T E N

There were times in the days that followed I wished that were true. Blood are hard to kill — and harder dying — but fairly easy to mangle. Or so I found out.

The first rays of dawn struck with the impact of a fireball. Flesh seared deep beneath crackling, oozing skin. The worst of it was staggering, blind, back to the room, charred hands groping the way. I was afraid to open my eyes. What if the sun hit them - would I be blind? Would it be permanent?

Once I reached my room, I slammed the door shut, threw myself against the cold tile of the bathroom floor and threw up. I couldn't help it. Breaking fast had done me no good at all except to force acceptance of my peculiar situation. There were new and more terrible ways to fuck up.

I healed. Slowly. As it seemed to me. Two days that lasted forever. Spent most of the time writhing ... and thinking. Like, what if Tasia and Byron were right? What if their way was the only way to survive, with all the ritual, the entourage and point/counter-point security? The Blood had spent centuries perfecting their special lifestyle. What a terrific mess I'd made of it. With technique like that, I could give myself a career estimate of two, maybe three weeks.

Hooray.

I stepped into the shower and let the warm water sluice over me. It was worth the queasy loss of equilibrium to see the last bit of blackened skin peel off and wash down the drain.

They were gone. Byron, Roxanne, Fist and Sand were heading out to the Windy City. I'd felt them going as surely as if I'd seen it happen. I wondered if they'd felt my pain and thought it likely. We were still pack-bonded whether I liked it or not. And I didn't like it. The truth here is, I didn't much like messing with other peoples' heads. I sure as hell didn't like them messing with mine.

I turned off the water and grabbed a towel. Headed out into the bedroom and crashed out across my sleeping bag on top of the bed. I'd removed the down filler and replaced it with good old Brooklyn dirt. My dirt. It was great to relax without pain, just loll about and let the earth's healing warmth radiate through. I'd come up with the sleeping bag idea early on. There are times when you need to pick up and move fast. I thought this would be more convenient than all those boxes and crates the others carried. Byron, as you can imagine, was unimpressed. He was always suspicious of any change in the established regime. Or anything he didn't think of himself.

But Byron wasn't all wrong. I had to be more careful. Nothing could be left to chance. The grainy texture shifted under the waterproof lining when I moved. Nature's musky scent blossomed around me. We are bound to earth as well as blood. Without this, I was worse than dead.

I got up, crossed to the balcony window and opened it. Outside, the water was blacker than the sky. The tide boomed in, shoved by a stiff, eastern breeze that billowed heavy drapes. There are few sounds more peaceful than the whisper of big water. Few sights more stirring than the black crystal shimmer of a liquid swell. Nothing more treacherous. Beneath all that wonder, the sludge still roiled. Waiting.

It was time to move on. I turned away, found some clothes and dressed.

Two hours later, I'd checked out of the hotel, picked up a few quick bites (the parking jockey, a gas station attendant and a stray surf bunny) and was blasting down I-64 heading west against the wind towards — shit! — the Elizabeth River. How can water be so fascinating to watch and such misery to cross?

I tried to chill-out reminding myself the bridge wouldn't be as bad as travel by plane. It wouldn't be as bad as a boat. It probably wouldn't even be as bad as an elevator. (Suspended in mid-air, elevators are hell-on-earth. No thank you. I'll take the stairs.)

I planned a route through the tunnel and short bridges. Although the tunnel pierced massive, moving water, it was connected by ground at its base. I figured if I went real fast over the bridges, well, maybe I'd make it to Williamsburg in one piece after all.

Maybe.

The car required major attention which was good since it took my mind off other stuff. It was a 48 bathtub Porsche and I'd spent most of the summer having it re-conditioned and customized.

It had been a major wreck when I found it. Byron had named it the Turtle with his customary good-will. I reminded him that turtles had a reputation for winning and this lovely was anything but slow. Actually, the name didn't bug me. I liked the image of a hard, protective shell. "Not unlike your basic M&M," I said at the time. "Melts in your mouth...."

They didn't get it.

My hands flexed on the steering wheel. They'd been as dark as burned toast only the day before. The sun hadn't spared one inch of uncovered skin.

I didn't want to think about that anymore either so I switched on the radio. Music slashed out from the twin speakers in back, the bass so heavy I could feel the chords ripple through my arms and across my thighs. The Grand Funk version of Gimme Shelter raged through, real wail and thrash stuff, my favorite. I grinned and turned it up. Window glass rattled in the frame. I could almost ignore the first rush of vertigo that hit as the Turtle rolled onto the bridge.

I accelerated in the tunnel and attained something close to escape velocity by the time we broke free on the other side. We soared over the remaining length of bridge onto real road, then dropped to the limit. I didn't want or need the attention a ticket would bring. Instead, I sang along with the radio and watched the scenery fly by for the next few miles. Hampton Roads was pretty flat but the monotony was pleasant. The only thing that resembled a hill was an overpass. I was ready for a bit of quiet.

Driving in the left-hand lane, I caught up with a biker tribe making their way down the road. No Hell's Angels or Renegades here. There were about two dozen riders mounted on small but tough dirt bikes with a couple of heavy-duty hogs thrown in for balance. Two very large, very old vans followed. One was a VW hangover complete with faded psychedelia and shredded colors flapping from the antenna. The other was a plain, black megalith. They all had out-of-state plates and I wondered about their end destination. It was late to be out traveling. Why hadn't they picked a campsite? They had that beat, been-on-the-road-forever look which was kind of pathetic. Still, the driver in the station wagon behind me apparently found them intimidating. He wanted to speed by. His brights flickered on and off in my rear-view mirror.

Even with sunglasses the light was irritating. Everyone automatically moved faster. The station wagon hovered about three feet off the Turtle's bumper as we hit a series of short, tidal-canal bridges. The bikes stayed just ahead of me, the vans to the side and the brights kept strobing backed by full-force headlights. My stomach relocated to a position somewhere behind my face.

Irritated, I spotted an opening and hit the gas. Then spied a shift in the pattern ahead. A trail bike lurched to one side, its back wheel vibrating. In less than a breath, the machine was shaking like fever. The other bikes parted around it diving this way and that. I stamped on the brakes — for all the good that did — staring helpless as the distance between my front bumper and the bike evaporated. Super-heated rubber broke free on the asphalt. The Turtle's interior novaed when the station wagon soared up behind. The bike crashed to its side.

Somehow, the rider clung to his machine. He managed to swing both legs over the top of the bike and hung on as it slid in a crazy snake-dance from one side of the interstate to the other. It looped towards the scattered bikers, then to the wheels of the Porsche. Finally came to a stop in a twisted pile of metal and rubber in the left lane. The rider jumped-rolled clear onto the grassy median. The Turtle shrieked to a stall about a yard away — just as the damn station wagon rear-ended the back, slamming us over the wreck. We slid on crushed metal. Whipped around in a full circle.

Two or three seconds passed. Like years.

I was braced against the steering wheel. My sunglasses had dropped off and my eyes burned from the headlights glaring in my face. I shook my head, smelling scorched rubber, oil. Other things. There was a savage screaming in my ears, different from the snarl of rending steel and it freaked me out for a minute. Then I realized the noise was coming out of the radio and snapped it off.

The rush of silence was almost as loud. A long time passed before I could pick out other sounds although I guess it wasn't that long. Not really. Dazed, I watched a man dash across the road in front of me — the driver from the black van. Van-man found his biker-buddy and pulled one of the boy's arms across his shoulders and carry-dragged him back to where the van had skidded to a halt. He deposited the kid and charged into a return trip. Fascinated, I watched him scoop up a small, orange object from the grass.

A kitten? Yeah — it was a kitten with a little, red bandanna tied around its neck. It could only belong to the boy on the bike. Whatever, it looked ridiculous. The cat was dwarfed in that massive fist and the animal's startled, wide-eyed expression contrasted so much with the Van-man's strained, sweaty face, I had to laugh.

Didn't laugh long. Clear liquid gushed out from under the wreck and puddled on the pavement. A blue candle-flame, barely visible, danced along its surface. There wasn't anything funny about that.

Thought it might be a good time to get out! I tried the door and found it jammed shut. Shouldered it hard, using all the strength I had (which is considerable for us night-types). That was a mistake. The door burst open and I fell out from the force of my own momentum. I sprawled half-in and half-out of the car. My upper-half dragged out on the pavement, my feet and legs tangled up and caught inside.

Cool-blue flame turned white-orange and began licking the Turtle's hood and trunk. I noted the station wagon hadn't been much damaged since its driver decided this was the time to back off. I watched/felt him drive away while I twisted around and tried to kick free. I didn't want to burn. Not again.

Someone ran up from behind. I was lifted up under-arm and set on my feet. The same guy grabbed the back of my collar and began dragging me away, backwards. Van-man again. That old man got around fast!

But a fresh jab of fear hit and I pulled away from him. My rescuer stumbled and fell as I scrambled back to the Turtle. I reached behind the driver's seat and began to pull my gear out of the back. The guitar case, my pack — the sleeping bag!

Heat pulsed around me. Fire blistered the paint like the sun had blistered my skin only a few days earlier. I pushed the seat hard enough to shove it into the dashboard and jerked the bag up by its strap. That did it! I wheeled about to fling it and myself as far from the flames as possible just as Van-man tackled me from behind, knocked me off my feet and yards into the median ditch.

We rolled to a stop. Then I reared back, fighting to get away. I wanted distance — lots of it — between me and this little highway inferno but a hand pushed my face into the grass. A gravel-washed voice roared something in my ear.

I yelled back, scared, "What? What?"

"Stay down! I said — stay down!" Van-man shouted.

Almost instantly, there was a sharp, popping noise. I made the mistake of looking up and was back-handed into the ditch. My chin hit the ground and I bit my tongue. Damn teeth.

Then the Turtle's gas tank exploded sending pieces of Porsche and motorcycle flying. A blast of heat and smoke washed over us and I warred with the urge to get up and run. My fingers clenched, digging holes in the dry earth. My ring took heat from the blaze.

When Van-man finally took his hand from the back of my head, I elbowed up to stare at the road. I was staggered, stunned beyond speech. The Turtle's beautiful black paint was an ugly ash gray. All the glass was gone. Pieces of chrome had splintered off at crazy, alien angles. I recognized a big, black lump on the back seat as the engine. I sat back on my heels and kept staring. Just couldn't look away. But the glare was torture. Finally, I had to close my eyes.

Goodbye Turtle.

Motion nearby brought me back a little. Van-man was still laying face-down, nose against the turf. He was a big guy, well over six-foot. That was muscle that knocked me down, not flab. While I watched, he pushed straight up from the ground and flopped over on his back with a grunt. He looked to be in his middle fifties with sandy red hair that grew everywhere except the front and back of his head. What was left he wore long and caught in a skinny ponytail at the back of his neck. He had a bristling mustache and sideburns (the early 70s-look). His arms and chest were covered in curly red-brown. His freckled, sun-burned face looked as though it could be friendly although now it was just the opposite. Van-man got to his feet and jerked me up with him.

"What the hell were you doing?"

I pulled away and said, "I had to get my stuff."

He looked at my things strewn about on the ground, his face a mask of belligerent wonder. "Your stuff? Your stuff? You went back for this?" He started kicking at my pack, my sleeping bag. "You were going to die for this?"

"Leave that alone!"

Startled, Van-man shut-up and looked round to find himself face-to-face with me who wasn't feeling too cordial either. You don't kick a person's home.

"Look," Van-man continued after a short beat, "I don't care if you've got the crown jewels in there, it's not worth your life. You'd have fried back there. I saw enough of this stuff in Nam. I know what —"

"Fuck off!" I snapped out my standard response, still mightily pissed and shook up.

"Right. Suit yourself." Van-man walked away but as he crossed the lanes, he paused to snap back, "By the way — you're welcome, asshole!"

I whirled about. I wanted to yell something — anything — but my eyes were caught again by the Turtle's funeral pyre. Flames soared into the air belching out great clouds of oily, black smoke, a malevolent djinn unfolding in the night. Really roaring away, too, with great guffaws, "Whatcha gonna do now, loser?"

Good question.

The traffic was already backed up for miles. No one was going anywhere, not for a long, long time. Uneasy, I wondered how long I would be trapped here. This couldn't be happening. But it was. I studied the group across the road while I deliberated my next move.

The boy who had been riding the trail bike was sitting in the back of the black van, legs hanging over the rear bumper. The kitten (yes, it was his) nuzzled into his shirt. Van-man was — what? Checking him over? Yeah. He ran his hand quickly and professionally along arms and legs feeling for broken bones, any signs of injury. Afterwards, he squeezed the kid's arm like everything was okay.

The rest of the tribe was scattered about in little clumps, their machines parked on the shoulder. Most of the riders were gathered in a knot around the second van. Two women stood apart next to a big Triumph and a smaller trail bike that lay on the ground beside it.

Actually, only one woman was standing. She was lean and dark and her black clothing gave her all the impact of a human exclamation mark. Delicate oriental features were edged with concern. Spiky, black hair trailed in tangled wisps around her face. She was dressed like the rest in faded jeans, t-shirt and boots except she wore a black, leather jacket with a wild, open-hood cobra painted on the back. And she glowed. It wasn't a reflection from the wreck or the traffic. It wasn't the bloom of her skin. She had aura like pale lamp-light glimpsed around a far-off doorway. Was she Brood or something else? This, I reasoned, could be very good or very bad.

The girl at her feet was unremarkable except for her fear. She looked as though she had dropped her bike, taken two steps and collapsed. She stared straight ahead, transfixed by the flames. Her eyes were wide and dark in an unnaturally pale face.

"Alice ... Alice?" I heard the dark woman's coaxing voice as clearly as if I stood next to her. "Alice, it's all right. Pilot's okay."

She looked up, aware she was being watched. She stopped talking and stared across the lanes at me. Her eyes narrowed and that faint but distinct corona deepened perceptively. To me. I couldn't guess what she was thinking. Her face was impenetrable, unreadable.

All I could do was pick up my scattered gear and move on. Made a last effort to subdue misgivings, gave up on it and crossed the highway.

"Don't give me that bull manure." Van-man was yelling again, this time at the station-wagon jerk. "You were following too damn close. I hope he sues your ass off."

The argument stopped as soon as they noticed my arrival. The station wagon driver, pudgy in a black and red wool jacket, took a moment to glower at me. Pilot slumped against the van's frame, cat cradled in one arm. He raised the other to point to a line of blue brights snaking through the back up.

"Don't look now, fellas," he drawled. "Here comes the troops."

Three patrol cars and a fire engine hurtled towards us, siren's screaming, lights flashing — the works. They pulled up and cut the noise although their lights continued to stab the dark. Six uniforms got out. Two began to set flares.

I squeezed my eyes tight and concentrated, testing the flavor of their mood. It wasn't good. When I opened my eyes again, I knew they'd gone feral-red. We don't have much control over that. It happens whenever we get very excited, upset or about to feed. I wouldn't have to worry about mortals finding me out, I was going to give myself away. I stared at the ground and wished for my sunglasses but they were liquid plastic on the Turtle's floor.

Van-man tapped my shoulder.

"Try not to let them get to you," he said, gruff. "You did okay. I'll tell them."

I focused on the dirt. "Thanks. Look — I'm sorry I mouthed off back there. I —"

"Don't worry about it. Shame about the car. I'd be pissed, too."

I felt it was safe to look up and did that. One of the troopers walked up and took our undivided apprehension. Uniforms can have that effect on people, especially outsider-types (like bikers and vampires). They bring out the guilt in a person, whether it's genuine or not. I read the name off the I.D. badge on his shirt: James P. Bowland.

"Glad you could make it," Van-man said. "The barbecue's just begun."

Bowland didn't smile. His eyes moved over us with a discouraging mixture of hostility, distrust and contempt. Finally, he asked, "Anybody hurt?"

"Nobody hurt," Van-man answered.

"How do you know? You some kind of doctor?"

"You guessed it, sport." He pulled a large wallet from the back of his jeans and took out some plastic. "That's Richard-no-middle-initial-Mallock, M.D."

"Pretty hairy group you're running with, Doc."

"That's none of your business. And don't call me 'Doc'."

The trooper's face hardened in a series of mean, tight lines. Mallock took a cigar from his shirt pocket and fired it up. He returned Bowland's glare, blue eyes squinting through a cloud of smoke. The belligerence level climbed another degree.

Bowland spat out his next words, "I want to know who was driving these vehicles. I want their driver's licenses. I want to know what happened. We will do this here, we will do this now or we will do this downtown. Do I make myself clear?"

In a masterpiece of timing, the station wagon driver grabbed Bowland's arm and squealed, "It wasn't my fault."

"Keep your hands to yourself, mister."

"You've got to listen to me, not these freaks. Who do you think pays your salary anyway?"

The trooper only hit him once but that was enough. The driver attained some loft before he crumbled onto the road, but nobody thought it was funny. Nobody laughed. Bowland signaled for one of the other officers.

"Was that necessary?" Mallock asked.

Bowland didn't answer, he gave orders. "Take this man in. Have his vehicle impounded." When he looked back at us, he was more cheerful. "Now," he says, "we will continue."

I fished out my license and tried not to cringe. I was remembering what Fist said about spending the night at the sheriff's office, about watching the sun come up with the boys in blue. I wondered how they liked their vampires at the station house — poached, scrambled or sunny-side up?

Like earlier, I tried to stifle that kind of thinking. I hoped that, with any luck, this would pass quickly so I could move on. Call a cab. Find a hotel. Luck was very much on my mind at the moment. Mostly because I didn't seem to have any.

Like what else was new?

If time flies when you're having a good time, it certainly drags terminal when you're not. Counting cars lost its appeal within seconds. Passengers gawked at us from behind breath-slimed glass. I felt like part of a zoo exhibit. All that was missing was the cage. Of course, one could have whiled the time away watching Bowland make hash of Mallock. Bowland didn't like people touching him, he didn't like bikers, he didn't like musicians (me) but, most of all, he didn't like loud-mouth doctors.

"You say the Porsche approached from the left?" Bowland began — for the fourth round.

"We've already been over this," Mallock said.

"I'm sorry. I guess I didn't write it down." Bowland studied his clipboard, his remorse as phoney as his smile.

"That's too bad," Mallock says, "'cause I'm not going over it again." (Bingo. Saturation point.)

"Would you like to continue this conversation downtown?"

"No. I would not like to go downtown."

"Then you should cooperate."

"I have cooperated. We have all cooperated. For three hours, we have cooperated! What's that between your ears — rice pudding? Is this how you guys get your jollies on a slow night or what?"

"Well, we'll just have to keep at it until we get it right."

"Screw that," Mallock growled. "I need a drink."

"I hope I don't have to remind you that driving while under the influence is an offense —"

"You want an offense? I'll give you an offense —"

"Shut up."

That was me.

Mallock's angry blues darted towards me, read the warning.

Living with Harry Doyle, I found out some cops are the best people in the world. Some are bastards. Most of the time, both kinds of cop are the same guy, it just depends on what sort of day — or night — he's had. Most of us start out human, right? But some are straight-mean from beginning to end. They only look for and know how to bring out the bad in others.

James P. Bowland turned to me like fresh meat the second I spoke up. He couldn't wait to see what was going to happen next.

"You made your point," I said. "Why don't we all go home?"

Bowland started a reply and I looked at him. Really looked at him, took a deep dive right into his pale gray eyes. He made his mistake then. He looked back.

Oh ... it's easy to plunge in, especially with the smug ones. They never expect it. Bowland tried to talk. Found he didn't have the breath for it. His gut cramped like he'd been kicked. Which, in a way, he had.

I made my suggestion out loud, "It's late. Your shift is over and you want to go home. You've got more important things to do."

But what he heard inside was, <... I know what you're thinking....>

I caught his thought like a bobbing, plastic fish, the kind kids grab up for prizes at the carny booths, "God, what if that's true?"

I smiled, nodded and pressed harder.

<I know what you're thinking... I know who you are....>

After all, it takes two to play games, right? Officer Bowland had enjoyed a few rounds at our expense. It wasn't my fault he didn't check for wild cards while he was stacking the deck. I slipped deeper, moving fast, marveling. Beneath all Bowland's brass, beneath all the swagger, there was nothing. The trooper-image was surprisingly shallow, so little to see. Then, suddenly, a core. A record of being.

It was a sunny-bright kitchen, antiseptically clean, a photo out of an old Better Homes & Gardens. Yellow-bright floor tiles, white-light counters, polished maple cabinets, table, chairs and a pineapple pattern to the wall paper. Brittle-luminescence on decorative plates, ceramic planters and plastic vines that hung on the walls next to the denture-white telephone.

Grandma scrubs it every night with Lysol from a bottle and the smell of it stings your nose when you call to get the weather so you can hear another voice. Call to get the time so you find out how long. How long before they'll come to get you. How long before you can get away. How long before you trade one nightmare for another.

The sting of Lysol ... it smarts the eyes and nose and leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

Frost-gray eyes under frost-white hair. Black brows look like they've been penciled on except they're not. Only bad women wear make up. A little lipstick, a little rouge and powder. That's sufficient for a lady. Ladies wear dresses and girdles and hose twisted into a knot above the knee. Bad women wear pants.

"You hurt God's ears when you use words like that, Jimmy. You will drink a glass of Grandma's bath water and tell God how sorry you are."

He wanted to say he wasn't sorry. Drank the water instead and swallowed that familiar Lysol kick. Only natural. She had him clean the Porcelain Fixtures (not toilet, not tub) with it every weekend. Every weekend when he came to visit. Grandma.

"Over the river and to the woods to Grandmother's House we go...."

To this very day that song summoned such a rush of dread and loathing — fear so big it breathed like something alive.

Grandma's house on weekends. Big boys helped their Grandmas.

"I'm going to call your mother. I'm going to tell."

Jimmy's Saturday morning wake-up call. She'd entered his bedroom to take yesterday's damage into the wash and seized on her first weekend victory. He leapt out of bed and ran after her, still clad in his pajamas. She strode down the long hall like a giant, through the dining room, into the kitchen. To the telephone. He scrambled behind. Ground to a halt, naked toes and soles sticky with sweat on immaculate linoleum making tacky little noises as he shifted from foot to foot. She faced him as she reached for the telephone, a scrap of cloth clenched in her fist which she proceeded to unfurl.

"Look at this filthy mess." There was satisfaction in her indignation. Glory in his indignity. "Don't you know how to use a commode? Don't you know how to wipe yourself? Do you do in your pants like this when you're at home?"

"No, mam. I tried ... I can't.... Mom said —" He broke it off, quaking in perplexity. Too late.

"Your mother said what?"

His mind raced, darting in frenzied fits and starts like a rabid mouse searching for escape.

"What did your mother say?"

"... only supposed to use two squares."

"What?"

"I use too much. I cost too much money. Mom says I'm only supposed to use two squares."

"You're lying."

"No! No — it's true."

"What's true is you're a lazy, triflin', lying little boy, Jimmy Bowland. I won't tolerate that." Grandma picked up the telephone receiver. Her finger jabbed at the dial. "We'll find out what's going on. We'll find out who's telling tales against their mother. Two squares!"

Jimmy was gang-banged any way he looked at it. Grandma was on the warpath. There would be no help or hope from Mom. There was only one thing Mom feared and she was dialing Mom's number right now. Mom wouldn't risk offense by admitting her instruction regarding the sanctity of toilet paper. Mom would sanction, if not applaud, any punishment Grandma came up with. And later, when he got home, Mom would get him for telling.

So Jimmy did the most courageous thing he had ever done in his bruised, little life. He grabbed the receiver out of Grandma's hand. Clutched it in both of his. Darted away but, trapped by the cord, there was only so far he could go.

Grandma was big and old but she moved fast, especially on frightened children. She snagged the cord and pulled, reeled Jimmy in like a undersized trout. She wrestled the phone out of his hands.

"You wait until I tell your mother, young man!" she raged, holding the receiver over her head. "You just wait!"

"No!"

Jimmy bulldozed her. His small, blond head slammed into her stomach with as much strength as he could muster and she let go. The phone banged and clattered against the wall and floor as it snapped back towards its mate. Jimmy and Grandma bounced, too. First against the back door which burst open from the force of their fall. Then came the three steep, brick steps to the garage floor. Jimmy was cushioned by Grandma's padding. Grandma hit the door, bricks and cement hard. She breathed hard under Jimmy when they landed, gasping and panting for air.

That's when he did it. That's when he grabbed her and shook her and beat her head against the floor. Again and Again. Just like he'd been grabbed and shook and beaten himself, screaming the same litany of questions that had been hurled at him from his moment of birth.

"Bad! Bad! Why did you do that? Why did you have to go and do that?"

Grandma didn't struggle. She stared at him, her glasses askew on her face, her eyes popped wide and blood-streaked, terrified. Her mouth gaping and gummy where her fake teeth fell out on the floor. When he was done, he got up and smashed those teeth to smithereens — horrible, frightful teeth — remembering all the times she'd poked them out of her raw, ugly mouth to scare him when he was little. She'd pick him up, swing him sudden, high up in her big, strong arms to deliver one of her nasty, sloppy kisses. Poke those mean, biting, smelly teeth out instead. Scare him. And laugh at his fear and disgust when he shrank back from the sight of it.

He wasn't a baby now and she wasn't laughing. That was finished.

Later, Jimmy sat way at the back of the breakfast nook at the maple table. Listening. Scared and worried the way only a child can worry, knowing the end was near. Mom was there. The cops were there.

"... Hell of a fall — and the kid saw it happen? Poor little guy," the patrolman said.

"You didn't know her," his partner returned in a whisper. "I grew up in this neighborhood. Vindictive old bitch. Maybe there is a God."

There were gods in Jimmy Bowland's universe who understood and answered prayers. They wore blue uniforms and badges and carried guns. They brought God to Grandmas everywhere. At least, Jimmy did once he was grown up and had a uniform of his own. He joined the force in L.A. as soon as he turned eighteen. Now he was forty-four and he lived in Virginia.

Who you going to trust, Granny, to help with a flat tire, to chase the kids and dogs from your flower bed, to investigate strange noises in the night? Who you going to turn to in your time of need?

To the avenging arm of the lord, of course.

I pulled out of there — fast, fast! Dozens of gap-mouthed, wild-eyed women followed. Dead women. I'd been with him less than a minute. Now I'd never be free of him. Wretched, miserable monster. Sorry child. Asinine, ignorant, arrogant me. If they gave diplomas in stupidity, I'd have a Ph.D.

Mallock and the others were looking at us funny. I stepped back towards them. Away from Officer Bowland.

"It was an accident," I muttered. "Just an accident."

Bowland looked at his watch. "It's late," he said. "I've got more important things to do."

I hoped that wasn't true. Bowland held out a collection of drivers' licenses and my hand touched his when I took mine back. He looked at me, like he was waiting for something. His face had as much depth as a cheap doll, a toy-soldier enforcer. The only problem was, I knew what was beneath the plastic. I had blown this so badly.

It would not have done any good to say "Don't visit any more Grandmas." That programming ran too deep. But, at the last moment, I sent out a command, <Talk>

Not as blatant as "confess" or "tell". Maybe it would work.

"Maybe you should go now," I suggested.

Bowland smiled slightly, nodded, touched the brim of his hat and walked away. I felt Mallock's eyes on me as I stashed my license.

"Okay," he rasped. "You work for the dark side of the Force or what?"

"Huh?"

"That was neat. How did you do it and why didn't you do it sooner?"

"I didn't do anything."

"Seriously. Was it some kind of New Age stuff or what? Your eyes —"

I pointed at the departing patrol cars and hoped for a break. "Look, they're going."

As we watched the law withdraw, Mallock's curiosity hit me like a blow. Thankfully, others arrived before the doctor could begin more questions. A short, stocky man dressed in decimated denim stopped in front of us. Mallock regarded him coldly. Fresh antagonism filled the air.

"Thanks for the support, Dodger Joe," the doctor snapped. "You were a real help."

"What are you coming down on me for? I had my own problems back there. Besides, you relate to those turkeys better than I do."

"Yeah. Sure."

"You old dudes know how to talk to each other. I would have just been in the way."

Dodger wasn't much on brains or diplomacy but he was big on whining. The doctor covered his wince badly and re-lit the stub of his cigar.

"Look, you're supposed to be the leader of this outfit," Mallock said. "At least, that's what you keep telling everybody — until there's trouble. The next time it happens, don't —"

"We don't have time for this, Doc. Something's the matter with Alice."

"Something's always the matter with Alice."

"Well, you better take care of it fast. We got to get out of here."

Mallock grabbed up his bag and pushed past Dodger, kept the rest of what he was thinking to himself. I trailed after them. Dodger gave me a quick look-over but glanced away the moment our eyes went level. Suited me fine. Already I had no use for Dodger Joe. Figured I knew how he got that name.

But most of the tribe was like that. I looked around as we cut our way through to the Triumph. No one looked me in the eye for more than a few heart beats. It had nothing to do with Fae Blood, nothing like that. They were just whipped and tired, beat-out in their heads as well as their bodies. They would've followed anything that showed interest. Including Dodger Joe.

Which made Doctor Mallock something of a puzzle. Like the oriental woman still standing by the girl. She looked like a wolf protecting her only cub, but her concern came out like something close to rage.

"She won't get up," she blazed as soon as Mallock appeared. "She's been like this since we stopped."

"Well, let's see, Snakelady." Mallock squatted down before the kneeling girl. He cupped her chin in a calloused hand, tilted her head back and peered into hazel eyes. He took a little flashlight out of his bag, shined it in her face.

"What's the problem, Alice?" Mallock asked, chatting along soft all the while.

Whatever it was, Alice wasn't saying. She continued to stare straight in front of her. The fire was gone now, all the wreckage was towed off. Hard to say what she watched out there.

Mallock rocked back on his haunches, put the flashlight away.

"I can't see anything wrong with her, Snake," he said. "Not this time. Not the last time either."

"And you don't care, do you?"

"Goddamnit, I do care. I told you before, Alice needs help. She's not going to get it out here."

"Talk, Mallock. That's all you're good for."

"Don't start that crap with me, sweetheart. I'm not in the mood."

I jammed my fists in my pockets. Another argument. Another delay. It was closing in on midnight. Why couldn't we just get going? I wanted to suggest we pick her up, put her in the back of the van and go.

Closed my eyes instead. Opened them and looked at Alice hoping no one would notice. There was no time for mistakes.

<I know what you're thinking....>

Those words help them focus. They fly to the root of the problem and bring you along — or so Tasia told me. In this, she was right. Alice shivered, responding to the first tentative whisper.

Bowland was hard to reach, he'd buried himself under such a thick mask of conforming image. This girl's frights bobbed so close the surface, I wondered that no one else saw them but me. I wish I could write down that Alice's fears were unique but they weren't. Her's was familiar terror. I knew it by heart.

But what to say? How to bring her back?

It was an obsidian forest, the trees so dark they reflected shiny-black. Bright spurs were imbedded in their trunks like a handful of tossed glitter. When I pulled one out, it burned my fingers. Sap bled from the bark and smelled like a mixture of tears and marsh.

A little Alice wandered the dark like a wraith, scratched, bruised and dirty while something high in the branches wailed weak, hungry and scared out of its wits. You couldn't help but notice there wasn't much difference between the noises these two made.

There was nothing for it but to climb up — and it wasn't easy. And what was waiting out on the branches wasn't exactly glad to see me. It didn't run over to be rescued. Oh no. It backed to the end of the branch and almost took the fast-but-fatal way down. At the last minute, though, it let me grab it. The crawl back was no easier than the one going up especially with this starved thing scrabbled under my shirt, buried in beneath my chin, still squalling. It needed a bath, too.

But I don't think I could've gone without bringing it back to her.

<... Alice — I know what you're feeling ... I understand>

I wished that wasn't true but it was.

A picnic in the woods. An inconvenient pet. Convenient myths. Animals are born to be free and wild, they can hunt and live on their own. "See how much he likes it outside?" Right. More than he liked the car ride into the swamp. They left it played-out, sleeping the innocent, a final piece of fried chicken to snack on when it woke up. A child with an earlier memory of same animal, treed and helpless. The mighty-hunter not doing so good on the front lawn. Adults she already knew not to trust, so wildly enthusiastic and jolly over a surprise holiday. Bright girl, she knew something was up. Like a bit of her soul left behind, abandoned and starving in a way-high tree. Not Daddy's fault. Not Mommy's fault. Alice was to blame because she should have stopped it from happening. She should have found a way out. She should have rescued kitty.

<Hey, baby, it's not your fault>

Alice wasn't listening. She was enjoying a reunion. Wasn't interested in anything I had to say.

Like I said, I don't like to mess with people's heads. You can't ever get rid of them. I carry enough ghosts. Sometimes I think I'd rather take the true death than dive into another lost soul.

Tasia says we're not supposed to get so close, it's crazy to get involved. There are boundaries we have to respect for our own peace of mind as much as theirs. I understand that. Shit. Subtlety doesn't work for me. It's always been all or nothing. I've never been able to do anything right.

I left Alice's dismal swamp, came back to the highway. Drained. Mallock and Snakelady were still arguing. It had been nuts to go so deep (somewhere, Grandmas still shrieked and died in the back of my skull. Lost children and kittens wailed). I'd only intended a surface skim with Alice, a suggestion. Well, you know what they say about intentions.

That was no excuse. I sighed (force of habit but it felt good. It felt okay).

Down on the grass, Alice took in a deep breath, too. Let it out slow. Snakelady and Mallock shut up. Everyone looked at Alice. Hazel eyes fluttered shut briefly. When she looked up again, she stared straight at me. Recognition flooded her face and she smiled, radiant, like a rag doll queen.

"I know you," Alice said, beaming. "I know who you are."

After that, everybody was looking at me.

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