Note: This story first appeared in one of the Invictus series of print zines.

Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe she was just in a snit. Whatever, things were simply not turning out as she had expected. This preliminary visit to the loft gallery had been intended to give her some insight into this sculptor that Robert was so taken with. She had eagerly anticipated it throughout the long, wearying flight back from the showing in Paris. Trans-Atlantic crossings had always exhausted her; but, this time she was looking forward to setting up an exhibit of this man's works. Robert McCall was not easily impressed, but, though she would probably not admit it, Yvette was more than a little gratified that her father had asked her to promote his 'discovery.' After her arrival at the airport, she had dragged Mickey and Scott here preparatory to meeting Robert at O'Phelan's for dinner. She had foreseen a stimulating conversation with a serious artist. Okay, okay, she admitted sourly, perhaps even an opportunity to impress her brother and Kostmayer with her expertise and grasp of the elusive concepts of the art.

Instead she was left roaming the gallery with the admittedly excellent sculptures while Mickey, Scott and Roman (surely he wasn't born with that name!) sat glued to the television set in the other room watching the end of a hockey game. Their only contribution to the esthetics of the occasion had come when Mickey ran a finger appreciatively along the flank of an elongated sculpture of a female nude. Yvette's position of authority had been immediately usurped by Roman's announcement that there were only a few minutes left of the Rangers' game, followed immediately by a New York version of the Exodus into the cramped living room.

No longer buoyed by expectation, she had felt the weight of fatigue settle on her with a heavy hand. The groans and grunts that substituted for conversation whenever men got together in their TV sports rites filtered out of the other room. Maybe that was what was irritating the hell out of her. They were enjoying themselves and she felt left out.

Sculptured figures lurked around her with an almost threatening presence when she entered the second room of the semi-dark gallery. The artist really was quite good, and she could see why Robert had been intrigued. The pieces had an exaggerated appearance that was more suggested than actual. They bordered on impressionistic without crossing the boundary into distorted, and there was an innate gracefulness to each piece that touched her even through the film of weariness that colored her mood. Catching her foot on the scrollwork base of a pedestal, she nearly tripped and had an instantaneous, horrifying vision of tumbling in the darkness, destroying hours of work. With a sigh, she sank to the cushion in the recessed window seat next to her. Just for a minute, she thought, until she got her bearings. It really had been foolish not to turn on the light when she'd entered the room. But there had been something deliciously eerie about wending her way in near-darkness through figures frozen into place all around her.

The window seat cushion was wonderfully comfortable and she let her head rest against the frame. Almost too long. She felt her mind drifting at the fringes of sleep and jerked herself awake. There was still dinner at Pete's. Then she could sleep the rest of the night away. It would hardly do for Scott and Mickey, not to mention Robert's protege, to find her snoring in the window when they finally came out of their television-induced trance. A quick glance at the sculptures failed to stir her interest and her gaze drifted out the window. Freezing rain lent a fine mist to the air, a light fall, but she could sense the cold through the glass. It gave her a remarkably clear view of the wet streets. Her mind began its sleep-ward drift again as her eyes idly scanned the brownstone facade of the building directly across from her perch. Her vision crossed to the corner office and started back when she jolted awake and focused in on the lighted room across from her position.

Not quite sure why the silent drama unfolding there caught her attention so sharply, she watched the obviously furious woman stalk a path through the room, then march past the window. Only temporarily out of sight, she came back into view, one finger raised in a tirade aimed at someone out of Yvette's line of vision. Long blonde hair floated around her in a loose sweep as she spun again on one heel, silent rage transmitted in each line of her body. Perhaps it was the dress that caught Yvette's eye. It was a lightweight summer frock, out of place for the weather, but clinging with a soft molding swirl to the agitated body within it. Boy, is your fashion timing off, Yvette began the thought as she stifled a yawn.

The yawn mutated into a gasping choke as her breath caught in her throat. As the woman began another twisting turn in her restless prowl, a man suddenly loomed into view and clutched her from behind in a vise-like grip, one arm around her waist pinning her arms to her sides. Like one of the statues that surrounded Yvette in a parody of action, they froze momentarily in the frame provided by the window before the woman reacted enough to struggle.

Instinctively, Yvette backed from the window, one hand to her mouth to still the scream that couldn't make it past her throat. Her fascinated eyes refused to release her. She stared into the woman's face.

Only a tiny, reflex shake of Yvette's head greeted the sight of a knife, its size magnified by her mute terror, that appeared and snaked around the woman. It hovered before her a fraction of a second, tormenting both victim and observer.

No time, Yvette's mind screamed at her. There's no time.

The blade touched white skin. Without hesitation it slashed across and down. Blood spurted onto the gay floral print of the dress. For the briefest flash of a moment, the woman's eyes were wide open, her mouth a soundless hole of terror. Yvette imagined she could see the color of those eyes. They bored into her. With accusation? Appeal?

Unable to break away, unable to call for help, Yvette watched the eyes close. The woman sagged gently to the floor, out of sight behind the window sill. A second set of eyes now possessed Yvette's full attention as her gaze travelled from the remembered image of the woman back up to the man who had let her fall. He glanced out through the rain polished glass. She memorized his face even as her mind shrieked at her to get out of the window before he saw her. His gaze passed her position, then back across while she stood rooted at her vantage point.

When he bent to what she could imagine was his next grisly task, she realized that she had been invisible because of her failure to turn on the lights. It took a physical wrench of will power to break the gravity of horror that held her immobile. Breath rushed into her lungs with a painful gasp and she pushed away from the window, lunging out of the room, nearly falling headlong through an impeding sculpture.

"Mickey!" she gasped, stumbling into the other room, instinctively groping for the one person present who might be able to handle what she had just witnessed.

Playful irritation vanished instantly as they glanced at her stark white face. She nearly collapsed, but Kostmayer caught her by both arms.

"What?" he demanded, the alarm in his voice almost matching hers.

"Murder!" She barely managed the breath to get the word out. "Someone at -- someone -- there -- " she pointed vaguely with a violently shaking hand "at the window -- someone just killed a woman!"

"Where?"

Was there just a trace of doubt there? Anger sparked into her at the perceived reaction and she clutched his arm, dragging him toward the other room.

"A woman was just murdered!" she repeated, outrage strengthening her. "I saw it. He cut her throat!"

"Scott, call the cops!" Mickey aimed the order over his shoulder as he let her drag him to the window.

A trembling finger aimed at the building across from them, Yvette searched Mickey's eyes for confirmation with a panic he had never seen in her.

"There, the corner room," she said, her voice now a whisper, with that strange reverence people gave events too horrible to immediately accept. "He cut her throat. It was awful. Blood all over her dress. Oh, God, Mickey, he just reached around and -- "

The words broke off as she registered the blankness in his face. Though he was dutifully staring out the rain-slicked window, he wasn't reacting at all. Silent now, barely able to force herself to change the direction of her own gaze, Yvette followed the line of her still-pointing finger. The room was brightly lit. Brightly lit and empty.

*****

Proving to be a true New Yorker, Roman 'didn't want to get involved' and thus remained anonymous and in the loft while the others waited downstairs for the police to arrive. The culmination of that wait had produced another one in the lobby of the brownstone. A renovated hotel, the building had made the transition to apartments, then again to medium-rent offices. It wasn't in bad shape, but had an air of faded elegance that hung over the once-grand lobby like a haunting memory. Ladders and painting equipment piled in one corner spoke of further renovating, or at least a face lift. An 'out of order' sign hung on the lone elevator.

Yvette had begun trembling shortly after the two cops arrived and couldn't seem to stop despite being cocooned in her heavy coat and enveloped within the shelter of her brother's arm. She and Scott perched on the edge of a sofa near the elevator. Mickey stood in his watch dog pose above them, arms crossed, eyes missing nothing. It helped that he had known both of the cops who arrived in response to Scott's call. It also helped that he wasn't on either one's shit list, at least not yet.

"'Vette, it's okay," Scott murmured in the tenth version of the same awkward reassurance, glancing up at Mickey, a plea for some kind of assistance to his uncertain support. Kostmayer could only shrug. Emotional support wasn't his strong suit. Physical support was. Robert's kids could always count on Mickey to protect them with everything he had in him, but they were on their own when it came to dealing with the traumas life dealt. Watching Yvette's huge, unfocused eyes caused him a twinge of regret, but still he didn't have anything helpful to offer until he knew what was going on.

He was spared the need to contribute supportive small talk by the return of one of the uniformed patrolmen from the stairwell. The young cop wasn't doing too good a job of masking his confusion as he strode over to them.

"Miss Marcel," he said with a careful courtesy that instantly set off alarm bells in Mickey, "would you please come upstairs and see if you can identify the man there."

Even through her shock, Yvette read some of the skepticism in the officer's expression. She glanced at Mickey as if she were going to ask him something, but thought better of it. Nodding, she got shakily to her feet, leaning on Scott's arm for support and wordlessly followed the cop into the semi-dark stairwell. At the third floor, they had to step around a pile of tarps and painting equipment as they started down the hall. The odor of paint hung tenaciously in the air, the fumes vaguely nauseating. The paint on this floor must not even be dry.

Ushering them in ahead, the cop had to wait momentarily while Yvette composed herself enough to enter and face what she expected in the office. Scott's arm tightened around her shoulders and she stepped through the door.

The first thing that registered in her mind was that there was no blood. There should be blood, lots of it. Memory stirred with a painful twitch and bile rose in her throat. The blood had poured from the woman's throat like a dam broken open. There should be blood.

Only then did she manage to focus in on the man at the desk.

His face was red with indignation, his eyes bulging in unmistakable anger. Veins in his reddened neck looked close to bursting. More blood, she thought in her confusion. If his veins exploded, there would be more blood. Distracted, she did another quick visual scan of the room. Nothing. Not even a stain to mar the unbroken expanse of blue and gold carpet.

"Is this the man you saw, Miss Marcel?" the older cop prompted when she didn't speak.

Yvette looked at him as if he had asked the wrong question. Her own mind raced with questions. But just as there was no blood, there were no answers.

"No," she croaked, then shook her head and tried again. "No, this isn't the man. Where's -- ?" She couldn't make herself ask the obvious.

"I told you I don't know what the hell you're talking about." The man was on his feet, his face florid, anger rapidly escalating now that she had actually said 'no.' "You have no right coming in here, scaring the hell out of me, and making absurd accusations."

Yvette felt her brother's arm tighten protectively around her. She was grateful for the support, for without it she felt she would surely fall, just as the woman had fallen...

"There should be blood." She finally managed to get the words around the blockage in her throat. "He cut her throat. I saw it." Her voice faded at the last as if even she were beginning to doubt it.

The older cop, his expression now bordering on irritation, glanced at Kostmayer before saying, "There's no one else here, Miss Marcel. You can see that. No body. No murderer. Are you sure you... " He hesitated, his eyes again touching on Mickey. "Are you sure you weren't mistaken? I mean, about the room? Maybe even the floor? Perhaps you were watching another floor?"

"Or maybe you just imagined it?" The man behind the desk tossed in the suggestion, his tone making it an accusation. "Maybe you needed a little excitement?"

"Mr. Chandler," the older cop interrupted, edging out any response from either Mickey or Scott. "I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. You understand we'll have to have some people come up and check out the room, but everything looks fine, so I wouldn't worry about it. I'm sorry about the inconvenience." He was already edging them out as he finished his spiel, closing the door on the diatribe of law suits and commissioners and attorneys that was just getting up a good head of steam behind them.

*****

"Robert, she's lucky she's not being charged with making a false report. There's still no guarantee that Chandler won't make good on his assorted threats to sue." Alice Shepherd spun on one heel and aimed a coffee cup at McCall in place of her index finger. She was tired, ready to go home and had put up with all the McCalls she wanted for one day. Yvette had been escorted into the station barely coherent. Exhaustion and hysteria had made her shrill and angry. That there seemed to be no basis for her accusations didn't help anyone's mood.

Scott, automatically defensive of his sister, had been a handful in his own way. Even Mickey, who seemed prone at this point to put the entire incident off to airline food and sleeplessness, had gone into his McCall-protective mode. Long before Robert had stormed in to take up the banner, Alice had been ready to call it a night.

"Surely you're not suggesting she made this up?" Robert demanded, flinging aside his woolen scarf for the third time as it shifted with his gesturing. "I assure you, Alice, my daughter is not prone to flights of fantasy."

"How do you know that, Robert?" Alice snapped, with a guilty glance over her shoulder to be sure she wasn't overheard. "Do you know her well enough to make such a statement?" She should have regretted the question. In her present mood, she didn't.

It had the effect of completely deflating McCall. He gave up on controlling the scarf and tugged it from his neck, twisting it restlessly in his hands. "No," he finally said, his tone subdued and full of regret.

"I didn't mean that, Robert," she retreated, one hand on his arm, her eyes searching his face, trying to erase the pain she had caused. "It's just that she's tired. She saw something, but obviously not what she thought she saw. Maybe in an entirely different room. She could even have fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing. Who knows when you're tired what you're going to say or do." She heard her own plea for forgiveness, but he either missed it or ignored it.

"Perhaps. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Have you checked out this Adam Chandler?" McCall wasn't about to let it go.

Alice sighed in aggravation. "Of course, we did, Robert. Nothing. Nothing in the office. Nothing in our files. Nothing."

The sharpness in her tone finally seemed to get through to him. He graced her with a smile, patted her arm in his occasionally irritating paternal manner and said, "Thank you, Alice. I know you'll check it out thoroughly. May we take Yvette home now?"

The temptation to refuse the request only caused a moment's hesitation, then she answered the infectious smile with a weary one of her own. "Sure. Take her home. Everybody get some sleep. I don't want to see any of you in here for a week, McCall."

With a repeat of the smile, he left to round up his erstwhile dinner companions. There would be no pleasant meal this evening.

*****

Tossing and turning had never been one of McCall's favorite pastimes. He couldn't even prowl the apartment with Yvette asleep in the spare bedroom and Scott sprawled out on the couch in the living room. He was effectively trapped in his bedroom without even the solace of a cup of tea.

Alice's challenge kept replaying in his mind. She was right. Robert hardly knew Yvette well enough to make any statements about her nature or habits. That weighted him with a profound sadness. Was he fated to be a stranger to his children, no matter what he did to try to atone for the mistakes of his past?

Somehow, when he had learned Yvette's real identity, he had grabbed at that knowledge as if it were a second chance. A chance he had never been allowed with Kathy. Kathy, who was never given the option of growing up. He had always imagined that his marriage to Kay had died with their tiny daughter. Whenever he looked back on that union, it seemed irrevocably tied to the loss of their child, a loss that Kay still blamed him for. No matter that it was disease that took her. No matter that he had come home before Kathy died. He was at Kay's side when the child worsened, then lingered briefly like a rose bloomed too soon into a garden still held in winter's hand -- and died.

He had stood beside his grieving wife at the funeral with the absurdly tiny coffin, unable to comfort her because she shut him out. Even then she had blamed him, his job, for everything that soured in their lives. But he had been there.

He had been the one to attempt to explain the unexplainable to his six year old son. Kay had virtually collapsed, alternately clutching Scott close to her and pushing him away. Robert had tried to fill the void while riding out the ebb and flow of her emotions. It had been years before he realized that he had never come to terms with his own loss. Too many years.

Yvette had both reopened those wounds and provided some of the healing he needed. But he almost felt as if he had a single daughter. An infant and then suddenly, with no transition, a woman. As if someone had stolen all the years in between.

She had come to him a whole, completed adult without his ever having had the opportunity to help fashion her thoughts or influence her childhood. He had been given the final pages of a book without the road map provided by the earlier chapters. In truth, he had missed much more than her childhood. He didn't really know her at all.

What he had been given were brief glimpses of a stranger, not the intimate knowledge a father has of his daughter. He didn't even know what her favorite color was.

How was he to judge how she would or would not react?

He couldn't. He didn't know his daughter well enough to judge. However, she was Manon's daughter, and Phillip Marcel had raised her, so it wasn't likely she would be prone to hysterical imaginings. Therefore, as soon as it was light, he was going to conduct his own investigation.

*****

Paint tarps, brushes and rollers were piled in one corner of the small hallway that housed the elevator. There was no 'out of order' sign on the metal doors, though McCall recalled Mickey saying it had been there the night Yvette saw the killing. He was a bit surprised to find himself thinking of it in that light now. Not 'imagined the murder' but 'saw the killing.' The presence of the young woman in the morgue shouldn't have convinced him yet. Too many bodies turned up in back alleys in the city. It was hardly conclusive.

Rusted metal wheels rattled on the tile floor and Robert nodded casually to the elderly janitor that crossed the main floor with his mop and bucket. Curiosity made a quick pass across the wrinkled face, but didn't last long. Apparently the man had lost his interest in life with his youth. There was a wasted look in his rheumy eyes.

"When did they fix the lift?" Robert asked quickly before he could get out of range.

"Lift?" The man scratched at his liver-spotted cheek.

"Elevator," Robert amended. "When was it fixed?"

"Weren't never broken," the janitor said with a shake of his head and shuffled his way toward one of the first floor offices without elaborating.

McCall watched him go, then shrugged and entered the small elevator, pushing the button for three. It rode up smoothly and opened onto a dark and silent hallway.

Though the paint smell was heavy here, the workmen had obviously completed their task on this floor and taken the signs of their labor with them. Oyster-shell white did its best to brighten the murky hallway. His footsteps muffled by the shag carpeting, Robert headed for the end office. This late, there were no lights filtering through frosted glass doors and he didn't really expect to run into any resistance. His earlier check of the building security had assured him there was virtually none in existence.

The door was locked, but not for long.

He stepped into a dark office, the paint smell now faint, as if this end of the hall had been painted first. A penlight gave him minimal aid in his almost cursory search of the room.

Nothing indicated that a violent death had occurred here. Nor did he find anything out of place for a business office. Paper clips and note pads were in the drawers. Nothing more ominous than a stapler and electric pencil sharpener sat beside the desk pad. A studio photo of a rather dumpy woman and two little girls stood at an angle in a silver frame on one corner of the desk.

The papers in the other drawers all related to stock market quotations and computer printouts of seemingly diverse business assets and liabilities.

He was getting his signals, but they seemed to be pointing in opposite directions. He carefully locked the door behind him as he left.

******

Two good nights' sleep stood between Yvette and the gradually fading nightmare she had given up swearing she had witnessed. By now the nagging, insistent voice that tugged at her conscience was effectively stilled by the gentle solicitousness of her father and brother. Even Mickey seemed to be humoring her. The usually blunt Kostmayer treading softly around her feelings would have been amusing under other circumstances.

The theory that she had fallen asleep in the window seat was becoming more attractive with the cushion of time.

She had kept herself busy setting up the showing for Robert's protege sculptor. The advance word seemed to be encouraging. Though she wasn't fond of Roman, personally, she couldn't fail to appreciate his talent, and the idea of being in on the launching of his career intrigued her.

The first return visit to the loft had been the most difficult, but Robert stood guard while she wandered the rooms, finally going to the window with its now innocuous view.

A few more contacts, countless arrangements, a guest list to be carefully compiled -- that was all that stood between her and Roman's (God! but she hated that name!) debut.

Pulling her coat tighter around her, she ducked her head into the rising wind and hastened down the crowded sidewalk. Twice, she cast fearful glances behind, a prickle of apprehension giving birth to brief paranoia. Neither time had she seen anything to warrant the worry.

The light touch of rain on her hair quickened her steps, but it was falling in earnest before she could make it to her appointment. Head tucked into the collar of her coat, she walked straight into the arms of a tall, overcoated stranger. An apology died on her lips.

Large, gloved hands steadied her, pushing her back to arms' length. She looked up into dark eyes set into a heavy boned, coarsely handsome face. The eyes grasped her in a hypnotic hold. Her body recognized him before her brain made the connection. A deathly cold welled up inside her, nausea tickled the back of her throat. Her breath lodged in her lungs.

She recoiled at his touch, darting out of his hands. He made no effort to stop her as she backed away from him, her voice locked in her throat. Instinct overriding fear, she spun away on the wet sidewalk and ran, terror lending speed to her feet. She didn't dare look behind her.

Blue uniforms huddled beneath an awning drew her like a beacon. The two cops looked up from their coffee cups as she faltered to a halt in front of them.

"That man!" she gasped, her breath stolen by the combination of fright and exertion. "He's trying to kill me!"

Blank faces met her panicked whisper.

With a sinking sense of deja vu, she stared at them for a long moment before turning and searching the mildly interested, very wet, pedestrians that glanced her way. He was gone. She had known before she looked that he would be. Had he ever been there?

"Lady, you all right?" The cop, whose arm she was still gripping desperately, asked the question with the same tone of solicitousness he would accord to a frightened child.

Swallowing her fear, absorbing her own questions, she forced a composure she couldn't feel. "Yes," she managed. "I'm sorry. I must have been mistaken. I've had -- It's been -- " It was hopeless. She gave up. Instead, still afraid to turn back down the darkening streets, she asked, "Could you get me a cab? I really need to go home."

The look she got in response to the request told her that the two cops thought it was an excellent idea. At least she would be out of their jurisdiction while she finished her nervous breakdown. They wasted no time hailing a cab.

*****

"Robert, I'm not imagining it."

His patient look only infuriated her.

"You don't believe me," she accused. "Mickey doesn't believe me. Even Scott thinks I'm imagining things. What are you all waiting for? Does he have to kill me before you do anything? Like that poor woman. Oh God." She sank into the chair by the fireplace. The flames bathed her face in a warm golden glow, but their natural charm was wasted on her. "That woman. How can someone be murdered and no one notices?" Her anger forgotten, she looked up at Robert with anguish in her face. "Can you imagine? Being killed so brutally, and no one even misses you."

"Yvette." Robert leaned over her chair, his compassion edging out his impatience. "I know this is upsetting, but there is really nothing to corroborate what you think you saw. If this man was really who you think he is, he would have tried to harm you in some way. He wouldn't have just helped you steady yourself then disappeared." He watched her face, realizing how little he did know her. "You were tired," he continued, his voice automatically falling into one of soothing reassurance. "You said yourself that you could have fallen asleep without realizing it."

"Do you really think I imagined it?"

Her sharp tone pushed him away more effectively than if she had reached up and shoved him. He sat on the couch, retrieving his cup of tea. He took a tentative sip, but it had grown cold. He set it back on the table.

When he looked back up, she was still staring at him, her expression a challenge to him to explain away her assertions. "You admit yourself that you were exhausted the other night, Yvette," he began, knowing they had traveled this ground often enough by now that there ought to be road signs. "It was dark. Raining. You were in a strange place -- "

She cut him off. "I've heard all the arguments. All the rationalizations. Between you and Mickey and Scott, I've heard three versions of the same lecture more often than I care to remember. That's the problem." She broke off her rising voice. "I still remember it. So clearly. It can't possibly have been my imagination. I saw her. I could identify her." An idea pricked at her mind, at once exciting and horrible. "The morgue. We could go to the morgue and see if anyone has been brought in that matches the description. Then at least we'd know if there really was a body."

"Dear God, Yvette," Robert sputtered the protest with a guilty twinge. "You can't be serious. I am not taking you to the morgue to inspect all the Jane Does that have been brought in in various states of decay. If you are already having -- " He halted the thought. Too late.

"Having what? Delusions? Hallucinations? Is that what you think?" Her tea cup clinked against the saucer, dangerously hard. Fortunately the delicate china didn't shatter in her hand. Deliberately, she set it on the coffee table. "That's what you think, isn't it? You and Mickey and Scott. You all think I'm crazy. Delusional. How dare you!"

"Yvette, there is a vast difference between delusional and overtired. Be reasonable."

"Reasonable? You want reasonable? I'll show you reasonable -- "

His smile surprised her. "What?" she demanded.

"Nothing." But the smile deepened, grew contagious.

"What?" she repeated, but this time her own lips quirked in imitation of his. "Tell me!"

With a gentle shake of his head, he said, "Sometimes I just catch a glimpse of what it would have been like being there... watching you and Scott grow up, rather than missing out on it. That's all."

The smile had her now. She practically giggled at his obvious pleasure. "Are you trying to tell me I'm behaving childishly?"

He laughed. "Of course not." The grin told a different tale. "You're just -- well, reacting... "

"Childishly," she finished, sinking back into the cushions, a great deal of the tension washing out of her in a physical wave of relief. It would be very difficult, indeed, to feel anything but safe here in this warm, familiar room with the loving presence of her recently acquired father. Blood soaked bodies and hulking strangers with piercing eyes faded out to some semblance of insignificance. She settled into the drowsy warmth of the chair. Her eyes had closed when she suddenly started awake.

"Dinner!" she said and Robert glanced at her curiously, his own mood uprooted again.

"What about it?"

"Scott will be here. I promised to fix something special."

"Yvette, I'm sure he'll understand. It's pouring down rain. You're -- "

"Don't you dare tell me I'm tired." There was a genuine undertone of warning in her voice. "I promised him a special dinner, and I'm going to fix it. I won't be long."

"I'll drive you. I have an errand to run. I can drop you at the store, take care of my errand and be back in time to pick you up when you are done shopping."

"You don't have to." The plea was in her eyes, however.

"I want to."

*****

"Whatcha after, McCall?" The heavy-set man looked up from his book. "You equalizing things again?"

"You might say that, Sammy." Robert glanced at the paperback. A murder mystery. Typical for long nights here in the morgue with Sammy Kincaid. By now Sammy could concoct a plausible story for each and every body that passed through his cold and lonely station. McCall was not in the mood for Kincaid's flights of fancy tonight, though. "I was wondering if you had any Jane Does in the last couple of days."

His eyes crinkling with delight at the prospect of distraction, Sammy creaked back in the worn chair, discarding his book. "Anything in particular? Gonna give me any hints?"

"Young lady, long blonde hair, with her throat cut," Robert said. "That particular enough?"

Some of the interest died out in the small dark eyes. "Too easy, McCall," Sammy sighed with honest regret. "We got one, but she's not a Jane Doe. Nope, had identification and everything. Wanta see her?"

Hiding his surprise, Robert nodded and followed Kincaid to the wall of metal doors. With a gesture that bordered on a flourish, Sammy pulled one open. Despite having felt like he had waded through a forest of dead bodies in his career, Robert was never quite prepared for the pasty lifelessness of a corpse. This was a beautiful girl. Once, he amended the thought. It was difficult to remain beautiful when there was no animation in a face. An irregular line of stitching marked the porcelain neck and he could see the start of the autopsy incision.

"Where was she found?" he asked as Sammy slid the palette back in and latched the door.

"In a doorway down by the docks. Not a very good place for a woman to be alone. 'Course it didn't matter by then."

"You said she had identification."

"Yeah. A purse and stuff. The cops have it. I got a name, if that'll help."

"Yes, it would help very much."

"Sarah Parker. Pretty name, huh?"

"Yes," McCall agreed reluctantly. "The police didn't happen to mention what she was doing in that area, did they?"

"Nope. It was your friend, Isadore Smalls, that brought her in though. He oughta be able to help you. She the one you're looking for?"

"I'm not sure, Sammy," McCall answered honestly. "She could be."

*****

Expecting gourmet items after the insistence, Robert merely shook his head at the bulk of Yvette's purchases which seemed to revolve around an addiction to chocolate.

The bags of ice cream and pastries she handed him to carry inspired a comment. "It looks as if we are having a seven course dessert."

Surprisingly, she took the good-natured jibe in stride. "No," she retorted, "we're having Scott for dinner. He believes in the four basic food groups: chocolate, junk, dessert and pizza."

"My arteries are hardening at the very thought."

"Don't worry," she smiled up at him. "I can even make chocolate entrees palatable."

"Whatever happened to 'becoming modesty'? Is it passe now?"

"Oh, out with the dark ages. We're into assertive self esteem now."

Rain misted around them in the gathering darkness as they hefted the grocery bags and headed for the car. A flower stand drew Yvette like a magnet.

"For the centerpiece," she called over her shoulder as she deposited her armload on him and dashed to the stand with its assortment of soaked bouquets. While he waited in the increasingly miserable drizzle, she pored over the offerings, finally selecting one that suited her whim.

Only years of practice and finely honed intuitions focused McCall in on the dark sedan before it began its swerve. Even as the car accelerated and veered for the sidewalk, he dropped the packages and lunged for his daughter. An instant before the vehicle plowed into the cart, Robert enveloped Yvette in his arms and spun her out of its path. Their margin of escape was effectively illustrated by the numbing impact of the left fender against the calf of his leg. His balance gone with the stunning blow, he threw them both into a roll. The cart splintered into flying debris and exploding flowers that would have done justice to a Clint Eastwood movie. The vendor narrowly avoided becoming part of the grill work of the sedan.

Squealing tires signalled the departure of the car, but not before McCall had seen the license number. He had the feeling that wouldn't do him any good.

*****

The phone call from Robert had only been a minor surprise. Mickey had been bothered by the missing body routine ever since it had happened. Yvette could become entangled in her emotional reactions just like her brother tended to do, but she had always struck him as basically level headed. Certainly not the type to imagine grisly murders for an evening's entertainment, tired or not. The lack of evidence had lulled him as much as it did Robert, but the attempted run-down wasn't completely unexpected.

Hide by and watch had long been one of Kostmayer's game plans.

If there was anything going down, it would eventually crawl out of the woodwork.

He sprinted up the two flights of stairs and knocked on the door. Scott let him in, his expression carefully controlled, which only served to tell Kostmayer that he was both worried and upset.

Yvette, her face pale and drawn, sat on the couch beside Robert. McCall's right leg was propped on a pillow on the coffee table. The cane he had used two years ago when he was shot by the KGB had been unearthed from its hiding place.

Mickey nodded at the leg as he shrugged out of his coat. "What happened?"

"Just a glancing blow." McCall dismissed the injury. "It seems that we need to do a little more investigating into Yvette's murder victim," he added. "This was no accident. I called in the license plate. It was stolen, of course, an hour before the attempt on Yvette's life. They'll no doubt find it abandoned somewhere in the very near future."

"Want me to do some backtracking on Chandler?" Mickey asked from his perch on the arm of the chair across from them.

"No, I want you to stay with Yvette while I run her description of the killer through the Agency computers. I'll call Control, as soon as we have something to go on."

Mickey merely nodded.

*****

"Robert, it's still all circumstantial. There is no proof that anything happened. In fact, everything points to an overactive imagination exaggerated by jet lag. You said so yourself, as I recall."

Isadore Smalls flopped into a chair behind his cluttered desk, searching for a clear spot to set his coffee cup. He gave up and put it down on an already battered file folder. Lines of irritation marked his dark face. There was enough proven crime to keep him busy well past retirement and death. He hardly needed Robert McCall stirring up new problems.

"What about the body in the morgue?"

"It's not a Jane Doe. It's still circumstantial, at best."

"And the car that nearly killed Yvette?"

"Typical New York stolen vehicle driver. They're not known for observing traffic laws, Robert. Aren't you just possibly seeing conspiracies where they don't really exist?"

"You won't do anything?"

A gust of expelled air seemed to thrust Isadore back into the chair. He let his rangy body slump into a spine-killing slouch. "There's simply not enough evidence to ask for a search warrant, McCall, much less an arrest warrant." The shift to last name should have told Robert that Smalls was reaching the limits of his tolerance. McCall's expression said he was ignoring the signal. The worst thing about it all was that Isadore really wished he could do something to help.

"I'm merely asking you to do your job, Isadore." An insidious flush of red began its creep up McCall's jawline. "You are always exhorting me to let the police do their jobs. All I am asking is that you do yours. Protect my daughter. Before she is killed, like that young woman in the morgue."

"Do my job?" The words were dangerously low and quiet. With a creak of protest from the chair, Isadore straightened, leaning on his elbows across the desk. That was one button he was very tired of having pushed, and particularly tired of McCall pushing it. "Let me point out something to you, Robert. I do my job. I do it on a regular basis with my hands usually tied behind my back. You never had to worry about the niceties of legal procedures, did you? You didn't have to deal with constitutional rights, judges and lawyers who were only waiting for a misstep to throw months of work out of court. You always had Uncle Sam and a private contingent of mercenaries and an unlimited supply of bucks behind you. And if none of that worked, there were always the tools of your trade, like torture and summary execution to solve any complications. I do my job, Robert. The way I do it may not be convenient for you, but I have to work with what I've got. If it's not good enough for you, why don't you use your own resources and let me fumble about as best I can."

For the first time since Isadore had known the retired agent, Robert seemed actually at a loss for a response. When he spoke there was none of the arrogance Smalls had come to expect. "This is my daughter, Isadore. I need your help. Please."

Another sigh escaped and Smalls thought it must be the sound of the wind being effectively taken out of the sails of his indignation. All he wanted in the world right now was for Robert to put on his mantel of arrogance so that Isadore could indulge in a little self-righteous indignation and toss him out of the office. There was no way he could turn down the request when it was couched in vulnerability.

"Bring her in, Robert. I'll have a sketch artist ready and waiting for you. After that, you're on your own. You'll have to give me something I can work with."

*****

It was quiet. Deathly still, Yvette reflected, with a morbid twist of her mind. Just exactly what you would expect of a morgue. And cold. An unearthly cold that seeped inside her. She shivered, wondering how much was temperature and how much was dread.

She had forgotten that her arm was linked through Robert's until he patted her hand solicitously and scared the hell out of her. Her laugh tittered out, every fiber of her nervousness carried on the sound. Her attempt at a smile was a dismal failure. Robert simply patted her again as they followed the gray haired attendant to the wall of aluminum doors.

He turned to face them, a grandfatherly, soft spoken man, and asked, "Number 11274?"

Robert nodded silently, and Yvette felt her fingers dig into the rough fabric of his sleeve. Too late, she began a "Wait -- " but the attendant had already reached for the handle. The slab glided out halfway. The woman was covered from the chest down, her shoulders an unnatural alabaster. The face was so still that Yvette almost thought someone was playing a sick joke and had substituted one of Roman's statues.

The eyes were closed and there was a puffiness she didn't recall. The long, golden hair that had swirled about when the woman turned in anger, was a strawy mass of pillow for her head, brittle and lifeless.

Somehow the beauty Yvette remembered so vividly was gone, fled with the violence that had taken her life. Yvette consciously avoided looking at the woman's throat. She remembered all too well. There was no doubt. It was the same woman. So different in the eerie stillness of death.

Yvette nodded once and Robert turned her away immediately. She didn't see him gesture to the attendant. She had no sensation of leaving the room. She knew only that it was a long time before she felt warm again.

*****

The composite sketch lay on the table between them like a mute challenge.

"What possible reason can you have for not telling me about this? And I don't mean now. I mean when it happened. Can you stand there and tell me I didn't have the right to know?"

"Control, there seemed to be no... "

"No what?"

"It all seemed to be a misunderstanding." Robert considered his own statement a moment, then added, "The whole incident has been rather peculiar right from the outset."

"My goddaughter does not imagine things."

"So it appears." Robert didn't press the apparent ownership of blood ties angle. In truth, Control's relationship with Yvette far outdistanced his own, at least in longevity. "The point is that now I -- we -- need your help, your resources, to keep Yvette safe."

"Anything, Robert, you know that." Dropping into the chair behind his cluttered desk, Control tugged at an already loosened tie.

"His approaching her on the street when she was alone can only mean that he was testing whether or not she could identify him. He has to be a professional or he would have panicked and attacked her then and there. That he was willing to wait for the proper setting would lead one to believe he is not an amateur."

Control nodded agreement. "Then there might be a record of him in our system somewhere. I'll send some people over to watch Yvette."

McCall declined the offer. "Mickey's with her. I hardly want her cordoned off with a phalanx of agents who will only serve to call attention to her. That is my choice," he added meaningfully. Perhaps he was resorting to a territorial imperative, after all.

"All right," Control conceded a bit too readily. Worry lined his face, and McCall suddenly realized that he wasn't playing one-upmanship. He loved Yvette; had since she was born. There was only distress in his face, probably the first time in years Control had allowed genuine emotion to leave a mark on him. They were on the same side in this. It had been far too long since they had worked toward a common goal. Unfortunately, it had to take a risk of this magnitude to bring them to that point.

"I'll need the use of your computers, and an operator, of course. Then someone who can manipulate a composite sketch."

"He's on his way in now. And Bea Boarman can do the composite work."

"And perhaps your help," Robert said with a trace of a smile. "There is something... familiar about the description of the murderer that nags at me."

"All right." Control picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk and punched in a series of numbers.

*****

The metal plate on her desk read "Computer Composite Technician." Bea had always thought of her job as more of a juggling act. Generally, she enjoyed it, but some days lasted longer than others. Control, himself, had summoned her tonight and she wasn't about to grouse about being tired or overworked in his presence.

She had taken the original drawing the police artist had composed and added facial hair, removed facial hair, used and discarded every possible hairline, broadened the nose, narrowed it, realigned the lips and tried every structural alteration known to medical science. She had carefully explained to Robert that she could replicate nearly any potential alteration caused by plastic surgery or manufactured disguise. The important thing was that it all came down to surface changes. The basic skull structure remained the same. She could play out any number of terrains on any given face, but some things were constants.

Hours had passed without a break, and neither man seemed satisfied with the results of her efforts. She was just about to suggest a coffee break when Control barked in her ear. "Stop! There! Look at him, Robert. See anything familiar?"

An angular face with a hawk's nose, dark, small, piercing eyes sheltered by a heavy brow-line. A slightly receding hairline, marked by a widow's peak.

"Yes." McCall settled back in his chair, his fingers tented in front of his face, his eyes pinned to the drawing. "Now, what do you imagine would be the connection between a New York businessman and Dietrich?"

Control glanced away from the drawing. "Unless Dietrich has given up contract killing and taken up stocks and bonds, I'd say he was plying his trade. What do you know about the dead lady?"

"Jacob should be on his way up here with some information on her any minute now." McCall shrugged the question off with a wave of his hand. "How many years has it been since Dietrich has been seen in this country?"

"At least ten."

McCall was silent, remembering the last time his path had crossed Dietrich's. A botched assignment, a blown ring and several good operatives lost in the bargain. Recalling the mission, McCall was reminded that it was the first assignment he'd worked with a new agent, one Michael Kostmayer. It had also almost been Mickey's last assignment and, under his tan, there was still the faintest hint of a scar on the side of his neck as proof of how close he had come. Mickey would be very interested in finding out that Dietrich was behind this.

"Is Dietrich still working for the Czechs?"

"No, he left their employment, rather suddenly, when it was discovered that he was taking outside jobs because they paid several times more than his 'Worker's Paradise' bosses were able to afford."

"Where did he go from there?"

"South America, mostly, working for the Medallen cartel for starters." "Does he still have Colombian ties?"

"Last I heard he was working with a Peruvian cartel." Control tugged at his tie, a sign that he was fading back into memory. "After he was deported, he was spotted in Nicaragua for a while. A knife across the throat would be his style, wouldn't it?"

"Chandler doesn't look like the type to have international connections."

"Dietrich has been known to contract out for 'small' jobs, too, Robert, if they pay enough, not just the international stuff." Control nodded at Bea who was obviously waiting only for the go-ahead to call it a night. She smiled in relief at his gesture and wasted no time retrieving her coat and purse.

"You think Chandler has drug ties?" Robert juggled the idea.

"You said he was some kind of broker?"

McCall nodded.

"Money laundering? Phony businesses? Could be any number of things he's involved in. I find it hard to believe Dietrich would hire out for a minor league hit. It's got to be something that was making the big boys anxious to pull him into the country -- "

The door opening cut off the speculation. Stock stood framed in the doorway, uncertain if he was supposed to be interrupting. "I got the information." His voice was hesitant. "Claire said I'd find you here. I hope -- "

"Come in, Jacob." Control spared him the floundering explanation, and Robert took the thin file from him. Stock perched on the edge of the computer table and watched as they glanced quickly through the sheaf of papers.

The glow of the computer-generated picture drew his attention and he asked, "Is this him?"

"We think so." Robert spared the comment, but his focus was obviously elsewhere. "What did Isadore say?"

"Just what's in the papers. They don't tell you a whole lot."

Robert dismissed it with a wave of one hand. "Did Isadore offer any connection to Chandler?"

"No. He said she was a secretary at one of the big stock market firms. She was a nice lady; everybody seemed to like her. He said she was having money problems. She'd gotten into some sort of big debt lately; tried to borrow money but was turned down."

Sighing, McCall looked at the glossy, black-and-white photo of the woman. She was smiling into the camera, her hair a frame for her face, her expression softly beautiful. She looked nothing like the woman in the morgue.

"He said she wasn't killed where they found her," Jacob added and both McCall and Control looked up at him.

"What?"

"Her body was moved there hours after her death."

*****

The trip to the morgue had effectively wiped out Yvette's desire to make dinner. She sat silent and pale on the sofa, sipping at a snifter of brandy, ignoring Scott's attempts to get her to talk.

Mickey didn't bother to join in on the effort. He was familiar with the need for withdrawal, the desire for isolation that came with the aftereffects of shock. He built up the fire and brewed a pot of coffee. It had all the earmarks of being a long night.

He would have preferred that McCall had chosen to stay here with Yvette. Mickey remembered all too well Robert's reaction to an earlier threat to his daughter. He wasn't about to challenge Robert's decision to confront Adam Chandler about dead blondes and international hitmen, though he would have felt better about it if the retired agent had taken some backup with him. McCall's objectivity seemed to suffer greatly, if not disappear altogether, where his children were concerned.

The smoke in the fireplace took on an acrid taint and he pushed at the logs on the grate. Something was wrong. It didn't take long to realize the odor wasn't coming from the fireplace. The shriek of the fire alarm didn't come as much of a surprise seconds later.

"What?" Yvette asked as if emerging from an unpleasant dream. It took her a moment to orient herself, and by then Scott was pulling her bodily off the couch.

Smoke curled up lazily through the wall vents. The fire was below them. "Get out!" Mickey ordered, grabbing coats from the rack near the door. Between them they got Yvette bundled in her heavy, full length coat and pushed her, unprotesting, toward the door.

"Call the fire department?" She shifted out of her daze, but Mickey urged her out the apartment door.

"The alarm's already doing that," he said as they stepped out onto a landing heavy with smoke. Ducking into the cooler air near the floor, they started down the stairs.

Yvette suddenly grabbed at Mickey's shirt, coughing around her words. "Mrs. McPherson. She's in the other apartment. I met her the last time I was here. She's disabled. She'll never make it down the stairs."

"Where?" Mickey demanded.

Coughing uncontrollably, tears streaming from her eyes, Yvette pointed down the hall.

"Get her downstairs," Kostmayer ordered, his eyes holding Scott's, the intentness of his gaze underlining the importance of his directive. "Stay with her. Don't let her out of your sight. Understand?"

"But you might need -- "

"Scott, stay with her!"

Nodding, Scott put an arm around his sister and guided her down the stairs.

*****

"What do you want here? Who are you? I'll call security." The words blustered out of the red faced man behind the desk as Robert McCall strode into the office without knocking.

"Working late?" McCall asked, then, "I wouldn't do that, Mr. Chandler," as the other man reached for the phone. "In the first place," McCall continued as Chandler's hand hesitated over the receiver, "security is quite inadequate in this building. Something I have thoroughly checked, I assure you. In the second place, if you touch that telephone, I will break your hand and perhaps your arm as well."

"Who are you?" The question was much quieter the second time around.

"My name is Robert McCall." Robert stepped up to the desk, his gaze pinning Chandler in his seat. He noted grimly that the man's hand no longer hovered over the phone. "Of course, that will mean nothing to you. At least not yet."

His gloved hand turned the silver-framed picture slightly on the surface of the desk. "Your family?" he asked in a deceptively casual tone of voice.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know what your relationship was to Sarah Parker."

A wash of pallor put the lie to Chandler's answer. "I've never heard of a Sarah Parker."

"Oh, I do sincerely doubt that. Let me refresh your memory." Resting one hip on the edge of the desk, McCall didn't let the relief show on his face as he took the weight off his still sore leg. "You have been 'seeing' Sarah Parker for the last two years. Quite continental of you, of course. A lovely, younger mistress. A faithful and totally ignorant wife and family at home. The best of both worlds."

"I don't -- "

McCall rode over the half-hearted protest. "It was quite the ideal set-up until Miss Parker developed money problems of her own. You either weren't willing to help her out or you were unable to do so. I figure that your real occupation is money laundering. Probably for some drug syndicate. Very dangerous field for a man of limited vision to be in, isn't it, Mr. Chandler? Your employers would hardly appreciate such a liability as a mistress who needed money and might start naming names."

With a hypnotized glaze over his eyes, Chandler merely watched McCall, no longer even attempting an objection.

"One thing I do not understand is how you managed to hire a man of Dietrich's stature to dispose of your little problem. Would you like to explain that to me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"There's a witness, you know. A young lady who saw the entire thing. She has already identified the victim and Dietrich. Are you ready to cooperate yet, or do you need more convincing?"

"You're out of your mind." A hint of confidence touched Chandler's eyes. "There was only that crazy broad that brought the cops in here making all kinds of wild accusations. The cops checked things out. They didn't find anything."

"They didn't look in the right places, did they?" McCall countered. "They saw an 'out of order' sign on the elevator and assumed signs don't lie. The elevator was never out of service, Mr. Chandler, although I am sure you are well aware of that. I suspect if they had checked the lift, they would have found Miss Parker's body right there under their noses."

"You're imagining things."

"The painting activities also proved very beneficial to you and Mr. Dietrich," McCall continued as if there had been no interruption. "If you spread a tarp out on the carpet, something that wouldn't have aroused her suspicions in a building that was being painted, there wouldn't have been any blood stains. Put the body into the non-functioning elevator until the police were gone, then dispose of her later. Quite convenient all the way around."

"You're basing all this on the weight of a statement from one crazy girl?" Chandler's confidence was back; disdain marked his words. By now it had to occur to him that McCall had come alone. The cops were hardly beating down his door.

Robert got to his feet, leaning his weight on the palms of his hands on the desk, his eyes boring into Chandler's. "That 'crazy' girl is my daughter." He leaned closer, his expression barely controlled as he let some of his anger show. "She was nearly killed yesterday. If she is harmed in any way, I will kill you myself in a very, very nasty way."

Chandler's eyes darted away from McCall's for a brief, telling instant. Robert followed the direction of his gaze.

His hand snaked out and grabbed the file before Chandler could move. He opened it slowly, recognizing instantly that it was a police report. Very clearly on the first page was Yvette's full name and Robert's Manhattan address.

*****

"I'm sorry, the number you are trying to reach is temporarily out of order. If you need assistance, please call your operator."

It didn't sound any better the second time. Robert knew his phone wasn't out of order. Not for any legitimate reason.

Isadore Smalls answered the precinct phone himself, an oddity that McCall didn't question. He didn't care why police lieutenants were fielding their own calls. "Get over to my apartment, Isadore," he barked into the receiver. "There's someone after my daughter."

"Robert, the entire fire department of that district's already at your apartment." The answer was so unexpected that at first Robert couldn't even respond. When there was no comment, Isadore continued, "A fire broke out in the basement. No reports of casualties, though, so don't worry. Everybody seems to have gotten out."

"A fire?" The question sounded stupid to McCall's ears. "What fire?"

"Robert, didn't you hear what I -- "

"Isadore, send units there!" McCall's voice cut through the question. "It's a diversion. There's a man on his way over there to kill my daughter."

"Robert, I -- "

"Now, Isadore!"

"Okay."

The first call to Control got him no closer to contact. On the second try, he punched in the Agency's chief's cellular number. It was answered on the second ring.

"Where are you?" McCall demanded without explanation.

"I'm on the way back to the office." Control's tone was unruffled. "I've got the connection between -- "

"Never mind that. Dietrich is after Yvette. He's set a fire in my building." McCall disregarded that most of this was conjecture. His instincts told him differently. "I'm on my way there now."

"So am I."

The phone went dead in his ear.

*****

"Where is he?" Yvette nearly screamed, clutching her brother's arm. "Where's Mickey?"

"It's okay. He'll be okay." Scott's voice barely carried over the noise of the fire equipment and excited voices that surrounded them in the dark. Smoke seeped now out of the lower windows of the brick building as well as the basement, and in spite of his reassurance to Yvette, Scott wasn't at all sure Mickey would make it out of the building. Everything inside him told him to go back, find Kostmayer, and help him. His sister's hold on his arm anchored him to the spot. Mickey had said to stay with her, no matter what.

Torn between duty and instinct, he wasn't prepared when Yvette's hand suddenly slipped off his arm. In the dark and the confusion of people and equipment, he lost her for a split second of panic. Then she was there beside him, tugging on his arm.

"There he is!" she shouted. Scott instinctively looked up the stairs despite her pointing finger aimed down the sidewalk, searching for Mickey in the sea of soot-darkened people, sure she meant she saw him. Yvette jerked his arm once more. "There! The killer!" Then she was gone, running for the blackness of the alleyway, leaving him stunned and rooted to the sidewalk.

His second of indecision made him lose sight of her as she melted into the darkness, and he broke into a run after her, his mind registering only that she was panicking. For no reason -- he thought that against his will, feeling instinctively disloyal. What had... ?

Water cascading over the sidewalk nearly cost him his footing. In the seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he saw her halt her own panicked flight. She turned, saw him, and reached out to him, though the distance was much too great for her hand to reach his.

"No!" Yvette's scream carried through the confusion of receding background noise, her gaze directed behind him now. Scott turned, and had one glimpse of the tall, overcoated man silhouetted in the misty glow of street lamps and fire truck lights like an apparition in a horror movie.

A glint of silver in the man's hand caught the light, and Scott knew it was a knife even before his eyes confirmed it. Sweeping one arm behind him, he made a vague gesture to his sister, hoping she would read it as an order to run. The word stuck in his throat as the silent figure advanced slowly on him, the weapon held loosely in his right hand.

Backing deeper into the alley, hoping Yvette was out of reach, but afraid to take his eyes off the steadily advancing figure in front of him, Scott could hope for no more than a delay. Just let Yvette get away, he thought, his mind blanking out the nagging fear that told him he wasn't going to walk away from this. His heel thunked against a board at the same instant he backed into the dumpster that he should have known was there.

Forcing himself out of the almost hypnotic gaze he had pinned on the man before him, he ducked and grabbed the board, bringing it up in a looping arc. Mickey Mantle he wasn't. He missed the man by a good two feet. He never finished the second swing. The kick to his stomach doubled him over, giving him no chance of recovery from that blow before he was hit again.

A kaleidoscope of light exploded inside his head. He tried to drag in a breath; nothing came. The alley darkened even further, then tilted crazily. Through a muddied cloud, he could see Yvette start toward him, then stop. He tried to call out to her, say her name, but the words faded from his mind. The strength left his legs and he slumped to the wet ground. There was no pain. There was no sensation at all.

*****

The woman was frail, her arms bony with a thin coating of skin stretched over them. Mickey felt he would crush her in his grip as he half-carried her down the stairs through the thickening smoke. He had practically had to wrestle her out of her apartment as she groped through the dark trying desperately to salvage years of memories represented by photos and knick-knacks. Now, she clung to him with a frantic strength, coughing, trying to thank him. Prematurely, he thought, as he choked on heated air. Suddenly she slumped in his grasp and he had to lift her into his arms, straightening up into the strangling smoke. It was impossible to carry her and stay hunched over at the same time.

His lungs were seared with hot air, his eyes streaming tears. He managed to make the bottom step before his knees buckled and both he and his burden fell into the arms of a fire fighter. He relinquished her, and staggered out to the blessed relief of cold night air, his tortured lungs drinking in heady draughts of clear, cool air.

A paramedic reached for him, but he pushed the man away. "I'm okay," he rasped through a raw throat, then doubled over, vomiting black mucous into the gutter. The medic tried again, but Mickey shrugged away from him, his streaming eyes already searching the faces around him.

He saw neither Scott nor Yvette.

*****

The Jaguar slewed sideways in the pooling water and came to a rest nearly a block away, one tire straddling the curb. Robert McCall flung himself out of the driver's side door with surprising agility. He came around the still rocking hood of the car and thrust a path through milling onlookers. It took him only seconds to find Mickey heaving his guts out in the gutter.

"They're out, Robert!" Kostmayer croaked over the din, gasping in enough air to get the words out. "They got out, but I lost them."

McCall turned to look at him, a rock in the midst of the sea of activity that flowed all around them. "It's Dietrich. He's after Yvette. He's here; I know he's here."

The name woke old nightmares, but Kostmayer merely nodded. "Then we gotta find them first."

Following McCall down the treacherous footing of the hose crossed sidewalk, and barely able to keep his shaky legs under him, Mickey eased his .45 out of its holster. He knew without looking that Robert had done the same. They were ignored by the crowd, all attention centered on the still smoking building.

Mickey wasted no time scanning the people milling around at the scene. Scott and Yvette would be in plain sight if they had followed his command to stay together and on the street. There was only one reason he could think of that would have caused either of them to disobey his orders, and he didn't once question McCall's assertion that Dietrich was responsible for the fire and their disappearance. He had run across the man twice before and had watched people die both times, people who were important to him. Not to mention the scar on his own neck. He was no more willing than McCall to let that happen to Yvette or Scott.

McCall had drifted out to the street, his eyes searching the facade of the building, his Walther hidden in the folds of his overcoat. Mickey's wobbly path took him staggering and coughing to the mouth of the alley. Lamp light angled into the darkness catching his attention, glinting off blond hair, or he might have missed the huddled figure. Mickey yelled, "McCall!" as he broke into a run, then went to his knees beside Scott. The young man sat with his back to the wall, his head bowed.

Mickey straightened him carefully, peering into glazed eyes.

"Yvette -- " Scott tried for a sentence through a mouthful of blood, and came up only with the single word.

The name hung between them, then Robert was there, the ashen cast to his face visible even in the murky light. He dropped to one knee. There was a slight tremble in his hand as he reached out and touched Scott's face, his fingers lightly grazing the darkening bruise on his chin. Without voicing the question, he glanced at Mickey, who managed a jerky nod. "He doesn't look too bad." Mickey got the reassurance out through a stifled cough. His own eyes were streaming tears and he was barely able to support Scott up against the wall.

McCall forced the question. "Where is Yvette? Scott, where is your sister?"

"He... he was... he chased her. Please." The vague request faded to a whisper.

The tremor in Robert's hand lessened, as decision strengthened him. He could tell at a glance that he would get no help from either of them. Scott was only half conscious and Mickey was bent double, trying not to retch up a lungful of smoke. "Tell me which way they went. Back on the street? Through the alley?"

McCall knew the answer even before Scott whispered, "The alley. You have to -- "

"I will." Robert dragged his gaze away from the pale face and met Kostmayer's eyes. "Stay here. Get help for him."

Hampered with supporting Scott, Mickey reached awkwardly and grabbed Robert's arm. "Don't go alone," he said quickly, knowing it was useless, knowing what Robert faced, and fearing what he would find -- all in the space of the seconds it took to voice the pointless words.

"Stay with Scott. Please, Mickey."

Mickey met his eyes, knowing if he tried to follow in his condition, he'd only become another liability. He nodded.

Robert shook the hand loose and was gone.

*****

High heels were never made for running. Yvette kicked them off, not breaking stride. Darkness engulfed her like a huge hand. She thought she could feel its pressure against her body, slowing her, trapping her in a fog of her own fright.

Her scream had taken the man's attention from her fallen brother. When he had looked up at her, she turned into the darkness and ran, hoping he would leave Scott and chase her, terrified that he would do just that. The roaring in her ears drowned out any sound of pursuit. Nearly superstitious terror kept her from looking behind her.

The alley branched suddenly off right and left and instinctively she dodged into the right turn. Seconds later, she almost collided with the brick wall as it dead ended.

A sob escaped a throat gone too dry to accommodate the sound and she choked on her own fright. Nearly blind in the darkness, she fumbled along the wall, her hands trembling against the harsh surface.

Her fingers touched wood. A door.

Desperately, she felt for a door knob, found it with trembling fingers. It turned in her hand, then stuck. In a thrill of panic she yanked on it, hysteria rising with a nauseating wave through her entire being.

She screamed into the strangely silent night air. "No!" A useless protest against her horror.

Suddenly, his hand was on her shoulder, leeching the strength from her body. Turning to face him, she sagged back against the door, her face raised so

that she could meet his eyes, her throat exposed to the knife she knew without seeing that he held in his hand. Debilitating fear left her powerless. In seconds her blood would spill, mingling with the memory of the girl she had seen die at his hands.

"Stand away from her."

The voice broke the trance-like spell that held her helpless.

"Robert!" It should have been a scream. Instead, it was merely a croak of sound, not a real word at all.

Before she could attempt to repeat her father's name, the tall man flung her away from the wall, pinning one arm across her chest, shielding his own body with hers. With a bemused detachment, she felt the prick of the knife blade beneath her chin. An anesthesia of fear allowed her to ignore it. Her eyes met Robert's. She saw the gun in his hand. She knew without a doubt that he couldn't possibly use it against her assailant.

"Stay back, McCall." The deep, melodious voice rumbled in her ear, sounding far away, as she were watching a play from the front row seats. It didn't affect her at all. Just a play.

But this man was going to kill her. Just as he had already killed. Again, her eyes met Robert's stricken gaze. She saw the pain in his eyes. The love. The desperate need to protect her.

Never had she seen him helpless. It awoke an anger in her that she hadn't known she possessed. How dare this... animal... murder helpless women! How dare he hurt her brother! Strength swelled through her legs, rose into her chest, and she slammed an elbow back into his stomach.

A sting of pain seared her chin and she gasped at the gush of blood. All in an instant, he released her and she threw herself to the ground, her hand flying to her throat, feeling the wetness that spilled over it. The sound of a gunshot passed unnoticed. Her mind spun into a vortex of sound and swirl.

Only when arms wrapped around her, pulling her into an almost painful embrace, did she let the tears start. A sob welled in her throat and exploded into a gasp of sound.

"It's all right," Robert crooned into her hair as her hands clutched into the rough folds of his overcoat. "Everything is all right now. I have you. You're safe."

Only then did she know it was true. She burrowed into the haven of his body, the material of his coat raspy and reassuring against her face, the strength of his arms a shelter she never wanted to leave.

*****

"Damn it, McCall! I got stopped twice trying to get up here! They think I'm lowering property values or somethin'," Mickey groused as he entered the elaborately carved door of the Mayfair Regent Hotel room, dropping suitcases onto the foyer floor. A faint aroma of smoke still hovered around the cases of clothes retrieved from the smoke damaged apartment. It would be a couple of days before they could return to Robert's place, so the luxury of the remodeled older hotel had been the option McCall had selected from the offers they received. Much more suitable than Mickey's digs, Kostmayer had to admit. And more room than Scott's efficiency apartment could offer.

With a quick glance at his Army reject greens, he briefly wondered if the security people that had braced him in the lobby might have had a point -- that and the ghostly pallor that still greyed his face from his recent bout of smoke inhalation. It would be a long time before he went back inside a burning building again, little old ladies or no little old ladies. Warmth spread through the sitting room from a blazing fire in the Victorian scrolled fireplace and he joined Yvette and Scott there.

Yvette was pushing another cup of hot chocolate on her brother, who was half-sitting, half-reclining in an overstuffed chair. His oversolicitous sister had covered him with an unnecessary blanket, and was waiting on him hand and foot. Mickey groused silently that a cracked rib had never afforded him that much TLC.

The only visible reminder of their ordeal was a minor cut on Yvette's chin that might eventually become a somewhat interesting scar. Conversation piece, she had joked a bit shakily at the hospital, though Kostmayer had noted that her bravado didn't remove her iron grip on her father's arm the entire time they were in the emergency room. Mickey hadn't noticed much more at the hospital; he had been too busy coughing up soot-colored phlegm.

"Yvette," Robert spoke up with a hint of censure in his tone, "I hardly think a diet consisting only of chocolate in its various forms is what the doctor had in mind when he released Scott."

"Never mind," Yvette retorted, retrieving her own bowl of ice cream, which had seemed to be the staple food tonight. "He can have anything he wants. I'll see to it." She winked at her brother.

The smile disappeared quickly, and she said, "You said you'd tell me how he did it. How he made the body disappear."

Retrieving a cup of aromatic tea, Robert stirred in a measure of cream and sat on the brocade sofa, enjoying the play of light from the fireplace and the diffused heat that coated the room in a cozy warmth. "The painting tarps," he said after trying a sip of tea. "They wrapped her in one -- it was put on the floor just for that purpose -- and secreted her body in the elevator with the out of order sign until after the police had made their initial, admittedly cursory, investigation."

"What happened to Chandler?" she asked, momentarily afraid he might have slipped through the net in the confusion over Dietrich.

"I left him in his office, rather like a parcel to be retrieved by Control's people," Robert answered with a smile. "He will have to deal with the DEA, the police, the FBI, and Control. If all goes well with all of them, which is highly doubtful... "

Mickey snorted a short burst of laughter which mutated into a fit of coughing -- his souvenir of the evening's events. Robert gave him an 'it serves you right' glare, then continued, " ...he will still have a rather annoyed assortment of Peruvian drug dealers to contend with. I don't think Mr. Chandler has much of a future."

"That poor woman," Yvette said in a musing, sadness-laced voice. "She really didn't do anything to deserve what happened to her."

Robert reached across the small distance that separated them on the couch and patted her hand. "I think you have done everything you could for her, my dear. More than most people would have."

A heavy sigh shook Yvette's slight frame with a momentary tremble, then she said, "Maybe from now on, you'll believe me when I tell you something. All of you!" She pointedly aimed the last at Kostmayer, who shrugged in innocence.

"I believed you all along, Yvette," Mickey said with mock gravity.

"Me, too," Scott insisted, rousing out of his comfort-induced stupor long enough to toss in the assurance.

"Bullshit," Yvette said with a prim, ladylike smile as she smoothed her cashmere skirt over her knees.