleeve. "Have you done that? Fucked a girl with a strap-on, I mean?" I asked as I let my cock soak without moving at all in Mary's heat. "Once. I was in college at the time. It was fun." She giggled. "I preferred being on the receiving end, though. That chunk of latex filled me to the brim." "Big, huh?" "Yeah. The device's owner was a size-queen." "What about you? What's your preference, size-wise, I mean?" "You're just about perfect. Length-wise you are perfect." "Which leaves width." I laid two fingers along the side of my cock, and pushed them inside her as I thrust forward. "Like that?" I said. She gasped. "Oh, yeah, but that's overdoing it a bit." I removed one finger. "Perfect," she said and giggled. "You like fat cocks, huh?" "Yep, but the man attached to a cock is much more important than the size of the cock. You've been a woman. I don't have to explain that any further, do I?" "No." Winn Crane came to mind. Whinney. Hung like a horse. As Jane Wilson, I'd enjoyed Winn's oversized tool. Still, Mary was right. I man's personality vastly exceeded the size of his cock when it came to the pleasure I'd received as a woman, as Jane, and Jane had tried on a lot of cocks for size. Mary said, "The size-queen, Brent, she had a huge cunt. I could stuff my entire hand inside her. I could fist-fuck her while I licked her itty-bitty clitty. At the time, I wondered if she was too large for a normal man to enjoy fucking her." I felt Mary's cunt clamp hard around my cock and finger. "But she assured me that her pussy was like mine. 'One size fits all, ' she said. Which isn't true, by the way. I couldn't take her boyfriend's monster. He was just too long to fit." The vision that danced through my mind with those words produced a groan. That I was hot made Mary hotter. Her fingers sped up on her clit, and her hips started to wave. "That makes you hot, huh?" she said. "Well, it makes me hot, too. Not the big cock I couldn't take. I'm thinking of the combination. A plunging cock and an active tongue. Getting fucked and licked at the same time, Brent, it's... Oh, I'm there! Yes! I'm coming! Come with me!" We'd been at it an hour, she'd climaxed twice, so I was ready to come. Images flashed. Mary wearing a strap-on. Mary fisting a woman. Mary being fucked with a huge cock. Mary being licked and fucked at the same time. I roared and semen gushed from the end of my shaft as Mary's cunt pulsed with her climax. I thrust and spurted again. Mary wailed and jammed her spastic cunt down around my cock, and I reveled in the orgasmic sensations rushing through my body. When we recovered, I said, "Is that something you'd like to do with me? Fuck me while someone else eats you?" She didn't respond immediately. I waited. "Maybe," she said finally. "With another woman, maybe. Not with another man. I've told you before, Brent. I will not fuck another man, not as long as I live." She'd said the same words before, but what she'd said hadn't truly sunk in, not then. She'd promised fidelity, but only with other men. She'd never promised to remain faithful when it came to another woman. "What about another woman? Would you fuck another woman?" I asked. "If something happened to you, yes. Otherwise..." She let the rest of her comment fade. I said nothing. "Otherwise, no, with one exception," she said. "And that's all you'll get from me on this subject right now." She yawned. "Besides, I'm so sleepy, I can barely stay awake." She promptly proved her veracity by falling asleep. Moments later, I followed her lead. The next day when James rang the doorbell, Mary and I were naked and playing in the pool with Little Bundle. ------- Chapter 20 I answered the door dripping wet and wearing a robe. "Swimming, huh?" James said. "Yeah. Come in, James. It's great to see you again. Wanna beer?" "A beer sounds good," he said. "I came to see Grace." "She not here, James. She's at the lake." He frowned. "I'll take the beer anyway." I opened a bottle of beer and handed it to him, and then excused myself, telling him that I'd be right back. Outside, I told Mary that James had arrived. "Shucks," she said. "I guess that means I've got to get dressed." She kissed Little Bundle's forehead. "You, too, baby girl." She handed Little Bundle to me while she put on a robe. In my room, I pulled on some sweats. "Go ahead," Mary said. "I'll join you later. I need to dress Little Bundle, and that'll give you and James a chance to talk." James was still standing when I padded into the kitchen. "Sorry about that," I said. He smiled. "No problem." I made myself a glass of iced tea and we settled at the kitchen table. "Deanna tells me that she and Grace had a big fight," James said. "Yeah." "Would you tell me about it?" "No." I sipped tea. He laughed. "Don't want to get between the rock and the hard place, huh?" "You've got it." "Fair enough. I understand because that's the spot I'm in. Deanna is demanding that I choose. I'd rather not." I nodded, my way of saying that I understood. Then I put myself in that spot he occupied. "James, Grace made a promise to herself and to Deanna that she'd never try to take you away from Deanna. My sister loves you, but if you must choose one of them, Grace won't make a case for herself." He assimilated my comment in silence and said, "Deanna told me that you and Grace plan to build a dream house so you can live together," he said and took a healthy slug of beer. "Yes and no," I said and spent the next five minutes explaining the plans for the house in detail. "Besides planning for changing dynamics, one of the main reasons I want a different house evolved from the Bell fiasco. This house isn't secure. The new house will have a high wall around its perimeter, strong entrance gates for vehicles, and state-of-the-art security equipment," I said, adding an element of the house that I hadn't discussed with Grace or Mary. "I understand," James said. "Got another beer?" "Sure." I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and handed it to him. "I'm not positive, James, but I think Deanna jumped to some incorrect conclusions." "It would appear that's what happened," he said. "Is Grace alone at the lake?" "No." He waited for me to elaborate. I didn't. "When will she return to the city?" "This evening." He jotted down a phone number. "Have her call me," he said. "I will. James, whatever comes out of this ruckus, I hope you and I can remain friends." He smiled. "I'd like that." "To that end, you're welcome to join us for tai chi at dawn tomorrow morning." "If I can, I will," he said. "I understand your Denver show was a success." "Yeah. My next show is in mid-December in Santa Fe. If you're not on assignment, you're invited as my guest." "I'd like that, too. Sifu and I want a rematch with cudgels." I grinned broadly. "Anytime." "Tuesday morning?" "You're on." We set a time, and he left. When Grace arrived home looking tanned, beautiful and relatively happy, I gave her James's phone number, which made her look nervous and discombobulated. She called him and left almost immediately. I didn't hear from her until about ten o'clock that night. "I called so you wouldn't worry," Grace said. "I'll be staying with James tonight." "Okay. How are you? Are you all right?" "Yes. James says to count on us for tai chi at dawn." That pleased me. ------- Talk about confusing! James and Grace arrived together for tai chi, but shortly after they walked in the house, the doorbell rang. I opened the door expecting to see Mary or Agnes. Instead, Deanna smiled at me. "Good morning, Brent," she said cheerfully and pranced through the open door. "James, Grace, good morning," she said as if she and Grace had never exchanged bitter words. Grace greeted her just as enthusiastically, and then Mary and Agnes showed up. They ended up looking as confused as I felt. Like me, they said nothing except good morning. The six of us moved as one, performing three almost perfect forms before Grace and Mary went inside to start breakfast. I'd noticed that James was carrying his cudgel when he stepped through the front door, so we sparred with the staffs, but not seriously. It wasn't a match, just an exercise. Deanna and Agnes sat outside and watched us. When we finished, Deanna gave James a kiss and left the house. When we were alone, James took pity on me and said, "I told them I wouldn't choose, and that I expected them to get along. I told them that they'd do the choosing, not me, because the first unkind word I heard from either of them about the other would force me to choose the other." I laughed. "That's a solution I didn't consider." "It's not a solution, Brent. It's a tenuous truce at best. If I may use a shower, I'll join everyone for breakfast." During breakfast I opened a topic that I'd wanted to talk about for some time, but I'd wanted James's input for the discussion. "I've had good luck hiring private investigators to look into a couple of problems facing me," I said. "Their investigations led to Mary's lawsuit against Tucker and kept me from making a costly business mistake. The FBI is no longer actively pursuing the cowardly act of terror that killed our parents, Grace, and your brother, Mary. I checked. The investigation remains open, but that's it. Unless something unexpected happens like somebody ratting out the bomber, or the bomber suddenly deciding to confess, the cretin will get away with murder. I'm not willing to leave it at that. I'd like to hire someone to investigate the crime, but I won't act unilaterally. I'd like input from everyone at the table first." "I'm not involved," Agnes said. "My input would be meaningless." "Not so, Agnes," I said. "An active investigation could call attention to me, enough attention that the bomber could decide to make me his next victim. I'm with you a lot, and the bomber has already demonstrated that he isn't concerned about collateral damage." "Oh! I see. All right, I'll provide my input, but I won't go first. I'm peripheral." She chuckled. "The story of my life: peripheral." "Fair enough. Let's do this," I said. "Let's take a quick yes or no vote, the question being: should I hire a private investigator to look into the bombing? Grace, would you go first? Yes or no, please, no explanation." "No," she said. "Mary?" I said. "No." "James?" "I'm beyond peripheral on this, Brent," he said. "Not so. You love Grace. That makes you involved," I said. "Then considering the way you phrased the question, my answer is no." "Agnes?" "May I defer my answer until James explains why his no vote was based on the way you asked the question?" I grinned and said, "All right. James, I'd like to hear the same explanation." "First, let me say that if someone murdered my parents or brother, I wouldn't rest until the murderer was brought to justice. That being said, I'd make sure whatever I did to obtain justice wouldn't put someone I cared about in jeopardy. That's why I said no your question. If your question were phrased: should I hire an investigator to look into the bombing in a way that can't be traced back to me, I'd have voted yes." "Thanks James," I said. "I waited until you were around to ask my question and open this discussion because I knew that you'd steer me in the right direction. Grace, may I ask why you said no?" "I want our parents' murderer brought to justice as much as you, but I don't want you, me or anyone else at this table at risk for any reason ever again if there's any way to avoid it. The Bell situation terrified me. I don't cope well with violence." "Okay. Mary, why did you say no?" "Jules helped me when no one else would. Someone murdered him and appears to be getting away with it. I don't like that, not even a little bit, but I can't and won't put my daughter at risk again." "Agnes, you can't stall anymore," I said. "The way you phrased your question, I vote no. I vote yes if you can figure out a way to get it done that can't be traced back to you." I looked at James. "Can you help me hire an investigator so I don't leave any tracks that will lead the bomber back to me or mine?" He grinned. "Sure." I asked for another vote phrasing the question as changed by James. After I went around the table, I said, "We have unanimity. James, I'd like to initiate the investigation before you leave on another assignment." "No problem. We'll talk after sparring with Sifu tomorrow morning." ------- "Well, what happened?" I said when Grace and I were alone after breakfast. "What happened was your explanation of our dream house," she said. "Huh?" I said. "After you detailed our preliminary design concepts for the house, James went to Deanna and passed along the facts you gave him. That took the wind out of her sails. I guess she lost it again, blaming herself for our breakup." "As she should," I said by way of support. "No, Brent. I was as much at fault as Deanna, and you know it. I didn't make an effort to detail the design concept. When she jumped to the wrong conclusion, I let her, and then used her immature reaction to end the relationship. That was wrong. I should have just ended the affair instead of manipulating the circumstances to make Deanna look bad, and I told James as much last night." She sighed. "Brent, I'm not comfortable with that entire situation. As a threesome, it worked. As it is now, it doesn't work. I spent last night with James. Tonight, he'll be with Deanna. Back and forth, back and forth. The poor man. He must feel like a child subjected to joint custody with two warring divorced parents. He'll probably breathe a sigh of relief when he takes a new assignment." "What about Carrie?" "Carrie is just fun and games, Brent. By the way, she told me to tell you that your method works, but it, too, has its problems. If she waits until the guy is all hot and bothered before she flirts with him, it doesn't work. It's worse. But if she flirts from the get go, her unusual sex appeal doesn't kick in with as much force as it does if she does nothing. How did you know flirting would work?" "Yin and yang, the power of opposite forces." I grinned. "Yeah, sure, now tell me the truth." "What I said isn't far from the truth. Her astonishing sex appeal happens without her volition, and she's right; she's okay but no raving beauty. I reasoned the raw sex she exudes could be diminished if she actually tried to be sexy instead of just being herself. I didn't know it would work. It was an experiment." I laughed. "If she learns to control her sex appeal, heaven help the man she selects for a mate when she decides she doesn't want to be a LUG anymore. She'll turn him everywhere but loose." Grace laughed with me. "What are you going to do about the broken trilogy?" I asked. "Nothing right now. James will get a new assignment soon and leave both of us behind for a while. Perhaps during his next absence, the problem will take care of itself." "What do you mean?" She creased her pretty brow. "I don't know. Intuition, I guess. I love James, but he isn't the love of my life. The love of my life will spend his life with me, not gallivanting around the world putting his life at risk. Brent, believe it or not, I'm not at a point where I'm frantic about finding the love of my life. If I find him, that would be great. If I don't, I can still be happy. Frankly, I'm too young to get married, and I'm certainly not ready to be a mother. I have my writing. I'm enjoying college. There's the weird but wonderful connection and closeness that you and I share, and I cherish Mary's friendship." She chuckled. "I even get a kick out of Agnes. There's Carrie or someone like her, and if I have a need for intimacy with a man other than James, I can make that happen, too. The idea of building our house excites me, and I adore Sweet Rose." She grinned. "Where's the problem?" "James," I said. She frowned. "Yeah, there's James." Then her expression brightened. "But remember what I just outlined for you. Right now, James is the perfect man for me: a part-time lover that I respect and love. With his extensive absences and the nature of his work, he can't be the love of my life." She looked inwardly. "He could be, but..." With a shrug, she smiled. "I'll say it again, Brent. Where's the problem?" Yet again, I decided to stop worrying about my big sister. "Has Desmond come up with any acreage that might work for us?" she asked. "Three possibilities, but all three would make commuting to ASU troublesome. He forwarded a fourth package that doesn't fit our parameters, but I think we should look at it. It's only three acres, and it's pricey. I think we should look at it because the land is in Paradise Valley, which allows an easy commute to ASU. Unfortunately, it comes with another problem. There's an existing house on the property." "How much?" "$2,000,000." "Whew!" "Yeah, but that still leaves $2,000,000 to demolish the existing structure and build new. I think we can make the numbers work. "Will three acres be enough?" "There's the rub. We'll need to engage an architect to make that determination. Any ideas?" "No, but ASU has a school of architecture. I'll check around." "Agnes might know one." Grace laughed. "No doubt. She's something else, huh?" "Yep." ------- I won the sparring match, but it wasn't easy. I had to pull some unusual aerobatics out of my distant past to counter Sifu and James's coordinated assault. And Sifu wasn't the major problem. The sparring exercises I'd done with James had made him aware of many of my moves, and I think he'd planned counters to them in his mind before the match started. James and I sat in the kwoon's lounge after the match and sipped aromatic green tea. "Ridiculous," James grumbled. "What?" I said. "You used your cudgel as a ladder and then pulled it up into the air with you. Nobody can do that." I chuckled. "It's a very old trick." "Yeah, like running up a wall." "I let gravity work for me. That's all." "How." "Speed takes me up the wall; gravity pulls me down. At the moment the force of gravity starts to win, I use the gravitational force, flip over backwards with a half-twist, and I face my opponent on the way down, which happened to be you today, James. I faced you, but I was still in the air. The move surprised you and gave me a small advantage that I used against you as I returned to the mats. You're very good." I looked around. We were alone. I lowered my voice and said, "Better than Sifu." He nodded. "Barely. Could you handle three of us?" "Sparring, no. In a real fight, maybe... likely. But in a real fight with you, I would lose." I huffed a laugh. "You would shoot me." James cracked up. "Yep," he said. "How can I hire an investigator and..." "Patience, grasshopper," he said with a grin. "Enjoy your tea; then show me how to run up walls, and I'll introduce you to a man." "All right." ------- "Do you trust me, Brent?" James said as he drove me to meet the man who would hopefully identify my parents' killer. "Yes," I said. "Just like that. No qualifiers?" "No qualifiers." "Good, because some trust is necessary. I will introduce you using a pseudonym. Let's see, how about I call you Ken Stiles?" "Okay. May I assume the man you'll introduce will also be using a pseudonym?" "You may. Actually, he'll introduce himself. I don't know what name he'll give you. Tell him what you want him to do — in detail. He will either take the job or decline it. I have no control over his decision. If he takes the job, he'll tell you his fee. He doesn't work cheap, but he's the best at what he does. If you agree to this fee, he will instruct you regarding payment method, most likely some wire transfers, different amounts to different accounts over a period of time. The money won't linger in those accounts. It will be moved immediately, probably to offshore accounts. Where it goes from there, would be anyone's guess, but be assured that it will be extremely difficult to track, let alone be tied to you or the investigation. Trust is necessary because this meeting will be your only contact with this man, and there will be no formal, written contract." "Everything you've said so far is fine with me, James, except I'll want progress reports." "Tell him, not me," he said as he turned the car off the street onto a private driveway. He pushed a remote, and a garage door opened. "Don't step out of the car until the garage door closes." One car already occupied the garage, which made James's car a tight fit. The garage door came down, and James and I struggled getting out of his car. The house wasn't occupied, I figured. The garage was pristine, no tools, nothing being stored. A safe house, I assumed. I followed James through a small utility room, down a hall into the family room. He motioned me to take a seat. "Hot tea?" he asked. I nodded and sat on one of two leather sofas, buttery brown in color. They had a new smell to them, like a new car. Probably because they're leather, I reasoned. No art on the walls. The furniture was new and sparse. A safe house that hadn't been used yet, not for overnight occupants anyway. James returned carrying two cups of tea. A large man followed him. Fifty-five to sixty years old, the man had to weigh over three hundred pounds. His jaws were half again as wide as the upper part of his head, small blue eyes, jowls jiggled as he walked, and although he was fat, he didn't lumber. "Mr. Stiles," he said and extended his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Tom Hagar." I rose to my feet and took his meaty hand, a hand that made mine disappear, but he had a gentle touch. Like a woman's, I thought. "Call me Tom," he said. "And I'll refer to you as Ken, if I may." "Of course," I said and took the cup of tea James offered me. James sat next to me, and the large man sat facing us on the other sofa. I sipped some tea. "Tell me about your problem," Tom said. "My..." I stopped and looked at James. "I can't tell Tom about the problem without revealing my identity. What's more, I'll need to name others to fully explain the problem." "James briefed me. I know who you are," Tom said. "Refer to yourself as Ken. Make up names for others involved, but use the names in context with you and your problem. Say 'my sister, Helen, ' for example. The pseudonyms probably aren't necessary, not here, not today. They're merely a precaution in case someone is listening who shouldn't be listening. That's highly unlikely but possible, and the surveillance would not be related to your problem, but rather would happen because of who I am and what I do." Using made up names for Grace, Mary, Joy, my parents, and Jules, I told him my problem. That Mary's parents had also been murdered interested him, so I detailed that incident, as I knew it, including Mary's father's fraudulent partner and the lawsuit in progress, which to my mind, made using pseudonyms ridiculous. He asked questions; I answered them. When I told him about my interview with Special Agent Garber, Tom laughed. "Garber is an incompetent fool," he said. "Also troublesome. When he finds out I'm messing in his nest, he'll go ballistic. I'll forestall that event as long as I can, but the odds are that he will become aware of my investigation somewhere along the time line. Ken, as I understand it, you want me to identify the person or organization responsible for that lounge bombing. Correct?" "Yes." "All right, I'll take the job. My fee is..." "I'll want progress reports, Tom," I said interrupting him. He glared at me. I said, "I'm sick of being kept in the dark about the various investigations I've been involved with. I won't be unreasonable, but I'll want to know about progress being made with the different investigative approaches you'll use. This is a deal-breaker, Tom." He looked at James. James nodded. What the hell! I thought. Is James running this show, or is Tom? "One of my men will provide monthly..." "Bi-weekly wouldn't be unreasonable," I said. Silently, Tom checked with James again, and then said, "Every other week, one of my operatives will contact you and provide a verbal report." I nodded. Tom outlined his fee structure and stipulated the retainer. I accepted the deal without negotiating further. "You, your sister, your lady friend, and others will be interviewed extensively," Tom said. "Cooperate as if you weren't the principal. We'll also be interviewing the loved ones, friends and relatives of the other bomb victims, especially Julian Stewart, and we will look for a possible tie-in with the murders of your lady friend's parents, although, I'd be surprised if they are connected." After he outlined his fees and the payment method for the retainer and any subsequent payments required, we shook hands, and James and I left the safe house. I experienced a sense of relief that I was finally doing something to bring my parents' murderer to justice. ------- The house wasn't occupied. Worse, it looked abandoned and was overgrown with thorny vines, cat's claw mostly. Some bougainvillea had survived the apparent neglect. They waved red and glorious in the afternoon breeze. The crumbling house and overgrown neglect made me feel as if I were standing in a different time and place. The Old South, I thought, but the Old South suffused with high-desert light. The land rose gently up the side of Mummy Mountain. Huge boulders dotted the landscape beyond the property line at the rear of the house. Two forty- or fifty-foot pine trees soared like sentinels near the entrance gates inside an eight-foot-high, vine-covered wall that surrounded the estate-like setting. The wall had crumbled and fallen in places. Whether it could be salvaged was open to question. "Remember, you're buying the land, not the house," Desmond said. We were walking the three acres for sale in Paradise Valley. I looked at Grace and grinned. "I'm in love," I said. Understanding that I was referring to the land, she nodded. "But is it large enough to do everything we want to do?" "Absolutely," Desmond said without equivocation. "Before we make an offer," Grace said, "we'll need to consult with an architect. "This land came onto the market last Friday. It won't be on the market by the end of this week," he said. "Make an offer subject to consulting with an architect." "There are other contingencies," Grace said. "Such as," Desmond said. "The sale of our current home and financing." Our real estate agent shook his head. "That won't work, Grace. You can't sell your current home until you build a new one, not unless you want to rent somewhere." "Oh," Grace said. "Yeah, you're right, Ed." "A financing contingency is imperative," I said. "We don't have $2,000,000 in cash lying around." "How much cash do you have?" "Between us, we have $1,000,000 in stocks and bonds, readily convertible into cash, but we'll need to consult with our stock broker regarding timing on any sales," I said. "That's doable," Desmond said. "I'll put a financing contingency in the offer and add architectural consulting to the inspection process." "$2,000,000 is the asking price. Right?" I said. "Yes." "How much to demo the old house?" He shrugged. "Don't know. Why?" "The demolition is an expense that should go against the value of the land," I said. I looked around. "The fence is falling down. That old house is on a septic tank. That won't work. We'll have to bring city sewer into the property. What about the well?" "The well will be checked as part of the inspection process," he said. "You work for us. Right?" I said. "Yes." "What should we offer?" "$1,800,000," he said without hesitating. I looked at Grace. She nodded. "Do it," I said. ------- I'd engaged two tutors, one for higher math, the other for the sciences, and Grace's tutor had agreed to help me with the writing section of the language skills. I bought some flash cards and took an online refresher course for the social studies section, and because I was determined to pass the GED exam before my Santa Fe show, I worked at everything everyday. I also had to finish ten paintings for that show, so I was busy. Still, I relished the challenge presented by the dream house. After a counter offer from the seller, and a counter/counter on our part, the seller accepted our offer of $1,850,000 with the closing scheduled for the tenth of December. Desmond and our accountant helped us obtain the financing we needed to buy the land, and then we were told we'd need a construction loan and permanent financing for the finished home, not to mention selling our current house and time that closing so we could move into the finished new house without an interim move. I found the entire process fascinating. Grace found what she called 'high finance' frustrating, so I took the lead on the finance issues, and Grace, Mary and Agnes went looking for the 'right' architect. I'd inserted Agnes in the search. Her design sense was needed. I'd also told them I wanted 'modern, ' not traditional. "Clean lines," I told them. "Sculpturesque, with architecture flowing into water, not the other way around." "Huh?" Mary said. "I know what he means," Agnes said. I added. "Lot's of glass with deep overhangs. The interiors should soar and make our hearts sing." "Maybe we should hire a poet, not an architect," Grace said, but the shine in her eyes gave her away. She knew what I meant. Late one afternoon, I was painting when the phone rang. "What are you doing?" Mary asked. "Watering the plants," I said. "We want you to see a house." "All right. Where?" She gave me an address. "That's in Carefree," she added. "Plan on taking us to dinner after you see the house." "Yes, dear." ------- The second I saw the house I knew we'd found our architect. The residence fit its environment but still made a statement, and sculpturesque was an apt description for its exterior. "What's his name?" I asked. "Whose name?" Grace asked. "The architect who designed this house?" "Don't know. We just liked the house and wanted you to see it." "Well, hell, let's go find out." "How?" "Knock on the door and ask," I said. The four of us trooped up the slight slope of the driveway. A middle-aged woman answered the doorbell. She was pretty, slightly overweight, but comfortable with the excess pounds, and gave me a smile that made me feel happy. I introduced the ladies and myself and told her why we'd rung her doorbell. While I spoke, a young man strolled up behind the woman and listened. "I'm the architect," he said. "My name is William Evanston. This is my mother, Mrs. Janice Evanston. Please come in." He's young to be an architect, I thought. Then I remembered that I was seventeen years old and an up-and-coming artist. I guessed Evanston's age between twenty-three and twenty-eight. He was tall and slim with dark hair, dark brooding eyes, hooded heavily with thick brows. He wore a beard, but it was a temporary beard. I put it at three-day's growth. Mary leaned against me and whispered, "He's beautiful." Then she added, "Like you." "Good save," I whispered, which made her grin. Evanston and his mother gave us a guided tour. It was a small house, but the interior spaces soared and made my heart sing. Mrs. Evanston's pride in her son was evident in every word she spoke. She called him Billy. He didn't seem to mind the nickname, at least coming from his mother. I wondered if there was a Mr. Evanston until we walked through Mrs. Evanston master bedroom suite. She was either divorced or a widow. The walk-in closet contained no men's wear. William had his own master suite. He'd designed the house for the current two occupants without considering the possibility of changing dynamics. I found that curious. Would he understand our design concept? During the tour, Mrs. Evanston insisted on us calling her Janice, and we all moved to first-name basis. Janice served wine for everyone but me and was happy to make me a cup of hot tea. Earl Gray, I noticed when I sipped. I preferred green tea. We sat and watched the sun do down, not directly, but William had situated the house to view both a rising and setting sun to the left and right through expansive glass in the great room. Both views were possible in the winter months when the sun fell into southern sky. There wasn't a separate living room in the house. We talked. The house that had caught our attention was William's first and only residential design. He made his living space planning for office tenants. "My mother was an office leasing agent," I said. "Carson," he muttered to himself, and then his eyes widened. He looked at me and said, "Your mother was Rose Carson?" "Yes." "I knew her. I did some work for her. She..." He stopped speaking in mid-sentence. "Yes, she and my father were killed in that lounge bombing," I said, taking him off the hook. "I'm sorry," he said, an expression of condolence or an apology for bringing up a painful subject. I couldn't decide which. He frowned, and then he smiled. "You're an artist, a painter. I saw you on television making a plea to the FBI to give you a progress report on their investigation into the bombing, and you were standing in front of one of your paintings." I nodded. He looked at Agnes. "I know you, too. Well, I don't know you, but I crashed your opening at the Frazier Gallery downtown. You're a sculptor, right?" She grinned and said, "Yep." We told Bill and Janice about the land in Paradise Valley that we'd just purchased, as well as our overall design concept for the dream house. "The house must provide for changing dynamics," I said to Bill, "an approach you didn't use for this house." "True," Janice said. "This is my house. When Billy meets the love of his life, he'll move out of this house and build a new one for his bride." Her eyes moved from mine to my sister's. "What happens, Grace, if the man you choose to spend the rest of your life with doesn't want to move into the dream house?" "Then Brent will buy out my share of the house. But..." I could see doubt in her eyes, not doubt that I would buy her out, but rather doubt about baring her soul to a stranger. "Janice," I said, "my sister and I were very close before our parents were brutally murdered. Afterwards, we supported each other emotionally and became tied together financially, making our already close connection that much closer. It is Grace's wish and mine that whoever she chooses as a mate will want to live with her in her part of our new house, and the design of the house should provide for future expansion for children, both Grace's and mine. Still, knowing love is rarely reasonable and predictable, we've discussed how we'll handle the ownership issue if my sister chooses to live elsewhere." Janice nodded. "That makes sense." "To that end," Grace said, "Brent will own three-fourths of the house to my one-fourth." "What is your overall budget?" Bill asked. "$4,000,000," I said. "$2,000,000 for the land; $2,000,000 for the house and outbuildings." "Outbuildings?" Bill said. "Yes, Grace is a writer. She wants a casita on the property for a personal library and writing studio. As you know, I'm an artist. I want my studio on the property, and Agnes and I have become very close over the last year. Her studio is near my current studio. She uses my kitchen, and I help her forge elements for her sculptures." I grinned. "Anvil work is good exercise and therapy for me. Anyway, we'll also build a studio for Agnes on the property and use parts of the grounds for a sculpture garden. I'm also considering building a kwoon on..." "Kwoon?" Bill said. "What's a kwoon?" "A training hall for Kung Fu," I said. "A kwoon isn't a must, though. With the weather in Phoenix, I can train on the grounds. We'll want a pool, hot tub, possibly a bathhouse, and outdoor cooking and dining. I didn't see a swimming pool here." "No, Bill says we live in desert," Janice said. "A pool wastes water. Did you notice that our landscaping is what's called xeriscape?" "No," I said. Bill explained xeriscaping for me. I gave him a hard look. "We'll want water as an integral part of the design for our house." He groaned and rolled his eyes, but then smiled. "If you hire me to design your house, I'll hire a landscape architect that will give you all the water you want." "Uh-uh, you still don't get it, Bill. I want water as an integral part of the design. Are you familiar with the work of Wallace E. Cunningham, a California residential architect?" His brow creased in thought. "The name is familiar." "Check out his designs, and you'll see what I mean when I say I want water to be an integral part of our house." "I'll do that." I smiled. "We don't want to waste water, Bill, but we want to live with it. As an example, Grace and I own a boat we keep at Lake Powell." "Does Cunningham have a website?" Bill asked. "I think so." "Excuse me for a few minutes, and I'll check him out on my computer." He rose and left the room. "How strong is Bill's opinion regarding water and the desert?" Grace asked Janice. She shrugged, obviously not wanting to say anything that might cause her son to lose the commission we represented. "Where did Bill study architecture?" Mary asked. "ASU. My husband, Bill's father, was a structural engineer. He passed away five years ago, but he would've been so proud of this house. Structurally, it's very efficient." She chatted for another five minutes until Bill returned. He entered the room smiling. "I see what you mean. Water is a structural element in Cunningham's architecture." Agnes laughed. "Brent says that architecture should flow into water, not the other way around. He can't truly explain what he means by that phrase, but I must be as weird as he because I understand exactly what he means." Bill chuckled and said, "Believe it or not, I think I understand, too." "If we make you our architect, will water be an integral part of your design?" I said. "Yes." I asked and he told me his fee structure, which he defined as a percentage of the total cost of the residence, including the land. I took the land out of his fee, and he increased the percentage used to calculate his fee, but only slightly. In the end we agreed on a flat fee, regardless of cost. He also agreed to act as our consultant relative to the land purchase, which included preliminary design sketches. Our final acceptance for the main contract was subject to our approval of the preliminary design. Should we not move forward from the preliminary design phase, we agreed to pay him for his time to that point. "Bill, can you meet us at the site tomorrow?" Grace said. "Of course," he said. Grace gave him the address and a time was set that met everyone's schedule. I stood and shook his hand, and we left. Mary climbed into my pickup with me. Agnes joined Grace, and I followed Grace's car to the Boulders Resort, where we planned to have dinner. "Waddaya think?" I asked Mary. "I think we've found our architect." "Yep," I said feeling pleased. "I also think Grace may have found a new fella, as Agnes calls her guy." "Oh?" "I can't believe you didn't notice, and to use one of your favorite expressions, your sister is all atwitter, which is probably a good thing because Bill couldn't take his eyes off her." I said nothing. "He is beautiful," Mary said with a sigh. I laughed. "You, too, huh?" "Hey, you look at beautiful women." I laughed again. "Yep." ------- Chapter 21 Hagar's men interviewed Grace and me, spending about an hour with each of us, and then they interviewed Mary, but not for an hour. They interviewed her over two evenings for a total of six hours. Mary had asked the investigators if I could sit in with her during her interview. Their answer was an unqualified no, and after the interview, she told me she understood why. "They took me through that night in San Francisco, Brent," Mary said. "Made me relive every second of it. It was horrible. If you had been with me, I could not have opened myself as completely as I did for them." I hadn't hired Hagar to traumatize Mary, but when I threatened to stop the investigation, she became very upset with me. "No!" she shouted. "It was horrible, but the investigators forced me to remember things, little things, details I didn't tell the police in San Francisco, and they explained why they asked the questions they asked, why they forced me to remember every little detail. Then we talked about Jules, and they helped me remember some things I didn't tell the FBI about Jules, and I thought I'd told the FBI everything. It was devastating, Brent, but the thoroughness of the interview and the details they pulled from my mind like dentists with pliers made a believer out of me. I think you hired the right men to look into that bombing." Three days after Mary's last interview, my liaison with Hagar called me. "You will be picked up at your studio at eleven o'clock tonight. Have your lady friend with you," he said and hung up. A man Mary and I didn't know drove us to the safe house where I'd met Hagar. He wasn't there. I don't even know if my liaison was there because I'd never met him, either. In the safe house, two men neither of us had ever seen introduced themselves using first names only. The big one used Pete as a name, and the shorter one called himself Jack. During the drive to the safe house, we were told to use Ken and Debbie as our names. Pete and Jack were gracious. They offered us something to drink, which we declined. The four of us sat at the kitchen table. Pete laid a closed manila folder on the table in front of him. He smiled at Mary. "First, let me apologize to you, Debbie. Our interviewers put you through hell. Please be assured that if there had been any other way, we would not have been so callous." "I understand," she said. "And out of your hell, we've come up with an investigative approach that we believe will prove fruitful." He opened the manila folder and removed an 8x10 photograph. He turned the photo so it faced the right direction for her to see it and set it on the table in front of her. "Do you recognize this man?" She gasped. "He's one of the men who murdered my parents, one of the men who raped me!" I laid my hand on hers to comfort her. I could feel her pulse. It was beating alarmingly fast. "He was also one of the victims in the bombing," Pete said. "What?" I exclaimed, completely shocked. Pete turned to me. "Ken, we believe the FBI investigation failed because they didn't connect the murder of Debbie's parents to the bombing. Debbie, did you tell the FBI about your night of hell in San Francisco?" "Yes. Bre... ah, Ken thought there was an outside chance that they might be connected, so I made a point about telling them." "Did they ask you to describe the men who assaulted you?" "No. They asked for the name of the San Francisco police officer in charge of the investigation. I gave them Detective Saunders' name, and I assumed that they'd contact him. I described those men to Detective Saunders." Jack said, "They probably did contact him, and he probably forwarded a copy of his files on the crime, but reading the descriptions of the men who assaulted you isn't as effective as hearing the descriptions directly from you. In fact, the tattoo you mentioned on one of your assailants is what led us to this man." He tapped the photograph on the table with his finger. "His name, by the way, was Karl Hans." "I didn't tell Detective Saunders about the tattoo. I didn't remember it until your men took me through that night second by second," Mary said. "What will you do with this information?" I asked. Pete smiled. "We're going to do what real law enforcement officers don't do. We're going to do a lot of assuming and make some leaps of faith. If our assumptions prove wrong, or we leap into dark pits with nowhere to go, we'll do some more assuming, climb out of the pit and leap in another direction. Our approach is a shortcut that more often than not results in quick solutions. On the down side, sometimes we skip over important clues, which forces us to go back to square one and start over again." Jack said, "Debbie, we think the information your brother learned that he wasn't supposed to know came from this man." He tapped the photo. "That's the first assumption. The leap of faith attached to the first assumption is that this man and your brother were the actual targets of the bomb." "Our next assumption," Pete said, "is that the bomber somehow found out about the meeting and planted the IED, or improvised explosive device, ahead of time, detonating it when Hans met with your brother, which effectively eliminated both threats simultaneously. With no evidence at all except the fact that Hans was involved in both incidents, we're leaping to the conclusion that the bombing was tied to your parents' murders, but we don't believe either your mother or you were targets. You and your mother, like the victims besides Hans and your brother in the lounge bombing, were collateral damage." Jack said, "Which means that your father had to be the target. That said, we're assuming that your father knew something about a man or organization that made your father a serious threat to that man or organization, and because your father frequently traveled to the Orient for his business, we must look into his activities and contacts in the Orient. To that end, we'll need another interview with you." "What about Milton Tucker?" I asked. "Could he be involved?" "Yes. He's being checked out as we speak," Jack said. They set up an appointment for the next interview with Mary. Jack said, "We'll pick you up and drive you here for the interview." He turned to me. "Tom says that you should consider this your first bi-weekly briefing." Pete stood up. "I'll drive you back to your studio." When Mary and I were alone in the studio, I said, "If Tucker hired the men who killed your parents and molested you, you are in mortal danger, Mary." She hugged herself to calm her nerves, but said, "True, but if Tucker is the sociopath we're trying to identify, I'm in no more danger now than I was when Stark filed my lawsuit. The person who hired those men to kill my parents and then detonated the bomb in that lounge is utterly ruthless, Brent. I don't see Tucker in that role. If he was that ruthless, I'd be dead by now." "You make a good argument, but still I'd feel better if you and Little Bundle moved into my house until Tucker is eliminated as a suspect, which shouldn't be more than a day or two the way Hagar and his band of merry men operate." Mary snickered. "That's for sure. They're something else, aren't they? It's scary, baby, but I've got to tell you, I feel better knowing that someone competent is finally working hard for us to identity the madman who ripped both of our lives apart." "Yeah, me, too. It's getting late. Let's go pick up Little..." "No, I'll stay with you tonight, but Little Bundle is fine where she is until morning. Joy and I will move into your house tomorrow after sunrise tai chi." ------- I don't remember my dreams very often, or perhaps I only dream infrequently, but I woke up with a dream fresh in my mind. I'd spent the night in a cemetery, and the dream was attached to Jane Wilson, not Brent Carson. The cemetery was in New Orleans where Jane was buried in an aboveground crypt, a standard practice there. With the water table so high, caskets buried underground would float to the surface and bob around like buoys marking the channels in the Gulf. As Jane's ghost, I wandered from one crypt topped with a carved stone cross to another crypt with angels sculpted in relief to yet another even more elaborate resting place that included Doric columns. At each crypt I spoke with the dead, telling them of the wonders of the 21st Century, from kitchen gadgets like espresso machines to a powerful telescope in orbit that studied our galaxy and universe without the earth's atmosphere cluttering the view. The dead expressed doubt, not amazement, I remembered as I gazed into the bathroom mirror. That they doubted Jane pleased me. I don't know why. I was shaving the fuzz off my face. "A kitten could do that job as well as a razor," Mary said with mischievous gleams in her eyes. "Use whipped cream instead of soap and let the kitty lick your beard away." "Woman, are you making fun of my attempt to be more manly than I am?" She giggled, which did nice things to her breasts. I noticed because, like me, she was naked. "Indeed, I am," she said. "How often do you shave?" "Once a week, whether I need to or not. Josh Randall had a heavy beard, which required two shaves a day, but he only shaved in the morning and often skipped a day completely. His wife complained incessantly about his scratchy stubble, but deep down where it counted, his rugged masculinity thrilled her." "Your lack of facial hair does not diminish your masculinity in my eyes, Brent. I don't know if you've noticed, but I think you've been going through a growth spurt." "I've noticed. It would be difficult for me to not notice. I knew my trousers had either shrunk or I'd grown taller, so I checked. I'm proud to announce that I've reached my father's height of six-two." She fondled my dangling testicles and flaccid penis. With another giggle, she said, "I was referring to your dick, not your height." "That I haven't noticed. Is it thicker or longer?" Her feminine wrist turned, stroking the lengthening shaft. "Longer definitely, but I think it's a little thicker, too." "Why definitely longer but only tentatively thicker?" I rinsed the soap off my face and dried it with a hand towel. Her tender, experienced touch had given me a full erection. "My measurement device is calibrated for length, but the calibration for thickness is subjective." She laughed. "For thickness, one size fits all." I slapped on some aftershave lotion. "Does that mean that my length is no longer perfect for you?" "Uh-uh. It's perfecter." "That's not a word." "Should be." She hopped and sat on the sink counter, leaning back against the mirror as she pulled her feet up to the counter's edge. "Let's measure." I stepped between her legs and rolled the head of my stiff cock around her vulva. She was wet, so I pushed and slowly sank into her. "I'll be dipped," I said. "No pun intended, but I think I just hit your bottom." "Uh-huh, definitely longer. Umm, this feels good." "It does," I said as I started to make long, smooth strokes. Her feet left the counter edge when she wrapped her legs around me. "Perfecter," she said as her eyes rolled back in her head. "Suck my nipples, please. I stopped letting Little Bundle dry nurse, and I miss it." I buried my face in her breasts. Her fingers reached between us and found her clitoris. "Perfecter and perfecter," she said. A minute later, I switched breasts, and after both nipples felt hard but still malleable like lead, I leaned back so I could make full strokes again. The mirror wrapped about two feet on both sides of the counter, and I could watch us fuck. "You're beautiful, Mary Stewart, but you are never more beautiful than when you're fucking." "Fucking you," she huffed quietly. She was looking to her left to watch us, a different view than I was enjoying. "Fucking you. Fucking you." I figured she was talking to herself. Her eyes met mine. Undulating hips met my inward thrusts. Fingers flashed back and forth, stroking her clitoris twice to each of my thrusts. She looked to her right. "Fucking you. Fucking you." Whispers. Her eyes returned to mine again, and then they rolled back in her head. "Coming," she whispered. "I'm coming. Come with me. Come in me. Shove that long, thick cock deep inside me and fill me with your come." She spoke softly, but still her voice expressed urgency. I started to clench as I thrust, and the clenching, the 180° view, combined with my lover's urgent demands pulled semen up through my shaft to splash at that bottom I was bumping. She gasped; I groaned. We climaxed together, and I stayed with her after the exquisite sensations of my orgasm let go and allowed me to watch her flushed body from three mirrored angles as pulses of pleasure transported her to that place of rapturous sensations. There is nothing more beautiful than a woman in orgasm. When she relaxed and smiled at me, I kissed her. "Definitely longer," she whispered. I don't know why, but my mind wandered back to my weird cemetery dream. Would Jane Wilson's ghost float from crypt to crypt in my next dream to talk with the dead about the various sizes and shapes of male erections? Later that morning, I said to Mary, "When I die, I want to be cremated." She gave me a look that indicated she believed my sudden shift in our conversation might be pointing to the onset of schizophrenia. ------- When Grace came home for sunrise tai chi without James, I gave her a questioning look. She'd spent the night with him. "His special cell phone rang early this morning," Grace said. "He's gone for a while." She slumped onto a patio chair. I sat next to her and took her hand in mine. "I hate it, Brent. That damned phone rings, and poof! He's gone. I don't know where. I don't know when he'll return, or worse, if he'll return. I can't call him to find out if he's all right, and he doesn't call me. I hate it!" I turned her hand and kissed her palm. Her fingers were trembling. "How much do you hate it?" Mary asked. "Not enough to tell him to take a hike. When... if he comes back to me, I'll move into his arms and hold him close. I love him, dammit. Sometimes I wish I didn't. And I'm holding back. He doesn't have all of me, and each time he leaves, when he returns, I give him less of me than he had before. He knows this. He knows I'm pulling away from him. I can see it in his eyes — the hurt, I mean. I'm hurting him, but I can't stop it. Hurting him is the last thing I want to do, but I must protect myself because..." The tears welling in her eyes overflowed and streaked her cheeks. "Because someday he won't come back. If that happens and I've given him all that I am, I won't survive the grief. I'm holding back to survive, and that feels so selfish of me." "Surviving isn't being selfish, Grace," I said. "Sure it is," Agnes said. "But there's nothing wrong with being selfish to survive. Make sure you protect yourself, sweetie." Grace brushed the tears from her cheeks and rose to her feet. "Let's dance in slow motion and search for our centers. I suspect tai chi is the best cure for what ails me this morning." Later during breakfast, I said, "Let's go to Lake Powell this weekend." "The water will be too cold for swimming, Brent," Grace said. "Then we won't swim," I said. "Wet suits would keep us warm," Mary said. "Still, I wouldn't want to do any wake boarding in freezing water. Exploring canyons on the jet skis would be fun, though." "The fishing will be different," I said. "No stripper boils. The cold water at the surface will drive the bait fish down to thirty feet or deeper." I didn't bring up the fact that I'd lost my fishing mentor. I'd need to let my fingers do some Internet surfing to find out what the fishing was like at Lake Powell in early November. "Agnes, do you enjoy boating?" She grinned broadly. "Yep." I looked at Grace. "I'd like to invite our architect. If he's going to design our dream house, he'll need to know us better than the two brief meetings he's had with us would allow." We'd had the initial meeting at his house, and he'd met us to walk the property. My sister stuck her tongue out at me, which cracked me up. "Subtlety isn't your strong suit, buster," Grace said while I laughed. I tried to look contrite and failed. "Okay, give him a call," Grace said and shook her head, trying to look exasperated with me. Subtlety might not be my strong suit, but my sister wasn't fooling me, either. She was interested in our architect for more reasons than his designing ability. I stood up and reached for the phone. "Oops, I don't have his number out here." He'd given me a business card, which I'd filed in Dad's office. I called his home number from the office. When I told him the purpose of my call, he accepted the invitation enthusiastically. ------- William Evanston didn't join us at Lake Powell to play. He'd taken my suggestion that he should get to know us better seriously, and his conversations with each of us turned into interviews about our wants and needs relative to the dream house. He brought a roll of tracing paper with him, and he sketched while he talked with each of us. Then he'd roll out another length of paper and place it over the sketch to refine the concept or layout of the specific space we were discussing at any given time. In that manner, he covered almost every aspect of the house and outbuildings before we returned to Scottsdale Sunday night. Bill didn't join us to play, but my sister was of a different mind, and late Saturday morning, she dropped a wet suit in his lap. The wet suit she was wearing molded her svelte body into a work of art that lengthened my dick, and Bill would've had to be dead and cold in a stone crypt to be unaffected by the beautiful woman standing in front of him with her legs slightly spread for balance. "Put on that wet suit, buster," Grace said. "You and I are going to do some canyon exploring on a jet ski." Ten minutes later, Bill was hanging on my sister's waist as a jet ski roared away from Sweet Rose toward red-rock cliffs. "The hot chocolate is ready," Agnes yelled from below. "I'll take the wheel," Mary said. "No, let's drop anchor, and you can join Agnes and me below out of the wind." The day was clear, but a brisk wind was blowing from the north. I'd noticed Mary was shivering a little. A few minutes later, I sat at the table with Agnes and sipped hot chocolate as I watched Mary change into warmer clothes. She hadn't closed the privacy screen all the way, and watching her change lengthened my dick again. Agnes's gravelly laugh made me look at her. "Which woman excites you the most?" she asked. I grinned but said nothing. "I guess silence is the appropriate answer," she said. Mary joined us. She wore light-blue designer sweats. "That's better," she said. "It's too cold for a bikini." "Humph," Agnes huffed. "If I could wear a bikini and look good in it like you and Grace, I might make a bikini my normal state of dress." She gave me a teasing look. "Or a wet suit," she added. I think I blushed. "What?" Mary said. "Grace in that wet suit gave our boy here a woody," Agnes said. "Oh," Mary said, and from her sudden evil expression, I knew I was in trouble. I decided to be proactive. "That wasn't the first erection my sister has given me, nor will it be the last." "That is so sick," Mary said, but with a grin. "Don't you think that's sick, Agnes?" "Some would say that. I wouldn't," she said and sipped hot chocolate. My friend's expression was no less evil than Mary's. "Are you a proponent of incest?" Mary asked her. I groaned. Agnes laughed. "I think we're making our boy uncomfortable." "He can take it," Mary said. "You didn't answer my question." "I have two brothers," Agnes said. "In my early teens, I reveled in my ability to get a rise out of them." "Did you fuck them?" Mary asked. Agnes blushed, which tickled me. She didn't blush very often. "No," she said, "but I was tempted." She looked at me. "What about you, buckaroo? Have you and Grace formed the two-backed beast?" I hooted with laughter. "Two-backed beast! Agnes, you are a kick." She cackled but pressed the point. "Answer my question, please. "No," I said, "but like you, I've heard a little devil sitting on my shoulder saying, 'Go for it.' The angel on my other shoulder prevailed, though." "Humph, devils and angels, huh? Not likely," Agnes said. "Approach and avoidance is your game, Brent." Mary laughed gaily. "You've got him pegged, Agnes." "What amazes me, Mary, is your calm acceptance of the tense dynamics that Grace and Brent often take close to a breaking point," Agnes said. "Calm acceptance doesn't describe my reaction," Mary said. "Their approach/avoidance games are... ah, interesting, sometimes titillating." Agnes raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes? Only sometimes?" Mary blushed. "Usually." Agnes cackled. "Their games affect me the same way." "Perhaps I should go topside so the two of you can talk about me more freely," I said. Agnes patted my hand. "Your presence is not an impediment for us, buckaroo." I laughed. "Obviously. Mary, I am curious about something. I understand Agnes's and my fascination with unrequited incest. We have siblings, but you are an only child. Where does your fascination come from?" "From two sources. I didn't have a brother to test my budding femininity by giving him erections, but I had a father, and I managed to tent his trousers a few times." Agnes chortled. "I know about that, too. I fantasized about doing the deed with my daddy as much as I did with my brothers." "Good old Oedipus," I said. "I must admit to some fantasies about my mother and me. Freud did a number on us with his psychosexual theories. Mary, I'll ask you the same question you asked Agnes. Did you fuck him?" "Good gracious no!" Agnes laughed heartily. "You were like Jimmy Carter, huh. You just lusted after him in your mind." "Yeah." "What was your second source?" I asked. "I had a girlfriend who fucked her brother," Mary said. "Hoo boy," Agnes said. A number of questions came to mind. I kept them to myself. I'd ask Mary the questions when we were alone, maybe during a talk-and-fuck. I suspected there was more to the story than Mary was willing to admit to Agnes. "Let's get lunch started," Mary said. "Grace and Bill will be hungry when they get back from exploring." Yep, I had questions, and from the expression on Agnes's face, she had some, too. "I'll leave the two of you to it and weigh anchor," I said and went topside. ------- Grace was smiling when she returned to Sweet Rose with Bill. He looked slightly dazed. I tried to imagine some sexual shenanigans the two of them could have gotten into, but my imagination could not get past the reality of wet suits and the briskness of the weather. Whatever happened, if anything, couldn't have progressed beyond some kissing. Of course, wet suits had zippers. Still... "The canyon was magnificent, Brent," Grace gushed. "What did you think of it?" I asked Bill. He laughed self-consciously. "I don't know. Most of the time, I had my eyes closed. Your sister can stand that jet ski on its end." Grace laughed gaily. "He thinks I'm a maniac." "Roaring up that twisting, narrow canyon with sheer rock cliffs on either side terrified me, Brent." Bill shuddered, and then grinned. "It was exhilarating, though." "Next time let Bill drive, Grace," I said. "Uh-uh," Bill said. "I trust Grace. I wouldn't trust myself, and the ride wouldn't be nearly as exhilarating." Mary stepped up on deck. "If you enjoy being terrified, ride behind Brent," she said. "He makes Grace look like she's driving a bumper car." "Not true, Bill," I said. "Grace is every bit as competent on a jet ski as I." Grace huffed. "As competent yes, as reckless no. Bill, my brother enjoys sparring with sharp swords without body armor." "The cudgel is my weapon of choice," I said. Bill looked confused, but before I could clarify what we were talking about, Agnes yelled from below that lunch was ready. "Great! I'm starved," Bill said. "Stark terror makes me hungry." Mary looked at me. "I'll fix you a plate," she said and followed Bill below. Grace sat next to me. "He complains, but he thoroughly enjoyed himself," she said. I lowered my voice and said, "Are you going to take a run at him?" Grace snorted. "I don't run after men. I give them a come-hither look, and then they run after me." "What amazes me about you, big sister, is as beautiful as you are, you're still humble." She laughed and playfully slugged my shoulder. "Touché." "Did you give him a come-hither look?" She grinned. "Yep." "Did he notice?" "That's a stupid question." "I guess it is." She hopped up. "I'm hungry, too. Come-hither looks drain my energy." Laughing, she went below. Agnes stepped topside with Mary. "I'll take the wheel," she said. "Eat with your gal. Where are we headed?" "Rainbow Bridge. Bill hasn't seen it." "Neither have I," Agnes said. "Then you're in for a treat." I settled next to Mary and took the plate of food she offered. "Well?" she said. "Well what?" "What happened between Grace and Bill?" "They stripped off their wet suits and screwed their brains out as they roared up a winding canyon at full speed." "Yeah, right," Mary said. "I'll lay two-to-one odds that I'll be sleeping on the solon bunk tonight instead of Bill," Agnes said. Agnes had bunked in the mid-stateroom with Grace the previous night. "I wouldn't take that bet at ten to one," Mary quipped. As it turned out, Grace or Bill or both decided to move slower than Mary, Agnes and I expected. After we were alone in our house in Scottsdale Sunday evening, Grace told me that she'd put on the brakes. "Not that he noticed, though," she said. "I'm going to go slow with that man, little brother." "Why?" She frowned. "I'm not sure. In some ways, Bill and I fit like cogs in a wheel. In other ways, we're miles apart. I just know I don't want to jump in with both feet before I check the depth of the water." She sighed. "Besides, James still has a tenuous hold on me." "Does James expect fidelity?" "No, and it isn't as though I haven't been with another man since I met him. Still, the ski bum was just a fling, Brent. I don't see Bill happy with a mere fling." ------- On Tuesday, I received another call from my liaison with Hagar, and late that evening, another stranger drove Mary and me to the safe house where Pete and Jack greeted us again. Pete set a frosted glass mug and an opened bottle of IBC Root Beer in front of me. I grinned and said, "You've been talking to James." Pete smiled and said, "James who? Which reminds me that Tom said to tell you that this is your second bi-weekly briefing." Mary sipped white wine and smiled. Jack opened a manila folder and spread an array of four photographs in front of her. She looked completely shocked. "Those are the other four men who killed my parents and raped me!" Jack pulled one of the photos away. "Those three men are dead, supposedly victims of accidents. This man..." He placed the other photo back on the table. "... is still alive, or at least he hasn't been reported dead. If he's alive, he's in hiding. So far, we haven't been able to get a line on his whereabouts." I noticed that one of the dead men was a light-skinned black man. Mary noticed, too, because she mumbled to herself, "Little Bundle's biological father is dead." She looked up at me. "That's good, Brent." I nodded. The shine in her eyes worried me. The man Hagar's operatives couldn't locate was part Korean. "What's his name?" I asked, tapping the photo. "Mark O'Hare is a Eurasian, Caucasian father, Korean mother. We believe he is in hiding to avoid a fatal accident, probably somewhere in the Orient." Jack said. "Was Milton Tucker involved?" Pete said, "No. He's a scumbag, but he's also a wimp. He told us every illegal or immoral thing he ever did, and murdering his partner wasn't included on the sleazy list." "Did you tape the interview?" I asked. "Yes," Pete said. "At the appropriate time, may we have a copy? It'll help in Mary's lawsuit." "I'll check, but offhand, I see a problem with that unless it's a highly edited tape. Edited or not, the tape wouldn't be admissible in a court of law. Some... ah, coercion was used." "I understand. How did you identify these four men so quickly?" I asked, pointing at the photographs. Jack grinned. "Assumptions and leaps of faith, of course. We assumed that the five men who murdered Debbie's parents knew each other. That led us to look into Karl Hans's known associates. Armed with Debbie's descriptions, we narrowed Hans's associates down to these four men. That three of them were killed in suspicious accidents, that one of them was murdered in the bombing, and that the last has disappeared and assumed to be in hiding or dead, led us to this man." Jack pulled another photograph out of the manila folder. "That's Colonel Lawrence Freemont. With another leap of faith, we strongly believe that he is the man who hired those four men and Hans to kill your father, Debbie. And Ken, he is the man who either planted the bomb that killed your parents and Debbie's brother, or he hired someone for the job." "Can you prove it?" I asked. "No, and unless we can find Mark O'Hare and force him to talk, it's highly unlikely that enough proof can be assembled to cause the authorities to arrest him, let alone convict him of either crime," Jack said. "What is Freemont's connection with the five men?" I asked. "Colonel Freemont is a retired from the United States Army. Those five men served under him during the first Gulf War, and they've worked for him sporadically since," Jack said. "To complicate the situation," Pete said, "Colonel Freemont is currently a gunrunner with powerful government connections, including the Defense Department and the CIA. We believe that your father, Debbie, learned of an illegal arms transaction during his last trip to the Orient, and that knowledge marked him for death." "And that, concludes our investigation," Jack said. "Tom says he'll tally up the expenses and..." "Whoa! Where do we go from here?" "We were hired to determine the identity of the man or organization responsible for the lounge bombing that killed your parents and Debbie's brother," Jack said. "We've done that and more. Our job is finished." "I'll want complete and detailed dossiers on Mark O'Hare and Colonel Freemont," I said. "I don't think so," Fred said. "If you haven't noticed, we never put anything in writing. Your liaison will contact you regarding final billing, but it was Tom's feeling that we will owe you, not the other way around." He stood up. "I'll drive you back to your studio." I stayed in my chair. "I agree that you've completed your assignment, but I'm not happy. Call Tom on one of those encrypted telephones you folks use. I want those dossiers. I can't proceed without them." Fred looked at Jack, who nodded, and Fred dialed a cell phone. "Ken wants to speak with you," Fred said, listened and handed me the phone. "Tom," I said. "I wanted to congratulate you on the speedy conclusion of our verbal contract and, at the same time, tell you that I'm not happy." "Why are you unhappy?" Tom said. "You identified the villain but left me hanging with nowhere to go. I want complete and detailed dossiers on O'Hare and Freemont. Encrypt the dossiers and e-mail them to me. My liaison can give me the encryption key when he hands over your final bill." He didn't speak. I waited. Finally, he said, "I don't think so. E-mail leaves tracks. Here's what I'll do. I'll put the dossiers on an encrypted CD, and the man who delivers our final billing will give you the key verbally." "Thank you, Tom. Now I'm happy." "If you're happy, I'm happy. Goodbye." Dial tone. Good public relations wasn't Tom Hagar's strong suit, but I had to admit that he was very good at what he did. ------- Because of the late hour, Mary and I couldn't inform Grace and Agnes that Hagar had identified the sociopath responsible for all the deaths in both Mary's family and mine. The next morning, we waited until after our tai chi session to pass on the news. I was eating cereal with a banana when Mary gave me the nod. "Our private investigators came through," I said. "Late last night they informed Mary and me that a man named Colonel Lawrence Freemont either planted and detonated the bomb that killed our parents, Grace, or he hired someone to do it for him." Grace looked like I'd just driven a sliver of steel into her forehead with a nail gun. I continued. "Freemont also hired the five men who killed Mary's parents and raped and left Mary for dead. Four of those five men are dead, and the remaining man is dead or in hiding. The man either dead or in hiding is a Eurasian named Mark O'Hare. Since Mary's night of terror, three of the five men died in suspicious accidents, most likely engineered by Freemont, and the fourth man, Karl Hans, died in the lounge bombing." I paused because Grace looked like she wanted to ask a question. "I've been thinking about what you told us after your first meeting with Hagar's men," Grace said. "Why would Hans contact Mary's brother? Wouldn't informing Jules about the man who hired him actually implicate Hans as a murderer and rapist? I don't understand." "That bothered me, too, Grace, so I asked Pete the same question when he was driving us back to the studio. Hagar's investigators theorize that Hans, fearful for his life after the accidental, suspicious deaths of three of his colleagues, approached Jules Stewart to inform him about Freemont, hoping that Stewart would inform the authorities about Freemont, which would keep Freemont busy trying to defend himself, and therefore give Hans a chance to disappear like O'Hare. They further theorize that Hans met with Jules prior to the bombing and laid out Freemont's crimes without naming Freemont until Hans could set up his disappearing act. It's also possible that Hans made a deal with Jules that Jules would point the authorities at Freemont without naming Hans. These are theories and assumptions, Grace, but they fit the facts. Hagar's people believe that Hans planned to give Freemont's name to Jules during that last fateful meeting. As we know, that didn't happen. Instead, Freemont killed or had Hans and Jules killed, and Mom and Dad died in the explosion." Grace nodded. "That fits. Thank you." "Using Mary's extensive and accurate descriptions of the men who raped her, Hagar's men tracked down the four other men by looking at Hans's known associates," I said. "They were able to identify Freemont as the ringleader because the five men served under him in the first Gulf War and worked for him off and on since. Freemont is a retired Army Colonel, whose second career is gunrunning. Hagar's investigators theorize that Mary's father, on his last trip to the Orient, stumbled upon one of Freemont's illegal arms transactions, which marked Mary's father for death. Freemont is well-connected with ties to the Defense Department and the CIA." Grace groaned. "Oh, no! Not again!" "Yeah," I said. "Once again, we're up against a powerful, rich and ruthless man. Worse, in terms of capacity for violence, Freemont makes Bell look like a pussycat. My question this morning is what should we do with this information. We have no proof. Informing the FBI would be a waste of time. What's more, unless we informed them anonymously with no tracks back to us, passing on this information to any police authority could get us killed. For what it's worth, I insisted on and Hagar agreed to give me complete and detailed dossiers on both Mark O'Hare and Colonel Freemont. Any suggestions?" "Let's not do anything before we review those dossiers," Grace said. "I will say this, Brent. I don't want you going after those men." I said nothing. "Promise me," she said. "No. I can't make that promise. I will promise you that I will do nothing that will put any of you at risk." Grace glared at me. "Promise me that you won't do anything before you talk with James." I grinned. "I can make that promise." I hadn't planned to proceed until I talked with James anyway. "It's so frustrating," Mary said with disgust. "We now know the identity of the man responsible for all the untimely and violent deaths in our families, but it appears, even if we somehow are able to give this information to the FBI, that the fiend will still get away with it. Frustrating!" I said nothing. I'd made two promises, and I'd keep those promises, but I also made a personal vow that somehow, someway Freemont would pay for his cowardly acts of terror. "Little Bundle's biological father is dead," Mary announced quietly. "Oh! Oh, Mary, I'm sorry," Grace said. "I'm not," Mary said. "I'm happy he's dead. His seed impregnated me when he raped and beat me, and my beautiful daughter resulted from that vile act. I dreaded the time when my happy child would ask me about her real father. Now I can honestly say he's dead and leave it at that. I don't want my daughter to know that she was conceived during a brutal act of murder and violence, and I'm asking... no, I'm begging each of you to help me keep that fact from her." "You have my promise," I said, and Grace and Agnes parroted my words. "I love my baby girl. She's more important to me than my own life," Mary said, her eyes shining with intense emotion. "I worried that someday she would learn about her real father, learn what kind of sub-human creature he truly was, and by gaining that knowledge consider herself less valuable because of him. Now I can put that worry to rest. The sociopath whose seed gave me my little bundle of joy is dead. May he burn in hell for all eternity." ------- Chapter 22 I was painting the next afternoon when Grace dropped by the studio. She didn't show up unannounced very often, so I was pleased to see her. Carrie was with her, and she didn't try to flirt with me, so her unintended intense sexual attraction kicked in and grabbed my dick like a clenched fist. I was wearing blue jeans, so my lengthening erection stretched out down my leg. My painting smock effectively concealed my arousal, or so I figured until I realized both Grace and Carrie had caught glimpses of the bulge. Each offered a small smile of understanding with her personal discovery. "Don't let us interrupt you, little brother," Grace said. "Carrie wanted to see your studio and paintings. I'll show her the loft; we'll grab a soft drink, and then we'll come back down and check out your paintings." "I hung a finished painting upstairs this morning," I said as I watched them climb the stairs. I returned to the painting I was working on but couldn't concentrate. Why hadn't Carrie flirted with me? Did she want me aroused? I mumbled a curse and started to clean my brushes, a tedious job I put off too often. I heard laughter and soft, feminine voices without discerning any words, which was the basis of a good experiment. Did the sounds of Carrie's voice arouse without being able to see her move at the same time? Nope, not as much. My dick was giving up most of its rigidity. The combination of sight and sound was the trigger, I deduced, not one or the other, and I suspected of the two senses that sight was more important than sound, not to mention that pheromones still couldn't be discounted. Further experimentation was warranted. You have my fidelity, Mary had told me, and then asked if she had mine. At the time, I'd remained silent. I don't know why, except perhaps to allow for the possibility of something happening between Grace and me because, other than my sister, I hadn't truly wanted another woman since I fell in love with my Mary. Although Carrie aroused me, the arousal was purely physical without a mental component. In my mind, I didn't want her. I finished cleaning my brushes and walked up the stairs to join them. As my ascent let my eyes clear the level of the floor above, and I could see into the room, what I saw stopped me with one foot raised to step on the next tread. Grace and Carrie were locked in a torrid embrace. Grace's skirt was up around her waist, and Carrie had pushed my sister's panties to the side. Carrie was finger-fucking my sister! The hard-on that stretched down my leg didn't happen because of Carrie's unnatural sex appeal. It happened because I could see my sister's cunt. I didn't continue to watch to satisfy a voyeuristic need. I watched because the sight had shocked me into immobility. I stood halfway up the stairs as if rooted in the ground like the giant live oaks that fashioned leaf-canopied alleys leading to antebellum Southern homes. I made no sound, not even a gasp. As I watched Carrie push a finger into my sister's cunt, my autonomic responses seemed to cease functioning. Grace's legs fell wider apart, and Carrie added a second finger and rolled her thumb over my sister's clitoris. Slowly my brain engaged beyond the act of watching my sister being finger-fucked, and I started to breathe again and raised my eyes, which produced an even greater shock than I'd experienced when I first saw Carrie and Grace embracing. Grace looked back at me. She didn't look shocked. She knew I was watching, and she made no move to stop Carrie or cover herself. She stared at me. Her face was completely void of expression, so I couldn't determine from her appearance if she was upset or happy that I was watching. Had she known that I'd have a better look at her cunt when her legs drifted farther apart a few seconds back? Yes. She knew I was watching, and she'd wanted me to see her, wanted me to see what Carrie was doing to her. "Eat me," Grace said, her voice flat, her eyes focused on my face. In her mind, was she speaking to Carrie or me? My tongue flicked over my upper lip. Was my expression just as void of emotion? Carrie moved to her knees and put her face between my sister's legs, closing out my view of Grace's cunt, which didn't matter. My eyes and Grace's were locked, which made everything around us peripheral, and peripherally, I sensed that Carrie was touching herself. I wanted to lower my eyes to verify what I sensed, but I couldn't. My connection with my sister was too compelling. "Eat me," Grace said again as her dainty fingers moved to Carries head, not to guide, but to gently hold. Grace's voice remained flat, as did her expression. She showed no emotion. She didn't moan with pleasure. Her hips didn't appear to wave, even minutely. She sat like a carved marble statue and let Carrie pleasure her while she looked into my eyes. She could move, though. She'd laid her hands on Carrie's head. Did she believe if she exhibited passion in any form that the moment would be lost? If so, what did the moment hold for her? For that matter, what did it hold for me? I couldn't answer that question then, nor have I answered it since. "I'm coming," she said sometime later with no more expression to her words than before. I didn't know how much time had passed. Time no longer had meaning. "I'm coming," she said again, her voice still void of emotion. Her eyes left mine then. They rolled back in her head, and at the same time she emitted a passionate moan of delight as her orgasm washed over her. Clenching Carrie's hair in her fingers, Grace jerked Carrie's face tighter to her cunt, and her hips started to dance to the inner pulse of her climax. Her orgasmic grimace contained a soft smile. Between orgasmic pulses, her eyes sought out mine again and remained steadfast for a long second before drifting closed. I listened to her whimpers of pleasure as I turned and walked — limped — down the stairs. Grace had won the arousal contest with Carrie. Had that been her purpose? ------- That evening after putting Little Bundle down for the night, Mary was helping me study for the GED test by taking me through the paces with the flash cards for the social studies portion of the test when Mary's cell phone rang. She answered the call and listened for a minute. "Hold for a second, Jack," she said. She covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her thumb and said to me, "It's Jack Stark. He's with Milton fucking Tucker's lawyer. Tucker wants to settle." "What's the offer?" I asked. "$100,000," Mary said. "Tell him to take a flying leap." Mary returned to the phone and repeated my words verbatim. She listened for a few seconds more, said okay and hung up. That Tucker wanted to settle hadn't surprised me, not after he'd been coerced to tell all his sins to Hagar's men. He probably figured Mary was behind the interrogation. "Jack says to hang by the phone," Mary said. "What settlement figure do you have in mind?" "Getting too greedy would be stupid," I said. "He'd merely declare personal bankruptcy, and you'd be forced to share his net worth with all his other creditors. Let's call the accountant who looked into Tucker's financial condition." We moved to Dad's office where I filed phone numbers. It took me a moment to remember his name; then I located his home number and dialed it. A woman answered the call. "Mr. Kidrick, please. This is Brent Carson calling from Scottsdale, Arizona." The woman told me to hold, and less than a minute later Kidrick came on the line. I explained why I'd called, and he told me to wait while he checked his file. When he returned to the phone, he said, "If Tucker's financial condition hasn't changed, the magic number would be $750,000." I thanked Kidrick and told him to send me a bill. He said the call was a freebee and wished me luck. As I pushed the end button on my phone, I said to Mary, "$750,000 cleans him out but leaves him enough to go on with his business so he won't declare bankruptcy." "I don't care about the money, Brent, but for me, justice for my father means taking every dime he has," Mary said with passion. "Wouldn't you rather have three-quarters of a million dollars and also see him in jail?" I said. Her eyes widened. "Oh, yeah. That'd be perfect." "A successful civil suit doesn't preclude prosecution for his criminal acts, Mary. After you get his money, file fraud charges with the police. With no money, he won't be able to hire a good lawyer to defend the charges. Besides, we've amassed the evidence to convict him. I suggested a civil suit first so you could recover the money Tucker stole from your father before you sent him to jail." Mary grinned. "Machiavellian, that's what your are. I love it." "If his financial condition has worsened since Kidrick checked him out, $750,000 could be too much," I warned. "Won't the negotiation tell us the number?" I grinned. "You have a little Machiavelli in you, too, pretty lady." Fifteen minutes later, Stark called again. Mary turned down $300,000, and Stark asked her what she'd take. Mary gave him our number, and we continued to go through the flash cards while we waited. Tucker's next offer was $500,000. "He says that's his final offer," Stark told Mary. "Then tell him we'll see him in court. I'll take $700,000." We waited. When the phone rang again, Stark told Mary that Tucker would split the difference. "What's your feeling, Jack?" Mary asked. "Will he go higher?" "I don't know. This is weird. He shouldn't be offering to settle this soon, and he's already offered more than I thought we'd be able to get out of him." "$650,000, and that's my final number. Don't call back if he doesn't accept it," Mary said. We waited, both of us jumping from surface nerves when her phone rang. She answered the call and listened. "All right, but the funds must be transferred within forty-eight hours, or I'll consider him in default, and we'll see him in court." She hung up and jumped in the air with a screech of joy. "We did it! You did it!" she yelled and threw herself at me, kissing me silly. "Fuck me," she said between kisses. She stepped back and ripped open her blouse. Buttons went flying, and her magnificent breasts spilled out, giving my eyes a feast. "I'll buy a new one," she said. "Fuck! I'm hot, baby! Hot!" She ripped my shirt open, and more buttons flew. "I'll buy you a new shirt, too." Quickly naked, she fell back on the bed. "Cover me, baby. Cover me, and fuck the livin' daylights out of me." I fell atop her. She grabbed my cock and stuffed it into her cunt. "Yeah, do it," she said. "Ram it home." I reared back and thrust with all my strength, burying my length with that one massive push. She helped by throwing her hips up at me, and we fucked fast and hard, grunting and huffing between moans and groans. Looking back over my three lives I couldn't remember being fucked or fucking anyone with more passion, and the passion didn't originate with me. Mary generated our fervor and took me along with her. During the frantic, all-out fuck, I contrasted the wild and wonderful sexual woman under me with the timid creature who'd fucked me without allowing me to move or touch her in the limousine in San Francisco. You've come a long way, baby, I thought. ------- Grace, Mary, Agnes and I had gathered in a multi-media conference room in Bill Evanston's architectural offices. The occasion was Bill's presentation of the preliminary design for our dream house. I doubted that it would be everything I expected it to be. My high expectations were probably unreasonable, and he'd only been working the project part time for a month. I steeled myself to be disappointed. A secretary had provided drinks without asking what we wanted. I sipped IBC Root Beet from a frosted glass mug. Agnes held a glass of superior burgundy; Mary and Grace drank exceptional, chilled chardonnay. Bill's attention to detail down to our drinks of choice bode well for the upcoming presentation, but would his designs excite my artistic eye? He entered the room and stepped to the unoccupied end of the conference table. He wore a dark-blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a colorful silk tie. He'd made an effort to look good. I appreciated that touch, too. "Thank you for this opportunity," he said. "To design a dream house for a famous artist and sculptor, a future best-selling novelist, and a future international businesswoman is a challenge, an exciting challenge that I accepted enthusiastically, and not just for the money. Your dream house has become my dream job. From my discussions with you collectively and individually, some general design principles emerged. First, the exterior of the residence should be sculpturesque and fit its environment." The lights dimmed and an image filled a screen in front of us. Agnes gasped. I sat dumbfounded. "Beautiful," Mary breathed. I think Grace reacted the same as I. "This is a rendering of the exterior of the residence. It will change slightly as the details of the floor plan and the selections of the material come together later. Also, time constraints for this presentation limited the quality of the renderings. They were sketched quickly, and I used watercolors, which for me is the best medium for quick studies. The next general principle I had to consider was subjective. I was told that the interiors had to soar, lift the spirit, and make your hearts sing. This is the main entry." Another image filled a different screen to our left. "It soars," Bill said. "This is the great room." An image came together to our right. "It lifts my spirit and makes my heart sing. I hope it does the same for all of you." I heard murmurs of agreement around the room. "Initially, I opposed the third general principle. I was told the architecture should flow into water, not the other way around; a strange concept I didn't truly understand at first. I opposed the principle because I harbor a heartfelt belief that water should be sparsely used and carefully conserved because we live in a desert. I still feel that way, but I put my belief aside and approached the design principle with gusto. I also consulted with a landscape architect who doesn't harbor my belief. When I informed him about the third principle, he became as excited about this project as I. He understood perfectly what you meant by architecture flowing into water, Brent. This rendering shows one of our attempts to satisfy the third principle. It's the walkway to Grace's writing casita." We looked at the image that formed in front of us, replacing the watercolor painting of the exterior of the home. The writing casita was rendered in the background. In the foreground, stepping platforms appeared to float on still water like lily pads. "Perfect," Grace said. "This is another example. It's a reflecting pool that starts inside the great room and moves outside to become the swimming pool, but it continues in steps to your studio, Brent. Your painting studio flows into this water, and Agnes, this is one of your metal sculptures rising out of the pool." I couldn't help it. I applauded; I clapped my hands in appreciation and exclaimed, "You did it, Bill! You did it!" Grace, Mary and Agnes joined in the applause. Grace, I noticed, had happy tears in her eyes. The rest of the presentation was detail and a lot of it, but the presentation could have ended after the first five renderings. Our architect had come through for us, exceeding my unreasonably high expectations. ------- We were abuzz with enthusiasm as we left Bill's offices with matted large photocopies of his renderings, sketches and working drawings in a leather portfolio. "It's a beautiful house, Brent," Grace said, hugging my left arm. "Two houses, I mean. It fits our changing dynamics perfectly." "His plan to add rooms to each house as needed was ingenious," Mary said, hugging my right arm. My Mary is contemplating more children, I thought. The thought didn't put me off, but I wasn't close to wanting children of my own, not yet. I'd help raise Little Bundle, and I loved the little girl as if she was my own, but I was only seventeen, for crissake. "What do you think, Agnes?" I said. "I'm stunned," my friend said. "I am curious about how he'll achieve some of the unique forms and spaces that he designed. They could present problems structurally." "His father was a structural engineer," Grace said. "And Bill's mother commented about the efficiency of the structural elements in her home. I don't think our architect will have structural problems he can't solve." She sighed. "The layout of my house is just what I wanted, and it flows into the communal spaces perfectly. And that floating path to my writing casita is awesome." "There was enough land for a kwoon, Brent," Mary said. "That made me happy. I think you should consider a dry Zen garden outside the glass wall of the kwoon's lounge." "Zen gardens are primarily Japanese. Kung Fu is Chinese," I said, speaking in Cantonese. "Zen Buddhism originated in India and moved to China around 475 AD, but I'll grant you that a dry Zen garden is Japanese in origin," she said, also speaking Cantonese. "The look of dry Zen gardens does appeal to me. They're minimalist and have clean lines. I will consider your suggestion." My cell phone rang. I dug it out and answered the call. "Brent, it's Katrina Leonard. I'm in the Phoenix area. Would it be possible to meet with you tonight? Dinner perhaps. I'll buy." "That sounds great, Katrina," I said. "And if possible, I'd like to have your friend, Agnes Porter, join us, as well." "She's right here. I'll ask her." I turned to Agnes. "It's Katrina Leonard. She wants us to join her for dinner tonight." Agnes grinned and said, "You betcha." "She's free, too, Katrina. Where and when?" "I'm staying at the Ritz Carlton on Camelback. I understand that there's a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse nearby." "Yes there is." "Can you meet me at the hotel at seven? I didn't rent a car." "All right." "I'll make the dinner reservations." "See you at seven." I ended the call and told Agnes where and when and added that she could ride with me. It was turning into a pretty good day. Our dream house was coming together and had the potential of being a dream come true, and with a little luck, my best friend would soon have a corporate or public commission for her work. I was, however, concerned that Katrina would try to push me for more of my work than I'd already committed to her. That, I couldn't do. "Crap," Agnes said. "What am I going to wear tonight?" "Shopping!" Grace squealed. "We've got time to go shopping, Agnes." I laughed heartily when I noticed a shopping gleam in Mary's eyes. My Mary looked at me and grinned. "I did promise to buy you a new shirt." ------- "Agnes, you look great," I said and meant every word. "I've lost weight. It's the tai chi," she said, beaming from my compliment. I cast my memory back to the moment I met Agnes. I'd seen her as a middle-aged, brassy woman with frizzy red hair, a freckled, chubby face, and to compensate for her general lack of feminine charms, she had displayed too much cleavage. Freckles still dotted her face, but it was no longer chubby. The forest-green business suit she wore offered some cleavage, but the exposure was stylish, not overblown. Her hair was still red, but it wasn't frizzy. It curled softly around her lean, handsome face. "Yes you have," I said. "And in all the right places." She laughed. The sounds still reminded me of a smoker's cough, but as always her laugh didn't grate on my ears. "I wish," she said. "My backside still approaches an ax-handle width. My thighs can't be labeled thunder-thighs, not any more, but they're still... ah, too sturdy." She linked her arm through mine as we strolled into the Ritz Carlton. "Still, knowing you, buckaroo, has been good for me." She hugged my arm, pressing a soft breast against me. "I'm healthier; I look better, and I'm a better sculptor. I am proud, Brent Carson, that you call me friend, and I cherish our friendship more than you will ever know." She sighed. "There, I've said what I wanted to say. You won't have to listen to anymore gushiness from this old broad tonight." I chuckled and said, "While having lunch with Katrina in Denver, she called you an old broad. She was referring to my entourage for the show. 'What's with the old broad?' she asked. I told her that for a long time the old broad she'd referenced was my only friend, and I added that the old broad was also one of the finest sculptors in the country. Then I smiled at Katrina and said, 'You're an old broad, Katrina. You're welcome to join my entourage for an opening anytime.'" "You didn't!" "I did. Those were my exact words." "What did she do?" "Looked like I'd clubbed her with a two-by-four, and then laughed like crazy. She appreciates straight talk, Agnes. Just be yourself tonight." "Humph! I don't know how to be any other way." I said, "In a weird kind of way, Katrina Leonard turns me on, but her attraction doesn't relate or come from my current life. Katrina's resemblance to Jane Wilson's lover at the time of Jane's death is uncanny. As you can imagine, Jane was strongly attracted to her lover, and because I was Jane, and part of Jane is still part of me, I'm attracted to Katrina. Weird, huh?" "Hoo boy," Agnes breathed. "Buckaroo, what you do to weird can't be fathomed. You bundle it, push it into yellow heat, lay it on an anvil and beat it into oddball forms that approach what the rest of us call normalcy. You are the epitome of weird, but you don't repulse, like most weirdoes. You attract. I'd be willing to wager that Katrina Leonard, an old broad like me, is attracted to you." She laughed. "Now that's weird." "Are you attracted to me?" "You are my friend, Brent Carson, first, last and always. Sure, there's an attraction, but our friendship overwhelms any romantic tendencies that crop up in my admittedly overactive libidinous imagination." I snickered. "Overactive libidinous imagination, huh?" "Don't make fun of me, buckaroo." "You sure can turn a phrase, friend." I nodded toward the elevator bank. "There's Katrina." Yes, I thought, the attraction is there, and Agnes is right. That old broad is as attracted to me as I am to her, maybe more. Katrina smiled and waved when she saw us. Her stiletto heels clicked on the polished marble floor of the elevator lobby as she walked toward us. I wondered if she had a fetish for wearing ridiculously high heels on her shoes and boots. I had to admit that they did enhance the look of her legs. Like me, she wore black with a splash of color, amber, in her case. The black linen shirt/jacket was sculpted and double-breasted, open deep in the front. She was showing more cleavage than Agnes. The black linen skirt fell to just below her knees. Sterling silver and amber jewelry adorned her long neck and delicate ears, and both complemented her amber hair and eyes. She presented a distinctive, put-together look that I appreciated. I also noticed when I hugged her hello that her perfume enhanced her natural fragrances without cloying. The perfumes that some women splash on send me into sneezing fits. Katrina shook Agnes's hand and gave my friend a dazzling smile, and with a stunning older broad on each arm, I made a grand departure from the Ritz Carlton Hotel. ------- As Jane Wilson, I'd dined frequently in the original Ruth's Chris Steakhouse in New Orleans. The restaurant was located on Broad Street in a potentially dangerous neighborhood, but Ruth took care of her customers. A uniformed police officer walked you from your car into the restaurant and back to your car when you left. The Ruth's Chris Steakhouse on Camelback Road in Phoenix was not in a dangerous neighborhood. The Camelback Corridor was a premier Phoenix location. The steak that night, if memory served, wasn't as good as a Broad Street steak, but I did enjoy the asparagus salad with thousand island dressing. Mary would complain later, though. She says asparagus makes my semen taste funny. I debated whether to warn her. The funny taste dissipated after a few days. Naw. Let the chips fall, I say. We chatted while we ate. Katrina asked about the Santa Fe show. "I've finished the ten paintings I committed," I said, "but some of them are still wet. They'll be crated and shipped next week." "As will my three pieces," Agnes said, which surprised Katrina. "I thought the Santa Fe show was a one-man show," the agent said. "Ruth Sage asked if I'd mind if she showed two or three pieces of Agnes's work during my show. Her request pleased me, and I agreed enthusiastically." "They're smaller pieces," Agnes said. "Three- to four-feet high, including bases, a departure for me, and Brent painted a few smaller canvases for the show, as well." "If the Santa Fe experiment works, we're considering making the combined show our preferred approach for future openings," I said. "If you think about it, it makes sense. We both explore the microscopic with our art." "Is the move to smaller work permanent?" Katrina asked, looking concerned. "No," Agnes and I said at the same time. "With the large size of our work, Ruth suggested that we were both missing a market. She was correct, so we've added the smaller pieces to expand our market. That's all," I said. "I'd like to see the smaller pieces," Katrina said. "After dinner, we'll drive to our studios, and you can preview the Santa Fe show in its entirety," I said with a grin. Agnes chortled. "In poor lighting amid disarray, at least in my studio." ------- We stomped through Agnes's studio first. While Agnes showed Katrina her forges, I hurriedly rigged a spotlight that would better showcase her work. The smaller pieces were on dollies, so we could push each of them under the light. After Katrina viewed the three pieces, she turned to a larger finished sculpture that was sitting in a dark corner. "Put the light on that piece," she said, pointing. I grabbed a ladder and redirected the light. "Magnificent," Katrina said. She turned to Agnes. "I like your smaller pieces. They'll be your bread and butter, but your larger pieces make a statement." Agnes thanked her and beamed. My studio was set up to view my paintings. Still, I had to move a couple of them from leaning against a wall onto easels. And I'd made a mistake. I'd forgotten about the extra two paintings I'd finished to put in storage for my old age. Would Katrina notice? "Where can we talk, Brent?" Katrina said after she stood in front of eleven paintings. The twelfth was hanging in the loft apartment upstairs, where I guided Katrina to conduct the business that had brought her to Phoenix. Katrina was happy with red wine. Agnes poured each of them a glass and heated some water for me to make a cup of green tea. We settled around the kitchen table. "You have twelve finished paintings, not ten," Katrina said. "The other two are committed," I said. "Private commissions?" "No. The only private commissions I've committed are to you, Katrina." She nodded but looked pensive. "I'll get back to you, Brent," Katrina said and turned to Agnes. "I understand you'd like to place your work in the corporate or public sector." "That's correct," Agnes said. "I have a client, an international pharmaceutical company, that is building a new, state-of-the-art home-office facility and laboratory. They need art. I spoke with them about your sculptures and showed them a photograph of Protein #3 that you sold in Frazier's show this year. They went nuts over it. It was just what they've been looking for. Can you do a similar sculpture for them but half again as large as Protein #3?" "Eighteen feet?" "Twenty would be better. It would be placed in their main lobby." "Yes," Agnes said. "Handling and shipping that sucker will be a bitch, though." Katrina laughed. "Logistics, my dear. That's all. After seeing your smaller pieces, I think I can sell them a half-dozen for various reception rooms. What price tag will Ruth put on your smaller pieces?" "$4,000 for the three footers; $5,000 for the four footers." Katrina nodded. "I can bring a bigwig from the company to the Santa Fe show. That's risky, though. If your work doesn't sell out the first night, they might back off the big piece. It's your call, Agnes." Agnes looked at me. I grinned and said, "Do it." If needed, I'd buy all three pieces myself, but I doubted that would be necessary. "Let's take the risk," Agnes said. "What price tag will you put on the big piece?" "Frazier sold Protein #3 for $10,000. How about $30,000 for the twenty footer?" "Plus shipping and handling," I said. Katrina glared at me. "You stay out of this, young man." I stuck my tongue out at her, and she cracked up. Agnes cackled like an old crone, too. "All right," Katrina said. "$30,000 plus shipping and handling, and the same prices Ruth is charging for the six smaller pieces." "Plus shipping and handling," I said. "Shift those costs to the buyer, Katrina. Making the artist pay those costs isn't right. You shouldn't be paying those expenses either." She grimaced but suddenly flashed a brilliant smile. "I think you just changed a long-standing policy of mine, Brent. What you can't change is my percentage." She turned to Agnes. "My cut is twenty percent." "That's fair," Agnes said. Katrina stuck her tongue out at me, which cracked me up. The ladies shook hands on the deal. "Your turn, young man," Katrina said to me, and then laughed. "You hate being called young man, don't you?" "Yeah. I shouldn't. I am a young man, but older adults usually refer to me that way to demean me or put me in my place." "I'll try to remember and only call you young man when I want to put you in your place. I need two large canvases for the same company, Brent, and after seeing your smaller work, a dozen smaller canvases wouldn't be difficult to peddle. When I say large, I mean ten or twelve by fifteen." "What's the timing?" "The grand opening is scheduled for May next year." She turned to Agnes. "We didn't discuss timing. Does May work for you?" "Yes," Agnes said. "It doesn't work for me, Katrina," I said. "I could do the two larger pieces — maybe. A dozen small canvases, as well, no way." Katrina grinned. "No problem. I haven't talked with them about the smaller pieces. When the bigwig from the pharmaceutical company sees them in Santa Fe, he'll probably want some of them, though. Let's do this. Let's commit the two large paintings for their grand opening, and the dozen smaller pieces for... how about September next year." She gave me a hard look. "That way you can still fill your summer commitment to me." I wanted to tell her no, but I sensed my work was tied to Agnes's in a package deal. "All right, I'll do it." I couldn't really complain. In essence, my work was sold out until my winter show next year. An opening in New York City wouldn't be out of the question by then. "How much for the big pieces?" I asked. "$30,000 each." "Uh-uh. That'd hurt my rising-price system, Katrina. My nine-by-sevens will be $30,000 each by summer." "Damn, your right," she said. "I fucked up. Damn! $30,000 for a twelve by fifteen would hurt my investors that buy a nine by seven for the same amount. Damn!" She jumped to her feet and started to pace. "I hate going back to a buyer, but there's no way around it. I've got to eat crow. How much, Brent?" "$40,000 minimum, $45,000 would be a better fit, and while you're eating crow, Agnes's monumental work should go for the same amount, and my smaller pieces and hers should increase in price by 20% from the Santa Fe show." She gave me a hard look, and then smiled. "You're getting me wet again." "Huh?" Agnes said. "Negotiating turns her on," I said. "Oh," Agnes said and cackled. "I'll make the call and eat the crow in the morning before I leave Phoenix," Katrina said. "I'll let you know." She called the next morning and said, "They went for it, Brent. $45,000 for each of the large paintings, and the same for Agnes's monumental sculpture. They'll pay for the crating and shipping, but they want both of you there to place the work and stay for the Grand Opening." "Are they paying our travel expenses?" "No!" A shout. I laughed boisterously. "Just kidding. Good work, Katrina. Call Agnes. She should hear this from you." "I will." Ten minutes later, Agnes burst into my studio, and without hesitating threw herself at me. The kiss was wet and on my lips, and her heartfelt hug nearly pushed all the air from my lungs. Anvil work had given her strong arms. "Buckaroo, you are something else again," she said. With a wide grin, I said, "Agnes, I tried but I failed." "Huh?" "The cheapskates. That pharmaceutical company won't pay our travel expenses for the Grand Opening. I asked, and they said no. I almost killed the deal, but I thought I'd better check with you first." She cackled. "Yep, something else again." ------- With the paintings for my Santa Fe show finished, I started on the fourteen oil paintings I'd committed to Frazier for his spring show, but mostly I concentrated on studying for the GED test. Mary received the settlement money from the Tucker lawsuit, less Jack Stark's fees, which weren't much because he was being paid by the hour, not with a percentage of the settlement. Then I introduced Mary to the stockbroker Grace and I used, as well as to Ed Desmond, our real estate broker, so she could invest most of the money. So far, both financial advisors had worked out well for us. The day after the check cleared, Mary hired Stark to represent her with the San Francisco Police Department, and Stark initiated fraud charges against the crook on Mary's behalf. Almost flat broke after paying Mary, Tucker pled poverty, and the court assigned a public defender to his case. He also pled guilty at the arraignment. By pleading guilty, Mary could avoid traveling to San Francisco to testify at his trial, which pleased her. The judge gave Tucker five years. Stark said he'd be out in two. Still, Mary felt that justice had been served, and we rarely spoke of the poor excuse for a human being again. Thanksgiving was fun. Instead of cooking and cleaning up the mess that came with cooking a big meal, Grace, Mary and I went to the Wrigley Mansion for Thanksgiving brunch. Feeling brave, we took Little Bundle with us, and the baby girl surprised us. Bright-eyed and happy, she was well mannered throughout the meal, which meant she didn't throw her food. She sat in the highchair, looking around and taking in the sights and sounds as though she'd been in a fancy restaurant a thousand times. That little girl made my heart sing. Mentally aging her into her late teens produced a stunningly beautiful young woman in my mind. The mixed races in her genes would make her appearance unique, interesting and alluring. We'd invited Agnes to join us for the feast at the Mansion, but she traveled to Chicago to be with her father. We also invited Bill and his mother, but they'd planned to visit relatives in St. Louis for the holiday. Carrie drove to Globe to spend some time with her family. Grace got a little tipsy on the champagne that came with the brunch. I thought she was missing James, but I read her wrong. I found out later that she was missing Mom and Dad, not James. "Mom adored Thanksgiving, Brent," Grace said. "She even enjoyed all the work cooking a big meal entailed, especially when you and I cleaned up the mess. And Dad, he ate until he was cross-eyed." She was right, and the memories misted my eyes. On the first Wednesday in December, I took and passed the GED test, and on the 10th of December, we closed on the purchase of the land in Paradise Valley. The next day, I went further in debt when I signed the documents that initiated a construction loan for $3,500,000. $1,000,000 from the construction loan paid off the land loan, putting the construction loan in first position, and I had a commitment for permanent financing for $2,500,000. The proceeds from the sale of our current house were part of the deal and would pay down $1,000,000 of the construction loan when the permanent loan kicked in. The extra $500,000 was a contingency fund my accountant insisted that I seriously consider. "Just in case," he'd said. As it turned out, I ended up needing half of it, but I'm getting ahead of myself. The next day, bulldozers moved onto the property and started to turn the existing house into rubble. Because watching big machinery made me nervous, I was happy when we flew to Santa Fe for my opening the next day. The only dark note was James's absence. I'd hoped he could attend the opening in Santa Fe, if only as Grace's companion, but I was also anxious to initiate the next step in my quest to bring Colonel Freemont to justice. I'd read the dossiers Hagar had given me at least ten times and saw no avenue to take Freemont down except direct confrontation. That approach put those I cared for at risk, which I'd promised I wouldn't do. I needed some more professional help. At the last minute because James was still out somewhere in the world doing his thing, I suggested that we invite Bill. Grace endorsed my suggestion, and Bill accepted enthusiastically. For the first time since my father's death, my entourage for an opening included a man. ------- Chapter 23 We landed in Santa Fe in a snowstorm. Because Santa Fe was smaller than the other cities where I'd shown my work, I'd arranged for a rental car — a big mistake. Before we arrived at the Inn at Loretto, where we'd booked our hotel accommodations, the falling snow had turned into a blizzard. I'd lived in three bodies for over 150 years, and I'd never driven in the snow, let alone a blizzard that shut out the sun and limited my vision to the hood ornament, if the sedan Hertz had given me had had a hood ornament, that is. "This is impossible," I muttered. "Pull off the road," Grace said nervously from the back seat. "I'm not sure I'm on a road," I replied. "There are lights on our right," Mary said. "There," Mary said pointing. "Pull in there." With a shrug I turned the wheel to the right and promptly struck... something. "You hit the curb, I think," Mary said. I put the car in reverse and promptly went... nowhere. When the tires couldn't connect with a surface that would allow them to roll, they screamed in protest. "We're stuck," I said. Agnes chortled. "Buckaroo, it would be my guess that you've never driven in the snow." "You're a superlative guesser. Have you driven in snow?" "I'm from Chicago. What do you think?" "Can you get us to the hotel?" "No, we're stuck." "The lights, Mary. Do they represent a place where we can wait out the storm?" Grace asked. "I don't know." "I'll check," Bill said. Cold air rushed into the warm vehicle when he opened the door. The door slammed shut, and he disappeared into a flurry of white. I worried that another car would come along and crash into us. "This doesn't bode well for our opening tonight, Agnes," I said. "No one will venture out in this to see our art." "Humph, foiled by the vagaries of weather," she grumped. "Maybe the storm will be short-lived," Mary said. My Mary, the optimist. Bill opened the rear-passenger door. "It's a coffee shop, and it's open," he said and helped Grace out of the center seat into the blizzard. I turned off the engine, and all of us trudged through the falling and drifting snow toward the beacon of light. Mary's hope came to pass. We were drinking hot drinks when the storm lifted as if carried aloft by a mythical God of Weather. The surface winds still whipped the snow into a swirling froth, but the clouds stopped adding inches of the white stuff to the ground. We could see the rental car from our booth in the coffee shop. It looked like a banana split submerged in whipped cream. I called Hertz and told them where they could find their vehicle. "The charges will continue to accrue," the clerk said pedantically. "I don't think so," I said. I called our hotel and told them our plight. They said they'd send a van for us, but it would be a while. I thanked them but said that I'd make my own arrangements. I hung up and asked the waitress if she had the number for a tow truck. She did, I called the number, and told the man who answered my call what I wanted. "You've got it, bud," he said. Fifteen minutes later, we clamored back into the rental car, and a humongous truck towed us through the drifting snow toward the Inn at Loretto. Light glowed through the snow covering the glass in the rental car. "It's like we're in an igloo on wheels under the Aurora Borealis," I quipped. My cheery comment attracted only a derisive snort. The source: Agnes. After we'd removed the luggage from the rental car at the hotel, I told the tow truck driver to take the vehicle to Hertz at the airport. "Note the time you deliver the car," I said as I paid him in cash. "You've got it, bud," he said. We checked into our rooms, and I called the concierge. "I need a limo and a driver for tonight and tomorrow morning. There are five us," I said. "Of course, sir," he said stiffly. I think I would have preferred, "You've got it, bud." ------- The air was bitter cold but calm. No moon. But for starlight, it was a dark sky. The limo stopped in front of the gallery. Luminaries lit the walkway and the gallery's roofline. Ruth Sage had turned a disaster into a festive occasion. As we walked toward the entry doors, I heard the groan of tree limbs complaining about the weight of the snow they carried. Snow puffed the tops of all horizontal surfaces, and with the luminaries, the scene looked like a Christmas card. "Beautiful," I breathed, my breath huffing like smoke from a steam engine. "But colder than a witch's tit," Agnes said. She was hanging onto my arm. It was our show. We'd decided to make an entrance together. Behind us, Mary and Grace held Bill's arms. "Never knowing a witch, I can't attest to the temperature of a witch's tit or any other part of a witch's body. Regardless, that tidbit of folklore makes no sense," I said. Agnes cackled. "Supposedly witches have no maternal instincts, making their teats cold for a suckling child. It's a metaphor." "Your mind is unique, friend. Guard it well." "I have. I shall." We made our grand entrance, bringing a blast of cold air inside with us, and sending art lovers near the door deeper into the gallery to avoid the draft. Ruth Sage rushed to greet us. "You made it!" she said. "I worried the storm would keep you away. They closed the airport and diverted all flights." "Neither rain nor sleet nor snow... etcetera. Gimmee a hug, Ruth," I said and held out my arms. She moved into them without hesitating and hugged me tight. "How'd you do in the pre-show?" I asked while my arms still wrapped her waist. "Better than I expected. What with the nasty weather, only half my buyers made it. The other half might or might not drift in before the night ends. There are sold stickers on six of your paintings and two of Agnes's sculptures." "Get me a cup of hot green tea, and Agnes a glass of red wine, and we'll work the crowd." "You've got it," she said with a grin. What? No bud? ------- Over the next few hours, Ruth's buyers drifted in, and before the night ended, sold stickers dotted all of Agnes's and my work. Katrina arrived with a bigwig from the pharmaceutical company in tow. He praised both my paintings and Agnes's sculptures, and to my chagrin, he approximately doubled the orders for our small pieces. He wanted twenty paintings and fourteen sculptures. If allowed, Katrina could indeed bury an artist with private commissions. The problem with private commissions wasn't the near term. The near term was more profitable than it would be otherwise. The problem lay in the increasing-price system that came from traditional openings. Which was the reason I was so pleased when I met Joseph Pound. He introduced himself without mentioning his business and asked me to talk about my work. From my earlier attempts to put sold stickers on my paintings, my hyperbole had been honed to perfection. At the time, two paintings still needed buyers, so I was loquacious. Pound, I guessed, was sixty years old, maybe a little older. He was gay. That was obvious. His ears and cheeks poked out like Howdy Doody's, and he had a toothy grin reminiscent of the puppet's happy smile, but his nose and cheeks weren't freckled. "For an artist, you are a talker," he said. I didn't sense that he was putting me down with his comment. "That's good, if the artist knows what he's talking about. You do," he said. "I'm from the Big Apple, but my roots are in the heartland of this great country, so once every couple of years I go on a scouting trip in search of promising new talent. I've shown the work of some of the greats, abstract expressionists like Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Helen Frankenthaler, who explored the essential questions of human existence. I also showed Andy Wharhol and Jasper Johns with their pop art in the sixties and seventies. I turned down Maplethorpe in the eighties, and I've been looking for another valid new movement in American art since. You're microcosm/cosmos approach to art might be it. It certainly has more validity than some of the craziness some folks try to call art nowadays." He sighed. "I grew up in the age of drive-in movies and eateries, when remaining in the closet was to be admired, not scorned. I may be an anachronism. Maybe I want to recreate the past. I don't know, but I'd like to run with your microcosm/cosmos art. It fits our time, and it is art." He handed me a business card. "Check me out and give me a call. I believe I'd like to show your work and the work of your colleague, Ms. Porter." "I'll check you out, Mr. Pound, but if what you told me is accurate, I'd be pleased to show my work in your gallery. Would a winter show next year work for you?" He nodded. "I saw you speaking with Katrina Leonard. Is she the reason you're booked for a year?" "Partly. I have an opening scheduled in Phoenix in three months, and Katrina arranged some private commissions that removes the possibility of another opening until this time next year." Ruth stepped up to us. "Hello, Joseph," she said. "I didn't see you arrive." He smiled like Howdy Doody and said, "I'm sneaky." Ruth linked her arm through mine. "What is your opinion of this young man's work?" "It's promising. If he can link the microcosm to the cosmos, he might start a new movement in American art, something that's sorely needed in our business, Ruth." He looked at me and said, "Excuse me for speaking to Ruth as if you weren't here, but..." He turned back to Ruth. "... Mr. Carson is tied up with Katrina. If he commits to a show with me, will he honor the commitment?" "Yes, I believe he will," Ruth said. "Mr. Pound, I need openings in galleries like yours to insure that my work remains a good investment for my buyers." I smiled. "I'm young, but I don't need the extra money that comes from private commissions versus traditional openings, so I can and will take the long view. Please excuse me for speaking to Ruth as if you weren't here." I turned to Ruth. "Mr. Pound says he's shown the work of Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Helen Frankenthaler, Andy Wharhol, and Jasper Johns. Is this true?" "Yes," Ruth said. I turned to Pound. "I'll show my work with you." I took his elbow. "Excuse us, Ruth," I said as I guided Joseph Pound away to a quiet corner of the gallery. "Let's talk turkey." He chortled. "All right. A December show next year. Twelve large paintings and ten of the smaller paintings. What about Ms. Porter?" "I'll speak for her." "Very well. I'll want seven large sculptures like she showed in Frazier's gallery earlier this year, and six pieces like she's shown here." Joseph Pound had done his homework. The meeting wasn't as impromptu as I'd first assumed. "What's the split?" I asked. "Fifty/fifty. I'm sure you're doing better with Ruth, but I won't take less. I don't need to. On the other hand, I take care of crating, shipping and frames." "What about photography?" "That cost is mine, too." "Let's talk about pricing?" "We'll deal with that later, but the pricing will exceed any price achieved for similar work up to the time of the show. Your work has increased about twenty percent per show. If your work remains in high demand, a similar jump is not out of the question." "Very good. We have a deal." I gave him a business card. "Fax the contracts to me at the number listed on the card." "Are you Ms. Porter's agent?" "No, I'm her friend. Would you like her to verify the commitment I made on her behalf?" "No. I just wondered if you were getting an agent's cut from her work?" "No, no agent's cut, just the pleasure of her company." ------- Looking like I'd lit her up with her welding torch, Agnes said, "You did what?" "You heard me. Did I screw up?" "No! Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It's been a dream of mine for years to show in New York City. What gallery?" I showed her Pound's business card. "Joseph's Gallery! You're kidding." "Is that good or bad." "Good, the best!" I grimaced. "He wouldn't bend on the split. It's fifty/fifty. If that's not good enough, I'll reopen negotiations. He will pay for crating, shipping, and photography, though." "Hoo boy!" she said softly. "I committed you to seven pieces like you showed for Frazier, and six like you you're showing here tonight, but I couldn't tie down the pricing. He did say he'd consider a twenty percent bump if our demand continues to hold. The show will be in December next year." "Christmas in New York," she breathed, her eyes shining with happiness. ------- I made it a point to sit with my sister for part of the flight back to Phoenix. I'd seen no evidence of a quickening romance between Grace and Bill, and I was curious. I'd no sooner taken the aisle seat next to her than she patted my hand and said, "You're worried about me again, huh?" I chuckled. "No, worry wouldn't describe my feelings." "What would?" "Curious." "Ah, Bill, huh?" "Yeah." "Little brother, there's no spark between us, and not just on my part." "The day we met him..." "That doesn't count. That was surface attraction. I did the right thing by moving slowly with Bill. I like him. I admire him for the professional he is, for his talent, but... well, he's no James, Brent." She sighed. "Or you." Instead of patting my hand, she gave it an affectionate squeeze. "The two of you raised the bar, and I can't have either or you, you because you are my brother, James because of what he does, but I'm happy about the height of that bar, and I'm in no rush. One of these days, I'll meet a man who will step up to that bar and sail right over it." "Thanks, that satisfies my curiosity, except for one thing. Why did Bill accept our invitation to the opening if he isn't interested in you?" She laughed. "Because of you, you ninny." "Huh?" "Oh, he harbors no romantic inclinations for you, if that's what you were thinking. Bill's not gay, but he admires you more than any man he's ever met. Those were his words to me. Brent, he'd like to be your friend." I slowly let the air out of my lungs. "I didn't know." "That's because you've been looking at him as a potential lover for me instead of a potential friend for you. Also, Bill isn't very adept at making friends. He lives with his mother not because he's a momma's boy but because she's his best friend." I remembered the conversation I'd had with my mother about the nature of friendship. "What do you want or expect from a friend?" she'd asked me, and then told me to make a list that defined what I wanted from a friend and another list that described what I was willing to give in return. "Friendship is a two-way street. To get you've got to give," I muttered, half under my breath. "What?" Grace said. I spoke normally. "To get you've got to give. That was something Mom said about friendship." "You certainly learned that lesson well. You gave so much to Mary that she fell in love with you. Agnes thinks you walk on water, and James makes a point of spending time with you when he's around," she said. "Would you like Bill for a friend?" I didn't answer immediately. "He's an environmentalist. How rabid is he? With 150 years of memories, an extremist of any kind turns me off." Grace chuckled. "I don't know rabid he is. Ask him." I pursed my lips. "He's sitting alone. Trade seats with him, and I'll do just that." I stood up and let Grace into the aisle, and then took her window seat. Seconds later, Bill sat next to me. "Grace said you wanted to talk to me," he said. "Yeah. What environmental organizations do you belong to?" He sat back in his chair as if I'd struck him. "Huh?" "Do you belong to any environmentally conscious organizations, you know, like Greenpeace or PETA?" "No, what a strange question. Why did you ask it?" "Then you wouldn't classify yourself as a tree hugger?" ' "No. Is this about my belief in conserving water if you live in a desert?" "Yes and no. I've got no problem with that belief as long as you don't want to put explosives in swimming pools and public fountains and blow them to smithereens. I do have a problem with rabid environmentalists. It seems to me that they'd be happier if Homo-sapiens as a species became extinct." He huffed a laugh. "And you thought because I believe in water conservation in the desert than I might be... ah, a tree hugger or a rabid conservationist?" "I didn't know, so I asked. Don't get your shorts in a twist, Bill. What about Lake Powell? Do you think it should be drained?" "I don't know enough about the ramifications of draining the lake or leaving it as it is to have an opinion one way or the other. You're making my head hurt, Brent." "Sorry about that. Are you an early or late riser?" "Moderate, probably. Why?" "Would you be interested in joining the group for sunrise tai chi?" "No, the commute from my house would be prohibitive. Besides, I know nothing about tai chi." I nodded. "What's your favorite leisure activity?" "Reading." "What about physical activity?" "I run and belong to a gym." I groaned. I was getting nowhere fast. "About Lake Powell," he said. "In retrospect, I do have an opinion. I enjoyed the boating weekend. I wouldn't want to see the lake drained." "How about we head back up to the lake after the holidays?" He smiled. "I'd like that. Either coming or going, could we stop in Sedona for an hour or two? I own some land there I need to check on." "No problem. Tell me about your land." "It's two acres next to Oak Creek and has phenomenal views of the surrounding red-rock country. I inherited it from my grandmother on my father's side." "Whew! That's got to be valuable property. What are your plans for it?" "Eventually, a summer home." "What are the summers like there?" "The summer temperatures run in the low nineties, so you don't really get out of the heat, but unlike Phoenix in the summer, the nights cool down into the seventies." "I look forward to seeing your land. We'll plan on lunch in Sedona Sunday afternoon on the return trip. Do you have a lady friend you'd like to invite?" He looked a little sheepish. "Hey, you and my sister didn't click. No harm, no foul," I said. "I have a friend I'd like to invite." "Great. Is she a tree hugger?" He laughed. "No." Would Bill appreciate a watercolor painting of mine as a Christmas gift? Yeah, he would. He was a pretty fair watercolorist himself. To get you've got to give. Pretty good advice, Mom. ------- Christmas: a time of giving, a time to reflect and appreciate, a time to show your appreciation with a meaningful gift. I wasn't a religious person. As Fang Hong, I'd been a Buddhist. Josh Randall was a Baptist, and Jane Wilson a Catholic, but neither practiced their religions. Mom and Dad weren't churchgoers. Dad was agnostic. Mom believed in God, but she was opposed to organized religion in any form. Still, we celebrated Christmas. We made it our time of giving, and it became our most cherished holiday as a family. Anticipating this season of giving, I'd dug out my watercolors from time to time over the last year and dashed off an old-hat landscape painting. Still, with Christmas only a week away, I'd need to spend some long hours at my drafting table (I painted watercolors on a table) to finish the paintings for everyone on my gift list. Even with long hours at my drafting table, I would need some help, and it occurred to me that by asking for help I might actually help the person I asked. I started with Grace. "I need help, big sister," I said. "Oh, what kind of help?" she said, putting down the novel she was reading. "My Christmas gift list has gotten... ah, long. Have you bought gifts for everyone on your list?" She groaned. "Not even close. You know the way I am. Unlike Mom, I'm a last-minute shopper for gifts. Mom was amazing, wasn't she? She started gathering gifts the day after Christmas for the Christmas a year away." "Yeah, she was amazing. She taught me about the joy that giving could bring. I have painted or will paint some watercolor scenes that I'd planned to give as gifts, but they need to be framed, wrapped and delivered. Some names on my list probably duplicate some names on your list. I'm proposing that you frame and wrap the paintings, and in this way they become a gift from you as well. I'm talking small gifts, Grace, not major gifts like what I have planned for you and Mary. Waddaya say?" "Who's on your duplicate list?" she asked. I dug a piece of paper from my pocket — my list. "I'm going to talk to Mary about this, as well, so it's possible that there will be some three-way gifts. Here's the list that I think you and I can share: Bill, Desmond, our stockbroker, our accountant, the executor of Mom and Dad's estate, your writing tutor, and Carrie. I think Mary will want to put her name on the gifts for Bill, Desmond, our stockbroker, our accountant and Carrie." "Make your gift to Carrie from you and Mary. I'll give Carrie a personal gift." "All right. I painted a watercolor for Deanna a few months back. Do you want your name on her gift along with Mary's and mine?" "Yes. What about James and Agnes?" "My gifts to James and Agnes will be personal, like your gift to Carrie." She nodded and then gave me a big smile. "I say yes! The reason I'm a last-minute shopper is because I can't decide what to give. You solved that problem for six names on my list. What are you giving Mary?" I grinned. "What are you giving James and Carrie?" She groaned. "I don't know. That's the problem. I picked up Dad's habits for Christmas gift giving. You're more like Mom, so I know you've got something attached to everyone on your list. Right?" "Yes." "So fess up. What are you giving Mary?" "A major gift and a watercolor painting of Little Bundle and her playing in the water. A Madonna and Child, a painting I haven't done yet. Starting this afternoon, I'll be going into a watercolor painting frenzy." "What's the major gift?" "You are one nosy broad. You know that, don't you?" She grinned. "Yep." "It's in my room. I'll get it." I'd purchased Mary's gift early in December. I'd been reluctant to tell Grace about the gift because I couldn't predict her reaction, so I'd planned to surprise her shortly after I surprised Mary and let the chips fall. But with Grace's insistence on knowing now, I reasoned if my sister's reaction were negative, springing the surprise on her before Christmas would give us time to work out any problems caused by the nature of the gift. I carried a small bag back into the kitchen and sat down. Would I be this nervous when I presented the gift to Mary? "I love Mary," I said. "I know," Grace said. I removed a small jewelry box from the bag, opened the box and set it on the table in front of Grace. Her eye's widened. She looked at me, back at the gift, and then at me again. "An engagement ring," she breathed. "Yes. It will be a long engagement, Grace. Although the courts declared me an adult, I will not marry before I turn eighteen next year, if then, but I want Mary to be my wife and the mother of my children." Tears filled my sister's eyes, and then ran down her cheeks. I couldn't tell if she were happy or unhappy. She picked up the box and looked at the ring. "It's beautiful," she said and sniffed. "Will she say yes?" I asked. "Oh, god, yes! She'll be ecstatic!" She set the box down. "Stand up," she said as she rose to her feet. When I was standing, she ran her fingers through my hair and gazed into my eyes. Her love for me shined through the mist of tears. With a whimper, she kissed me passionately. Her lithe body melted into mine, and I wrapped her in my arms. She leaned back from the kiss, and along with love, I could now see need in her eyes. She kissed me again, even more passionately than before. I reveled in the taste of her, the feel of her body pressed against mine, the jasmine scent in her hair, the fragrance of her sweet breath. She ripped her mouth from mine, leaned back and then twisted out of my arms. She stepped back, but her eyes never left mine. "You love me," she said. "Yes." "You want me." "Yes." "You also love Mary." "Yes, very much." "More than you love me?" "No. You are my love for this life, but I also love Mary, and she loves me, and on Christmas Eve, I will ask her to be my wife." With another whimper, she rushed back into my arms. She didn't kiss me, just held me tight. "I am so happy for you and Mary, Brent. So very, very happy." She started to cry. I held her, leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Are those tears of joy or sorrow?" I asked. "Both," she said and took a gulping breath. She stepped away from me and jerked some tissues from a box on the kitchen counter. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. With her back to me, she said, "I'm happy for you and Mary. At the same time, I'm sad because I can't be your wife, that I can't bear your children." She turned to me. "But the sadness that I can't be your wife or have children with you isn't a new sadness. It's one I've learned to live with. I love you, Brent. I love you like you love me. That will never change, but... but with that ring you've proved that love isn't limited, that we can love each other and still love others, and that makes me very happy." She smiled and my world shined with light again, high-desert light, intense and bright and full of love and beauty. ------- "Mary, I need help," I said and nuzzled her breasts with the cheek of my face. We'd just made love. "Okay. How can I help you?" she said with a smile. "My Christmas gift list has gotten a little large, and it occurred to me that we could give some joint gifts. I've either painted or will paint some watercolors for gifts, but they'll need to be framed and wrapped, and some of them shipped. That's the help I need, and if you take care of those tasks, the gifts can be from both of us." "Okay. Who will be getting these gifts?" "Jack Stark, Clarence Kitt and Kidrick in San Francisco. Here in Phoenix Tom Hagar, Rubin, and Newt from James's firm, and Carrie. In addition, I talked with Grace about some paintings the three of us can give together. If you agree, you can help Grace get the paintings framed and wrapped. The three-way gifts will go to Bill, Ed Desmond, our stockbroker, our accountant, and Deanna." Mary sighed heavily. "You can't imagine how much time and mental anguish you just saved me. What with school, Little Bundle, the dream house, and your Santa Fe show, I haven't been able to do much shopping." She gave me a thank-you kiss and then said, "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet. I need a favor." "What?" "I'll be giving paintings to my four out-of-town gallery owners and Katrina. They won't need framing, but they'll need to be wrapped and shipped. I'll pay for the shipping, but it would be a big help to me if you did those chores for me. We'll put the paintings in mailing tubes." "No problem. What about Agnes and James?" "I have a large oil painting in storage that I'm giving Agnes, and while I worked on the small paintings for the Santa Fe show, I painted two extra for gifts. One will go to James, the other to Frazier. Agnes and James's paintings will need frames, but I'll get them framed. Frazier can frame the one I give him. Oh, I forgot one. I'm giving Grace a watercolor I haven't painted yet. While you're getting the other watercolors framed, will you have Grace's framed, too? And wrap it for me?" "Sure. Is that all you're giving Grace?" "What? That isn't enough?" "Yes, but..." I laughed and took her off the hook. "I have another gift for her." "What?" "Some very fine opera-length pearls." "Yes! Perfect, baby. Grace admired the pearls a woman wore who attended the Denver show." She hesitated. "I bought her some diamond-stud earrings. Maybe, I should exchange them for pearls." She hesitated again. "No, if she wants pearl earrings, I'll get them for her birthday, and they should match the necklace in color." I rolled from the bed and pulled on my trousers. "Where are you going?" "My studio. I've got one or two all-nighters ahead of me if I'm going to finish painting all the gifts we just talked about." ------- I actually had fun with the watercolor paintings. The one I planned to give Bill showed him standing at the bow of Sweet Rose, gazing out over the water toward towering red cliffs. I went a little overboard for Little Bundle. I'd planned to paint a clown for her, and ended up painting a series of six. For Ruth, I painted a scene from memory. It was a snowscape depicting her gallery festooned with luminaries. I painted the magnificent Rocky Mountains at dawn, a Fisherman's Wharf scene, and a battleship at anchor in San Diego Bay for my Denver, San Francisco and San Diego gallery owners. For Katrina, I painted an autumn scene from memory. I'd seen it when I lived as Josh Randall. The leaves of the aspen trees in the landscape were yellow and amber. The color, amber, associated the scene with Katrina. Except for Grace and Mary's watercolors, the rest were Lake Powell landscapes. The Madonna and Child watercolor I painted for Mary warmed my heart. I struggled with Grace's painting. I'd planned to paint her on a jet ski. I tore up my first two attempts using that idea. Suddenly with a stroke of understanding, I realized I didn't see her alone. I saw her with me, so I chose a different approach. I painted her striking a pose from tai chi, and I stood beside her in the same pose. That painting I didn't rip apart. I signed and dated it with pride. As I finished Grace's painting, a knock sounded at my studio door. I opened it without looking through the peephole. James was back! When he walked into the studio, I noticed he limped. "What's wrong?" I asked. "I took a bullet in the ass." I couldn't help it. I laughed. "It's not funny. It hurt, dammit!" I laughed some more, both from relief and because it was the type of slapstick pain I could laugh at. "I'm sure it did," I said when I stopped chortling. "How bad is the wound?" "Not very, but it was a ricochet, so it chewed out a pretty good-sized chunk of flesh. I stopped by to tell you first. Grace is going to go ballistic. I need your help to tell her about it." I chuckled. "You're right about that, not necessarily about needing my help, but you've got my sister pegged. Still, that you're back and almost in one piece in time for Christmas will please her. What happened?" "I've told you all I can tell you about that. The wound isn't and wasn't life threatening. In a few weeks, I'll be good as new, well almost new." With a straight face, I said, "I take it your planning plastic surgery." He frowned. "Are you serious?" I cracked up again. "Gotcha!" He groaned. "Come upstairs. I'll make hot tea, or if you'd rather, a beer. I think there's a couple in the frig. We'll sit." I snickered. "Or stand, and we can talk." ------- "Grace, there's someone at my studio who wants to see you," I said on the telephone. James and I had decided to break the news to my sister over the phone. That way, she'd have an opportunity to regain her composure before she saw him. "Who?" Grace asked sounding harried. "I mean, I'm busy, Brent." "James," I said. "James! What's he doing at the studio?" "He got shot." "What?" "Nothing serious. He took a bullet in the ass, a ricochet." I giggled. "I wanted him to sit down with me and talk about it. I sat down; he remained standing." I forced a laugh. "Why are you laughing? That's not funny." "That's what James said. I tried to get him to show me the wound. He refused. Maybe he'll show you." James glared at me, which produced an honest laugh from me. "Little brother, you're incorrigible. Don't move. I'm going out the door right now." "I thought you were busy," I said. "Argh! You're going to get it." "Promises, promises." "There, I'm in my car. Are you sure he's all right?" "Other than a missing chunk from his ass, he's fine. I'll hang up now, so you can concentrate on your driving. Drive carefully, please. This is not an emergency." I hung up. "Thanks, Brent," James said and took a slug of beer. "Tom tells me he identified the man responsible for your parents' death, as well as Mary's parents and her brother." "Yes, Colonel Lawrence Freemont. I see no avenue for justice beyond a personal confrontation, and that would endanger those I care about. I need your help again, James." He nodded. "We'll talk about that after Christmas. I need to buy Grace a gift. Any ideas?" "Mary and I bought her jewelry, and I'm giving her a watercolor painting. I just finished it. Wanna see it?" "Sure, as long as I don't have to sit down." "The painting is a surprise, so I'll need to put it away before Grace gets here, but we've got time." We walked down the stairs. I put the painting in a mat and placed it on an easel. "Brent, she'll love it!" James said, enthusiastically. "I hope so." I removed the painting and put it face down on a table. "Are you giving me a gift?" he asked. "Yes." "Don't. I didn't get one for you, and with two days to Christmas I won't have time to buy one." "Christmas isn't for getting, James. It's for giving. If I give you a gift, that doesn't mean you have to give me one, and I understand your time constraints. About a gift for Grace, how much do you want to spend?" He shrugged. "That doesn't matter. My work is lucrative, Brent." "Let me show you something," I said. I pulled out the portfolio case with the presentation drawings for the dream house. I put the exterior rendering on an easel. "That's the exterior of our new house." "Wow!" "Yeah." I removed that rendering and put up the one for the main entry. Bill had rendered a table with a vase and a flower arrangement in the watercolor painting of the entrance hall. "See that vase," I said. "Buy Grace a vase for that table, plus a year's worth of fresh flowers, delivered weekly. The vase can be inexpensive, a Ming vase, or somewhere in between, your choice." He smiled. "I can see why the ladies love you, friend." That he called me friend pleased me. I showed him the other renderings of our dream house while we waited for Grace to arrive. ------- Chapter 24 At first, the logistics for Christmas Eve appeared impossible, mostly because of the number of gifts that needed to be delivered, but Mary took charge, divvied up the gift giving, and made the day manageable. Grace delivered the paintings to Desmond, our stockbroker, our accountant, the executor of Mom and Dad's estate, and her writing tutor, as well as a number of personal gifts to others from her only. Mary handled the shipping for the nine out-of-town gifts and volunteered to deliver Deanna's gift from the three of us. Like Grace, Mary also had some personal gifts to deliver. I had it easy. I delivered Rubin Perez and Tom Hagar's gifts to James. I didn't know their real names, let alone where they lived. James also took my gift for Newt and promised that the gifts would be delivered to everyone. His narrow eyes widened when he tore the wrapping off his gift from me. He quickly composed himself, though, and bowed in the Chinese fashion. "This humble servant thanks you," he said in Cantonese. "There," he said in English and pointed. "Over the mantle." He removed the framed print hanging in that place and strode away with it. "I'll get a hammer and two hangers," he said as he left the room. Five minutes later, his new painting graced his mantle. "Perfect," he said. He turned to me. "I have ordered your gift. It will arrive one day next week." I nodded. "I'm not giving you the gift because you gave me that painting, Brent. I'm giving it to you because while searching for a gift for Grace, I ran across the perfect gift for you, and I couldn't resist buying it. At the same time, I appreciated what you said about the season for giving. Giving is truly more rewarding than receiving." "Yep," I said with a grin. "Your gift is a 19th Century Yixing teapot." He said in Cantonese. "To actually brew tea in the artifact would be criminal, so the courier will also deliver a contemporary Yixing teapot and cups, as well as the first installment of a year's supply of Yé tea. Are you familiar with Yé tea?" "Yes," I said, switching to Cantonese, as well. "It was a favorite of mine when I lived as Fang Hong. It's a green tea made only from young buds and leaves." I bowed in the Chinese manner, and then grinned, gave his back a friendly slap and said in English, "Perfect!" "The same courier will be delivering Grace's vase, but that's a post-Christmas surprise, Brent. The first batch of fresh-cut flowers will be delivered this afternoon in an ordinary crystal vase." I wondered, but didn't ask, what kind of vase the courier would deliver for Grace. Surely, James didn't take my suggestion of a Ming vase seriously. At my next stop, Bill and Janice Evanston loved the watercolor I painted for him. Janice even recognized that the male figure standing at the bow of Sweet Rose was her son. The face wasn't rendered in detail. That isn't possible with watercolors at the scale of the painting I'd done, so I asked her how she knew. "The body shape, the posture," she said. "It's Billy. It couldn't be anyone but Billy." Bill had gifts for Grace, Mary, Agnes and me. I opened his gift to me: a set of fine watercolor brushes. "Perfect," I said. "My watercolor brushes have had it. These new brushes are sorely needed." Which was true. I'm hard on brushes. I took Grace, Mary and Agnes's gifts away with me, saving him a delivery. My gift surprised Frazier. "Hey," I said, "you gave me my start, Gary. This is my way of saying thank you and wishing you a merry Christmas." "I don't have a gift for you." "You gave me your gift when you took a chance on a sixteen-year-old boy," I said. Tears misted his eyes. He pursed his lips and said, "I won't sell it. Before this painting, I had two other pieces of art I'd never sell. Now I have three." "Hang it with a sold sticker for our next opening," I said. "I shall." I pushed out my hand. He took it and pulled me into a manly hug. "Thanks, Brent." As I was driving away from Frazier's Scottsdale gallery, my cell phone rang. "Meet me at your studio," Agnes said when I answered the call. "Great minds, etcetera," I said. "I was just about to call you. I'm fifteen minutes away." "Fine. I'll quaff wine while I wait." I hit nothing but green lights and made it in ten. Just after bustling into my studio, I stopped dead in my tracks. Protein #7 stood tall situated in the ideal place on my studio floor, its beauty marred by a large, red bow. "Merry Christmas, friend," Agnes said. I looked up at the sound of her voice. She was leaning on the loft railing. "A goodly portion of that piece is yours," she said. "You did the anvil work on every forged element in it. It has your name on it as well as mine." "Uh-uh, you were the artist. I was merely a tool." My eyes returned to the metal sculpture. It was my favorite of all of Agnes's work. It was also the large piece that we'd showcased for Katrina when she previewed the Santa Fe show. I turned to the sounds Agnes made as she stepped onto the studio floor and held out my arms. She moved into them. "Thank you, Agnes. You couldn't have given me a more perfect gift." Her strong arms held me tight. "I love you, Brent Carson." I said nothing, but then I understood. "And I love you, Agnes Porter. You are a cherished friend." She leaned back and gave me a quick kiss on my lips. "That poorly wrapped package leaning against the wall behind you is your gift from me," I said. She spun out of my arms and attacked the wrapping paper, tearing it away like a child on Christmas morning. She squealed with joy as the painting came into view. Her head twisted toward me, and then back to the painting. "That's your best work ever!" she exclaimed. "You're giving it to me?" "A best friend should get my best work," I said. She shook her red mane. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wrapped me in her strong arms again. ------- Grace's car wasn't in the garage when I parked my pickup, which didn't surprise me. She had more gifts to deliver than Mary and me. I looked around the house. Grace had dug out Mom's Christmas decorations, freshened them, and placed them with care. Dad wasn't into decorating the exterior of the house; so except for a wreath on the front door, all the decorations were inside. I chuckled when I remembered Dad telling friends and business acquaintances he was inviting to a Christmas party that his house was easy to find. "It's the only house on the block that isn't lit up like a Christmas tree." Our Christmas tree was fake, but a good fake, and I'd helped Grace and Mary decorate it. Little Bundle helped, too. Gifts were scattered around its base. Most of the packages had Joy's name on them. Because the baby girl would celebrate the holiday with us, we turned Christmas morning over to the child. Tonight, Mary, Grace and I would exchange gifts, and then play Santa, putting out the toys from the jolly old fellow for Joy to discover the next morning. I don't know what Grace or Mary bought for Little Bundle, but I'd gone overboard. She was about to be spoiled rotten. I'd had a personal debate about Grace's presence when I gave Mary the engagement ring and asked her to be my wife. I'd also considered waiting until New Year's Eve so Mary would have the memories of a romantic evening associated with her promise to be my wife instead of a Christmas gift exchange, but for some reason, Grace's presence for the proposal was important to me. I turned to sounds at the front door, and Mary came in. She set Little Bundle on the floor, and the baby girl spied me. "Bent!" she cried as she ran to me. She'd learned to walk, and then run. Now, she ran everywhere, forsaking walking almost completely. Just watching her made me tired. She could also say my name correctly. I'd taught her the "R" sound associated with the "B" and the "E," but she was a lazy talker. Either that or she preferred Bent to Brent. I looked forward to the day she'd call me Daddy. I gathered her into my arms. She squeezed my neck and gave me a wet kiss, and then wanted me to put her down again. "UPS was a zoo," Mary huffed as she removed her coat and scarf. She wore a sweater and blue jeans tucked into high black boots. Her black hair shined and shimmered from the lights on the tree. As usual, the look of her made my heart sing. "I bet," I said. "Did you see Deanna?" Mary kissed me and said, "Yes, and I have news you won't believe. Make me a cup of tea. I'll get Little Bundle unbundled and tell you all about it." The teapot was whistling when Mary and Joy walked into the kitchen; that is, Mary walked and Little Bundle ran. "Cocoa," Joy said. I looked at Mary. She nodded and put Joy in her high chair. I poured hot water over tea bags and added hot chocolate mix to the water in Joy's sipper-cup. "This is hot," I warned Joy when I set the cup on the high chair tray. She nodded. She'd burnt her tongue before and had learned that lesson. Little Bundle, I'd noticed, was a quick study. I sat with Mary. The news had to be huge. Mary could barely contain herself. "Deanna's pregnant," Mary said. "What?" My shout frightened Joy. I patted her hand and smiled at her to let her know all was well, but was it? Grace would be devastated. I'd met with James earlier. Why hadn't he said something? He'd talked about my gift and his gift for Grace as if nothing had changed. "Does James know?" I asked Mary. "I don't know," she said. "James isn't the father. Joy, you can drink your cocoa now." Joy picked up the cup and sipped. "Too hot," she said and put it down. "What about Grace? Does Grace know?" I asked. Mary sipped her tea. "No. Grace and Deanna haven't spoken to each other since the morning Deanna surprised all of us by showing up here for sunrise tai chi. Wasn't that morning sometime during the first week in October?" "Yeah, I think so. I thought Grace and Deanna wanted to remain friends," I said. Mary gave me a look that let me know I was a certified imbecile. "That was just talk, Brent." "I don't understand. If James isn't the father, who is? And how far along is Deanna's pregnancy? Is she keeping the baby? Is she going to marry the father? What about Deanna and James?" Mary chuckled. "You're as full of questions as I was. Here's what I know. Deanna's just shy of two months pregnant. I don't know the father's name. I asked, but Deanna refused to name him, and she isn't marrying him. But she's definitely keeping the baby. She's in a heavy relationship with a woman named Glenna Kepler. I met her. She's living with Deanna, and they plan to raise the baby together. I didn't ask Deanna if she'd told James. That was my assumption, but because James just arrived back in Phoenix the day before yesterday, I could be wrong about that. James's name didn't come up, except when I asked Deanna if James was the father." "Hoo boy! Grace is going to... I don't know what she'll do." I heard the sound of the garage door going up. "But we'll soon know," I added with trepidation. ------- "What?" Grace looked like I'd just struck her with a smith's hammer. "Deanna's pregnant," I said, repeating myself. Mary jumped into the conversation and filled Grace in on what Mary knew. "Does James know?" Grace asked. "That was my assumption," Mary said. "But..." "I delivered my gift to James this morning. If he knew, he said nothing to me about it," I said. Grace pushed all the air from her lungs. "This is a shocker," she muttered. "I need more information." She dug in her purse for her cell phone and dialed. "Deanna, please," my sister said and waited. "Deanna, it's Grace. I understand congratulations are in order... I know you've wanted a child. I'm happy for you. Does James know?... I see. If James isn't the father, who is?... I don't think so, Deanna. I called to congratulate you... Merry Christmas to you, too. Goodbye." She closed her cell phone and laid it on the table. "James doesn't know. Deanna plans to tell him tonight. She didn't say, but she also plans to introduce James to... what's her name, her new lover?" "Glenna Kepler," Mary said. "Yeah, her. I don't like this. Not one little bit. James..." Tears welled in her eyes. "James is supposed to spent the night with Deanna. I understood that, but..." She sniffed and brushed away the tears from the corners of her eyes with her fingers. The doorbell rang. "I'll get it," I said. The man at the door was delivering the first batch of fresh-cut flowers for Grace from James. I tipped deliveryman and carried the flower arrangement to the kitchen table. "They're for you," I said to my sister. She'd composed herself while I answered the door. Grace removed the card and read it. With a strangled sob, she tore the card in half. "I can't do this anymore. I can't! I just can't!" She jumped up, toppling her chair, which crashed to the floor as she dashed away. Little Bundle started to cry. Mary gave me a questioning look as she took the baby out of the high chair. Joy stopped crying immediately. "The flowers are from James. He asked me for suggestions for a gift for Grace. I showed him the rendering for the entry in our dream house. Bill painted a table with a vase of cut flowers in that rendering. This is Grace's gift: fresh-cut flowers every week for a year. Plus, a courier is delivering a special vase next week. The special vase is a surprise, Mary. Don't ruin it." I sighed. "What a mess." And I'd aggravate the mess when I proposed to Mary later. Not good. "I'll go talk with her," Mary said and handed me the baby. Joy fussed. She wanted her mother, but Mary ignored the baby and hurried away. Joy looked at me and smiled. "Turncoat," I muttered and tickled her chin. With the baby on my lap, I picked up the two halves of the note. It read: Pretty posies for a pretty lady. I love you, Grace. I recognized the signature. James had signed the card personally, but the card didn't explain the extent of the gift. James probably planned to explain in person later. Joy wanted down. I put her back in her high chair. "Drink your cocoa," I said. "Cheese," she said. I snickered. Oh, to be clueless again, like Little Bundle. I checked the refrigerator and found a brick of cheddar. I cut off three small slices for the baby and one for myself, which I promptly popped into my mouth. "Milk," Joy said. "How about a please, young lady?" I said. "Pease," she said and grinned. I poured some milk in a new sipper-cup and gave it to her along with the sliced cheese. Mary walked back into the kitchen and slumped on a chair. "If James spends the night with Deanna and Glenna, Grace will end her relationship with him," she said and gave me a hard look. "We're enjoined from calling him," she added. I nodded. "She knows you. She told me to tell you that she'll never forgive you if you warn James." "I hear you," I said. ------- Grace recovered quickly. She'd made a decision, and she'd placed the responsibility with what happened solely with how James reacted to Deanna's threesome offer, which to my mind wasn't playing fair. "I've been a woman, Grace," I said. "So, I understand your point of view. But I've spent more time as a man, and I've got to tell you that what you're doing is wrong. Women expect men to be sensitive to their emotions. That's fine. But expecting them to read minds is going too far." "I agree," Grace said. "But that's not what I'm doing. I wish I could call him and give him an ultimatum. I can't. I promised Deanna, and I made a personal promise that I wouldn't try to take James away from her. An ultimatum would cross that line. I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't." Her eyes drifted to the humongous bouquet of flowers James had given her. They needed an explanation. Right or wrong, I decided to provide the reasoning behind the flowers. When I finished the explanation, Grace said, "That's dumb. What's our construction time, Brent?" "Nine months." "Plus two months to furnish the house before we move in," Grace said. I'm slow but I'm not stupid. "Which means that the fresh-cut flowers will only sit on the table in the grand entry in our new house for one month." Condescendingly, my sister patted my cheek. "Yep. Still, your heart was in the right place, little brother." "Argh," I snorted. "But the problem is easily remedied," Mary said. "Defer the next 51 deliveries and start them again the week we move into the house. It's a wonderful gift, Grace." Tears misted in Grace's eyes. "Yes it is." She leaned and brushed my lips with hers. "Thank you." "Don't thank me. Thank James." The situation was spiraling into a tangled mess. Now Grace associated the gift with me, not James. Not my intent, dammit. "I will," Grace said, "if he walks away from Deanna's setup." "What will you do if he doesn't? Return the gift?" I said. Grace's smile reminded me of my mother's expressions when I would say something incredibly stupid. "Never mind," I grumped. Grace and Mary laughed. "Gift giving is difficult," I mumbled. "Maybe something else I have planned will end up as thoughtless as cut flowers a year before they're needed." Grace glared at me. "Don't change any plans on my account." She'd assumed I was referring to Mary's engagement ring, and I was, but there was more. "I've reinstated an abandoned tradition that Mom and Dad initiated to teach us the spirit of giving, Grace," I said and turned to Mary. "For a number of years when Grace and I were young, Mom and Dad would select a needy family and deliver food and gifts to the family on Christmas Eve. The first three years worked out great, and then..." Grace laughed. "The man of the house took umbrage and told us to get out and take our junk with us, that he and his family didn't need our goddamned charity, or words to that effect." "I think those were his exact words," I said. "The idea was a good one, though, and I figured the real problem was the fact that there was a man of the house. The other potential pitfall was our admission that we were the source of the charity. With these pitfalls in mind, I contacted a battered women's shelter and asked for the names of some mothers who had occupied the shelter but had recently moved out and would appreciate some help. The woman running the shelter gave me three names and phone numbers. I called each mother, told her I was a volunteer for a charitable organization, and conferred with her about the wants and needs for each of her children. My call pleased the mothers, so hopefully the gifts will be appreciated. Because of time constraints, I hired a professional shopper to purchase the gifts for me. They're wrapped, including name tags, and are stacked in three piles in my studio." I grinned. "Wanna help me deliver the gifts this afternoon?" That got me some hugs and kisses. Mary bundled up Little Bundle, and away we went. ------- From all indications our charitable giving was a huge hit. The secret of the success of our effort came from conferring with the mothers. The clothes fit the children, and they received the toys they dreamed about getting. The mother's also appreciated the surprise honey-hams we dropped off for their Christmas dinners the next day, but not as much as the $1,000 money orders we gave each of them. What pleased me even more than the happy smiles on the faces of the families with whom we'd shared our bounty was Grace's attitude when we finished the deliveries. "Finally," she said with a look of happy relief. "I'm finally feeling the true spirit of Christmas. Thank you, little brother." "Next year, I want to be more involved with the new tradition beyond helping with the deliveries," Mary said. "Yeah, maybe we'll forego hiring the professional shopper and do the shopping ourselves," Grace said. "Hey, the pros did a good job," I said. Grace and Mary agreed with my assessment. At home, the ladies prepared dinner while I played with Little Bundle. We ate as a family, and then let the baby open one gift. Her mother selected the gift: a new pair of pajamas. Joy didn't mind and was happy to let Mary dress her in the new outfit. When Mary returned to the great room after putting the baby down for the night, I said, "Next year or the year after, if the gift Joy opens on Christmas Eve is a new pair of pajamas, she won't be happy." Mary nodded. "I know. When that happens, I'll let her select the gift she wants to open, plus give her the package with the pajamas. I want her to look good for the Christmas morning pictures you'll be taking with your digital camera." I chuckled when I understood her reasoning. "Get a glass of wine ladies, and we'll start our gift exchange." Mary and Grace unwrapped my watercolor paintings first. That I'd painted Mary nude shocked her at first, but she quickly put that reaction aside when I said, "I wanted to paint a Madonna and Child for you, and when I considered the various possibilities, that weekend you spent with me mostly naked rose to the surface. Watching you and Little Bundle playing naked in the pool is my most cherished Madonna and Child moment. Besides, you've got a great body." "Yeah, Mary," Grace said. "If you've got it, flaunt it." Grace's reaction to my painting of the two of us striking a tai chi pose was priceless. She squealed with happiness and hugged me fiercely. The two watercolors I'd painted for my ladies that year were my best efforts with that medium. In both paintings, I'd captured the phenomenal high-desert light perfectly. They liked the paintings for the sentimental subjects and didn't notice the quality of light I'd rendered. I kept my thoughts to myself. Then it was my turn for getting. "Mine first," Mary said and hauled out five large, gaily-wrapped packages. Remembering my joy at watching Agnes unwrap my painting, I tore into the gifts with unbridled enthusiasm. Mary gave me a full matched set of wushu weapons: two cudgels, two sabers, two broadswords, two spears, as well as two sets of full-body padding." "For your new kwoon," Mary said. "Sifu, my father's friend in San Francisco, helped me select them." "Perfect," I said, which made Mary giggle. I pulled her to her feet and kissed her. "Thank you," I said. "A great gift, Mary. Thank you." Would James be around a year from now to spar with me in my kwoon? I didn't voice my question. "My turn," Grace said. She held a dark scarf in her hand. "Which requires a blindfold," she added. She wrapped the scarf over my eyes, spun me around and guided me outside. I knew I was outside because the night air was brisk. "Merry Christmas!" she exclaimed and pulled off the scarf. Agnes stood, grinning like a fool, next to a new pickup truck with a huge red bow stuck to its roof. "Now you can leave your old pickup truck at Page to have it handy when we go to the lake," Grace said. "It's beautiful," I said. I wanted to say it was too much, but I knew better. Never denigrate a gift by thinking it's not enough or saying it's too much, Mom told me more than once. "That's one of those new Honda Ridgelines, huh?" "Yep. It garnered the Motor Trend Truck of the Year, among other awards," Grace said. The Ridgeline drove like a dream. If I didn't know better, I wouldn't have believed I was in a truck, and it had every doodad known to be in vehicles. Hell, the navigation system could be operated hands free with speech recognition software. The gift blew me away. When I drove the new pickup onto the driveway after the test drive, another car was parked at the curb. "Yes," Grace breathed when James stepped from the vehicle. She jumped out of my new truck and ran into his arms. "This is turning into one of the best Christmases ever," I said. "Yep," Mary said, squeezing my hand. ------- Grace adored the pearls I gave her. James helped her put them on. They draped her beautiful, long neck with soft, understated beauty, and she wore them the rest of the evening. Then it was time for Mary's gift. As I stood in front to her, I held the small jewelry box in the palm of my hand behind my back. Surprisingly, I felt my hands tremble. Perhaps I should not have been surprised. I was taking a big step, but it was a step I believed whose time had come. I truly had no doubts. "I'm pleased," I said, "that my two friends have joined us this evening to help us celebrate the time of giving. Agnes, for a while, you were my only friend. I'm a bit weird, as you know. Weird enough that I didn't fit in any social circles for others my age, but one morning at dawn, my mother said something that made my friendship with you possible. She said with the way I am, I could have friends of any age. Within a few days, you became my friend. I cherish you and the ties that bind us. James, you are my other friend. We have Kung Fu and the Chinese languages in common, but more than those connections, I cherish my friendship with you because you share your hard-earned experience and wisdom with me." I smiled at Mary. "Be patient, please." She nodded. "Grace, we share so much. You are my sister, but you are so much more. You are my best friend, and in many ways you are also my soul mate. I love you." I looked at Mary. "But I also love Mary Stewart. Mary, my love for you is deep and strong and abiding, and I love your daughter as if she were my own." I knelt on one knee in front of her, moved the jewelry box from behind my back and opened it. In Cantonese, I said, "Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?" She sat stunned, so I removed the ring from the box, and with trembling hands, I slipped the ring on her finger. Her hand, I noticed, was shaking even more than mine. I looked up at her. Our eyes met. Hers were misted with tears and filled with love. "Yes or no, Mary," I said in English. "Yes!" she cried out. "Yes!" On one knee, I wasn't set for the happy woman who threw herself at me. I ended up on my back on the floor. I didn't mind. "Yes!" she exclaimed again, and then her mouth found mine. I'd wanted witnesses for my proposal, but at that moment, I would have preferred to be alone with my Mary. ------- As the ladies gathered around Mary to examine the engagement ring, James congratulated me, and then nodded toward the bouquet of flowers on the dining room table. "I see the flowers arrived. Did you explain that more would arrive weekly for a year?" With a sheepish look, I said, "Yes." I cleared my throat. "At the time, I believed an explanation was needed. I was wrong. I'm sorry, James." He huffed a laugh. "Did your explanation take place before or after Grace spoke with Deanna?" "After." He nodded. "There's more," I said. "My gift suggestion was flawed." I explained the timing problem caused by the construction of the new house, which made him smile. He chuckled and said, "My instructions to the florist were to deliver the first four weeks now, and then wait until called for the last forty-eight deliveries. I appreciated your gift suggestion, Brent, but not as much as your suggestion that this was the season for giving. That suggestion made me think, friend, and I took it to heart. I had just two days, and with my old mindset, shopping for gifts would've been a stressful chore. With the mindset you instilled in me, shopping became a pleasure. Walk out to my car with me and help me carry in some packages." Both of us were needed to make it in one trip. James had gifts for everyone, but most of the packages, I noticed, had Little Bundle's name on them. I said, "Between you and me, that little girl is going to be spoiled rotten." "Good," James said. Besides the cut flowers, James gave Grace a diamond bracelet. He unwrapped a Rolex wristwatch from her. I sat and watched while everyone exchanged gifts with each other and figured that life couldn't get any better. I was wrong. Making love with Mary later that night was better. The five of us moving as one for sunrise tai chi was better. Watching Little Bundle being spoiled rotten the next morning was ten times better. But life doesn't tolerate too much happiness and joy. When life approaches perfection, it has the habit of driving a stake into your brain. Opposites. Yin and yang. We were eating breakfast when James's special cell phone rang. ------- I was doing something I wasn't any good at. I'd bought Little Bundle a playground set. It came in a large box and required assembly. The instructions were in English, but English was obviously a second language for the writer. What's more, Chinese wasn't the writer's primary language. I guessed Korean or Japanese. I looked up when Agnes walked outside. She'd spent the night on the sofa bed in Dad's office. "I heard you cursing," she said and grinned. "Yeah. An engineer I'm not." "Need some help, huh?" "That and patience," I said. "Go talk to your sister. I'll put that together." "Did she ask for me?" "No, but she needs you." Agnes took the screwdriver from my hand. "Go." I found Grace in the great room. She had a book in her lap, but she wasn't reading. "Come on," I said. "Let's go for a drive in my new truck." The suggestion didn't excite her, but she didn't say no, either. We didn't speak until I rolled the truck onto Beeline Highway. "How did James react to Deanna's news?" I said to break the silence. "She read the situation wrong. She thought he'd be pleased. He wasn't." "What displeased him more, the baby or the new girlfriend?" She snorted. "Both, but I think Deanna's unilateral planned pregnancy with another man took top billing. I knew Deanna wanted a baby, but I didn't know that she'd asked James to be the father. He refused, telling her that he couldn't be a father, not at this point in his life." "That's understandable," I said. "Did he break up with her?" She frowned. "I don't know. He said he walked away without discussing the issue with her. That's it. That's all I know. You know James. He's a very private man. I wasn't able to make him tell me more, and frankly, I didn't try very hard. I knew he'd walked away from Deanna and Glenna, and that was enough for me... last night. I figured he'd open up and tell me more today, but..." When she stopped speaking, I looked at her. She was dry-eyed, which surprised me. "I hate that special phone he carries around with him everywhere he goes," she said. I said nothing. "He told me more this time than he has in the past. He left to retrieve a little girl, Brent, a girl just a year older than Little Bundle. 'If I do my job right, ' he said, 'I'll save the little girl's life. It's what I do, Grace, ' he told me. 'And no one is better than I at what I do. If it's possible, I'll find a way to save that little girl, and then I'll come back to you.' That's what he said, and suddenly I felt selfish, Brent. I felt petty and small because I didn't want him to leave me, so I pushed my needs aside and let him go without recriminations. I don't know where he is. I don't know when he'll return, but I'll wait for him and welcome him back into my life after he saves that little girl." I noticed that she hadn't added that James might not return. She turned to me and smiled. "You made Mary a very happy woman last night, little brother." "I also took the edge off her happy glow later when I told her that our engagement would be a long one." She chuckled. "I heard. She understands, though. Have you made plans for New Year's Eve?" "Nope. I've been too busy with Christmas to plan that far ahead." "Let's spend it on the lake." She grinned. "I'll buy the fireworks." "All right." ------- I went into a painting frenzy the day after Christmas, but as I'd promised Agnes, I answered a knock at my studio door, picked up the telephone when it rang, showered and changed clothes daily, even showed up for sunrise tai chi, but I still ran three all-nighters in a row. I was ahead of schedule for the fourteen large paintings for Frazier's spring show, so the extra hours weren't needed for catch up. What caused the painting marathon was a breakthrough in my art. I was excited! Like the early cubists who sought to depict more than one point of view of a subject simultaneously, I discovered a way to present both the microcosm and the cosmos in the same painting. Images from data collected by the Hubble telescope gave me the clue. The Hubble generated images, although based on scientific data, were idealized, almost romantic in style. Images of bacteria and other microscopic organisms were more realistic than romantic. By toning down the romanticism of the Hubble imagery and increasing the romanticism of microscopic imagery, which I'd been doing with my previous paintings to some extent anyway, I noticed a marked similarity in the small versus the large. Nature, I believed, truly repeated itself. Then I discovered string theory, and the differences between the microcosm and the cosmos nearly disappeared. I believed that I'd achieved what Joseph Pound told me to strive for: art based on the truth of our understanding of the infinitely small joined as if fused to our current knowledge of the infinitely large. At Grace and Mary's behest, Agnes put a stop to the painting marathon. "I know you're doing good work, buckaroo, but all good things must end. It's time to back off and join the human race again." I gave her a hard look and said, "Go away." She snorted and took the brush out of my hand. "What will you do if I don't? Grab your trusty cudgel and break some bones?" "There's a thought," I grumped. "Clean your hands, arms and face," she said, "while I clean your brushes. The way you treat brushes is criminal. The flight to Lake Powell leaves in three hours, and you're going to be on it whether you like it or not. Grace and Mary left yesterday in your old pickup. They took the baby with them and will meet us at the airport in Page." "Oh." I'd forgotten about New Year's Eve on the lake. "Are you joining us?" "Sure am, and my fella is joining us, too." "Oscar?" I said as I cleaned my hands in solvent. "Yep. Oscar Draeger." "Tell me about Oscar," I said. "What do you want to know?" "His age, what he looks like, what he likes and dislikes, what he does for a living." "He's fifty-seven, slightly overweight, short, but tall enough for me, and has a potbelly. He likes me, especially the new me, the post tai chi me. He likes football and beer. Hot days and cool nights. He dislikes cold days and hot nights. He dislikes more than he likes. Although he's not very educated and talks like a hick, he's a sweet man. He's a finish carpenter and cabinetmaker and owns his own business. I consider some of his work true art, Brent." "I will be pleased to meet your fella," I said. "Let's close up and get out of here." Before I left the house to drive to the Scottsdale Airpark in my new pickup, I called the number James had given me and left a message that let him know where we'd be for New Year's Eve. "Just in case he finishes the assignment he's on by then," I told the man who answered my call. ------- I did indeed like Oscar Draeger. He appeared as Agnes had described him, but she'd left out his incredibly deep dimples and ready smile. He had thinning blond hair, fair skin, a farmer's tan, and his eyes were pale blue. His index finger was missing on his left hand. "Lost it from snakebite when I was a boy, not an accident with a table saw," he said. "Rattlesnake?" "No, cottonmouth. I grew up in Missouri. Them were the days when you could still swim in rivers. Bit me on the finger. My bud tied up the finger to keep the venom from spreading. That's why I lost the finger, not from the snakebite. Haven't been swimming in a river or lake since. Don't plan to start this trip, either." "The water's too cold to swim in this time of year anyway," I said. "That's what Agnes said. She says you've got a nice boat. A big 'un." "I like it. 34 feet. Sleeps six." I groaned inwardly. I'd started to ape his truncated approach to conversation. He nodded. "How's the fishin'?" "No stripper boils this time of year," I said. "Huh?" I explained stripper boils. "This time of year, the bait fish are deeper, thirty feet, maybe deeper. Are you a fisherman?" "Streams. From the shore at lakes. Ya like catfish? I'll catch us a mess of catfish tonight fer lunch tomorrow." "I like catfish," Agnes said. "I know how to cook 'em, too. Beer-battered. That's the best way." "Or blackened," Oscar said with a smile. "Beer-battered is the best, though." He patted Agnes's hand. "You're a good gal, Agnes." "What's your secret for catching catfish?" I asked. "Cat food. Punch a bunch of holes in a can of cat food, set the can out in the sun and let it get ripe, and then toss it off shore in castin' distance. Catfish is scroungers, bottom feeders. They'll come ta check out the stink and take a likin' to my worm sittin' on the bottom. Bang! I got me a catfish." "Filet 'em and soak 'em in milk before you give 'em to me," Agnes said. "Only way to do it. That's fer sure," he said. "Sounds fun. Will you teach me how to catch catfish?" I asked. "You betcha," he said. ------- Chapter 25 James didn't show up for New Year's Eve, but Grace still had a good time. She'd gone overboard on the fireworks she'd purchased. Oscar went ashore to help her set them off. Mary, Little Bundle, Agnes and I watched the colorful, noisy display from the safety of Sweet Rose. Agnes was right. Oscar was a sweet man. Little Bundle fell in love with him. He had a knack for getting down on her level, both figuratively and literally. They tussled on the floor frequently, which made Little Bundle squeal with delight. Oscar said he hadn't been swimming in a lake since he was a boy, but riding or driving a jet ski must not have qualified as swimming because before we returned to Scottsdale, he was as adept and daring as Grace on the machine. He was a man's man, and his lack of education showed in the way he talked, but whenever a lady was around, he was always the perfect gentleman. He referred to Mary and Grace as Miss Mary or Miss Grace, and nothing they said could get him to drop the Miss. He helped with meal preparation and wasn't above washing dishes or pots and pans. And last but not least, he taught me his method for catching catfish. We were sitting on beach chairs on shore with our fishing lines in the water. The sun was setting, and the sky was aglow with streaks of yellow and orange. The water was like glass. No wind. Red cliffs met the water and kept going in the reflections. Nature flowing into water, I thought. "That's a sight fer good dreams," Oscar said. "That it is," I agreed. His comment reminded me that Agnes had said some of his cabinetwork was true art, and the memory gave me an idea. "Speaking of dreams, we're building what we call our dream house, Oscar. Did Agnes tell you?" "Yep." "She says you're a cabinetmaker and a finish carpenter." "Yep." "She says that you're good at what you do." "Yep." "Wanna do some work on our dream house?" "I ain't cheap, Brent." "It isn't a cheap house." "I ain't fast, either. Folks like the results, but I tend ta piss off general contractors. I like you, young fella. I wouldn't want fer us to get cross-haired 'cause I don't meet yer deadlines." I chuckled. The conversation wasn't proceeding as I'd expected. I thought he'd be pleased if I tossed some work his way. In the back of my mind, I'd even harbored the concept that he'd come along on this trip to finagle some work from us without going through the bid process. Then it hit me. That's exactly what he was doing. He'd attracted my attention with the stink of expensive, slow work, and I was nibbling on his bait. I grinned. "You're a clever man, Oscar. He said nothing, and he didn't smile, which effectively set his hook in the side of my jaw. "I want you to build my desk and the bookcases in my office," I said. "And Grace might want to work with you for the same items in her writing studio." He nodded, but not to accept my offer. He nodded toward my fishing pole and said, "A catfish is nibbling on your worm." I grabbed my pole and jerked, setting the hook. "That's for starters," I said as I reeled in the bottom feeder that I'd filet and soak in milk for Agnes to fry up in beer batter. ------- Agnes, Oscar and Grace were exploring canyons on a jet ski when Mary came up through the hatch. "It wasn't easy," she said, "but I got her down for her nap." She cuddled next to me at the helm and kissed my ear, sending chills up and down my spine. "Let's go mess around," she said. What did I do? I dropped anchor, and Mary and I tumbled naked onto the V-berth. Little Bundle was asleep in the mid-stateroom. After some kissing and fondling and stroking, I lifted her legs and dropped them over my hip as I pushed my erection into her wet heat. She giggled. "Wanna talk while we fuck, huh?" "We have the time," I said as I spread her juices liberally over her clitoris with my fingers. "What would you like to talk about?" she asked. "Incest." "Yeah, let's talk about incest. When are you going to fuck your sister?" "Never," I said, but my cock stretched longer, belying my response. "That's possible, but not likely," she said and brushed my fingers away from her clitoris so she could play with it. "Hmm, this feels good." "Tell me about your girlfriend who fucked her brother," I said. "Robyne and Daniel. Danny Boy. He was such a hunk, and Robyne was just as sexy. Robyne was my friend. Danny Boy was a year older than us." "How old were you at the time?" "Sixteen. Robyne and I were friends, but we weren't lovers, not that I wasn't interested in her. As I said, she was a sexy little package, a little over five feet with a tight, petite body to die for. I was at a gangly stage. Robyne made me feel... ungainly, awkward. Anyway, I had a crush on Danny Boy, not a huge crush, but seeing him got my arousal motor humming." She tweaked her nipples with her fingers, pulling on them, and then letting them go. "How did you discover Robyne and Danny were incestuous lovers?" "Patience, bucko. This is my story. It has a beginning, middle, and end. Let me tell it my way." I grunted acceptance and thrust deeply as I caressed her silky hip and legs with my hands. "I was dating. Robyne wasn't, and it wasn't because boys didn't ask Robyne out. For a while I thought she wasn't interested in boys, but when she repelled some not so subtle passes I made at her, I dismissed that notion. Robyne and Danny Boy were latchkey kids, had been for years. No father, a working mother. So they were alone in their house a lot. One day, I rang the doorbell. I waited and waited and was about to walk away when Danny Boy answered the door. He was bare-chested but wore a pair of walking shorts. He also had a partial erection. "'Robyne's in her room, ' he said. I nodded and walked down the hall and into Robyn's room without knocking. Like her brother, she was bare-chested, but she was in the process of pulling a shirt over her head. She didn't see me because the shirt was over her eyes. Guess what I smelled?" I chuckled. "The fragrance of sex." "Yep, specifically the stronger scent of fresh semen. Danny Boy had just fucked his sister. They must have finished about the time I rang their doorbell. Incest. I'd just run into real incest for the first time. Curiously, I wasn't repulsed, just the opposite. My mind's eye created a fuck scene: Danny Boy covering Robyne, plunging his rampant cock into his sister's cunt, and that combined with the fragrance of sex in the room jump started my arousal engine and took me from mildly aroused from seeing Danny's partial erection earlier to dripping wet in two seconds flat." "Hot, huh?" I said. "Yep. Anyway, Robyne jumped a foot when her shirt stopped covering her eyes and she could see me. I debated with myself about whether to mention my conclusions or leave well enough alone, and ended up choosing the latter approach. A few days later, I guided the conversation to a discussion of incest by admitting that I fantasized about having sex with my daddy. 'If I had a brother like Danny Boy, ' I also said to her, 'I'd fuck him.' I said what I said for shock value, but Robyne didn't bite. Unknown to me, they had figured out that I knew about them, so instead of feigning shock, Robyne shrugged and said, 'That's what I do, fuck him, I mean.'" Mary sighed, and her fingers flashed over her clitoris. I was soaking inside her, barely moving, resting on the bottom like a catfish. "I'd intended to shock her," Mary said, "but instead, she'd shocked me. 'I fuck him most days after school before Mom gets home, ' she said and hugged herself. 'I love him, Mary, and I love sex, and somehow, someway I'll fuck him most days for the rest of my life.'" Mary started to shake, and her hips made small jerking motions. "Coming," she said quietly. "I'm coming." I watched a red blotch form and spread over her left, upper chest and creep up the side of her neck. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and the pulse of her orgasm rippled over the surface of my buried cock. Her climax wasn't heavy, and she recovered quickly. "After that," Mary said, "they weren't very careful around me. One afternoon, we were watching a TV movie. It was a sappy, girl movie, I remember, because it was making me feel sexy. Robyne, too, because when Danny Boy started to fool around with her, she didn't stop him. They were sitting next to each other on the sofa. I sat in a chair to the side, so I had a good view of them out of the corner of my eye. I wondered if I should leave, but watching their foreplay excited me. Danny Boy had his back to me, but Robyne knew I was watching. She gave me a knowing smile and unbuttoned her blouse. That's when Danny turned to me. "'Let her watch, ' Robyne said. 'I don't mind if you don't, Danny.' He shrugged and turned back to Robyne, bending his head to take her breast into his mouth. I raised my eyes to hers. She'd been watching me watch them. 'This is what you want, isn't it Mary? You want to watch us. Right?' she said. "My mouth was dry, Brent, but I croaked a yes. Without taking her eyes off mine, she unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants and pulled out his stiff cock. It was a beautiful cock, long with an upward curve, the crown slightly smaller than the base, and like you, he wasn't circumcised." Mary's fingers had become busy on her clitoris again, and I was thrusting without clenching, trying to take myself to the edge of a climax without falling over into the rapturous abyss. "Robyne laughed when she saw me lick my lips. 'Wanna suck it?' she asked me. Well, that's not what I had in mind. What I wanted to do was fuck it, but I nodded, and without waiting for her permission, I rose from the chair, took a couple of steps, and then moved to my knees in front of them. I leaned forward and ran my tongue around the crown of his shaft. "'That is so sexy, Danny, ' Robyne said. Danny agreed with her by groaning with pleasure, especially when I opened my mouth wide and sucked in half his length. While I sucked him off, Robyne stripped off her clothes. 'You can't fuck him, Mary, ' she said, 'but you can suck him, and he can lick you.' We ended up naked on the floor. I sat on his face, and Robyne sat on his cock. Are you hot, Brent?" "Yes!" "Good. Come with me this time." "All right." "I'm close." "That's good." "That was the first time," Mary said. "There were others." "Did you ever fuck him?" "Yes, once. Oh, god, I'm there, Brent! Coming! Yes! Yes!" I pictured a long cock with a slight upward bend filling my Mary's teenaged cunt and promptly blasted my semen into her. Exquisite sensations rushed from my core and spread as I reared back and plunged into her again, hitting bottom just as I spurted each time. The pulses of her climax were fast and strong, milking my shaft, urging me to give her more. I gave her all I had to give. When we recovered, I said, "Once, huh?" "Yeah. Robyne wasn't there. Danny Boy and I got carried away. He felt guilty. I felt guilty, and Robyne was furious, not with Danny, either, but with me. That was the end of that friendship." "Are they still together?" "I don't know. Probably." She sighed. "I've thought about what happened, and I stopped feeling guilty a long time ago. If a couple invites someone to join them for some fun and games, they shouldn't be surprised or upset if the threesome veers off in unexpected directions." I thought about the James/Deanna/Grace threesome. It had certainly veered off in unexpected directions. I could say the same about some threesomes I'd become involved with when I lived as Jane Wilson. ------- The afternoon after we flew back to Scottsdale, I stopped by Agnes's studio. She was working on the small sculptures for the pharmaceutical company. "You've got a problem," I said. "Oh, what problem?" she replied. "The ceiling in your studio isn't high enough for a twenty-foot sculpture." She laughed. "You just figured that out, huh?" "Yes. I was stretching two twelve-by-fifteen canvases. I'll need to rig some scaffolding to work on them, and it dawned on me that the ceiling height in your studio is less than mine. What is it? Twelve feet?" "Closer to fourteen, but that doesn't do me any good." "My ceiling height in the area without the loft is a little over twenty feet, but..." "Which isn't high enough to do me any good either, not if you add the shipping crate to the height. Besides, getting that big sucker out of your studio would be impossible," she said. I nodded. "What are you going to do?" She grinned. "Use some yard space at Oscar's shop. As we speak, he's building a shed roof to protect the piece. I'll do all the forged pieces here and the cutting and welding there." "That sounds workable," I said. "Crating and shipping that monster will be a bearcat, Brent. I'm glad you made the pharmaceutical company responsible." "We'll need to change the ceiling height on your new studio," I said. She shook her head. "Don't. The problem isn't ceiling height, buckaroo. When the sculpture is finished and crated, I'll need a crane to set it on its side on a flatbed truck, and the big problem comes at the other end. I've been talking with the architect for the home-office facility. They'll need to remove a section of the glass front and bring in a crane to lift the piece off the truck, turn it upright, and set it in place. They'll use a rubber-tired crane, but the marble floor will be laid and finished in the main lobby, so they'll still have to protect that floor. How, I don't know. I'm leaving those details to the architect and engineers on that end. The smaller pieces can be moved on dollies and will fit in a freight elevator, so they don't present a problem." I shook my head in amazement. "The problems inherent in a large sculpture are much more complicated than I imagined. Won't moving the large piece around like that pop some welds?" "Maybe, but popped welds can be fixed." With a sigh, I said, "The entire process makes my brain hurt. Better you than me." "Brent, a sculpture that large commanding a place of importance like the main lobby in a national pharmaceutical company's home office is a dream come true for me. You called it monumental, and that's what it is. With a little luck, I just might end up in the art history books along with you. Can you get away right now?" "I'll need to lock up and set the alarm, but yes, I can get away. What do you have in mind?" She gave me a lop-sided grin. "Wanna see my auxiliary studio? Also, I'd like you to see some of Oscar's work." "Let's go." ------- Oscar was every bit the artist I was, or Agnes. His medium: wood. "Furniture ought to last fer generations, Brent," Oscar said. "That cain't happen with veneers, so my pieces are solid hardwood. I use mortise and tenon joinery and build ta handle the expansion and contraction that'll happen as the piece lives and breathes." "Do you design the furniture?" I asked. He shook his head. "I cain't do that. I can copy somethin', but..." Agnes interrupted him. "His pieces end up looking better than what he's copying, Brent. He refines the lines and adds subtleties that make the furniture a work of art." She spoke with pride, I noticed. Agnes and Oscar were more than mere fuck buddies. They cared deeply about each other. I wondered how long they'd been a couple. A confirmed bachelor and an old maid, my ass. What did Agnes say? Something to the effect that having a man underfoot all the time would drive her batty. Perhaps they couldn't live together, but that didn't mean they weren't devoted to each other. "Do you do built-in woodwork, like bookcases?" I asked Oscar. "You bet," he said with a grin. "If all I did was custom furniture, I'd get mighty hungry." The germ of an idea was starting to flourish. "Have you ever mixed media, I mean used both metal and wood, for example?" "Nope, 'cept for handles and hinges and such." "What are you thinking?" Agnes said. "Our formal dining room table. A cast or forged metal base and a solid wood top, something the two of you could work on together." She cackled. "You, too. You do almost half my forged work now." "Look, I can't make this decision unilaterally. The dining room is in the communal area of the house. I'll need Grace and Mary's input for any communal work, but as of right now, Oscar, you're hired to build my desk and the bookcases in my office. I'll work with Bill on the design, but we'll leave the specifications open so you can do your magic. Okay?" "I ain't cheap," Oscar said. I laughed. "I know, and you aren't fast. Would you mind if I sent Grace and Mary to your shop to see what you do? My architect, too?" "Fine by me," he said. Standing behind him, Agnes gave me a thumbs-up and a wide smile. "Thanks, friend," she mouthed. ------- But for James's continued absence, life was blissfully normal. Mary and Grace had returned to their classes at ASU, and I'd started college at the University of Phoenix online. My work was ahead of schedule, and it was the best work I'd ever done. The demolition of the old house on our land in Paradise Valley was complete, and the construction of our new home was progressing under Bill's watchful eye. Mary and I reinstated our shooting lessons, both of us forsaking the .45 semi-automatic pistols that Burger had talked us into buying for the 9 mm XD-9 that James's people had lent me after the police took my .45. The new weapons helped a lot, and soon our shooting progressed to the point where we hit the target most of the time. Not many bullets struck the ten rings, but we could shoot at and hit something as large as a man if we were attacked. Still, sunrise tai chi with my three ladies was the highlight for me for most days. At my insistence, Agnes and I spent some time with Bill to redesign our studios. The makeshift scaffolding I was using to paint my large canvases required design changes for my studio, too. The altered designs were outstanding. Our new studios would boast 30-foot ceilings, and Agnes's studio included an overhead crane. Under Bill's direction, an engineer designed an adjustable, rolling scaffolding for my studio that folded unobtrusively against the wall when not in use. The change order increased construction costs to the tune of almost $90,000, but I signed the order with a smile and a flourish. We also commissioned Oscar to do the finish work for my office, Grace's writing studio, and the furniture for both spaces, as well as the furniture for the formal dining room. Oscar had told me the truth. He wasn't cheap, but the numbers he gave us for time and material weren't outrageous either. I noted that most of the increased expense fell into the material column. Solid hardwood is expensive. I chose rosewood for my office. Grace went with maple for her studio, which I thought appropriate. Maple was lighter, more feminine. Agnes and I also conferred with Bill to design the dining room furniture that included an expandable table that would seat from six to eighteen diners. The cherry-wood top would rest on cast bronze pedestals, and the chairs would be crafted from cherry wood and designed in the mission style, but modernized. We also designed a built-in china closet and hutch that matched the table and chairs. Grace and Mary put their enthusiastic stamp of approval on the designs, and we turned Oscar loose to do the work while Agnes and I searched for a foundry that would cast the bronze pedestals. We planned to sculpt the pedestals in clay. The foundry would make molds from the sculpted clay and pour bronze in the molds. Grace and I would do the polishing. I committed a large painting for the dining room, and when Agnes said she'd throw in two of her small sculptures, we decided the pedestals for her pieces should match those of the dining room table. Agnes and I had our work cut out for us. I'd personally forced cast bronze as the material for the table bases. For Agnes's work to grow, she needed to add cast elements to her sculptures. We didn't discuss the issue, but I believe she understood what I was doing and why. I knew the basics of foundry operations. I'd apprenticed first as a foundry worker before moving to the blacksmith shop at the copper company in Nevada when I lived as Josh Randall. As I said, the new year was proceeding at a fast pace, but the activities were productive and blissfully normal. One day near the end of January, blissfully normal turned into stark terror. ------- Tom Hagar had taken such great care during his investigation into the lounge bombing that even Special Agent Garber had not tumbled to Hager's inquiries, so we were ill-prepared and surprised by Colonel Lawrence Freemont's next move to protect himself by eliminating potential witnesses to his crimes. At breakfast, Mary asked me to meet her around noon at a garage where she'd made an appointment to get her car serviced. I agreed and suggested that we have lunch together, which made her happy. As usual, the morning got away from me, and I was late for our noon appointment; not that late; ten minutes is all. The garage offered a lounge area for customers to wait in comfort while their cars were being serviced, and Mary had elected to wait for me in the lounge, which was uncharacteristic of her. That meant I'd need to park and enter the garage to get her. Because I was doing her a favor, Mary would have normally waited outside so I could pick her up without parking, but it was a miserably cold and wet day, and she had some schoolwork she could do while she waited. Acting uncharacteristically saved her life. Grumbling to myself because I had to leave the warm pickup truck, I started walking toward the garage entrance, my head bowed against the driving rain. As per habit, I carried my cudgel in one hand. A car stopped between the garage and me, forcing me to change directions. As I walked around the back of the car, a man stepped from the passenger seat. My irritation suddenly became shock. The man wore a ski mask and held a large weapon in his hand. The pistol was similar in appearance to the automatic weapons the men carried who had invaded my house. Then another man exited the vehicle from the rear seat. He too was masked and armed. I knew my Mary was inside. I'd noticed her car parked in the lot. Was Mary the target? Had Freemont discovered that I'd had him investigated? Had I brought his wrath down on me and mine? One of the men glanced at me, but the thug ignored me. If Freemont knew about my investigation, surely his hired guns would have been briefed about me, including my appearance. Perhaps the armed men were after someone besides Mary inside the garage. That's when I realized that whether Mary or someone else was the target wasn't relevant. I'd experienced firsthand what the indiscriminant firing of automatic weapons could do. My Mary was at risk. I attacked, and I attacked without warning. I rained lethal blows down on both men with my cudgel. My first victim fell without realizing he was even under attack. The second man, the first man to leave the vehicle, had time to turn toward me. He didn't have time to bring his weapon in line to shoot me, but his finger tightened on the trigger of his weapon when my cudgel struck the side of his head. Bullets went zinging in every direction, ricocheting off the concrete sidewalk. Before he could fall, I jabbed his neck with the point of my cudgel, crushing his larynx. I turned toward the vehicle. The driver sat stunned, but when I moved toward the car, he hit the gas pedal. Tires squealed and threw small stones and asphalt as the vehicle sped away. I memorized the license-plate number, and rushed into the garage. "Call 911," I yelled at the clerk behind the counter as I searched for Mary. I found her alone in the lounge pointing her XD-9 at me as I entered the room. She made me proud. She'd heard the gunfire and wasn't going down without a fight. When she recognized me, all the air whooshed from her lungs, and she lowered the weapon. "Put it away," I said. "We're safe for the moment." "What's going on?" she asked as she slipped the weapon in her purse. "Give me your cell phone. Listen while I tell Grace." "She's speed-dial number two," Mary said as she handed me the phone. When Grace answered the call, I quickly outlined what had just happened. "Both men are dead, Grace. The police will go nuts. Where are you?" "In my car, about to move up to the take-out window at a Kentucky Fried Chicken place. Where are you?" I told her. "That's ten minutes away. I'll drive there. That'll be the safest place around. The cops will be ten deep in ten minutes." "Good. Gotta go, Grace. I'm going to need Newt Kennedy's services again." I hung up and called the number James had given me. After I related the circumstances, the man who answered my call asked what I wanted. "I want protection for my baby girl. She's with a babysitter." I turned to Mary. "What's your neighbor lady's name and address?" I repeated the information as Mary gave it to me. "I'll also want protection for my sister and fiancée. They'll be with me at the garage." I gave him the address for the garage and added, "And last but not least, I'll need Newt's assistance again." "Say nothing until he arrives," the man said. I assured him that's exactly what I planned to do, hung up and handed the phone to Mary. "Call your neighbor lady. Tell her about the protector on the way to watch over them." I slumped into a chair. "Adrenaline dump?" Mary said as she dialed her phone. "Yeah." ------- The uniformed officers who responded to the 911 call had me cuffed and sitting in the back of a police cruiser when Detective Anthony Lynds arrived. He looked at me, shook his head in dismay, and opened the cruiser door. "Tell me what happened," he said. "I don't think so. My attorney, Mr. Newton Kennedy, is en route." "Suit yourself," Lynds said and closed the door. A minute later, I noticed Captain Giles among the police officers milling around. That didn't bode well for me. Still, I figured that my cudgel against two men armed with illegal automatic weapons made arresting me thorny. Shortly, I saw Newt exit a vehicle with Rubin Perez. Newt ignored Giles and Lynds and got in the face of a middle-aged woman wearing a business suit. I found out later that she was an Assistant District Attorney representing the D.A.'s Office at the scene. Whatever Newt said to her caused a uniformed officer to open the door of the cruiser and remove the handcuffs. We used the lounge in the garage for our conference. Newt asked and I told him what had happened. "Did you give the police the license-plate number of the getaway car and describe the driver?" I grinned. "I was told to say nothing until you arrived." He groaned. "But," I added, "I reasoned that the police needed that information as soon as possible, so I gave it to the first uniformed officers who responded to the 911 call: Officers Crank and Kierzek." I spelled Kierzek's name. "And then I clammed up. The cops aren't happy with me, Newt." "That's putting it mildly. They'd like nothing more than arresting your young ass." He turned to Perez. "Rubin, is Lieutenant Moody among the detectives assembled for this snafu?" "I didn't see him." "Shit," Newt huffed. "Okay, bring in Captain Giles. He'll take over the case anyway." Newt looked at me. "Tell the captain what happened using the same words you used to tell me, except you can't say you struck without warning. That's akin to drawing your gun first under the Code of the Old West. Say you struck when one of the men pointed a gun at you. If he asks a question, count to three silently before you answer him. That'll give me time to object, if needed. Do not speculate on the motive of the two men you killed, and for crissake don't mention a certain retired military officer." I nodded. "No problem. When the dust settles, I'll want to speak to James." Newt grinned. "James who?" Captain Giles did indeed try to force me to speculate on the motive of the two men entering the garage carrying automatic weapons. "Captain, I never laid eyes on either of those men or their driver before today." Earlier, the police had removed their masks and had me look at them. "I don't read minds, so I can't help you regarding their reasoning or intent beyond what I've already told you," I said. Giles asked about motive again when he took me through my story the second time. While I was counting to three, Newt said, "Asked and answered, Captain. We're finished here. Is my client free to go?" "For now," Giles said and glared at me. ------- Rubin Perez drove Grace, Mary and me to Mary's apartment complex where we picked up Joy, and then he drove us to the safe house Mary and I had occupied during the Bell mess. Newt and Tom Hagar were waiting at the safe house when we arrived. "We can talk freely here," Newt said. "Let's speculate." "Colonel Freemont is not aware of my investigation," Hagar said. "We don't know that as a fact," Newt said. "I do," Hagar insisted. "I'd stake my reputation on my statement. Newt, the FBI didn't sniff us out, let alone Freemont. What's more, the man we presumed was in hiding is no longer in hiding. He's dead." "Mark O'Hare?" I queried. "Yes," Hagar said. "His body surfaced in Hong Kong a week ago. The way I see it, with O'Hare dead, Fremont had eliminated all potential witnesses to his crimes save one. That'd be you, Debbie." "Debbie?" Grace said. "Debbie was Mary's alias when we dealt with Tom," I said. "Oh," Grace said. Hagar said to Mary, "You are the only person alive that has any possibility of linking Freemont to the lounge bombing and the death of your parents, and that link is imperative to implicate him in either crime. With you and his five men dead, he'd believe making the link would be impossible." "That makes sense," I said. "One of the assailants today had a good look at me and ignored me. I remember thinking at the time that if Freemont were aware of Tom's investigation that they would have known about me, would have recognized me as a threat. Mary was their target, not me." "There you go," Hagar said. "I'll also give ten to one odds that in short order, the driver in the incident this afternoon will turn up dead. Any takers?" "Unfortunately, Brent," Newt said, ignoring Hagar's comment, "after what happened today, and the publicity that will ensue, Freemont will mark you for death along with Mary." "What about Grace?" I asked. Newt shrugged. "She can be used to get to you. Mary's daughter, as well." "Fuck," I muttered. I looked at my sister. "I don't have a choice now, Grace. Freemont must be stopped." Her eyes turned feral. "What do you mean?" she asked. "He murdered Mom and Dad. He murdered Mary's parents. He murdered Mary's brother, and he just tried to murder Mary. She's marked for death. His hired assassins might succeed with their next attempt, and there will be another attempt. He has no choice, and through association and because I stopped his hired assassins today, he has no choice but to kill me, and he will use you or Little Bundle to get to me or Mary. He's backed me against a wall. I have no choice. I must kill him." "No! Hire these men! Hire... James!" she said. "They're not assassins, Grace," I said. "They're protectors. They release captives and take them to safety. They aren't for hire to kill someone in cold blood." I looked at Newt. "He's correct, Grace," Newt said. "What about Bell? You killed Bell and his evil son," Grace said to Newt. He ignored her question. "We don't know that as fact, Grace," I said. "If they did, it was a retaliatory strike. Bell's actions made it personal for them. Our situation is our situation, not theirs." "Ah, Brent," Newt said, "that isn't entirely true. James has a relationship with your sister, and he considers you a friend." "Fine," I said. "What will it cost me to have you kill Freemont?" Newt glared at me. "You don't have enough money for that, young man." I chuckled. "Don't get your shorts in a twist, Newt. I was just making a point. I do need your help, though. May I hire you to put me next to him? I know where he lives. That's in the dossier you gave me, Tom, but I assume his home is a stronghold. I don't know how to circumvent security systems. I don't know how to enter a stronghold undetected, and then leave without a trace." "Freemont's not at his home," Hagar said. "He's in Taiwan, Taipei to be specific, and his compound in Taipei is a fortress, not a stronghold." "Can this fortress be breached?" I asked. "Anyplace can be breached," Newt said. "But as you said, Brent, breaching a place and then leaving without a trace are two different matters." "You didn't answer my question, Newt. May I hire you to put me next to him?" He said nothing. I waited. "Perhaps," he said finally. "The organization has one operative, and only one, that can do the job, and he's already on assignment." "James?" I asked. Newt nodded. "All right. I'll remain in hiding until he's available. In the interim, Grace, Mary, and the baby must disappear." "My place is with you," Mary said with a determined expression. "Not this time," I said in Cantonese. "Every time and always," she said, using the same language. "Your first and highest priority must be your daughter, Mary. Your baby... our baby needs a mother," I said. "If you fail, he will come after me again," she said. "If I fail, you and Little Bundle must disappear permanently. You have money now. Hire Newt and his organization. They can help you disappear. But I won't fail. James will put me next to our enemy. I will kill him, and I will return to you." I turned to Newt. "Sorry about that," I said, reverting to English. Newt looked shocked. "I didn't know you spoke Cantonese," he said. Then he smiled. "That'll help." He stood up. "Give Rubin a list of the items you'll need to spend the night here. We'll speak again tomorrow." ------- Newt's prediction proved valid. The publicity that followed the incident at the garage turned into a local media feeding frenzy. Once again, I'd gone up against impossible odds and prevailed, this time with a cudgel instead of a sword. But the media dusted off and replayed the old story when I beheaded two assailants with a sword, and Mary's pretty face also graced the television screen when they described how she'd protected her child by killing an assassin with a shotgun. At least this time the publicity was positive, but there was no question that I was now linked with Mary. The media named her as my fiancée. I hit the power button on the remote. As the TV screen went black, the ensuing silence felt heavy. I had two very unhappy women on my hands, Grace because she abhorred and didn't cope well with violence, and Mary who believed her place was with me, something I couldn't allow, not this time. "Mary and I have talked," Grace said, breaking the silence. Oh, oh, that didn't bode well. I had a difficult enough time dealing with one or the other. If they came at me in tandem, I didn't have a chance. "We'll disappear in Hawaii," Grace said. "Where it's warm. Rubin says the organization has a condo in Hawaii." "After you take care of Freemont, you and James can stop in Hawaii on the way home and pick us up," Mary said. "Maybe spend a couple of days playing in the surf and sand with us." I relaxed. They'd decided to cooperate. "That sounds like a good plan," I said. "We have conditions," Mary said. I raised an eyebrow. "First my conditions," Grace said. "Before you leave, execute a Last Will and Testament. If you..." Tears welled in her dark eyes, but she squared her shoulders and controlled her emotions. "If you don't come back to us, I won't be able to cope with the distribution of your assets. Name an executor besides me, and..." She shook herself and took a deep breath. "And in a separate document detail your wishes for the disposal of your remains. I also want you to buy a life insurance policy with a double-indemnity clause for a face value of not less than $1,000,000, naming Mary as the beneficiary." "That condition and more has already been met," I said. My announcement surprised her, I noticed. "Who's the executor?" Grace asked. "Executrix. Agnes," I said. "She's aware of all my wishes and arrangements." Grace nodded. "Those conditions were mine and mine alone. The next condition is not just mine. Mary joins me with this one. Should you not come back to us, and if you remember this life in your next, promise us that you'll contact us so we'll have the comfort of knowing that your spirit lives on." "I promise," I said. "When I stipulated that I'd satisfied your first condition and more, Grace, part of the 'and more' arrangements I've made involves an insurance policy with a trust as a beneficiary. If the memories from this and previous lives come to me in the next, I will know certain facts only I could know, facts that will trigger the transfer of the funds in the trust to whoever I become in my next life. The instructions say that if no one claims the trust within eighteen years after my death in this life that the trust will revert to Little Bundle." I sighed. "If my memories of this life survive into my next, I won't be the same person, Grace. The contact I've promised will be brief and might not be in person." I huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "For all I know I will be born in poverty in Outer Mongolia as an albino with a club foot." Grace shuddered and hugged herself. "I don't think so. Regardless, whoever you become, you will be beautiful. Mary has some conditions." "My first condition is another promise," Mary said. "Promise me that you will be utterly ruthless." "Huh?" "I know you, Brent. Your training in Kung Fu and as a Buddhist when you lived as Fang Hong is part of you now. If you face lethal force, you can kill in self-defense or to protect a loved one without hesitating. Otherwise, you will hesitate. You will do only what is necessary to refuse delivery of intended harm. What I'm saying, Brent, is if you need to kill others besides Freemont to achieve your purpose and escape — bodyguards, for instance — kill them without hesitating." I said nothing. She was asking me to go against my nature. "Promise me, Brent," Mary said. "For the onerous task you have assumed, this is your most serious weakness, a weakness that can get you killed. I'm afraid without this promise that you won't come back to me. For this task only, promise me that you will be utterly ruthless." I sighed and nodded. "Say it," she said. "If necessary to achieve my purpose or to escape, I will be utterly ruthless," I said, but could I? Could I go against my nature? "Thank you," Mary said. "I have one more condition. Before you leave, I want to become your wife." ------- Chapter 26 I felt like Mary had just knocked me to the ground by hitting me with my pickup truck, and then bumped the tires over my prone and dazed body a half-dozen times. Back and forth. Back and forth. Thump. Thump. Thump. "Before you leave, I want to become your wife," she'd said. As those words were sinking in, she added, "Nothing elaborate. A simple civil ceremony, and the wedding can remain secret; a secret between just the three of us, if that's what you want. When you return, and after you turn eighteen, we'll have an elaborate wedding: white gown, veil, tuxedos, hundreds of guests, the whole nine yards." She'd obviously given a lot of thought... I stopped the thought abruptly. With an abrupt about-face, I no longer felt amenable. I was suddenly angry. I felt like I was being manipulated and used. Mary had been ecstatic when I asked her to be my wife. She'd been unhappy when I informed her that the engagement would be a long one. Was she using the situation to get what she wanted? Besides, I was about to risk my life for her. Freemont's beef was with her, not me. Whoa! I told myself. That's not entirely true. Freemont murdered Mom and Dad. He deserves to die for that alone. "Why?" I said to Mary. Were my anger and doubts reflected in that one word? She frowned. "What do you mean?" With an attempt at a neutral voice, I said, "Why are you insisting that we get married before I leave?" Sudden tears flushed her eyes. "Because I love you. Because if you don't come back, I'll never be Mrs. Brent Carson, and being Mrs. Brent Carson is what my life is all about." I said nothing, but my anger softened. "Because I've told you more than once that you are the only man I'll ever love. If you don't return, I won't experience the comfort and joy of being in your arms or any man's arms again." Her tears overflowed and streaked her face. "And I'll need the comfort of being Mrs. Brent Carson to go on with the rest of my life." Had I read her wrong? Was becoming my wife before I left a heartfelt need in case I didn't return, or was the condition a ploy to force me to move our wedding date forward? "What will you do if I don't agree to this condition?" I asked. "I will leave Joy with Grace, and I will go with you, because if you die, I want to die with you." A heartfelt need. I'd read her wrong. "Is there a waiting period in Arizona?" I asked. "No," Grace said. "I don't know," Mary said at the same time. I watched hope bloom in her teary eyes. "There is no waiting period, and there are no blood tests," Grace said. "To apply for a license, you must appear in person with a picture I.D. In your case, Brent, because of your age, the Court's decree declaring you an emancipated adult would be prudent, as well. The marriage license cost $50, cash or money order. You can get married the same day." I laughed. "Grace, why are you so up to date on these facts?" "After Mary and I talked, and anticipating your question, I used Rubin's laptop and went on the Internet." "We don't have wedding rings," I said. "Brent, you ninny!" Grace shouted. "Yes or no!" I pulled Mary to her feet and wrapped my arms around her. "Wanna get married tomorrow?" ------- I was sitting alone when Rubin handed me his encrypted cell phone. Mary and Grace were in Grace's room, probably making wedding plans. "It's James," Rubin said and walked away. "James, thanks for calling," I said. "Have you been briefed on what happened today?" "Yes. I've also been briefed on the potential assignment you requested." "Newt told me that you were the only operative that could do the job," I said. James chuckled. "Type-casting. I'm Chinese. The job is in Taiwan, so I drew the short straw. As I understand the job, it has three parts. Part one: put you next to Freemont so you can kill him. Part two: make sure his death can't be traced to you. Part three: keep you alive and relatively unscathed in the process." "I couldn't have said it better myself," I said. His job specifications exceeded mine. I preferred his. He said, "I'll take on the job, but unfortunately, I'm still working another assignment." "Will you be able to save the little girl?" I asked. He didn't respond, and the silence stretched out. "Grace trusts me, James," I said. "She told no one but me, and I've said nothing about your assignment to anyone except to you right now." "That assignment ended successfully some time ago. I moved directly to another assignment. When this assignment ends, I will move directly to yet another assignment — yours, Brent." "I understand." I also understood that it was unwise to ask James about an assignment. "Fortunately," James said, "the nature of your assignment requires advance work. I say fortunately because your assignment can move forward while I finish the one I'm on. Under my direction, the advance work will start immediately after we settle a number of important issues. We've defined the job, but you have another option, Brent. My organization does not accept assassination contracts, but I can recommend an individual who does that kind of work, and he's very good at it. This option substantially reduces personal risk." I'd believed that option was not available to me, and James's offer had just put it on the table. Instead of feeling relief that I could eliminate or reduce the risk I faced doing the job myself, I felt... uncomfortable. "Well?" James said. "I'm thinking. Give me a minute." The more I considered hiring an assassin the more uncomfortable I felt. I finally realized that my unease came from abdicating personal responsibility. "I don't think so, James. If I fail, that option can be the fallback position for Grace and Mary, though. I could be wrong; Grace would say I'm wrong, but the application of justice for what Freemont did to my parents has become personal for me. Hiring the job out would make me feel like I was shirking the responsibility." "I understand," James said. "If I were you, I'd feel the same way. Let's talk about the financial aspects of the assignment now. You are a friend, and I'm in love with one of the women Freemont is threatening. That makes it personal for me, so I will donate my time for the assignment. Still, you'll be required to pay all other expenses, and they are substantial. Newt did a preliminary spreadsheet. The total came to $100,000, and that number could go higher." The amount surprised me. I knew what I wanted done would be expensive, but... "Unfortunately," James said, interrupting my thoughts, "if you wrote one check to our organization in that amount, it would become a big red flag and threaten parts two and three of the job. It would be possible to trace Freemont's death back to you by following the money trail. To avoid the red flag, subterfuge is necessary. You mentioned an elaborate security system for your new house. Can you make a partial payment in advance for that system out of your construction loan?" "Probably, but not to the tune of $100,000," I said. James laughed. "We were thinking in terms of $25,000." "I can make that happen." "Good. The next point of subterfuge will be the condo in Hawaii. You will be asked to pay $25,000 for your stay there, and it would be better if Grace or Mary paid that expense, not you. The condo won't cost that much. This is merely a way to move some the retainer from you to us." "I can make that happen, too." "That takes care of half the retainer. Next, you'll be given two invoices in varying amounts for art supplies that total $10,000. Grace and Mary will be given similar invoices for new furnishing for the house for around $10,000 each. And finally, you will receive an invoice for legal services from Newt for $20,000. That brings the retainer to $100,000 and will put everything in motion. Of course, at the end of the job, you will be given a full accounting of all expenses." "Your plan sounds workable. Let's do it," I said. "Good. Next issue. I'll run the operation, Brent, not you. I want your input, so we'll discuss the various decisions that must me made, but any and all decisions are mine to make. In other words, it's my way or the highway. If this isn't acceptable to you, I'll give you the name and phone number of the assassin for hire that I mentioned, and then I'll walk away from your vendetta without looking back." "Vendetta?" I said, taken back somewhat by the descriptive word. "Yes. That's what this is, in part anyway. Oh, you want Mary and Grace safe, and that's the other part, but your need to extract vengeance personally can't be denied. Otherwise, you'd hire the assassin instead of me." I said nothing. "That doesn't make you a bad person, Brent," he said. "In your shoes, I'd want to kill the cowardly sociopath with my bare hands." He chuckled. "I wouldn't, though. Experience and rational thinking would prevail, and I'd take him out with a sniper rifle. You didn't acknowledge and accept my demand that you'll say how high when I say jump during the course of this assignment." "You leave me no choice." "If you want my help, that's correct." "You'll ask for and listen to my input?" "Yes, if time allows." "Okay. You're the boss, James." "Good. When we hang up, I'll put the advance work in motion." "Tell me about the advance work," I said. "I'll hire men to put Freemont under surveillance and a photographer to take pictures of Freemont's stronghold, both ground-based and aerial photography. I'll hire an electronic-surveillance specialist to back up and assist the physical surveillance, and if needed I'll hire a security-systems specialist to ferret out the security Freemont has installed to protect his stronghold." James sighed. "If we can't take Freemont in his stronghold, we must know his activity patterns and how he's protected when he moves out and about in the city. The weapons we'll use in Taipei must be assembled and waiting for us. I'll hire standby medical help, just in case, and my men will determine and analyze alternate escape methods and routes. You'll need a new identity, including a driver's license, passport, and a visa to enter Taiwan. There's more but I've hit on the major items." I was starting to understand why the job would cost me $100,000. I was also starting to feel more comfortable about the job. I'd hired the right people. James said, "Deal with the money issues, Brent, and then disappear with the ladies to our condo in Hawaii. Rubin will set up the disappearing act. You can't leave a money trail, so follow his directions to the letter. I'll meet you in Hawaii when my current assignment ends. We'll put the finishing touches on the take-down plan there, and I'll fly with you from Hawaii to Taipei." "All right. How long will this take? I have an obligation to finish fourteen paintings..." He interrupted me. "This is a life or death situation, Brent. Ignore your art until this is finished. As to the time it will take from start to finish, it's impossible to say right now." "At the very least, I'll want my work put in secure storage," I said. "And I'll need to work with Bill to make certain the construction on our house moves forward during our absence." "Tell Rubin. I've gotta go, Brent. The next time we speak will be face to face in Hawaii. Deal with Newt and Rubin until then. Okay?" "Yes." ------- The wedding was not a beautiful, heartwarming event. As Mary predicted it was nothing elaborate, a simple civil ceremony, and we kept it a secret between the three of us, except for Rubin, Newt, and the operatives-in-training Rubin used for the advanced surveillance at the Justice Court in Tempe where we obtained the marriage license and intoned our vows in front of a Justice of the Peace. Mary said it for both of us as we drove away after the ceremony. "I don't feel married," she muttered. "We're married, but I don't feel married, and as far as I'm concerned, when you return to me, we'll still be engaged, Brent. When it's time for our real wedding, I want the whole nine yards. Okay?" "That's what I want," I said. We were holding hands, so I squeezed hers affectionately. "We'll have a small honeymoon in Hawaii, though, while we wait for James to finish the assignment he's on." She smiled. "There's that." Her smile didn't remove her sad expression. "The wedding was a mistake, Brent. I'm sorry." "Your reasoning was valid. If I don't come back, you can be Mrs. Brent Carson." Still, I had to admit that the wedding had the feel of a non-event, like a Jane Wilson night on the town that turned sour, and she returned to her bed alone. "There's that," Mary said again, this time without the smile. Mary didn't want to feel happy, not at that moment, so I let her stew in her subdued, slightly depressed state and went about the chores that would set what I called Operation Retribution in motion. I called it Operation Retribution, but silently and to myself. I referred to it as Operation Justice when I spoke of it out loud. Why justice as a description was acceptable but retribution wasn't, I couldn't say. Most forms of justice are retribution disguised, but vengeance is negative and justice positive. The invoices James had mentioned arrived. Mary and Grace paid their amounts, and I paid mine. A call to Bill along with faxing the invoice for the down payment for a security system put $25,000 in the chute for payment on our next construction draw. Newt accepted the delay on that segment of the retainer, letting me know that the delay wouldn't hamper progress, and while talking to Bill about the security system invoice, I discussed my concerns about the house with him. He promised that my absence wouldn't impede construction progress. A photographer stopped by the safe house and took some pictures for my new identity, and Rubin arranged to have my paintings, finished or not, moved to secure storage. Agnes, at my request, supervised the move. That we were in hiding didn't surprise her. I didn't tell her about the ill-conceived wedding. Two days later we landed in Honolulu, changed planes, and flew to Maui. ------- Introspection and self-analysis are dubious recreations best left for happy times. Otherwise, they tend to take you deeper into a pit of depression, and Mary was digging a bottomless pit. Digging for China? I snickered at that thought. She'd insisted that we get married so she'd have a fallback emotional position should my quest for justice or retribution — take your pick — backfire on me. She'd made a mistake and sincerely regretted the condition she'd placed on me for her support for my upcoming act of retribution. Yes, I'd picked. It was retribution. I miss you Mom and Dad. What did Mom use to say? I believe that I knew what she'd say. She'd often stated that she wouldn't get even; she'd get ahead. Killing Fremont wouldn't make me even, let alone put me ahead, but his untimely death was the only payback I had. I stood inside the Maui condo where we were hiding from Freemont and watched my bride outside leaning back against a beach chair. She gazed at the breaking deep blue waves as they turned into white froth when they rolled up onto the white sand beach. "She's upset," Grace said and put her arm around my waist. "I know." "With herself, not at you." "I know." "You can fix it." "How?" "Sex for the fun of it." Her arm hugged me to her side. I laughed. "That might do it." "Nothing mushy. No protestations of undying love. Maybe a talk-and-fuck." My head spun toward my sister. She wore a mischievous grin. "Mary told you about our talk-and-fucks, huh?" I said, grinning back at her. "Yep, not what you talked about, just the process. Sounds fun. Sexy fun." "It is," I said. "What do you talk about?" "Some fantasies, but mostly about our past sexual experiences. Mary's better at it than I. She tells complete stories; each has a beginning, middle, and end. Besides the nitty-gritty, she sets up the scene, describes the characters, and deals with their motivations, all of which elevates my visual imagination to a fever pitch." "Does she talk dirty?" "Sometimes." "Do you?" I chortled. "Yep. Dirty talk and talk-and-fucks go hand in hand." Grace shook her lovely head. "I can only imagine the high degree of trust, unconditional acceptance, and the tremendous self-confidence required by both participants. Most couples couldn't do it without creating rifts in their relationship. Jealousy or envy could crop up. Or in the other direction: disgust or perhaps even fear. You know this, don't you?" I frowned. "I hadn't thought of the sexy activity in that fashion." I turned my frown into a big smile. "Talk-and-fucks just make me hot." "That I can imagine." ------- Thunderheads rolled slowly across the sky. I could see them through a window as I pushed my stiff cock inside my Mary. I'd taken my sister's advice and enticed my wife inside the bungalow for some sex just for the fun of it. Mary brushed my hand away from her pussy and took on the task with her own fingers. Her hips made small waves as her arousal slowly increased. "What are you thinking about?" she asked. I chuckled self-consciously. Because Grace had recommended the talk-and-fuck, I'd let my imagination explore the possibilities that Mary had created in my mind when Mary told me about her discussion with my sister about masturbation. Mary had had more to say about that incident, but I'd stopped her. Should I encourage her to revisit the event and tell me what happened? "You and Grace," I said. "What about us?" Mary pressed as her fingers started to move faster over her clitoris. "You mentioned a discussion you had with her about masturbation." "Yes, and I told you there was more to tell, but you said telling you more would be wrong of me. Have you changed your mind?" I swallowed. "Yes." "Our secret?" she said. "Yes." "How much did I tell you?" "That you used different methods to achieve a climax, that you used your fingers mostly, but Grace needed to feel... ah, filled." "You have a good memory, lover," Mary said. "The 'more' we discussed involved our youthful fun and games with other girls. Do you remember Grace's friend, Becky?" "Yes. Becky goes way back. She lived next door to us for a few years. I think Grace was ten years old when Becky moved in, and Grace was twelve or thirteen when Becky moved away. Grace and Becky were inseparable during those two or three years, and I remember that Becky's leaving upset my sister a lot." "Yep, a good memory. Becky had an older sister. I don't remember her name." "Darlene, I think it was," I said. "Yeah, that's the name. Darlene taught Becky and Mary how to masturbate. Grace said she was twelve at the time." My imagination took flight. The theater in my mind produced arousing images of three pubescent girls (Darlene was just a year older than Becky and Grace). They were naked lying in a circle on the carpeted floor watching each other masturbate to orgasm. Then more images clicked in, images depicting the evolving sexual experiences and interaction: mutual masturbation, cunnilingus, strap-on phalluses. But the last two categories of images didn't conform to what I knew about my sister when she was twelve or thirteen years old. Deanna was the first woman she'd had sex with, and cunnilingus and strap-ons definitely qualified as having sex. "After learning how to give themselves a climax," Mary said, "Becky and Grace got together almost daily to repeat the exciting activity, usually at Becky's house, and sometimes Darlene joined them. For a month or two all they did was jill off together, but soon they were finger-fucking each other. Grace told me that Becky and Darlene went even further, but Grace held back. She said she wasn't ready for that scene, not then." "Is your story similar?" I asked. "Yeah, but unlike grace, I didn't hold back. I went whole hog. An older girl taught me, but no other girl was involved. She taught me how to give myself a climax, and then she finger-fucked me. Then she ate me, and I ate her, and a little later I stopped being a student and became the teacher when I taught another girlfriend the pleasures of masturbation, and it didn't take long at all before we had our faces between each other's legs." I jerked my throbbing cock out of Mary's cunt and squeezed it as hard as I could. "This is making you hot, huh?" Mary said with a chuckle. "Yeah." The urge to climax became manageable again, so I pushed my cock back inside my Mary. I didn't thrust. I just let my shaft soak in her wet heat. "This makes me hot, too. Do you want to hear my story or Grace's?" Mary said. "Grace's." "Before Grace could be enticed to join Becky and her sister for some all-out, girl-to-girl sex, the family moved away. I think, and Grace agreed with me, that if the two girls hadn't moved away that Grace would have eventually lost her inhibitions and fucked both of them." "Didn't talking about your early sexual experiences with Grace make the two of you hot?" I asked. Mary laughed. "Oh, yeah. What would you say if I told you Grace and I watched each other jill off that day?" The urge to climax returned with excruciating force, but I managed to dampen the demand just enough to maintain control. I teetered on the edge of an orgasm, my favorite place during a talk-and-fuck. "I'd say don't move. If you move, I'll come," I gasped. She became as still as a corpse. Obviously, she wasn't ready to come yet, either. I thought about other subjects, arousal killers like obscenely obese men and women, a can of night crawlers... vomit. The urge lessened some more. My cock was throbbing, but the throbs slowed. I took a deep cleansing breath and said, "Go on.' "That's what we did, Brent. We sat and watched each other give ourselves a good come. That's it. That's all. We didn't touch each other. We just touched ourselves and came all over our fingers. I said nothing, and I didn't move. Arousing mental images flashed like strobe lights through my mind. "We have something in common, Brent," Mary said. "What's that?" I asked. "We both want to fuck your sister." That did it. I couldn't hold back anymore. I bellowed and jammed my ejaculating cock into Mary's cunt as deep as it would go, and I didn't leave Mary behind. She shrieked and climaxed around my spurting shaft, and her hips waved with jerks causing her cunt to quickly move on and off my cock. The sensations of my climax were exquisite and powerful. They shot to every part of my body, to the tips of the hair on my head, to the tips of my toes, and I stayed in that place of pure sensation longer than I'd ever stayed before. I returned to the present, but as usual whenever we climaxed together, Mary was still on her orgasmic journey, so without breaking our connection, I moved over her. Her legs wrapped my hips as my mouth pressed hers and my still-throbbing cock hit bottom again. "I love you, Mrs. Brent Carson," I said when the kiss ended. I held her while she recovered. When her breathing returned to normal, I rolled off her. She turned toward me and buried her face in the crook of my shoulder. "I not only want to have sex with her, Brent," Mary said. "I also love her." Love her? What did that mean. "That's the other thing we have in common. We both love Grace," Mary said. I needed clarification. "Romantic love?" I asked. "Yes. I fell in love with Grace before I fell in love with you. I fell in love with her the day we went shopping before your San Francisco show." "Does she know? Have you told her how you feel?" "No." She raised her head and looked me in the eye. "Remember your promise. This is our secret. Okay?" "Yes. Is your desire and love for Grace the reason you told me that if I ever had sex with her that you wouldn't hold it against me?" "Yes. Because I feel the same as you about her, I would understand if the two of you fell prey to a moment of passion. And that's how it would happen. The moment wouldn't be planned. The circumstances and the timing would control the event, not you or Grace." "What about you and Grace? Couldn't the same thing happen between the two of you?" "No." "Why not?" "You. Our love for you would intrude. We'd both feel like we'd be betraying you." "That makes no sense," I said. "Sure it does. Think about what I just said. Grace doesn't know I love and want her. Then add the fact that I can't and won't try to seduce her. Your claim on her precedes and is probably stronger than mine. If I had sex with her before you, you'd feel betrayed. Don't try to tell me you wouldn't, Brent. I know you. On this matter, I can predict your reaction. And Grace won't try to seduce me. She'd fear your reaction, too, but not in the same way. She doesn't know I love her, so in Grace's mind, sex with me would be for the fun of it, and she wouldn't risk recreational sex with me because of your likely negative reaction." "Did Grace's affairs with Deanna and Carrie hurt you?" "No. I love her, Brent. I want her to be happy. Both affairs made her happy, at least for a while. I have no claim on her. I just love her." Should I give Mary the same dispensation that she'd given me? No. Mary was correct. I'd feel betrayed. I looked out the rain-streaked window. "You just called me as Mrs. Brent Carson. Chills ran up and down my spine when you said those words. Thank you, Mr. Carson," Mary said and kissed my neck and then my lips. "To put my love for Grace in perspective, my love for you far exceeds my love for her. You are my husband, my friend, Little Bundle's daddy, and if I have more children, you will be their father. I love you more every hour, every minute of every day." That Mary was in love with Grace had shocked me, and I reasoned if Mary could love my sister, Grace could just as easily love Mary. If that were true, Mary's theory fell apart. Grace wouldn't be having recreational sex with Mary. It'd be sex for love, not for the fun of it. Suddenly, I realized that I now faced the same dilemma Mary faced. Would Mary or Grace succumb to their desires? That eventuality would hang over me like the raised blade of a guillotine, like the dangling blade represented by Grace and me over Mary. If Mary were privy to my thoughts, she'd probably think, Welcome to my world, Brent Carson. She'd think it but never say it. Instead of sharing my thoughts with Mary, I said, "It's raining, a soft, steady drizzle. Let's step outside on the patio and let the rain fall on us." "Naked?" "Yep." "Let's." ------- The days slipped by. I painted watercolor landscapes and portraits, using the immediate sand-and-surf environment as a backdrop for my human subjects: Grace, Mary and Little Bundle. I also painted a portrait of Rubin, which would become his Christmas gift for that year. I'd frame it and deliver it via James in December. The light in Hawaii isn't pure. It picks up blue-green tints from the ocean and tropical foliage. And it's wet, not dry like high-desert light, and the light flickers from the movement of the sea and waving palm fronds. The light of the high desert moves with rising, heated air currents. I tore up my first few attempts to capture the undulating Hawaiian light, but I quickly adjusted, and the results pleased me. With sunrise tai chi, Kung fu exercises, my painting, making love with Mary, and playing with Little Bundle, I stayed busy, but Grace and Mary became restless. For safety reasons, we were stuck in the condo. Our island paradise was starting to turn into a prison for the ladies, so the timing was perfect when Rubin walked outside one morning and handed me his special cell phone. "Brent, I just finished my current assignment. I'll be in Maui tomorrow," James said after I said hello. ------- James arrived early afternoon, and at my urging disappeared behind the door to Grace's bedroom. While they had their reunion, Mary and I talked. I was on the floor playing with Little Bundle. The girl preferred me down on her level, I'd noticed. "When will you leave?" Mary asked. She sat on a sofa with her feet curled under her. "I don't know. I don't know the plan. James will lay it out for me later today, I suspect." "I want to sit in during that briefing." "I'd rather you didn't," I said and tickled Little Bundle's belly. She squealed happily. "Besides, that's a decision James will make. I told you that James is the boss on this job, not me." "Will you keep your promise to be utterly ruthless?" Mary said. "I'll try. I promised, so I'll try." "Don't mess around. Don't inflict only what's needed to reject intended harm. Do what you did at the auto shop. Strike without warning and with lethal force. Okay?" I nodded as Little Bundle gave me a wet kiss. "That little girl needs a daddy as much as a mommy," Mary said. "Remember that, Brent." "I will. When we return to Scottsdale, I'll initiate adoption proceedings. Waddaya think, Little Bundle? Do you think you'd like me to be your daddy?" The next wet kiss I got came from Mary after she ended up on the floor next to me. "Gawd, I love you," she said between kisses. ------- James looked tired. When I considered the stress of the job I had in front of me in Taipei, and then applied it to James for two similar jobs, perhaps even more stressful jobs than mine that he'd just finished without a break, I understood his weariness. At his request, we were strolling along the beach for a private conversation. "Grace tells me that you and Mary got married," he said. "Yes. Mary was afraid I wouldn't come back to her, so..." "Grace gave me the details. Congratulations, I think." I laughed. "Thanks. Congratulations are in order. The wedding was a mistake, but it was something Mary needed. We'll have a big wedding in a couple of years, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this one a secret." "No problem." "What about you? May I assume that you ended your relationship with Deanna?" "Yes and no. As far as I'm concerned it's ended. With Deanna's astonishing announcements, I walked away without... ah, discussion, so... you get the point. When I return to Phoenix, I'll make the break formal. Deanna has what she wants. She has a female lover that she loves, or says she loves, and her lover loves her. She's pregnant, so she'll soon have a baby to love and cherish. She loves me, but I don't hold the top position in her life. Third says it best. With my lifestyle, third isn't bad, but..." He sighed. "Brent, Deanna asked me to be the father of her child. I refused and asked her to wait for a while. She ignored my request. She knows me well enough to predict how I'd react, so she wasn't surprised when I walked away." I decided to get a little nosy. "Does your open relationship with Grace differ from the one you had with Deanna?" He stopped and turned toward the sea, gazing off into the distance but seeing, I suspect, only the theater in his mind. "To start with, I love Grace deeply, Brent. I loved Deanna, but my time with your sister on Lake Powell opened my eyes to what love could be, what love should be. For the first time in my life, I fell head over heels. If I wasn't gone most of the time, I'd insist on monogamy." He turned to me. "When it comes to a serious relationship, monogamy is best." "I agree." He gave me a crooked grin. "Brent, I haven't truly wanted another woman since my time alone with your sister on Lake Powell. I went through the motions with Deanna. Deanna was a habit. Plus, Grace had vowed not to come between Deanna and me." He chuckled. "I bided my time. When Grace made the break with Deanna, I couldn't have been happier. When Deanna gave me a logical excuse to walk away from her, I took it. The open relationship is for Grace's benefit not mine. I don't want another woman. I don't want Grace to invite another woman to join us for some sexy fun, either. Been there; done that. When I'm with Grace, I don't want to share her. When I'm not around, she can do as she wishes." "Does she know how you feel?" I asked. "Yes and no. She knows I love her. I don't think she knows how deeply I'm committed to her, and I don't want you to tell her, either." "All right, but why not tell her? She'd be thrilled to know how much you love her." "Brent, but for two very large problems, I'd ask Grace to marry me," he said. "Your work?" I said. "That's one of them. Grace abhors violence. I'm in a violent business. Not to boast, but I'm the best at what I do, so I'm not about to completely walk away from what I do." He grinned. "Grace is coming around a little, though. She's more accepting about what I do. The way you are helps." His grin morphed into a frown. "But you are the other problem. She loves you, and not like a sister should love a brother. Until you and Grace resolve your feelings for each other, I can't and won't make any changes in my life that would allow Grace and me to be together six months of each year instead of two." "Six months? How? What would you do? Cut back your assignments? Change professions?" "No, move up into management. Newt has been pestering me to do just that. I'd be a field operative half the time and help Newt manage the business the other half." He chuckled. "Newt's in love. The old codger wants more time with his lady." "As I told you once before, Grace and I haven't practiced begatting." He laughed. "I know, but the threat is there." I shook my head. "You don't get it; Mary doesn't get it; hell, half the time, Grace doesn't get it. The only one that understands is Agnes. I thought you'd get it. It surprises me that you haven't." "What don't I get?" "The possibility that Grace and I could become lovers is more important to us than actually making it happen. It's... ah, delicious, titillating, a naughty, dirty little pleasure. It would take... a catastrophic event for us to turn the possibility into reality." "Have you and Grace had this discussion?" "No, and we never will. Talking about it would take the naughtiness out of the pleasure. We're close, James, closer than a brother and sister should be. When our parents were killed, we became closer than man and wife. We support each other emotionally. We live together. Our financial futures are mingled. If we could have children together, we'd probably toss the incest taboo out with the bath water and begat like crazy. Fortunately, love isn't limited, so besides loving Grace, I can also love Mary. Any children I have will be with Mary. Grace loves you. Any children she has will be with you. That isn't to say she's ready to be a mother. She isn't. Besides, that subject is between the two of you... without any input from me. Just know this, James, if Grace and I didn't prefer the possibility to the reality, we would have practiced begatting long ago. If you're looking for resolution, that's all you'll get." James looked back out at the sea. I said nothing. Finally, he said, "I get it." "Our secret," I said. He nodded. "You'll take it right to the edge, won't you?" I grinned. "Yep. We'll stretch it to just before the breaking point before one of us backs off." He turned to me and smiled. "You're right. That is delicious." He slapped me on the back. "Let's talk about your problem now." ------- Chapter 27 "Zi Wu Yuan Yang Yue," I said in Cantonese. "I don't think so," James said. James had asked me to name my weapon of choice for the takedown. I'd told him I'd use deer-horn knives. In ancient times, the knives were shaped like Mandarin ducks (Yuan is a male duck; Yang is female). Sometime during the last 150 years, another blade was added, giving the knives an appearance of two crescents overlapping, so they were also referred to as crescent-moon knives. I called them zi-wu knives. "Remember what happened during the Boxer Rebellion," James said. "The Boxers lost because their opponents had firearms. Freemont's two bodyguards are armed, Freemont, as well. You can take that to the bank, and I've gotta believe the bodyguards are expert with the weapons they carry." "James, my proficiency with firearms is... well, let me just say I'm a long way from expert. I am an expert with zi-wu knives, at least I was when I lived as Fang Hong." "Have you even had a zi-wu knife in your hands in this life?" "No, but the skill set is here." I tapped my forehead. "And my hand/eye coordination is better in this life than when I lived as Fang Hong. When you said the takedown would take place in the corridor of a mid-rise apartment building, zi-wu knives sprang immediately to mind. They're awesome weapons in close quarters." "Not as awesome as a shotgun." "Shotguns make a lot of noise. Wouldn't a silent attack lend an advantage to our escape?" "Yes, but..." "James, if we were on the street or sidewalk or even in a residence, I would've selected the saber." James shook his head in dismay and walked to the whiteboard, where he quickly sketched a floor plan. The sketch showed the location of the elevators, the elevator lobby and the corridor that led to the apartment Freemont maintained for his Eurasian mistress, an apartment Freemont visited two or three times a week to get his ashes hauled. From the advance work, James had eliminated Freemont's fortress for the takedown, especially when his people pointed out Freemont's habitual visits to his mistress. "Freemont and his two bodyguards will ascend to the 18th floor in one of these elevators. When the elevator doors open, one of the bodyguards will step out of the elevator and check out the lobby. If it's clear, the other bodyguard will precede Freemont into the lobby. The first bodyguard will walk to the end of the lobby and check out the corridor that leads to the mistress's apartment, here." He pointed at the symbol for a door at the end of the corridor. "If the corridor is clear, Freemont will walk up to the bodyguard standing with a view down the corridor. The other bodyguard will follow him, watching behind toward the elevator lobby for new threats. When Freemont is almost abreast of the first bodyguard, that bodyguard will move in front of him to the apartment door, and the other bodyguard will situate himself so he can see both the elevator lobby and the corridor." "Did your people watch this happen?" I said, somewhat surprised. "No. It's the way I'd handle the situation as a protector, except I'd send a man up to the 18th floor before stepping into the elevator. If possible, I'd avoid the elevator completely, but forcing my principal to walk up 18 floors wouldn't be practical, especially if the principal was approaching sixty years old like Freemont. My people observed Freemont and his bodyguards arrive at the apartment building. His driver stays with the vehicle until Freemont and the two bodyguards disappear into the elevator, and then the driver pulls around the block and parks in a no-parking zone to wait for Freemont's return. The bodyguards and driver wear state-of-the-art wireless communication equipment, and the driver is summoned when Freemont is ready to leave. Upon their arrival, both bodyguards enter the elevator with Freemont, a mistake, but that's what they do. A short time later, one of the bodyguards returns to the ground-floor lobby to watch for threats entering the building. This guard also talks with the building guard at the security station in the main lobby. All elevator lobbies in the building are equipped with video cameras, and the building guard greets arrivals to the building and watches the rotating video feeds on one monitor in the security station." He sighed. "Back to this floor plan. You and I will be inside this equipment room, here." He pointed at a small room off the corridor about halfway from the lobby to the apartment door. "Does the video camera cover the corridor?" I asked. "No, just the elevator lobby. Listen up, Brent. I'm trying to tell you why zi-wu knives won't work. After the bodyguard moves past the equipment room, I'll open the door for you. You'll step out and kill Freemont, turn and kill the bodyguard close to the apartment, turn again and kill the bodyguard at the other end of the corridor by the elevator lobby. With zi-wu knives, you could probably kill Freemont and possibly the first bodyguard, but the second bodyguard is too far away for a zi-wu knife. Even as fast as you are, he will draw his weapon and shoot you before you can get close enough to him to strike with the blades." "I see your point," I said and grinned at him. "Which means that I'll also need some small zi-wu, small enough to use as throwing stars." James laughed, dry ugly sounds. "Not on my watch," he said. "Part three of my assignment dictates that I'm supposed to keep you relatively unscathed during the mission. I can't do that if you go against those men with zi-wu knives. With a silenced semi-automatic pistol, you can take out those three men in two or three seconds, before they can pull their weapons from holsters and aim them at you." "You can. I can't," I said. "I'd probably miss the man by the elevator lobby. Question. Do the bodyguards wear bulletproof vests?" "I don't know, but I'll find out. For the purposes of discussion let's assume they do." "That means I've got to shoot Freemont and his guards in the head. James, I'm not that good with a pistol. Sorry. Let's do this. Arrange to have some zi-wu knives delivered here, standard-size, as well as some small ones for throwing. We'll set up the corridor battle scene, and I'll demonstrate how I'll get the job done. If you're not satisfied I can do the job with zi-wu, I'll do it your way." He nodded. "Practice is good. I'll also arrange some practice with a pistol under the same mocked-up conditions." ------- "Are you out of your mind?" Grace shouted, her voice shrill with worry. "You can't go up against three men packing guns with a couple of knives!" I chuckled. "James says I can take them out with a pistol in two or three seconds. That'll never happen, not with my meager shooting skills. With zi-wu, I can cut that time in half, and I won't miss." I gave James a hard look. "You aren't playing fair." He'd just blabbed my intent to my sister to garner her support to force me to use a firearm for the takedown instead of zi-wu knives. He grinned. "All's fair in love and war. This spaghetti sauce is delicious." "Thanks," Mary said. We were eating dinner. "When will you leave for Taipei?" Mary asked. "At the soonest, the day after tomorrow," James said. "Tomorrow is for practice. If necessary, we'll stay another day, and another, and continue practicing until I feel comfortable that Brent can do the job without getting harmed in the process." "I want to observe the practice sessions," Mary said. "Likewise," Grace said. James groaned. I laughed and said, "Their involvement is your doing, not mine. Where will we be practicing?" "The simulated elevator lobby, corridor and equipment room are being set up at a nearby shooting range as we speak." He grinned. "I prevailed upon a friend of mine to isolate a portion of his facility. The walls will be plywood, and we'll use some of his pop-up targets for Freemont and his two bodyguards, except they won't pop up. Our first practice session is scheduled after breakfast tomorrow." He looked at Grace and Mary. "For security reasons, neither of you are welcome at the sessions." "Uh-uh," Grace said. "You scared me half to death with your comments. Now you'll just have to put up with my presence until I can gain a sense of comfort about the situation my brother is walking into and whether he can handle it." "Likewise," Mary said. I laughed again and said, "Good luck, boss. When the ladies work in tandem, I learned long ago to just throw my hands in the air and give up." ------- James was getting impatient with me. When we arrived at the mock-up, I'd insisted on some practice time with the zi-wu knives, both the standard-size and the throwing kind. I ran through a couple of exercises with the larger knives and quickly regained my confidence with them, but I had some trouble at first with the smaller knives I used as shuriken. Because it had been in the neighborhood of one hundred years since I'd thrown one, it took me about a half-hour to regain my proficiency. "Show me how you'd to this with a pistol," I said to James. "I don't need the practice. You do," James said. He gave me a crooked grin. "Besides, if I showed you how I'd do it, I'd intimidate you and set back the assignment for days." I chuckled. "Cocky S.O.B. Let's do this. You do the takedown your way, and I'll do it my way. Grace and Mary can time us." James had given them stopwatches to time my efforts. "Those little zi-wu won't kill, Brent, not like a bullet." "Maybe not, but with two or three of them in the bodyguard's face, I'll have time to advance on him and take his head, if necessary." He grumbled but stuck out his hand. "Give me the weapon." We were using paint guns for the simulation. "Time him, ladies," I said. They nodded. "Start the time when I open the equipment-room door." I turned to James. "Ready?" He nodded. I opened the door. He raised the gun, pulled the trigger, stepped forward, turned to the left, fired the gun again, turned right, and the gun exploded for the third time. "Stop!" I said. "One-point-nine seconds," Mary said. "Jesus," Grace said and then blushed. "Sorry, I forgot to stop the watch." I looked at the targets. Orange paint dotted the foreheads of all three targets. "Whew!" I grinned. "Intimidating, that's for sure." "You try it with the paint gun now," James said. "You are a stubborn cuss," I said. "Play along with me. If you're as lousy with a pistol as you say you are, I'll let you try with the wushu weapons." "All right." "Do the best you can. I'll know if you're faking it." I took the gun. "Time him," James said. "Ready?" I nodded, and he opened the door. I raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, stepped forward, turned to my left and pulled the trigger again." "Stop!" James shouted. "You shot the bodyguard in the chest. For this exercise, we're assuming that they're wearing body armor, Brent." "I know. I pulled the trigger too fast." "Again," he said. On my second try, I shot the mocked-up colonel in the head, and did the same with the bodyguard by the apartment door, but I completely missed the bodyguard near the elevator lobby. "Three-point-seven seconds," Grace said. "Not bad," James said to me. "Hah! I'm a dead man. The bodyguard still standing would have pulled his gun and shot me dead in that amount of time. Let me try it with the zi-wu now." "You're just as stubborn as I am," James said. "With some practice, I could train you to do the job with a pistol." "How long would it take? A week? A month?" "Less than a month." "Give me your best guess about how long Freemont will hang around Taipei," I said. He frowned. "No need to guess," James said. "Surveillance indicated that he plans a trip to the United States next week. Okay, let's see how well you do with those goddamned knives." I gave him the paint gun and picked up the larger zi-wu knives. Four throwing zi-wu knives were in pouches in a belt I strapped across my chest like a bandolier. I performed a quick mental preview of my movements and gave James the nod. He opened the door. I stepped out of the room and swung the zi-wu in my right hand, dropped the weapon, pulled a throwing zi-wu out of a pouch and flung it side-armed at the guard at the elevator lobby, moved the larger zi-wu in my left hand to my right as I took a step toward the guard near the apartment door, and swung again. "Time," James said. Ignoring James, I switched hands with the large zi-wu as I turned back to the guard at the elevator lobby, and threw another zi-wu as I advanced on him. The force of the throwing zi-wu had knocked the target over backwards. With the larger zi-wu in my right hand again, I stepped up to the fallen target and stopped the swing of the weapon before it struck the target with a lethal blow. "One-point-eight seconds," Mary said with a grin. "Jesus," Grace breathed. I dug the two small zi-wu out of the wood target near the elevator lobby. It wasn't easy. They'd sunk into the soft wood deeper than I'd expected. "Let's do it again," James said. "This time, Mary, time the session until I say, 'Time.' Grace, like Mary, start your stopwatch when the door opens and time the session until I say, 'Stop.' Okay." The ladies acknowledged their instructions. "Those two targets don't have heads anymore," Mary said, pointing at the Freemont target and the target near the apartment door. "This is a simulation," James said, shaking his head in wonder. "We'll pretend the heads are there." The second time around, I finished the first section of the attack in one-point-seven seconds, and completed the attack in two-point-one seconds. "Okay," James said. "We'll go with the zi-wu knives, but you'll need to push the complete attack to below two seconds, Brent." "Are you feeling more comfortable with my knives, Grace?" I asked. She nodded. "You're a scary man, little brother." ------- It was late. Mary and I had made love. She went to sleep. I didn't. I was also thirsty, so I rolled quietly from the bed and padded in the dark to the kitchen for a drink of water. The soft murmur of voices caught my attention before I turned on the faucet to fill a glass. Grace and James were sitting outside in the moonlight. The French door to the patio was open, and a cool breeze washed over my flesh. I wasn't naked. I wore boxers, but intruding on my sister and friend dressed as I was would be inappropriate. Expecting them to hear me, I turned on the faucet, filled the glass and gulped at the water. When I turned from the sink to return to the bedroom, Grace said, "Is that you, Brent?" "Yes. I was thirsty," I said. "Join us," she said. "I'm not dressed." "You're wearing boxers, right?" "Yes." "That's enough. That's all James has on. Me, I'm naked, but wrapped in a blanket." "Join us, Brent," James said. I filled the glass again and stepped through the French door. They were stretched out on lounges. I took a chair. "Can't sleep?" James said to me. "Nope." "Nervous about the mission?" he said. "Nope. I don't require much sleep. I'm not sleepy. That's all. If I were in Scottsdale, I'd drive to my studio and paint." I drank some more water. "It'll be convenient to have the studio within walking distance when the dream house is finished." "James and I were just talking about the house," Grace said. "I was telling him about Oscar and the custom finish work and furniture we commissioned." I said, "Oscar is an artist, James. His medium is wood." "I'm curious about something, Brent," James said. "You say you learned the Chinese languages and Kung Fu during your life as Fang Hong. You learned your blacksmithing abilities as Josh Randall, and your talent as an artist came from your life as Jane Wilson. Grace wants to be a writer, and she works at it. I've read a few of her stories. She's very good. Do you think she was a writer in a past life?" "No," I said. "Why not?" "Because she must work at it. Learning to write has been painful for her, frustrating, more failures than successes. Writing is a new skill set for you, Grace." She nodded, but then frowned. "Maybe not. I don't have any memories from past lives like you." "I could draw and sketch before my Jane Wilson memories arrived," I said. "I suspect if I'd been around a forge as a boy, I would have demonstrated some talent forging metal, and if Mom and Dad had put me in a martial arts class, I would have excelled. All this would have happened before my memories of my past lives arrived. With the memories, I made quantum leaps. I assumed skill sets from my past lives and worked hard at improving all of them." I snorted a laugh. "Except for the Chinese languages, that is." "Your Cantonese and Mandarin have improved, Brent," James said in Cantonese. "That's from being around Mary and you, not because I worked at it," I said in the same language. Switching to English, I said, "James, I suspect you were expert with a pistol during a past life, and as proficient as you are with Kung Fu, you were probably involved in the martial arts, as well. Oscar was a cabinetmaker in a past life, probably during his immediate past life." "Was Agnes a sculptor?" Grace asked. "Perhaps, but she could have been a welder instead. Her innate sense of good design could have come down to her from a different past life." "What about Mary?" Grace asked. "What did she bring from past lives to this one?" I frowned. "I'm not sure, but her zest for life had to be severely tested in each life, or she would have given up on this one long ago. She has an indomitable spirit. Skill sets from past lives aren't always useful or apparent in a current life. Even with my memories, I wondered how I could use my industrial blacksmithing knowledge." I grinned. "And then one day I walked into Agnes's studio and saw her forge. Grace, I heard Mom comment more than once how talented you are in the kitchen. You might have been a chef in a past life." She looked shocked. "Ah... I've had flashes." "As a chef?" James asked. "Yeah." Her eyes dropped self-consciously. I said, "I think developing new skill sets is more important than improving innate abilities, like your writing, for example, Grace. In case I remember this life in my next, I want to bequeath that life a college education." I yawned and chuckled. "It's bedtime for me." "For us, too, Grace," James said. "Tomorrow will be a long day for Brent and me. The first leg of our flight to Taipei leaves at ten in the morning." "No," she breathed. "I wanted another day." "Goodnight," I said and rose to my feet. It was time for me to make myself scarce. ------- James started talking when the aircraft reached cruising altitude. He'd insisted that I take the window seat, saying he was the protector and I was the principal, and that the protector occupied the aisle seat. Tradecraft, he'd called it. With my long legs, I would have preferred the aisle seat. I didn't debate the issue with him and took the window seat. "Your sister didn't cling this morning," he said to break the silence. "I noticed." I chuckled. "Mary did." "I noticed," he said, and then switched to Cantonese. He spoke quietly so other passengers couldn't overhear him. "Grace and I don't have much in common, but... perhaps it's a case of attracting opposites. I'm a man who lives for violence. Newt says I'm an adrenalin junkie. He's probably correct. Grace abhors violence. Then there's the race issue. I thought I'd fall in love with a woman of my race. My venerable parents will be disappointed in me. I'm a Taoist. Grace is a Christian. She isn't seriously involved in any organized Christian religion, so maybe our religious beliefs won't clash. They could, though, if her religion becomes more important to her later in life. Politically we're at opposite ends, but neither of us is rabid about politics, so we can handle that difference." He paused. He'd yet to look at me. "I've been thinking about what you said about your relationship with her," he said. "Last night I asked Grace about the two of you. Her answer was similar to yours, not the same, though. It was apparent that the two of you haven't discussed your theory because she's not as definite as you that the two of you won't become lovers. I think she harbors a small hope that you won't back off before you reach that breaking point you mentioned. This morning, I had a private conversation with Mary. You're right about her, by the way. She doesn't get it. She believes you and Grace will become lovers. I asked her how she'd feel when that happens. She said she won't have a problem with it, that before she fell in love with you that she was aware of the possibility — no, she called it a likelihood — that sometime in the future you and Grace would succumb to your love and desire for each other, and when that happened she'd deal with it. She could deal with it, she said, because even with you and Grace as lovers that you'd still love her, by her, I mean Mary. Mary loves you, Brent. She loves you so much you can do anything, no matter how vile or reprehensible, and she'd still love you. That's not to say that she considers you and Grace becoming lovers reprehensible." He finally turned his eyes toward me. "After talking with you, Grace, and Mary, and thinking about what each of you said on this issue, I suddenly realized that if you and Grace do become lovers that Grace would still love me, that I wouldn't lose her to you, and the fear and worry about what you think will never happen, what Grace hopes will happen, and what Mary believes will happen went away." He faced forward again. "I put that problem behind me, which leaves two issues that need to be resolved: my addiction to danger and your sister's abhorrence of violence. I'm not in denial. I know I'm addicted to danger. I'm at my best when I face the guns of the sociopaths holding captives I've been hired to release. The world is my work place. I've worked in forty-eight countries. I'm at the top of my profession. If awards were given, I'd win best retrieval expert in the world. That sounds like I'm boasting." He smiled. "I guess I am, but still I'm speaking the unvarnished truth with the boast." He looked at me again. "I can't walk away from my work, not completely, but I've decided to accept Newt's offer. I'll feed my addiction to danger half the time and my addiction to Grace the other half. As addicted as I am to danger, since meeting Grace, I've been loath to stay in the field on assignments away from her. That is a first for me, by the way, and it told me that I'm as addicted to Grace as I am to danger. When Grace and I took a walk on the beach this morning, I told her about Newt's offer. You were correct. She was thrilled. I was as open with her then as I am with you now, Brent, and she opened up to me more than she ever has before. She wants to accept what I do, what I am, Brent, and she promised to try. I promised to back off my craving for adrenalin highs. Grace and I will maintain separate residences until the new house is finished, and if all goes well between now and then, we agreed that I'd move into the house with her. That gives us about ten months to work through her distaste for what I do for a living." He grinned. "Waddaya think?" "I think I couldn't be happier for both of you," I said. "Good," he said and nodded. "Let's talk about money." "Huh?" He laughed at my confusion. "I pay my way, Brent. I queried Grace about the house, the cost, the equity, the equity contributions, and the financing. I figure I'll need to chip in a million dollars, maybe a little more when all the extras get added in. Also, I'd like to make some changes in the plan, at my expense, for course." "What kind of changes?" "An indoor shooting range and an armory. Nothing elaborate, but any dream house of mine would contain those facilities. Also, I'll want to beef up the security systems planned for the house. For example, that mountain behind the house could make you vulnerable to a sniper unless certain steps are taken." "Mary and I will use the shooting range, so I see that addition as a communal space," I said. "We should share that expense, James, and I'd planned to consult with you regarding security anyway. Tell me about the armory." "A ten-foot square room ought to do it, highly secure, fingerprint access. When we return to Scottsdale, I'll show you the armory in my home there. The weapons and equipment in the armory are tools of my profession, Brent. Also, with the armory I have in mind, we could repel any attack against our stronghold." I grinned. "That's great, James. I wholeheartedly endorse the changes you want to make." I hesitated, but decided to ask the silent question that had been bugging me since he brought money into our conversation. "Will the million dollars be a problem?" "I made that much last year, and I'll make more in management than I do with field work. Your sister will want for nothing, Brent." Yet again, I stopped worrying about my sister. If something happened to me in Taipei, James would be there for her both financially and emotionally. Mary, too, I added in my mind a minute later. ------- The new identity papers James's group created for me worked like a charm. We moved through customs in Taipei without a problem. The name on my identity papers was Clayton Redmond, and at James's insistence, I made up a back-story for the identity while waiting to board the aircraft in Phoenix. To keep it simple, I used the locale in Nevada where I'd lived as Josh Randall, but instead of a blacksmith, I became the son of a corporate executive for a copper mining company. James approved my back-story and told me he'd be using the pseudonym Joseph or Joe, no last name, for the assignment. Also, for an extra edge, James had instructed me not to use or let on that I could speak, read and write the Chinese languages. "I've worked with the men who will be assisting us, Clay," James said. "So, I trust them. Still, it's wise to use every advantage. If they believe you can't understand them, they'll chatter away with each other in Cantonese, make telephone calls, whatever, and if one or more of them have betrayed us, you might pick up on their betrayal by listening to them." A Chinese man named Hu Yah-san met us as we left customs in Taipei and guided us to a sedan parked illegally at the curb. As the driver pulled the vehicle into the steady stream of traffic flowing by, James introduced him as Lee Mao-lin. "Hu goes by Jason, and Lee's anglicized first name is Mark. Jason is a protector. Mark will be our driver," James said. He gave Jason a hard look, and switching to Cantonese, he said, "Did you check this vehicle for listening devices?" "Yes, for explosives, too. I used an undercarriage vehicle inspection mirror, and I swept the vehicle with the bug detector you arranged for my use. We're clear," Jason said in the same language. "We can talk about the mission now, Clay," James said in English. He'd disallowed such a discussion on the aircraft. "I know you have questions." I nodded. "Yeah, and a new one just came to mind. Is traffic here like this all the time?" We weren't in gridlock, but close to it. "It gets worse," Mark said. "A speedy getaway in this kind of traffic could be a problem," I said. "The escape plan anticipates vehicular gridlock," James said. "I've arranged for a safe house within three blocks of the apartment building. If possible, we'll make our exit in a vehicle, but even then, we'll be dropped off near the safe house, not directly in front of it. If traffic is too congested, we'll merely walk away from the apartment building." "You mentioned video cameras in the elevator lobbies," I said. "What about the elevators and stairwells? Are they covered, too?" "The elevators, yes. The stairwells, no. A mistake that we'll use to our advantage." "How will we get by the security guard at the ground level?" I asked. "We'll bypass him. There's a back way in. We'll momentarily block the exterior camera feed when we enter, and then hit the stairwell out of the guard's line of sight. The apartment building isn't Fort Knox, Clay. They tried to make it secure, but not hard enough." "Also, the security guard is lazy and complacent," Jason said. "He hasn't had a serious security breach in that building during his employment. He'll ignore a momentary stuttering of a video feed." "Plus, Jason will be watching and listening to him from across the street when we enter and while we're in the building. A listening device has been planted near the security desk," James said. "We'll all be wearing wireless communication gear so Jason can warn us if the guard tumbles to our presence. We'll exit the same way we entered." I nodded. "Typical nervous principal," James said in Cantonese. Jason chuckled. "He asks good questions," the driver said in the same language. ------- Chapter 28 James and I checked into the Grand Hyatt Taipei. He'd booked a two-bedroom suite. All meetings would be in the living room area of the suite. After I put away my things and threw water on my face, I walked to the living room. James was on his encrypted cell phone. He wore a shoulder rig with what looked like an XD-9 in the holster. "Just a sec," he said and put his hand over the mouthpiece. He motioned at the sofa. "Check out the duffel." I unzipped the bag. Inside, I could see zi-wu knives, large and small. I also noticed a pistol, extra clips, a holster and ammo. Also hats and a box of latex gloves. Kevlar vests and a few other items. "We'll take it easy tomorrow," James said on the phone. "Jet lag, you know... Yeah. The weapons and equipment were delivered moments after we checked in... Goodnight." He hung up and said, "Newt. He wished us luck." A knock sounded at the door. James gazed through the peephole and let Jason and Mark in. Jason carried what looked like a dartboard, but the numbers were Chinese symbols. "Hang the board on the wall," James said to Jason, pointing at the wall to my left. James turned to me. "Check out the throwing zi-wu. I'm not sure they're the same size as those you used during the simulation." I pulled a couple of them from the bag. "They're a little larger," I said. James grimaced. "Shit. Well, try them. That's what the dartboard is for. If you're not comfortable with them, I'll make a call and get them replaced tomorrow morning." Jason had removed a framed print from the wall and hung the dartboard in its place. When he stepped away, I threw the first zi-wu, and then the other one immediately after the first. I used a side-arm throw, because that's how I'd throw them during the takedown. The knives chunked loudly as they struck the board. The first hit dead center, and the second a fraction of an inch to the right of the first. The second zi-wu split the board into two pieces. Amazed, Jason cursed in Cantonese. Mark's jaw gaped. "They'll be fine," I said, retrieved the larger knives from the bag and, moved into an abbreviated kuen with them. "These will do the job, as well." James grinned and said to Jason and Mark in Cantonese, "I'm backup on this job. Clay will be taking the point position. Our job is protection, and he's the principal. Understood?" They nodded and gave me a look of respect that wasn't there before. Did James engineer the demonstration for that reason? Probably. "Let's run through the plan once tonight, and then call it a day," James said in English. "Jet lag has me in its grip." ------- After Jason and Mark left, I said, "Call Rubin on that phone of yours. I want to say goodnight to the ladies." He frowned. "And it wouldn't hurt if you said goodnight to Grace, either. One of the things she detests about your work is that she never hears from you while you're gone. Also, I've been meaning to ask why you gave me a phone number that could reach you, but you haven't given it to Grace. So I will, ask you, that is. And why don't you call Grace while you're on assignment?" "I can't call Grace. She doesn't have an encrypted phone." "Well, hell, get her one." He shook his head. "That wouldn't work. She'd call me. My phone ringing at the wrong time could get me killed, or worse, get a captive killed." "Rules, James." "Joseph. On this assignment, I'm Joseph." "Sorry. Make a list of rules for phone use. Grace will follow them." "She'll expect a daily call. Sometimes that can't happen." "Make that very clear. She'll understand." "Regarding your other question, I gave you the emergency number for emergencies only. An emergency for some women can be a broken fingernail. Even at that, you called the number for a non-emergency reason." He laughed when I frowned. "You called to let me know where you'd be for New Year's Eve." I grinned. "I did, didn't I? That call was for you in case your assignment ended in time for you to join us. Did the call cause you grief?" "No." He chortled. "What's more, it was appreciated." He walked into the bedroom portion of the suite and returned with his cell phone in hand. "Rubin will think I've gone bonkers," he said as he punched in a number. "Rubin, my principal would like to say goodnight to his ladies... Yes, I'll hold." He looked at me. "He's waking them up." He gave his attention to the phone again. "No, we're fine," he said. "We're just calling to say goodnight... We didn't think about that. Here's your brother." He handed me the phone. I said, "Hi, sister mine. Did we call at a bad time?" "I'd say four o'clock in the morning is a bad time, yes," she replied. "Oh, oh, I didn't think about the time differential. You were asleep, huh?" "Yes." I heard her yawn. I said, "We just called to say goodnight. Is Mary awake? I'd like to say goodnight to her, too." "She just walked into my room. After you talk to Mary, put James back on the phone. Goodnight, little brother. I love you." "I love you, too." "This call is a surprise," Mary said brightly. She didn't sound like I'd just awakened her from a sound sleep. "At four in the morning, I guess it is. I just wanted to say goodnight and tell you that I loved you but failed to consider the differing time zones. I'd apologize but I don't feel truly sorry for waking you up. I wanted to hear your voice before I went to sleep." "Ah, that's sweet. What time is it there?" "Ten o'clock at night, thereabouts. Goodnight, Mary. I love you." "I love you, too, more and more every day." "Don't hang up. Grace wanted to speak with my protector again. Pleasant dreams, baby." I handed the phone to James. "And goodnight to you," I said to him. "I'm going to sack out." I left him to talk privately with my sister. ------- I crashed. My body was on the same time clock as Grace and Mary's, so I wasn't happy when I woke up two hours later at what would normally be dawn in Hawaii. It was still dark outside, and James heard me bumping around. "Here, take one of these pills," he said. "What is it?" "Melatonin. It's the principal hormone produced by the pineal gland. It will speed your adjustment to the circadian rhythm of this time zone. I've tried a lot of jet-lag remedies. Melatonin helps me the most. Also, you'll recover quicker if you can sleep until daylight here. Drinking a lot of water helps, too." I took the pill with a large glass of water and went back to bed. I didn't go back to sleep. Instead, I stared at the dark ceiling and let my mind wander. I visualized the takedown that would happen two days hence, studying each of my moves as I killed three men. I felt no guilt about Fremont's death. If anyone ever deserved to die, it was Freemont, but the death of his bodyguards bothered me. I tried to come up with a method that would spare their lives, but all of my scenarios were ludicrous. A tranquilizer gun, for example. That wouldn't work. Before the tranquilizer could do its thing, the guards would pull their weapons and shoot me dead. Instant acting tranquilizers were a myth, I suspected, but decided to ask James if one existed. Go to sleep, I ordered myself. Obviously, I wasn't particularly adept at following orders, even those coming from myself. Then I remembered a tried-and-true method of inducing drowsiness: a good come. To induce a climax, I'd need to be hard. That wasn't a problem, not with my imagination. You guessed it. The fantasy I developed involved the two women in my life. It was as if my consciousness took flight and perched without form and substance near the ceiling of Grace's bedroom. I watched Grace and Mary make love. The imagery my mind's eye conjured was arousing, and my cock lengthened in my hand. I'd watched Carrie eat Grace. I hadn't seen anyone eat my Mary, so those were the images I went with. When Mary climaxed in my fantasy, I joined her with an orgasm of my own and promptly fell asleep without cleaning up the mess. ------- I woke up at first light with crusted, flaking semen on my hand and belly. I rolled from the bed, took a leak, and then a shower. I didn't need a shave. James was dressed and talking on his cell phone when I walked into the living room. He waved but continued talking. I noticed the makings for hot tea, so I fixed a cup. "I'd rather wait a day, but..." He paused. "Let me talk with my principal. I'll call you back." He hung up and looked up at me. "That was my electronic-surveillance specialist. Freemont has moved his schedule forward. He's flying to the States the day after tomorrow. He'll visit his mistress late afternoon today, but he'll be too busy getting ready preparing for the trip to visit her tomorrow. We'll need to take him today, or follow him to his place outside Washington, D.C., in Virginia and try to take him there. How are you feeling?" "Like last year's bird nest." I swallowed. "Regardless, let's take him today." "Are you sure you're up to the task?" "At this moment, no. By this afternoon, yes. Let's get this over with, so I can go on with the rest of my life." "The rest of your life is what we're talking about, Clay." I blew air over the rim of my cup of tea. Today is for you, Mom. You, too, Dad. My silent conversation with my beloved parents buoyed my mind and body. "I'll be ready," I said. ------- The hats in the duffle bag weren't hats. They were ski masks, and James made me practice with the zi-wu knives wearing a bulletproof vest and surgical latex gloves. Jason and Mark joined us, and we went over the plan again, and then again. "What can go wrong?" I asked after our final run-through. James groaned and said, "Let's not go there." "I'm serious," I said. "The possibilities are infinite," James said. "Freemont could cancel his visit to his mistress, or arrive early before we're in place, or he could arrive with three bodyguards instead of two. Perhaps he realizes he's under surveillance, either electronically or physically, or both, and has made arrangements to trap us. Maybe the apartment security guard will investigate the fluttering of the outside video camera we'll cover momentarily. There are three other apartments on the 18th floor. Perhaps one of the occupants will inadvertently step into harm's way and become collateral damage. That's a bad one. Maybe we'll encounter someone in the stairwell while we're ascending to the 18th floor, or later when we're leaving. Considering all the possible ways the plan can go wrong and trying to counter each potential problem would do nothing but distract us from the main objective. When I first entered this business, I tried the cover-all-contingencies approach. It doesn't truly work. I learned the hard way that the best approach to any takedown is to plan for the most logical scenario and be prepared to adjust on the fly for any change. I also learned that changes in a plan are inevitable." I nodded. "That makes sense." "The main point to remember is we'll be going up against three armed and dangerous men. If you take them out as planned, all other problems that might develop can be handled with relative ease. Jason, Mark, let's clean and reload our weapons," he said and pulled on some cotton gloves. I watched them wipe down their weapons and load bullets from a new box, wiping each shell with a soft cloth before inserting it into a clip. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Making sure we don't leave a fingerprint behind so the gendarmes can connect us to Freemont's demise," James said. "Put on some gloves and wipe down the zi-wu knives. They'll be left at the scene along with any shell casings if Jason and I are forced to fire our weapons." We finished the weapons check, and James suggested that I carry a pistol in a shoulder holster. I told him no, that a pistol would just get in the way. He shook his head in dismay but didn't press the issue. Mark and Jason left, with Mark carrying the duffel bag. James checked out of the room, and Jason and James assumed their protector roles until I sat in the back seat of the sedan that was parked and idling under the canopy in front of the hotel. Mark drove us to the apartment building. ------- The building security guard didn't investigate the momentary loss of a picture from the exterior camera when James and I entered the apartment building from a rear entrance. James had a key for the door. I didn't ask how he'd acquired the key. We met no one as we ascended the stairs to the 18th floor. So far the plan was picture perfect. I started to relax a little. James used another key, or perhaps it was the same key, to open the equipment room door, and we moved inside the cramped space. "We're in the equipment room," James whispered into the microphone in front of his mouth. He spoke Cantonese. The plan called for all communication to be in Cantonese. When he'd included me in that directive earlier that morning, I gained a little more respect from Jason and Mark. "Roger that," Jason said. "I'm in place. The security guard is talking with one of the residents." Me, I was trying to catch my breath. Climbing eighteen flights of stairs is like running a mile. My legs felt rubbery. A few minutes later I was breathing normally again, and the muscles in my legs had stopped twitching. We waited. The room was stuffy. I pulled the ski mask to the top of my head and opened the gym bag that contained my weapons. I put on the bandolier holding the throwing zi-wu and tested each knife to make sure none was hung up in a pouch. A long half-hour later, Jason said, "Freemont's armored sedan just stopped at the curb. A bodyguard stepped from the car. He's going inside. Checking the ground floor now. Asking the guard if there are any problems. He's back outside again. The other bodyguard is out of the car. Freemont, too. They're inside the building. Going into an elevator. They're on the way." "Last chance," James whispered to me. "Go, or no go?" "Let's do it," I whispered back. ------- As I waited, I realized that I'd never killed in cold blood, not during any of my lives. I'd killed only in self-defense, or to protect Mary, or as a soldier during the Boxer Rebellion. That thought chilled me, rendered me momentarily catatonic. My grip tightened on the zi-wu knives in my hands, and I had trouble breathing. But the mind is a wondrous tool. It's rational and it rationalizes. I wouldn't be killing in cold blood, I told myself. I'd be killing in self-defense. I'd be killing Freemont to stop him from killing me. I'd be killing him to stop him from killing Mary and possibly Grace, or to stop him from using my sister to get to Mary or me. And there was more. I'd dubbed the mission Operation Retribution. I'd be exacting retribution for what Freemont did to my parents. I'd be achieving some degree of justice for the murders of Mary's parents and brother, as well as the other innocents that died or were maimed in the lounge bombing. Time to die, Freemont! When I heard the "ding" of the elevator as it came to rest on the 18th floor, the fight-or-flight syndrome kicked in. Adrenalin oozed into my system. Flight wasn't an option. It was time to fight! I pulled the ski mask down over my face and adjusted it over my eyes and mouth. Just like you practiced, I told myself. You can to this. Do it just like you practiced. I heard footfalls approach and pass the equipment room, and then more footfalls padded the corridor floor. Colonel Lawrence Freemont. James had performed. He'd put me next to my enemy so I could kill him. I nodded at my friend and protector, and he opened the door. ------- I stepped from the stuffy equipment room expecting to see Freemont standing directly in front of me. That didn't happen. Freemont wasn't in front of me! He'd walked by the equipment room first, not a bodyguard. Freemont was close to his mistress's apartment door. Also the bodyguard who was supposed to be standing at the junction of the elevator lobby and corridor wasn't in sight. Adjust for change on the fly, I told myself and swung the zi-wu knife. The blades ripped through the large bodyguard's throat. Blood spurted, some of it striking me in the face. Half-blinded, I dropped the large zi-wu knife and grabbed a throwing knife, flinging it underhanded toward Freemont. The zi-wu struck my enemy in his left eye. He screamed, and his hands went to his face. Believing Freemont was out of it for a second or two, I turned toward the elevator lobby and, at the same time, pulled another throwing zi-wu from a pouch. The other bodyguard came around the corner with a gun in his hand. I threw the zi-wu with all my strength and pulled another from the bandolier as the crescent knife struck the guard in the neck. Spinning back toward Fremont, I threw the zi-wu in my hand with an overhead motion. Freemont had recovered a little, and was trying to escape through the open apartment door. The blade struck the base of his skull with a thunk, and he fell forward on his face. A beautiful Eurasian woman stood in the open doorway, screaming. Before I could turn back toward the bodyguard at the elevator lobby, I suddenly felt like I'd been kicked in the back by a mule. At the same time, the blast of an exploding firearm deafened me. I turned as I fell to my knees and watched a bullet from James's silenced pistol strike the bodyguard's face. A pink mist exploded in the air behind the guard, and then he crumpled to the floor like a rag doll. James swung his pistol toward the screaming woman. "Don't shoot her!" I gasped in Cantonese, still trying to catch my breath. By then, I'd figured out that a bullet had struck the vest I was wearing. "How bad are you hit?" James asked me. "Hurts like hell but the vest saved me," I said as he pulled me to my feet. "Escape Plan B," James said into his mike. We moved down the corridor toward the elevators. Escape Plan B meant we'd exit via the elevators, not via a stairwell. Jason would secure the ground floor, and Mark would pull the sedan in front of the apartment building. "The surface streets are in gridlock," Mark said. So much for Escape Plan B. "Plan C, then," James said with a curse, which meant that James and I would walk to the safe house. The doors to one of the elevators opened. A Chinese couple occupied the elevator. James ordered them out of the elevator onto 18th floor lobby, and helped me inside the elevator cab. He jabbed the button for the ground floor. "Where are you, Jason?" James asked. "Just entering the ground floor lobby. The security guard is on the phone." The elevator started its descent. "The ground floor is secure," Jason said a few seconds later. "Did you kill the guard?" I asked, wincing with pain. The bullet had struck high on the right side of my back, probably cracking a rib or two. "No," Jason said. "I whopped him in the head with my gun. He'd called 110." In Taiwan, 110 was the equivalent of 911 in the United States, but for the police only. 119 called for an ambulance or reported a fire. "I don't' know how much he told the operator before I stopped him." "We'll assume the worst," James said. "And hope for the best. Clay and I will use the rear exit when we leave the building. Jason, when we're clear, you leave through the front entrance and head on foot away from the safe house. Rendezvous with us at the safe house in an hour, but only if you're clear." "Roger that," Jason said. "Will you need the doctor?" "Yes," James said. "I'll call him," Jason said. "No doctor," I said. "A doctor can't do anything for cracked ribs, and bringing in a doctor increases our risk." "Your call, Joseph," Jason said. "Are you sure, Clay?" James asked me. "Yes." "No doctor," James said. The elevator stopped, but not on the ground floor. James poked his gun at the man waiting for an elevator and said, "Take the next car, please." The elevator doors closed, and we continued our descent, which wasn't interrupted again until we stopped on the ground floor. James helped me around the backside of the elevator lobby and to the rear door. "We're clear of the building, Jason," James said. We didn't try to cover the video camera as we made our escape, but we didn't remove the ski masks until we were out of the camera's view. "Fuck, blood soaked through the mask," James said. "It's all over your face and neck." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at my face. He cursed again and said, "That's the best I can do. Can you walk on your own?" "I think so. Running isn't an option, though." He helped me until we stepped from the alley onto the sidewalk of a main thoroughfare. We moved into a stream of mostly Chinese men and women walking in both directions. Oddly, I noticed that an inordinate number of the pedestrians were wearing gym shoes. Weird thought, huh? After a little boy tugged at his mother's hand and pointed at me, James guided me off that main street into another alley. I was attracting too much attention. "I could be wrong," James said, "but I think this alley intersects with a street that will take us close to the safe house." I felt sweat beading on my forehead, and I smothered a painful gasp with each step I took. "Traffic is clearing," Mark said. "Where are you?" James told him and added, "That's an approximation." "I know where you are," Mark said. "I'll meet you at the north end of the alley." Five minutes later, James helped me into the back of the sedan. I sighed with relief and promptly passed out, or at least, I think that's what happened. The next thing I remembered was James patting my face and telling me to wake up. "We're at the safe house, Clay," he said. ------- When I passed out, James changed his mind and called in the doctor he'd arranged to have standing by in case the plan went awry. The doctor examined me and a short time later, Mark drove James and me away from the safe house in a different vehicle to a private clinic where x-rays were taken. The massive bruise made the wound looked worse that it was. One cracked rib, and fortunately, the rib hadn't come loose from the cartilage. The doctor gave me some industrial-strength pain pills that I hated because they knocked me out. Mark drove us to different safe house where I basically slept for two days. Colonel Lawrence Freemont died from the wounds I'd inflicted with zi-wu knives. James reasoned that he was dead when he fell on his face when the second knife struck the base of his skull. I'd exacted retribution and protected Grace and Mary, and I could go on with the rest of my life. Would the rest of my life be as eventful as it had been so far? This life, I mean, not any past life or my next. In this life, I had yet to celebrate my eighteenth birthday, but I was married to a beautiful twenty-something-year-old woman and would soon adopt her child and make the little girl my own. Little Bundle was already mine in my heart and mind, so the adoption would only satisfy legal needs. And Mary wanted more children. When I was ready, I'd be the father of those children. I wanted a son and a daughter, besides Little Bundle, that is. I'd established myself as an artist of note, and before the year ended, I'd have my first show in New York City. As an artist, Jane Wilson had not made a footnote in the art history books, but Brent Wilson would be mentioned, and not just as a painter. I also saw myself as a sculptor, but that direction for my art wouldn't be fully explored until Agnes slowed down or retired. I wouldn't compete with my friend. Friends. I had two of them: Agnes and James. I loved both of them, and they loved me. They supported me emotionally in many ways that Mary and Grace couldn't. I hoped that I gave as much to them. I'd make other friends, too. Bill, probably, and others I'd meet and cultivate in the future. Truth be told, my art gallery owners were friends. And Katrina. I suspected that my friendship with Katrina would deepen. I had yet to reach my eighteenth birthday, but I'd killed seven men, eight if the bodyguard James had shot was counted. I didn't, count him, that is. It was my sincerest wish that I never had to kill again, not in this life or any future life. Unlike James, I am not an adrenalin junkie. I don't crave the rush danger gives me, but if danger stares me in the face, I'll meet it head on. I'll do what I have to do to protect those I love or myself. Love. I was loved. My Mary loved me. She loved me like Josh Randall's wife loved him, and I loved my Mary just as deeply. Grace loved me. In many ways, my sister's love for me was deeper than my wife's, and Grace was the love of my life — for this life. We were soul mates. We also played a delicious approach/avoidance game, but a catastrophic event could bring the game to a screeching halt, possibly putting us in a situation that would allow us to rationalize consummating our forbidden love. If we become lovers, would it be a one-time event or turn into an ongoing need neither of us could deny? Only time and circumstances could answer those questions. And Grace was loved. James loved her. He'd be her man. He'd give her children, exotic, beautiful children who would grow up to be beautiful, exotic women or strong, capable men. Like my children with Mary. Regardless, Grace and I would live together in our dream house for the rest of our lives. Mary loved her. Lagniappe, that's what that was. That Mary loved Grace thrilled me. I'd honored my past lives. I'd taken pieces of those lives and made them my own in my current life, but during my convalescence, another past life intruded. At first, I didn't recognize the visions in my mind as memories from a past life. I attributed them to hallucinations from pain pills I was taking, but when the memories continued to impinge on my consciousness after I went off the medication, I realized I'd soon have another past life to honor during this one. From approximately 1789 to 1844, I lived as a Hawaiian woman named Kiele, which translated means gardenia or fragrant blossom. I didn't have a clue how I'd honor Kiele's life, but I'd find a way. And Kiele's life would enhance my already completely fulfilling current life. My present life was better than my previous lives, more rewarding, more interesting, mostly because the memories from past lives enriched this one. I hoped my current life would be a long one. I loved and was loved. I had friends. I'd become an important artist with a stellar future ahead of me. I'd found my wife, and I had a daughter, a beautiful little girl that I cherished, who would soon call me Daddy. And Mary and I would have more children to love and guide through their young years. Most importantly, I'd found a way to have the love of my life — a forbidden love — by my side for the rest of my life. What more could I want? The answer to that question was easy. I wanted to remember this life during my next. ------- The End ------- Posted: 2006-06-12 Last Modified: 2007-06-06 / 11:56:02 am ------- http://storiesonline.net/ -------