The Bulova said that he had a full eight minutes before he had to punch in, and he was pleased with himself. "Punctuality is your friend," his old man had said. It had sounded so damn wholesome and sensible. Of course, then he'd added, "And butt kissing will get you even farther." Smart man, his dad.

He almost dropped the sack when he entered the room and found Randal already sitting at a keyboard. His chin was propped in his hand, his eyes fixed on the glowing monitor before him. He was wearing the regulation black uniform, and Henry reflected that it looked as if it had been designed for him. Randal was a bit of a clothes horse off duty, and a black quasi-military uniform was right up his alley. When Henry wore his uniform he looked like a cop--when Randal wore his, he looked like he was ready to go out to some underground club.

"Randal, what the hell are you doing here?"

Randal glanced at him, then went back to the screen. "I'm on duty today."

"Well, yeah, but not for, like, five more minutes." Another glance, and he knew that it sounded ridiculous. Still, it was remarkable. Randal was never early. His time card would have made Henry's dad proud: it was never punched more than 30 seconds early or late. Randal wasn't going to shirk, but he damn sure wasn't going to contribute anything without being compensated, and that minute here, minute there just kept getting averaged out. He explained that if he clocked in one minute early every day for a year, he would have been screwed out of over four hours worth of pay.

Henry put his sack on his desk, then ambled over and took a peek over Randal's shoulder. Randal didn't move to block the screen, but he said, "Nosiness is not very becomming, Henry."

"I'm just curious as to what would interest you enough for you to come in early."

"Then ask--don't go peeking. Noses that are poked where they shouldn't be occasionally get snapped off. I'm just looking at a few domestic disturbance reports."

"Why?"

"That's another question entirely. You're going to be late if you don't go clock in." Henry swore and ran for the time clock, and Randal went back to his screen.

*There was a history before the Oliphants bought it. Not like some I've run across, but not just lovers' tiffs, either. Let's see... seven, eight, nine incidents. Two of them requiring medical attention. The woman had her wrist bandaged, and the guy had a few stitches in his face. but neither one of them were ever brought to trial. Hmm. I can't say I agree with that, but this was about twenty years ago, and they were just starting to require us to take action on domestics, even if the participants didn't want us to. Things slowed down instead of accelerating, though, and there was nothing for about a year before the deaths.*

He clicked the mouse a few times, looking at some additional files. *They did file assault charges the time he sprained her wrist, but the DA dropped them when they agreed to counseling. Looks like they went to a priest as well as a marriage counselor. Both turned in favorable reports. They might be worth checking on.* He made notes, wondering if a priest would treat counseling like the confessional, and if it made a damn bit of difference when both the people involved were dead?

"You asked him in?"

Milda continued crushing the dried basil in the little mortar. "He didn't seem inclined to go away, so I figured I might as well."

Acacia growled, "You could have called me. I could have made him go away."

"Yes, dear, but you might have made him go away in a very permanent manner, considering the moods you get into sometime. There was no harm done." Milda carefully poured the ground herb into a tiny, carefully labeled jar, then screwed on the lid. She was smiling faintly. "Besides, he was very nice."

Her sister snorted. "Sweetie, I love ya, but you are one of the most gullible creatures walking the face of the earth."

"Acacia, lighten up. All he did was have a cup of tea and shoot the breeze. He seems like a really nice guy, and he could be very helpful in our work. You know I've been urging you for ages to get someone on the inside with the police, and he's perfectly situated--records."

Acacia watched as Milda carefully wiped the mortar and pestil, then picked up a bunch of dried chives and a pair of kitchen shears. "Nice? What nice? Okay, I'll admit that he struck me as slightly less obnoxious than the average male, and I'll admit that he could be useful, but why can't we find a nice, buff policewoman instead?"

"Well, last I checked, none had walked in off the street and offered their services. And let's face it, sister dear--law enforcement types don't usually hang around our circles. I suppose you could haunt the acadamy and try to recruit."

"Funny, funny." Acacia was silent as she watched Milda quickly and efficiently snip the chives. Tiny dull green bits rained down into the waiting mortar. "Ya know, I can't decide which smells better--when you bake, or when you prepare herbs. How the fuck do you manage to get those things all the same size?"

"Practice. What about Randal?"

"Oo, first name basis. I dunno--maybe. We'll have to talk to Naresha--he's hers, after all."

"Naresha has never been nasty about sharing. Well, not her followers, anyway. She can get pretty snippy if it's down to the last cup of espresso, if she needs a caffiene fix."

Acacia fished a chive out of the mortar and munched it. "You like him, don't you?"

Milda was not coy. "Yes, I do. He's very handsome, I think he has a sense of humor, and if he wants to help us, his heart must be pretty much in the right place."

"He's a man."

"We've been over that before, dear." She reached out and stroked her elder sister's cheek fondly. "Law of averages. One of us was bound to be straight."

"Huh. Well, I guess it's cool."

"Thank you." Milda's tone was gently ironic.

"Better than you being celibate, I suppose." She made a face. "Dullsville." As she watched her sister seal the chives in a ziplock bag and store it in the refrigerator, her expression softened. She said quietly, "Sometimes I wish I could go back and kill The Bastard again, Mil."

Her sister looked at her with sympathy. "Once wasn't enough?"

Acacia shook his head. "Nope. He committed so many acts of shittyness that each deserved it's own execution. But I think one of the worst was what he did to you."

"Me? Casey, I was the lucky one, remember? I wasn't born till we got away, and at the end..." A tense, pained look flitted across her face. "He didn't really do much more than scare me. You saw to that."

Acacia's expression was sad. "It's what he did to you through Naresha and me." She went to her sister and hugged her, whispering, "Of all the people in the world, Mil, you should be a mother, and he took that away."

Milda closed her eyes, and a faint tremor passed through her body, but her voice was calm. "There's no use cutting ourselves up over what can't be changed." She held her sister for a moment, then pushed her away. "I wouldn't mind so much if I thought there was a chance of adoption, but you know how they put prospective parents under microscopes these days."

"I told you, hon. There are ways. Shit, with our resources, we could..."

"No, Acacia." Milda's voice was firm. "I will not buy a child. I won't be party to someone selling their flesh and blood."

"But it isn't like that, Mil, you know it isn't! Lots of those private adoptions are legit. You'd do the parents and the baby a favor."

"No. Look, I... just wouldn't feel right. Oh, I'd love the baby and care for it to the best of my abilities, but there'd always be that little nag that perhaps they weren't meant..."

"Don't start that 'fate' shit, okay? We make our own fate." She gave Milda another squeeze, then playfully lifted her up and swung her around as the other girl squealed. "Milda an' Goth Cop, sittin' in a tree! k-i-s-s-i-n-g!"

"Not yet, but maybe."

"Good on ya, sis. But I don't know..." she gave Milda another twirl before setting her down. "I'm not sure if you should get laid. If you get any more mellow you'll be in a coma all the time."

Stephanie Bradshaw parked in the drive-way, listening dispiritedly as the engine kept chugging long after she'd turned it off. *God, please. Not for another few months, huh? Just till I get that raise at work, then I can see about finanacing another used car. Please don't leave me stranded.*

It finally died. She hesitated, holding the key. Dreading what she might find out, but needing to have some idea of what to expect in the morning, she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and turned the key again. It started. She sighed in relief and turned it off again. She probably wouldn't have to beg a ride to work tomorrow.

Stephanie got out, groaning as she straightened up. Those double shifts were playing hell with her, but she needed the extra cash. No matter what the Akujis had said, she was determined to make at least a token payment.

She trudged to the front door, shifting her bag of groceries to the crook of her arm so she could unlock the door. It was depressing--coming home to an empty house. She'd expected to face this somewhere down the line, when Bethany got married and moved out, but she'd hoped it wouldn't be for a few more years.

Inside, she locked the door again, then paused, frowning. *Didn't I leave the light on over the stove? Don't tell me it's burned out again? Damn.* She started back to the kitchen. *Why couldn't it have done that before I left this morning? I could have picked up bulbs while I was at the store.* Stephanie put the bag down on the table and turned to feel for the light switch.

She realized there was something wrong a split second before she heard the scrape of a foot on the tile behind her. There was... The atmosphere was suddenly, subtly wrong. Before she could turn, though, the hand went around her neck, cinching tight against her throat, and the hoarse voice whispered, "Where is she?"

Stephanie screamed. She grabbed at the restraining arm, trying to tear it away. The grip tightened, cutting off her air. "Listen, bitch, I can't find her, and I need you to tell me. If you do, I won't kill you."

She was starting to get dizzy, and there was a buzzing in her ears. *I couldn't speak, even if I wanted to,* she thought desperately. *He's going to kill me, one way or the other.*

She tried stamping on his feet, but that only earned a curse and a further tightening of his arm. Stephanie struggled. She tried reaching back to scratch at his eyes, but he ducked his head tight against her. Her hand struck the bag sitting on the table before her and knocked it over, spilling the contents. Her hands closed on a heavy cylinder, and she swung it up and back.

She connected. There was a thud and the cursing escalated, but the grip loosened--just a fraction, but it was enough for her to suck down enough oxygen to clear her head a little. She swung again and again, battering at her assailant. After three blows she managed to tear loose, and turned.

The figure behind her was not much more than a blur, but she could see well enough to aim for the head, and she struck out again. He ducked, and she only hit him a glancing blow. It was enough. The figure slipped, falling to its knees, and she ran for the back door.

Stephanie reached for the dead bolt, and felt splintered wood. The door opened without her having to unlock it, and she darted out into the night, screaming as she went. *Where? Oh, God, where?* The Beasons on the right were on vacation. *Crandal's.* It had been a long time since she'd climbed a hurricane fence. Her stockings didn't survive it, and she gashed her calf swinging her leg over, but she made it.

She was pounding on the back door when she heard the car engine roar. As footsteps approached hurriedly from inside she thought vaguely, *Well, I know he didn't steal my car--it hasn't sounded that good for years.*

"Who the hell is it? I have a gun."

Stephanie stepped quickly to the side. Douglas Crandal most certainly did have a gun--a wicked Colt-Python that could probably shoot through the door and still blast a hole clean through her. "Doug, it's me--Stephanie Bradshaw. Let me in, quick! Someone was in my house."

The door was opened as she finished speaking. Doug Crandal, a thin, painfully erect man in his mid-seventies, reached out, grabbed her arm, and hauled her into the kitchen with surprising strength. He slammed the door, and turned to her, the kitchen light gleaming off the chrome barrel of his gun. "Steffie, what the hell...?" He took in her disheveled appearance, and his eyes focused on the gash on her leg, dripping blood on his linoleum. "Shit! Did the bastard cut you?"

Stephanie had the phone and was punching in 911. Her voice was shaky, but she managaed to make sense. "I did it on the fence. Christ, Doug, he tried to strangle me." The old man's lips tightened, and he reached for the door. Stephanie grabbed at him. "Don't! I think he left, but we can't take any chances. If he's still there, he knows I went for help, and he'll be ready."

"911. What's you're emergency?"

"This is Stephanie Bradshaw at 2150 Terrell, and someone just tried to kill me. No, I'm all right. I got out of the house, and I'm at a neighbor's. Yes, 2152. Oh, I'm safe, all right. Doug will blow them into the next county if they come over here. Don't worry, I'll have him put it away before the officers come. I don't know if he's still in the house. Maybe not--I think I heard a car. No, I didn't see it, dammit. How soon? Good. What? No, I can't stay on the line. No, I have to call someone else." Pause. "So sue me."

She hung up and began dialing again. "Doug, put that away. The police will be here any minute now."

"I have a permit, this is my own house. Why should I?"

"Because no matter what your rights are, we're about to have cops here, and they will be armed and on nervous alert for anyone who even looks armed." The phone was picked up on the other end. "Three Sisters."