Elira woke the next morning to discover Vincent sprawled across the couch in a manner that suggested he'd just thrown himself there the night before; still dressed in his clothes, he slept without a blanket, and his boots and coat lay puddled together on the floor beside him as if he'd tossed them there only a moment before dropping off to sleep. His prosthetic, too, was in an unusual place -- still attached to his arm when he took it off most nights. He was the picture of weary exhaustion, both mental and physical.
Elira did her best to tiptoe around him, but unlike the mornings where she'd left him to sleep in their room she couldn't close the door on the noise she was making and eventually he woke, sitting up and blinking blearily as she made herself some breakfast. She glanced out from the kitchen as he stood, a floorboard creaking beneath him, and smiled privately.
"Coffee?" she called to him.
"Please," he croaked back, discreetly working some of the stiffness out of his limbs from hours of sleeping in the same cramped position. As Elira put the pot on, he disappeared into the bathroom, and after a few minutes she heard the shower running. By the time coffee was ready, he was washed and shaved and dressed. Elira set a mug on the table as he sat heavily into a chair and then set her own plate of breakfast down beside him. Before sitting, however, she came to stand behind him and, with only a brief cracking of her knuckles for warning, began to dig her fingers into his shoulders.
Vincent gave a grunt and leaned back into her hands instinctively as she worked at the knots in his muscles, kneading them until they gave way under the pressure of her touch. Forging guns had given her strong hands over the years and she was happy this morning to give them another use; Vincent had been pushing himself to his limits, she was sure, too often ignoring his need for sleep and food in the face of the enormity of the job he had undertaken, and, if the state of his shoulders was any indication, he was feeling stress like he'd never felt it before. A couple of minutes' toil, however, remedied the situation admirably and Elira smiled as she moved to sit at the table, noticing the obvious relief in Vincent's expression.
"Better?" she asked him as she cut at her fried egg with the edge of her fork.
He nodded his gratitude and picked up his coffee. Elira watched him sip at it for a moment before turning back to her breakfast. The silence that followed this was not exactly a comfortable one, though it was a mutually acceptable one; most of the talks they'd had lately had inevitably led around to the topic of discussion that was weighing on both of their minds, and that had caused too many arguments already. Elira wanted to apologize for her former behaviour toward him but the timing didn't feel right. He'd just woken up, and they needed to talk seriously about some things first: she, her feelings and fears; he, his secrets. If he was the Phantom Vigilante, she wanted to hear it from his own lips.
In half an hour when Elira was ready to head down to open the shop, Vincent was still sitting at the table with an empty mug in his hands, looking for all the world like he was debating whether or not he wanted to go back to bed. Elira stepped up beside him. When he glanced at her, she moved to give him a full kiss on the lips. He stiffened in surprise. His expression when she saw it next was confused as if he wasn't sure whether to be happy or wary.
"Elira...?"
"Shh." She placed a finger over his lips. "Be careful today, Vincent, okay?"
He nodded mutely and continued to watch her until she left, closing the door on his gaze.
Pegatha was more than a little surprised when Deke approached her the next morning to say that she would be attending the training classes at the Gold Saucer from now on. She tried to tell him what she'd said to Brescher, that she wasn't willing to give up her home to join them, but Deke was quick to assure her that it didn't matter; Brescher wanted her there anyway.
Arick was happy for her. "Looks like you had the decision made for you," he said with a chuckle.
Pegatha wasn't so sure. She'd been on the verge of returning home and now she had to decide again what she wanted to do. But Deke was adamant that she stay, at least for a few classes; Mr. Brescher had insisted. So she agreed. She would be sharing a room with a girl she didn't know well named Adrina, but Adrina was friendly, if a little tough, and Pegatha knew they would get along fine. She was still able to pair up with Arick during the classes, but her heart wasn't in it like it had been before. She missed her parents, more than before, and still felt uncomfortable about calling when she hadn't called for a few days already. It would be better just to return. But maybe after a couple of days. It couldn't make that much difference, could it?
The Gold Saucer was huge and, like the schooling, the training classes took place in rooms below the 'entertainment' floors, in the tower. After the first day of training where they learned fresh routines and stances that made her muscles ache anew, she went to supper with the others and then opted out of going to the upper floors. Arick tried to convince her to come along, but she wasn't in the mood for it.
"What will you do here?" Arick asked her, finally resigned to not being able to get her to come.
She shrugged. "I don't know. Wander around. There's a lot to explore."
"Yeah, empty offices and storage closets," Marc pointed out. "You should come with us, Peg. You could kick Arick's butt at the games again."
She smiled. "No, I'm just going to stay here. Maybe I'll come tomorrow." This tentative plan seemed to appease them and they left with the others for the elevator.
At first, she didn't wander far, but after about half an hour of looking through the same rooms, she began to venture a little farther. Eventually, she discovered an office with a few shelves of books. Curious, she went in and began skimming through them, realizing that they were novels and not textbooks like she'd first expected. One, a compilation of short stories written before Meteor, caught her attention for a good two hours and only when she heard a noise from somewhere, perhaps even from another floor, did she awaken to the possibility of being found in a place that might be off limits. Quickly, she put the books away, except for the one she'd been reading which she hid in the waistband of her pants, and returned to the rooms they'd been shown earlier, finally settling in what passed as the living room.
There was no curfew for this first night, so the others didn't return until nearly midnight. Unable to sleep while feeling so alone, Pegatha stayed up watching television when she got tired of reading.
And so, she was awake for the story that came across the eleven o'clock news that evening.
"What about Harrows?"
Malcolm didn't look away from the window. "What about him?" They weren't any more than a block or two from the drop-off site and he had been going over the plan again in his mind, still unsure. Valentine was an uncontrolled factor. He had already taken down some of their best men, so it would take some time to capture him -- time they didn't have. A fight like the one he was expecting would attract attention. Police attention. And they would have to be gone by then, with or without Valentine. He swore under his breath and began to cycle through the plan again.
"Do we kill him?"
Malcolm glanced away from the window. "Did I say we were going to kill anyone?"
Fitzgerald held his gaze for only a second before looking away. He shrugged and lit up a cigarette. "He'll know something's wrong. We've never used two cars before."
"Doesn't matter. Valentine just has to be there."
Fitzgerald shrugged again and glanced around at the other three men they had in the car with them. In a moment, he leaned forward and began a hushed conversation with one of them. The other man chuckled quietly. Malcolm looked back out the window.
The car they were in pulled into the vacant lot, followed by the second one; the third car continued along the road to its designated spot, out of sight. Once they'd parked, he stepped out of the car onto the gravel of the empty lot and grimaced at the chill wind and the smell of approaching rain. Fitzgerald followed him and stomped out his cigarette. He glanced at his watch.
"Still have a few minutes," he said.
Malcolm turned. "All right. Make sure the others are in position."
Fitzgerald nodded and pointed at another man who spoke into the microphone of a small headset he was wearing. After a moment, the man gave a thumbs-up. Fitzgerald nodded again. Malcolm glanced at the sky. No stars. No moon. Nearly a dozen men dressed in black suits, preparing to capture a man who, it was rumored, also dressed in black. He hoped it wouldn't be too difficult to tell who was who. He fingered the pistol in the holster under his left arm, his insurance in case things became too complicated. He had been ordered to capture Valentine alive, but if they ran out of time Brescher's orders could go to hell. They couldn't let him go, that much was certain; he was getting too close with the police right behind him. The last thing they needed was another bust.
The next ten minutes passed in tense silence for Malcolm. The rest of the men exchanged some token conversation, though everyone seemed a little on edge. Valentine's reputation preceded him, and the whispered words 'cops', 'arrest' and 'jail' seemed to drift over to Malcolm's ears more frequently than anything else. He sighed. Hopefully this wouldn't take too long, and hopefully it would go well. His men were thieves, not kidnappers.
The men stopped talking suddenly and Malcolm glanced up as a brown car pulled into the lot. After a few moments of fumbling, Harrows came out carrying two suitcases. He glanced around as he approached, obviously noting with some trepidation the number of men in suits, but he continued his route until he stood about ten feet away and then he put the cases down.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrows," Fitzgerald said, puffing on another cigarette. "See you next week."
Harrows nodded quickly and turned back to his car. Fitzgerald signaled to a man beside him who stepped forward to claim the suitcases. Malcolm watched as the cases were slipped into the backseat of one of the cars, and then glanced back in time to see the last of Harrows' car disappear down the street.
"Okay, get ready."
Fitzgerald nodded at the man with the headset who began speaking into the microphone. In a moment he looked up and said something to Fitzgerald, but Malcolm couldn't hear it over the growing wind. He stepped forward and Fitzgerald turned to him. "They can see Valentine. He's on a motorcycle, waiting for the cars."
"Do they have the area secured?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let's move."
They started walking together in a group and Malcolm couldn't help but picture himself at the head of a phalanx. It seemed now, to him, too many men to capture just one, but then he reminded himself about Valentine. The man had the same kind of training Malcolm gave his own men: move quickly, get the objective done, and then disappear. The only other thing besides their own organization he could think of that taught these three objectives were the Turks of Shinra, but they'd been gone for over ten years. He supposed it was possible for Valentine to have been a residual fighter from that era; in any case, he'd been taught very well, and he'd obviously had many years of practice. It would take more than a good strategy to catch him, that was a sure bet. It would also take some luck; and even though Malcolm more often than not didn't believe in luck, either good or bad, tonight he found himself hoping he was wrong about its existence.
They hadn't reached the sidewalk yet, unable yet to see Valentine or any of the other men, when the sound of a gunshot rang out over the blowing of the wind. Malcolm cursed and began to run, the others following his lead. He'd told them to keep a low profile until Valentine tried to leave, but it seemed someone had taken the initiative. Malcolm was just getting ready to put the plan into fast forward, mentally cursing lady luck and the fool who had decided to jump the gun, so to speak, when he heard one of his men shout: "Don't move, ya damn bastard! Get off the bike and put your hands where I can see them!"
Malcolm and the others came out onto the street to see four of their own men standing at various points along the road and sidewalk with their guns drawn, pointing them warily at Valentine from a distance. Valentine, for his part, was barely visible under the shadow of a building; Malcolm could eventually make him out, standing beside his cycle with his back to them, his hands raised to his shoulders. Had he sensed that something was wrong and tried to take off prematurely? Or had Harrows warned him somehow? If it had been Harrows, Malcolm gave the man credit for having more balls than he'd originally thought. Malcolm gestured behind him and then started along the road quietly.
It wasn't long before Valentine glanced over his shoulder, obviously expecting them. As they drew closer, Malcolm rotated a finger to indicate that Valentine was to turn around and face him. Valentine complied.
He was older than Malcolm had expected, in his late thirties or early forties, but there was definitely something about his stance and his face, that emotionless mask and the penetrating stare, that Malcolm was not surprised to find. He had been a part of something like their organization, or like the Turks; that much was clear. He had the look of someone used to being both the hunter and the hunted. It was only when he realized that he was being scrutinized in the same way by Valentine that he broke off his inspection.
"Mr. Valentine." He let himself slip naturally into the role of the voice for the entire organization. "You've been looking for us, I think. Now you've found us. Do you have anything to say before we kill you?"
Nothing registered in Valentine's expression. "You're not here to kill me."
"You're so sure?"
"Your man could've killed me from where he was standing. And what's the advantage in interrogating me?"
Malcolm had to repress a smirk. Valentine knew well where he stood. "Maybe we want to know who you're working for."
"You know who I'm working for. If you had been sent to kill me, I would be dead already."
"But what's the advantage in capturing you?"
Valentine raised one eyebrow almost imperceptibly. "Revenge of some sort, I'm assuming."
Malcolm felt like chuckling. Valentine knew this game too well to be fooled at all. He'd probably been in Malcolm's position many times before. An uncommon weariness of the charade overcame him and he sighed, releasing the tension from his posture. "We've been ordered to capture you alive."
Valentine said nothing. Malcolm waited a moment longer than necessary for his reaction, perhaps out of some sense of courtesy, but Valentine made no snide remarks or threats. Then the time for waiting was over and Malcolm made a gesture that all of his men recognized. Time to engage the enemy.
His men moved forward together, but Valentine had an uncanny knack for singling one or two of them out and knocking them to the ground before the others had a chance to overwhelm him. Some of his men got up again, only to be knocked down once more; some didn't rise a second time. Some began to back away from the fray.
They'd had no chance for a surprise attack; Valentine had known something was wrong. Now, was there any way of overcoming him? Malcolm straightened up and fingered the pistol in his jacket before withdrawing his hand. Not yet, he told himself. They might still have a chance. He glanced around at his men and was pleased to see that they had finally gotten themselves together and were forming a closed circle around their prey.
That's when he noticed the light on in one of the houses. Most of the buildings around them were shops, but a few doubled as residences, and in one of these someone was definitely awake. Malcolm wondered belatedly if the initial gunshot hadn't, perhaps, been more to their disadvantage than he'd originally thought. The person in the house could've called the police by now. They would have to hurry this up.
He glanced back at his men in time to see one of them take a step to advance faster than the others. A second later he was stumbling back into the man behind him, clutching his jaw. They both tumbled to the ground. A number of the others were distracted by the movement and Valentine took advantage of the diversion to jump through the break he'd made in the circle. Malcolm swore under his breath.
There was no more real progress by his men. Valentine was too fast and too well trained. Even though it looked at times as if he was tiring, none of his men were ever able to knock him down. It eventually became obvious that they were putting up no more than a fancy defense to prevent themselves from being too badly beaten. When the first siren was heard in the distance, Malcolm saw a number of heads pop up to listen. That was their cue to disappear. There wasn't going to be enough time. He swore again and pulled his gun out, holding it tightly in a sweating palm. He didn't want it to have to be this way. Valentine was far more than a thug and he hated having to execute him dishonorably. He deserved a one-on-one battle, but they didn't have the luxury of providing that. There was no other way. They couldn't beat him, they couldn't let him go free; he had to be stopped.
It was momentarily difficult for Malcolm to pick Valentine out from the rest of his men, but then a backhanded swipe sent their prey stumbling out a few steps, away from his attackers. Malcolm nabbed the opportunity. It took him no more than a second or two to raise the gun and fire off three shots.
Valentine was thrown backward. His coat fluttered out around him in the wind as he fell and long, dark hair spilled out from where he'd had it tucked into his collar. He didn't move after he hit the ground.
Fitzgerald, who had been standing behind Malcolm smoking a cigarette, suddenly stepped forward. "Fall back!" he shouted over the wind.
As everyone hurried back to the cars amid the sounds of approaching police vehicles, the sky chose to open up and drop its load of rain on the city. They were only out in it for a few seconds, however, before taking off, gone before the police even arrived. The officers who took up pursuit were divided as the three black cars split up along as many small roads as possible, giving them a clean getaway because of their lead.
Malcolm wasn't worried about what to tell Brescher. Sure, Brescher would be upset that Valentine had been killed, but there hadn't been any other way and he'd have to recognize that. The only thing Malcolm regretted the loss of was the diversion Valentine would've been to Brescher. That would've been the only good to come from capturing a man like that.
He stepped out of the door as the police arrived, some taking off after the perps. He'd seen the whole thing and was wondering if maybe he could be of assistance. Maybe he'd even get on TV. Smoothing back his hair self-consciously he walked toward the scene.
There were a few bodies in black littering the roadway and the police were now approaching the first of them. They checked for a pulse and then hauled the man to his feet and into the paddy wagon.
A man had been shot. He'd seen that happen. From the rumours and the news broadcasts he was sure it had been that Phantom Vigilante guy. He wasn't moving, a heap of shadow on the road located a few feet away from the others. Pity, really. The police always showed up too late.
There were other people coming now from down the street in various states of undress. He watched as they approach carefully, afraid of disturbing anything. One policeman stepped forward and urged the spectators to stay where they were, spreading his arms to barricade them. One man in the crowd lifted his child onto his shoulder; the boy squealed as he was suddenly able to watch the officers work.
A TV news van pulled up a few feet from the police cruisers and a woman, Hara Bates, and her crew stepped out to start filming. It was time for him to tell them what he'd seen.
It was the sight of movement, a shadow flitting passed his peripheral vision, that made him glance away from the camera crew to the place where the Vigilante had fallen. Except that he was no longer there. Had the police claimed the body so quickly? He was tempted to go and investigate, but then the Bates woman was starting her report. Letting the mystery go unsolved, he stepped toward the news crew, much more interested now in making sure his robe was closed tightly.
It was only after the paddy wagon had gone and the crowd had been shooed back into their houses that Gunther noticed the motorcycle parked by the sidewalk. He didn't need to be any closer to know that it was Valentine's. But where was Valentine himself? He glanced around the street, empty except for a few other officers and their vehicles. One man had said he'd seen the Vigilante shot down, but if that was the case where was the body? Could the organization have taken it?
Movement out of the corner of his eye made Gunther look to his right. The shadow of a man detached itself from the darkness of a narrow alleyway and began to walk toward him with some difficulty. One of the organization? He raised his gun.
The man lifted a hand and stepped into the glow of a streetlight. It was Valentine, clutching his ribs tightly as if trying to hold himself together. It was still a moment before Gunther lowered his gun.
Vincent walked into Neilson's office and closed the door behind him. When he was standing before the desk, he opened his right hand and let three slugs drop onto a stack of paperwork.
"It's been an exciting evening," he deadpanned.
Neilson stared at the blunted bullets for a moment before glancing back at Vincent. "What the hell happened?"
Vincent held out the vest to let the inspector see the three holes, two where the lungs would be and one over the heart. "They were waiting for me."
Neilson stood from his chair. "Shit! Are you all right?"
"Apart from a few bruises, yes."
"They were waiting for you?"
"One of them told me they had been sent to capture me. And he knew me by name."
"Shit. How could they have known?" Neilson sat down, staring hard at the paperwork on his desk. After a moment he glanced up. "Do you think Harrows could have...?
"No," Vincent replied immediately. "He did try to warn me about the ambush, motioning for me to get out of there. By the time I went to follow him, however, I had been surrounded." He paused. "Perhaps they suspected I'd been with Harrows previously."
Neilson pursed his lips before shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. Why would they have? They didn't see you following Harrows that first time, did they? And then you arrived at the scenes of their other crimes without Harrows' help. Why would they have made that connection?"
Vincent seemed about to reply, but then he frowned and put out a hand to steady himself on a chair while his other arm came up reflexively to cushion his ribs. Neilson watched for a moment in concern before standing. "Damn man, you're not all right. I've worn bullet-proof vests before and I know that bullets still pack quite a punch, enough to crack or break ribs."
"Nothing is broken, I assure you."
"But it still stings like hell. Sit down for god's sake."
Vincent did as he was told and lowered himself gingerly into the chair. "So," he began after a moment, "how could they have known? Who else knows who I am?"
Neilson gave a pained frown as he returned to his seat. "I didn't want to have to consider it, but if you're sure about Harrows..." He waited until Vincent gave a nod. He sighed. "Well, the possibility exists that it's someone here."
Vincent's expression sharpened. "Who has access to the records about me?"
Neilson licked his upper lip. "Not many people besides me. They need a password to get into the computers." Suddenly he stood. "Come with me. No, on second thought, stay here. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."
Neilson left his office. Vincent was on the second page of the police report Gunther had submitted when the inspector returned, looking a little anxious. He closed the door behind him. "I asked Mindy to look up who's been into those files recently but the entire record has been deleted. Dammit."
"Deleted?" Vincent echoed.
"Now, if the record had been corrupted, then I might've had some doubt, but now I'm sure it's someone here. And they didn't want to take any chances on us being able to salvage the record." He started pacing.
Vincent watched him in silence for a few moments. "Is there a way to discover them?"
Neilson sat back into his chair, rubbing at his stubbly chin. "Yeah, but it'll take a little time. I could drop some hints around in the next couple of days about where I'm going to send a couple of men who have been trained to replace you. Then, we can follow up on those hints and see where the organization shows up. And then we should have our leak."
"Are you sure the organization will show up?"
"Considering how much trouble they had with you, they would be fools not to want to snuff out your protégés. And if they can do it in what they'll think will be a surprise attack, all the better."
"You'll have to keep me informed so that I can follow up your hints."
Neilson raised an eyebrow and then shook his head. "No, not you, Vincent. I'll get some of my own men to do that. You take a break. The organization thinks your dead. Let them continue thinking that for a little while longer. Now, go home and get some sleep. You'll need it to heal up properly."
Vincent opened the door to the apartment to see Elira standing in the hallway in her nightie, the phone receiver to her ear. She turned as he stepped in and he noticed that her cheeks were tracked with tears. Suddenly, she gave a squeak. "He just walked in the door," she said into the phone, her voice thick with relief. "Okay, bye Beni." She hung up and then hurried toward Vincent.
"Thank God you're all right," she breathed, worming into his embrace.
Vincent held back a wince as she pressed up against his bruised ribs. "What's all this about?" he asked.
She glanced up at him and then shook her head, wiping at the moist area on her cheeks. "Never mind. Nothing. Just let me hold you for a minute."
Vincent wrapped his arms around her and tried not to think about the pain in his chest. When Elira gave him a spontaneous squeeze, however, he gave a grunt and withdrew from her. Elira looked at him in curious concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I must've pulled something. It's nothing serious."
Elira had once said that she knew when he was lying, and sometimes it did seem as if she did, as if there was something that gave him away. This was one of those times. She cocked her head skeptically and stared at him for a second. And then, as if it had come to her, she stepped up to him and jabbed him suddenly in the ribcage. Vincent gave a yelp and brought his arms up to ward her off. But Elira wouldn't be dissuaded. Batting his hands away, she began to undo the buttons of his shirt. At first he tried to stop her, but the look she gave him said he had better comply, and so he gave up the fight.
The bruises were black and purple where the bullets had impacted and spanned nearly a hand-width before turning green and yellow. Elira looked at them wordlessly for nearly a minute before taking his hand and pulling him with her toward the bathroom.
"What are you doing?" he asked her when she leaned down over the tub and began fiddling with the taps.
"Fixing you a bath," she answered matter-of-factly. "It'll help." She let the water run for several seconds before putting the stopper into the drain. Then she stood and turned to him with her hands on her hips. "A pulled muscle doesn't cause that kind of bruising," she told him. "Benita asked me if it might be you, but I wasn't sure until now."
"Sure about what?" Vincent asked, though he expected he already knew what she was referring to.
"About you being the Vigilante," she answered. "Benita called me to say that the news was broadcasting his death, that he'd been shot." She stepped up to him and began to carefully help him out of his shirt. "I thought you were dead for a minute," she admitted.
"I'm sorry."
"Well, never mind. I should've expected that you would be taking precautions. Benita told me I didn't have to worry about you being careless."
There was a pause. Elira ran her hand idly under the spray of the water. Vincent watched her for a few moments. "Are you angry, Elira?"
She glanced up at him from where she was perched on the side of the tub. "Well, yes," she replied eventually. "I'm angry that you could've been killed, and that you weren't truthful about how dangerous this was going to be for you." She sighed. "But you were being careful, and frankly getting angry again won't do either of us any good." She turned off the taps. "Take a bath, Vincent, and I'll heat up some food for you."
Moving his arms was painful to do, so Vincent ended up resting in the hot water more than bathing in it. It felt good. It wasn't until he got out and came face to face with himself in the mirror that he realized how much weight he'd lost. Familiar, but now it looked unnatural to be so skinny and he quickly wrapped himself up in his clothes again.
Elira was waiting for him in the kitchen. She had a mug of tea in her hands and one ready for him beside a plate of re-heated supper. He sat gingerly and began to eat.
And without her having to ask, he told her everything about what was going on and what he'd been trying to do. The next thing, he said, was to find the dojo and find Pegatha before she got in too far over her head. Elira nodded and stared into her tea.
Vincent noticed that she seemed a little distracted. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Oh." Elira smiled at him. "I'm fine. Just tired, I guess."
"Are you feeling better?"
She nodded with another smile. "Yes, knowing that you're not going to be doing any more chasing around on my motorcycle, at least not for a little while. I don't have to worry about you."
"Elira..."
"I know, I don't have to worry about you." She chuckled a little and looked back into her tea. "I guess I was just thinking...about how awful it would be for a child to have to grow up without their father."
Vincent paused in eating and thought about that for a second. "You don't have to worry about that, either, Elira. I'm not going to let anything happen to me. Besides, I think Pegatha has already started to outgrow me."
Elira smiled at him gently and reached across the table to take his hand. "No one outgrows their father," she told him.
Sorry to everyone who's still reading this. I don't mean to take so long with the chapters...it just sort of happens. Life is a bit busier than I expected and my poor computer is living away from home for now. I was hoping to finish the sequel by the end of the summer, but we'll have to see how things go. Thanks for sticking with me this long, those of you who are still here! Thanks especially to my adopted little sister Elicia (hee hee!) for all of your interest and encouragement! Take it easy!
---thelittletree