This story is the result of a collaborative round robin. Gathered and Edited by Maria Vitale _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 1 _________________________________________________________________________ Authors: O -- new intro Scarlet Heli Dates: Thu Dec 5 15:19 EST 1996 / Fri Dec 6 16:24 EST 1996 _________________________________________________________________________ It was a wonderful evening as the sunset competed with the bright yellow house for warmth. Jordan was still holding onto her balloon, quite an accomplishment for such a young, energetic girl. Her black and white puppy, getting bigger and hungrier by the day, also noticed the accomplishment, and tried its best to defeat it. "No, bad pup. It's mine." She giggled and wound the purple balloon's shiny blue ribbon tighter around her palm. "Daddy gave this to me. Maybe he'll give you one when he gets back, if you're good." Catherine remembered how the neighbors eyed the intensity of that yellow. Even the painters made a few suggestions about toning it down. As she watched the sunset prism her house, all the shades of brightness in the world calling back to the sun, she was glad Frank was stubborn that day. "Okay, Jordan, come inside now." Catherine called into the back garden, saw her daughter's face hallowed in furious gold. Jordan bowed and scolded her dog. "Okay, bad pup. Time to eat. And after, when Dad calls, I'll ask him for a balloon for you." The puppy yawned its approval. ***** [Night shot of the Black household. Open to a full moon seen through a shear-draped window from within the house. Shining clouds twist across the luminous shape. The wind rakes the trees, but no sound is heard.] [Caption in the lower left corner of the screen:] Seattle 10:13 PM [Camera pans to an upper window. Zooms in.] [Cut to interior shot. Silence. Camera pans slowly around a bedroom, a little girl's room as evidenced by the arrangements of dolls and ponies. Camera pans past a Rockwellesque-framed snapshot of the Black family. We hear a whimper as the camera reaches the foot of the bed. We see Jordan, bundled up in the covers with only her cherubic face visible. She begins to move her head back and forth slowly, mumbling.] [As her mumbling increases in volume, shot cuts to Catherine, sitting up in bed alone, reading. She looks up, puzzled, as if listening. After a brief moment, she sets her book down on the bed, pulls back the covers and slides out of bed. We hear Jordan's voice now. She is obviously saying something but we can't make out the words.] Catherine slips her robe on and makes her way down the hall to Jordan's room. The door is ajar and as she nears it, Jordan's words start to become clearer. Her voice is a flat monotone. Catherine looks around the doorframe and the camera cuts to Jordan, now tangles in the covers and rocking back and forth in a fetal position. Her voice begins to rise in pitch as we finally hear the phrase she's repeating over and over... "We're all mad here. We're all mad here." Her voice gets even more shrill and Catherine crosses the room to comfort her. As she sits on the bed and reaches her hand out to touch her daughter, Jordan sits bolt upright and screams it once more, almost shrieking. "WE'RE ALL MAD HERE!" [Fade] ***** The disciples were arguing among themselves asking: "Who really is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?" So, he took a young child, stood it in their midst, put his arms around it and said to them: "Whoever will humble himself like this small child is the one that is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven; and whoever receives one such young child in my name receives me. But whoever stumbles one of these little ones who put faith in me, it would be better for him if a millstone such as is turned by an ass were put around his neck and he were pitched into the sea." "If you have faith the size of a mustard grain, you will say to this mountain, 'Go from here to there,' and it will go, and nothing will be impossible for you." Matthew 18:1-7, 17:20 ***** Jordan opens her eyes, blinks. Silence. She looks at Catherine, who is looking somewhat shock-like. Jordan: "Mommy?" Catherine: (gathering her daughter into her arms) "It's OK, honey, it was just a bad dream." Jordan: "Where's Daddy?" Catherine: "He's in Portland, sweetie, remember?" Jordan: "I dreamed he was in the Rabbit Hole." Catherine: (chuckles slightly as she begins to relax) "You mean like in the story your teacher's been reading you at school? I think that cute little head is all mixed up!" (tickles Jordan who laughs, squirms out of her mother's arms and lays back down) Catherine: "You OK?" Jordan: (regards her mother now with solemn eyes) "I guess... can I get in bed with you?" (pleading eyes) "Please?" Catherine: "Well...all right." Jordan gets up and follows Catherine from the room, only pausing to pick up the framed family picture and hug it to her chest. She keeps it with her as she heads for the bedroom door where Catherine is watching. Catherine: "Are you going to sleep with that lumpy-bumpy picture? Won't it hurt if you roll over on it?" Jordan: "I have to keep Daddy close, Mommy. Just in case he falls in a hole." Catherine smiles gently, perhaps a little indulgently, at her daughter and leads her to the master bedroom. _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 2 _________________________________________________________________________ Authors: Rick Smith (Roguewriter) Mark Lindamood Dates: Thu Dec 5 16:17 EST 1996 / Fri Dec 6 18:45 EST 1996 _________________________________________________________________________ In the bed, Catherine studies her daughter's troubled features. "The hole?" Jordan bursts into tears, nearing hysteria. "The hole, Mommy, the hole, DADDY'S GOING TO FALL DOWN THE HOLE!" [Cut to:] [Storm clouds rolling over the moon, as we look down on a Portland suburb. The overlay in the lower center of the screen reads, in broken Courier type:] Portland 10:30 p.m. Frank Black steps out of a rental car and glances around at the half-full parking lot of the low building in the distance. There are neon Bud Lite and Coors signs in the windows-- it's obviously a bar, of the lower-class honky-tonk type. But it's likely there's little heavy drinking going on in there tonight--roughly half a dozen of the cars in the parking lot are city, county and state police vehicles. Cops are roping off an area near the rear of the building, and Frank heads that way now, seeing a familiar face among the lawmen. Ardis Cohen nods at his approach. "I see Watts pulled you away from Family Night," she says in a friendly voice. "Watts never heard of Family Night," Frank replies. "You said you needed me on this, Ardis. What've you got?" Cohen's face falters. She seems about to speak, and then she merely beckons. "Over here." Frank follows her to the Do-Not-Cross barriers and the two of them cross over. A police photog is snapping pictures, casting a freakish blue-white light over everything. Mixed with the neon red from the beer signs, it turns the muddy trashport at the rear of the bar into a small section of electric hell. "Munce Holliman," Ardis says briskly, falling into cop mode now as they near tonight's butchery. "Fifty-two, divorcee. Day foreman at the Addison Lumber yard. According to the barkeep, he's been a regular here nearly every night for the last 15 years." She looks away. "Probably explains the divorcee status." The photographer backs off to allow them access to the remains of Munce Holliman, lying on his back next to a Dempsey Dumpster. He was a big man, Frank sees, his prodigious gut hanging over a belt buckle that looks big enough to act as a bulletproof vest for a smaller individual. It hadn't done Munce any good. Something had taken off his head, probably with something less precise than a surgeon's blade. The photog snapped a picture, and the scene was burned in crisp red- and blue-neon-tinged colors in his mind. "Perp must have been big," Ardis says beside Frank, still looking away. "Not another mark on him." "Probably a blow to the head to incapacitate him," Frank replies. "Find it?" Ardis looks at him, nods to the dumpster. There is a plastic sheet draped over something on top of it, now illuminated by another of the ghostly flashes from the camera. Beneath the covered shape, blood has pooled and run down the side of the dumpster. It is flat and black against the blue metal until the flash bursts again. Then it is red, Frank sees, drying now, hours after the fact, but as red in his mind's eye as the moment it began to spill onto the trash receptacle, the moment whoever had taken the trophy had placed it there to mock those who would stand here where he and Ardis are standing now. _Mocking him._ Frank steps closer, meaning to lift the slick yellow plastic and get a look at Munce Holliman's face, see what those dead staring eyes can tell him about Munce's killer... when Ardis stops him with a hand on his arm. "It isn't his head, Frank." Frank stops and looks at his old comrade. But like his own, Ardis' face has been trained by years of looking down upon the leavings of the sick, the handiwork of the madmen, and now her face reveals nothing. Frank goes to the dumpster, puts his hand on the plastic, and lifts it. The eyes staring back at him tell him something about Munce's killer, all right, but it is not a revelation he had expected--not by any means. The head on the dumpster is that of a fully grown brood sow, it's black eyes glassy and scummed over, its fat blue-black tongue lolling mockingly from the side of its snout. Like the body of the man at Frank's feet, this head was not removed with any precision whatsoever. _He didn't need precision,_ Frank thinks, and then says it aloud. "What?" Ardis asks him. "It's a message," Frank says. "A message from whom?" Frank stares into the face of the pig. _He was a pig,_ the sneering young killer had said to him 10 months ago. "The Judge," Frank says. Behind him, Ardis frowns, not understanding. Her face is bathed in the hell-light of the neon signs. They both enter the bar. Frank turns to look at the street scene through the window. Looking up, he sees the reflected image of the flashing neon. It reads: "A L I C E ' S." _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 3 _________________________________________________________________________ Authors: Mark Lindamood Heli Dates: Sat Dec 7 11:27 EST 1996 / Tue Dec 10 15:33 EST 1996 _________________________________________________________________________ Frank scans the room which is unnaturally quiet for this time of evening. Somewhere off-camera we can hear someone sobbing softly. The sobbing gets louder as Frank advances through the room. At the other end of the room we see Portland Detective Darrel Hacker interviewing the bartender. Off to the right side of the room we can see a man and a woman at a table. The man is the one who is sobbing and the woman is comforting him. Approaching the officer, Frank introduces himself and nods his head in the direction of the couple, questioningly. Darrel meets Frank before he's gotten all the way to the bar and says, "Ex-college roommates. Kyle Peterson says he was in town on business. Says the alumni meeting was spur-of-the-moment. The woman is Alice LaRouge. She owns the place." Frank approaches the table where the two are seated. Alice is holding Peteson's hand across the table, comforting him as he blubbers away. She sees Frank and unobtrusively pulls her hands back. Frank: "Mr. Peterson, Ms. LaRouge, I'm Frank Black. I'm assisting in the investigation." Peterson: (oblivious to Frank's presence) "How could anybody do that, Alice? Nobody deserves to... I mean, not like *that*... " Alice: (looking up at Frank) "I'm afraid he's still a little in shock, Mr. Black. You see, we were all so close in college. 'The Tacoma Troika,' that was us. We tried to stay in touch, but you know how life interferes with your plans... " Frank takes a seat across from Alice. Peterson looks up at this point and is visibly trying to pull himself together. Frank: "So you haven't seen each other in a while?" Alice: "Well, Munce was a regular here and I'd see him maybe once or twice a week, whenever we happened to be here at the same time, but it hasn't been the same since - " Peterson: (breaking in, obviously recovered) "You see, Frank, I called Alice the other night to see if we could all get together tonight. I haven't been here in years, but a sales trip came up for Portland, so I thought I'd look up my old chums. She said Munce was usually here after 6:00 and she would be here tonight, too. If I had only known...Poor Munce... " (tears form again. Alice reaches out to cover his hand with hers.) Frank: (looking from one to the other) "So you're going to be in the area for a few days, Mr. Peterson?" Peterson: "Well, I had planned to go back tomorrow, but now I'd at least like to stay until the funeral... " Alice: "I think Munce would have liked that. (patting Peterson's hand) Why don't you stay out at my place for a couple days. I've got a lot of spare rooms and God knows my cats would love an extra hand to pet them." Frank: (rising to his feet) "Thank you both for your time. I'll be in touch." Frank turns to see Darrel approaching from the bar. He meets him halfway and they head back outside. Darrel: "Get any leads?" Frank: "A couple of ideas. How 'bout you?" Darrel: "Nah, the bartender didn't hear anything. Said Munce left about 8:00 and when he went to take out the trash about an hour later, he found him." Frank: "Anyone been to the ex-wife's place yet?" Darrel: "No, she's remarried and living out by the University. Husband's a professor there. She's a friend of mine." Frank: "Perhaps you could take me out to meet her then?" [Cut to the exterior of a large Tudor-style house. Darrel's car pulls into the driveway and he and Frank get out. There's already a black-and-white in the driveway. Frank glances at it as he approaches the front door. Darrel rings the doorbell. A uniformed cop answers the door.] Cop: "Detective Hacker?" Darrel: "This is Frank Black. He's in from Seattle to help with the investigation. He'd like to speak with Mrs. Pebbles." Cop: "Yes, sir. She's in here." [Leads Frank into a well-appointed library. Mrs. Pebbles is seated on the leather sofa, stroking a brown cat. Her eyes are red and puffy, but she seems to be under control.] Darrel: "Linda, this is Frank Black, he's been called in from Seattle to help find Munce's killer." Frank: "I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pebbles." Linda: "Go on, Cocoa." (Shoos the cat from the room) "Nice to meet you, Mr. Black. I'm afraid I'm still a little in shock. Munce and I didn't have much contact in the last several years, but I once cared for him very much." Frank: "I understand." [Doorbell rings.] Linda: (laughs ironically) "Usually we get two or three visitors a week, not a night." Darrel: "I'll see who it is." (leaves the room) Linda: (her eyes are far away as she speaks, reminiscing) "It's funny how life works out, isn't it? I mean, it seems like only yesterday we were all in school here. I can remember walking around the campus, hoping to catch a glimpse of Munce with his two friends, Alice - she owns that bar now - and Peterson - I never could remember his first name, everyone just called him Peterson - they were the shining stars of the college. Everybody wanted to be *in* with them. Funny how it all worked out.... " Darrel returns with a box in his hands, looking perplexed. Darrel: "I looked around outside to see who might have left this, but there was nobody there. I thought I saw a big dark sedan heading for the campus, though." Frank sees an eerie montage of images in his mind's eye: red on red, an inhuman scream echoes through his mind. He sees a silhouetted figure, as it turns to profile, it becomes clear that its nose is actually a snout... Frank: "I think we'd better take that down to headquarters. I don't think Mrs. Pebbles needs to see what's in it." _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 4 _________________________________________________________________________ Authors: Heli O Dates: Tue Dec 17 15:02 EST 1996 / Thu Dec 19 23:22 EST 1996 _________________________________________________________________________ [Police Station/Morgue, the following morning. Darrel and Frank are outside an examination room. Through the small porthole window in the door we see that Munce's severed head has been reunited with his body, both are lying on a stainless steel table. The Medical Examiner is visible also, bent over the corpse, intently studying the wounds.] Darrel: (looking in the window) "Poor Munce. I don't think anybody deserves to go like that." Frank: "Did you know him very well?" Darrel: "Well, I was a year behind him in school. (laughs bitterly) Seems like I was always behind Munce one way or another." Frank: "Would you mind telling me about him? Any background information would be helpful at this point." Darrel: (swiveling his head to regard Frank suspiciously, eyes narrowing) "Is this an official interrogation, Frank?" (Darrel starts, as if surprised to have heard himself say that, and looks at Frank apologetically) "I'm sorry, Frank, it was a long night. I didn't get much sleep." Frank: "I understand, maybe later." Darrel: "No, I really don't mind, it's just seeing someone I looked up to for so long dead... " (shakes his head again and looks back at Frank) "He was so well-liked in school, you know. When he got out and started working at the lumber yard, he fit right in. He was just that kind of guy, everybody's friend. It was wierd, though, the way everyone liked him, but he only seemed to have two close friends. Alice LaRouge - she owns the bar where Munce's body was found - and Peterson. People around used to call them the 'Tacoma Troika', but I couldn't tell you why. Even after all the college cliques drifted apart, you'd still see the three of them, hanging out together at Alice's bar. They were almost inseparable, well, until Munce got married, anyway." Frank: "What happened then?" Darrel: "Well, I know Linda had a crush on Munce all through school. Hell, I had a crush on Linda, but who could blame her for wanting Munce? Seems like every girl in school wanted to land him. Anyway, he finally noticed her at Addison's employee Christmas party one year, that would have been back in 1977 or so. To hear her describe it, it was like a dream come true. Here she was, almost thirty and not married yet - not from lack of suitors, mind you - and finally the man of her dreams notices her and sweeps her off her feet. They were married that June. That's when you started to see less and less of the 'Tacoma Troika'." Frank: "But they've been divorced for over ten years now, right?" Darrel: "Yeah, nobody talks about it much, but Linda wanted kids real bad. Seems like that's all she talked about for a while. Well, they were married about four years before they managed to conceive. Looking back, I guess that was the beginning of the end." Frank: "I wasn't aware there was a child." Darrel: "Well, that's the really sad part, they had a little boy, but he died two days after he was born. After that, Munce started drinking a lot more, staying out all the time... " Frank: "With the 'Troika'?" Darrel: "No, seems to me Peterson moved away right around that time. Munce would go to Alice's, but it seemed like they just didn't talk as much. Munce just sat and drank. After a while Linda said she couldn't handle it anymore and filed for divorce. Since then Alice's is his second home. I mean, *was* his second home, poor guy." As seen through the round window, the M.E. strips off his gloves and heads for the hallway where Frank and Darrel are waiting for his analysis. M.E.: "Well, gentlemen, upon examining the wounds around the neck and noting the lack of trauma to the skull, I would have to say that death was, in this case, not as instantaneous as I'm sure the victim would have wished." Frank: "What do you mean, Doctor?" M.E.: "From the puckering and stretching of the skin on either side of the cut, and the resultant loss of blood, I would say that this man's head was sawn off - and he was conscious when it happened." [CUT to Frank's house, interior shot. Catherine and Jordan are in the living room. Catherine is reading again, and Jordan is on the floor with a playhouse and several dolls scattered here and there.] [Phone rings. Catherine gets up and goes into the kitchen to answer.] Catherine: "Hello...." (pause) "Oh, hi Frank, how's Portland?" (pause) "Well, we miss you, too." (pause) "Any breaks in the case?" (pause) "Well, things are OK here, I just wish you were home. Jordan had another nightmare last night, she said you'd fallen in a hole." (Calls out) Jordan, Daddy's on the phone!" (then, back to Frank) "I don't know what she's playing in there, but she's really wrapped up in it. Do you want me to get her?" (pause - smiles tenderly and nods) "I know, Frank Black's work is never done." (laughs lightly) "Well, I'll tell her you're safe and sound, no holes in sight. Call me later." (pause) "I love you, too." Catherine hangs up the phone and walks back into the living room. Jordan is still playing intently, and Catherine crosses the floor to kneel across from her daughter. Catherine: "Didn't you want to talk to Daddy? Usually you run right in when you know it's him." Jordan: "Look, Mommy, I made a crime scene." Catherine: (looks puzzled and taken aback) "What, honey?" Jordan: "See, here's the Mommy, and here's the policeman. This is the Daddy, but there's no baby 'cause it died. There's some more people but I ran out of dolls." Catherine: "Jordan, sweetie, are you OK?" Jordan: (looks up at Catherine, eyes clear and shining with innocence) "Why, Mommy?" [Silence as the camera pans down to the litter of doll parts and clothes strewn across the carpet. As the view zooms in to the 'house' where Jordan set up her 'family,' we see the Mommy doll and the Policeman doll inside. As the camera zooms in on the 'back yard' and the other 'family' member, wesee that Jordan has fashioned her 'Daddy doll' out of a Ken doll. It is dressed in a tiny flannel-type shirt and jeans, and its head is missing.] [A little later that evening, Jordan was pretending to take a nap on the big living room couch so that her mom would stop looking at her so strangely. The little girl wondered why she had wanted to scare her mom by making such a strange doll house story. Jordan still had the head of the Ken doll hidden down her shirt, though she had told her mom she had lost it. She squinted her eyes to see if mom was nearby, and slowly moved the doll head further up her shirt so that it would be closer to her heart. Jordan was just trying to remember something - something that dipped and swam through her imagination - something that wouldn't go away. Mommy always said that it was good to imagine, to even pretend sometimes. 'It's not bad to pretend to be something else, as long as you know you are only pretending.' But Jordan didn't know if this was pretending or not. Jordan only knew, as she drifted off into better dreams, that this felt too real, and too soon.] _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 5 _________________________________________________________________________ Authors: Rick Smith (Roguewriter) O Dates: Fri Dec 20 14:31 EST 1996 / Sun Mar 2 16:00 EST 1997 _________________________________________________________________________ Frank hung up the phone. The day outside the hotel lobby was crisp and bright, like Jordan's smile. He immediately wanted to call home again, to see if Jordan had finished her play, to catch her laugh. Portland called louder. He stepped outside the privacy booth and thought about getting a drink in the hotel bar. Ardis had gone off with Hacker to see the lumberyard, and maybe pump Darrel more about his involvement with the Tacoma Troika. There was something about those four - some kind of jealous rivalry, despite all the seemly tears. Watts was running around somewhere, with about five different kinds of pagers attached to his person. Frank's plane would take him home at about midnight - he still had the long day spread out before him waiting thinking. He wanted that drink. Well, the best place for that would be at Alice's. Black made sure the cellular was in the rental as he drove away from the hotel. Alice saw the car drive onto and park almost at the very entrance. She saw it was Black, and panicked. "Should I go greet him, Kyle?" she called in a frantic, low voice. "Kyle? Kyle!" It was obvious to Frank that the bar was closed. All the lights were off, and no movement could be seen behind the diamond shaped glass panel set in the door. It would be at least several days before the establishment would be open to the public again, according to the rites of grieving. The ex-F.B.I. investigator despised his ungenerous thoughts. He just wanted another look at the place in the daylight, talk to the two in private. They did seem genuinely nice, a good trait to have for barkeeps. Frank knocked on the bar's door. There wasn't an electric ringer at the entrance since, it seemed, the place was hardly ever closed. That lent a nice, old fashioned, at home touch to the establishment. He looked a little more closely at the door and noticed a small nail just below the diamond shaped window. A faint outline of a horseshoe lightened the door's dark wood. Probably an old brass knocker, just recently removed. Horseshoes, for luck. But also to scare away something, too. What was it, the usual demons? Witches? Diviners? A light went on inside. He knocked louder and waited, but whoever it was chose not to answer. The light went off. Frank felt his cellular's familiar bulk in his jacket's left front pocket, and tried the brass handle. The simple lock clicked open, and a friendly bell announced his presence. "Hello? Peterson? Alice?" This is breaking and entering, Frank, no matter how friendly you try to sound. Okay, maybe not breaking, but real stupid nonetheless. You shouldn't be here. Better back up now. "Alice? I know someone's here." God, Frank. You idiot. He stepped inside, leaving the door wide open. There was no one in the immediate room. It was too quiet. His cellular rang. Go outside and answer it, Frank. You know, Outside, just about ten feet away. Frank looked around the otherwise silent bar as his cellular rang a third time. Absolutely no one in this room. He answered his cellular as he walked toward the door out. "Hello, Frank. Remember me?" Frank saw the hog's head, tongue lolling, newly born black flies emerging from the stinking mouth. He hesitated. "You should have listened to that other voice." Frank knew the hog was right as something crashed into him and sent him into darkness. _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 6 _________________________________________________________________________ Author: O Date: Fri Dec 20 21:16 EST 1996 - Date: Mon Dec 30 23:33 EST 1996 _________________________________________________________________________ Frank woke up, icicles buried deep in his lungs. It was so hard to breathe. So cold. There was something on his face and clothes. Maybe he was underwater - except that it was bright. He let his ears orient him, pretending to still be asleep. "I think you cut him pretty bad, Al. He'll need stitches." It was that guy. Pete... god, don't lose it now, Frank... Peterson. And Alice. He remembered trying to fend off the blow. "Then go ahead and stitch him. But wait 'till he wakes up first." "You know, he sees who you are. I can tell." Peterson's old harelip scar twitched as he smiled. Frank was sitting in a large chair. It didn't feel flimsy, like wood, but sharp and cold like metal. He wouldn't be able to lift it off the floor. In fact, he realized that his feet didn't even touch the ground. The coldness in his lungs made Frank cough. "Good, he's awake." ***** Catherine didn't remember how many times she got up in the night to again turn up that damn furnace. It was probably 75 degrees in the house, but she still felt as cold as the dead. Maybe she was catching the flu, and would be careful around Jordan. The extra blankets she brought up from the basement just felt like grave dirt, cold and heavy on her chest. Damn work. God damn work. She would have to watch her temper around Jordan, too. "Mommy?" Jordan's early morning, gravelly voice always sounded so cute to Catherine, though there seemed to be more distress in it today than the usual grumps. "I'm so cold." Catherine glanced at the clock. It was only 3 a.m. "Come here, honey." She pulled back a small corner of the thick blankets, and felt Jordan's warmth as she tiredly climbed into the bed. Normally, Jordan bounced in, and Catherine quickly pulled the blankets back around her. She pressed her cheek to Jordan's. Catherine was freezing. Jordan was burning up. "I can't think straight." Jordan muttered in a too grown up voice. Catherine looked at Jordan. Maybe her tired mind just thought she said that. ***** "The stitching job's not a very good one, but then again, it doesn't have to be. Just enough to keep blood loss at a minimum." Alice removed the gag from Frank's mouth, and then wondered about the collar. It kept him from moving around too much, especially while stitching wounds, and forced him to look at them. Alice liked being looked at. She liked all the attention she was getting in the room. Maybe Peterson was even a little jealous. Peterson sat on an upended wine barrel a few feet away, indulgently watching Alice play. "Get into the minds of the victims too, right Frank? Know the victim, and you'll understand who would go after such a person. I've read the books. I've prepared." Alice stroked the arm of the elaborate chair, with all its restraints, the one Munce had sat in. Frank knew that much of the blood that was on him was not his own. "If you'll recall, I've always wanted justice for the victim. In this case, me. Here's lesson #1." ***** "A white rabbit, with blue eyes. My head hurts." Jordan still had a fever as she lay on the hospital bed, but it never climbed above 100 degrees. Her heartbeat was also around the century mark. If it were a hot day instead of the middle of the night the doctor's would have called it sunstroke. Even so, Catherine felt guilty about turning the house heat so high. Still, the doctor said her lungs sounded fine, she wasn't coughing at all or complaining about any throat or muscle pains. Just her head. Catherine left several notes back at the house. She didn't even want to wake the neighbors or call Bletch so late, to try to get a message to Frank. It was still several hours until dawn. She would call them in the morning. Thank goodness Jordan wasn't getting any worse, and everyone hoped that it was just a mild, short lived infection, gotten over quickly. Tests, tests, tests. The antiseptic smell of the hospital always got to her. Wounds, and wounds being cleaned. Catherine curled up on a couch in the corridor and doubted she could get a few hours sleep. ***** "Do you know the principle of the shock box, Frank?" The Judge was really coming into his stride now, preaching. He wanted the criminal to know why all this was being done to him. Peterson was practically shouting into Frank's blood soaked ears. Now the Judge stood back, arms crossed, regaining some illusion of composure. "You see, I offered you meaningful work, and you refused. Because of that, and... other things, a lot of time was lost. And a lot of justice undone. Didn't you care, Frank? Many people would call that apathy. I'm not that cruel. I don't think people are apathetic. I think they are just overwhelmed." The judge played around with some wires that lead from what looked like a bank of car batteries to a grid that ran beneath the metal chair. One of the batteries looked new. Funny, Frank thought, that battery is probably from my own rental car, long disposed of. "You know the experiment. Stick a dog in a metal box, randomly shock it, and eventually that dog will stop moving altogether, out of dumb fear. Poor dog. It's not apathy, it's catatonia. But dogs, they're just animals. They don't understand what's being done to them. People are different. And they fight much longer." ***** The rush of the crash cart and its operators woke Catherine out of a cold sleep. Jordan's heartbeat had climbed to 120 beats per minute, and wasn't slowing. She seemed to be having some sort of seizure, though not a violent one, yet, and the doctors argued if she was stable enough for a CAT scan. They were staring into Jordan's eyes when Catherine ran in. "Jordan.... What happened?" A doctor stopped her from picking up Jordan and cradling her. "Mrs. Black. Jordan's never had any signs of epilepsy, has she? Even mild symptoms, like staring off into space and not being able to get her attention?" "All children do that. But no one in my family or her father's have had that, as far as I know." Catherine pushed past the doctor and held her daughter. Jordan's heartbeat started slowing. "Daddy's...." "We would like to give Jordan a CAT scan, and some other tests." One of the other doctors muttered, not necessarily in agreement. Catherine looked at her daughter, gently cradling her head. She was so happy yesterday...playing... smiling. "Mom...." "I'd like to take her home." "That wouldn't be too smart, Mrs. Black. I know we haven't found anything specific, but..." "How serious is this?" The doctor's all looked at each other. Silence. A few tears escaped Catherine. ***** Fricking answering machine. Or maybe Ardis should have said 'Franking' answering machine. Ardis always made fun of Frank's "greeting" messages, and she suspected Catherine did too. He always tried to make them sound threatening, like he was some lone psycho with no family and no life. Once his greeting as just a barked 'What?' and then *beep* but Catherine quickly changed that one. Frank figured that he only wanted messages from people who knew him, or at least recognized his growl, and that everyone else could go hang. It was a strange quirk in an otherwise pretty okay guy. "One quirk? Well, that's a lie." "What, hon?" Her husband, a sweet bear of a guy, nuzzled her hair in the wee hours of the morning. "It's okay, Bear. Just thinking. Work." "Oh that." Ardis' husband made a thrppting sound and slid a sleepy arm over her hip. "Yes. That." ***** Catherine woke Bletch at dawn, forcing herself to sound coherent. "This better be good," Bletch tiredly, but soft spokenly said into the phone. "It's Catherine, I'm sorry...," her voice started to shake a little. She cleared it and went on. "Jordan's in the hospital - a mild infection, the doctor's think. Do you know where Frank is?" "Oh, Catherine. Well, like you, I know he's in Portland, but there aren't any real local ties to that case. He hasn't phoned me about anything, anyway. Of course, I have a bunch of phone numbers he gave me that I could call for you. You probably have a few of them already. I'll call them for you, okay, Catherine? You're probably at...ah, St. Luke's hospital, right? We'll track him down. A mild infection, right?" "Yes. Actually, just find out what's happening with his cellular. It's either not working, or he's not carrying it. Something." "Okay, I'm on it. I'll hand deliver the message and drag him away if I have to." "Well, Bletch..." "I know. I'm just joking. Take care of yourself, too, Cathy." [Disconnection.] Work. God damn work. In a few hours, she would have to call into her own workplace. ***** Frank had to remember that there was a life beyond this room. IS a life. There is a life beyond this. Peterson and Alice watched as another shock went through Frank's body. "It'll be time to open the bar again." "That's hours away. Besides, I'll hang a black wreath on the door and keep the closed sign up. "Another shock. "No one'll bother us. Have another drink, Alice." "But you didn't go home last night. Neither did I. What if someone tried to come to our homes asking questions?" "So we got drunk last night and maybe roamed the streets with a bottle and fell asleep in some alley. Grieving people do things like that. A toast to Munce!" The Judge downed another glass, but just seemed to become more awake with each bottle. Alice was just getting nervous. Another shock. "Maybe we should stop it for awhile." "No, it can never stop. That's the whole point." Peterson lightly jumped from his wine casket seat, remarkably steady for the amount of alcohol the man had consumed, and went over to the pacing Alice. "You never know when the next one is coming, or how strong it will be. Maybe a second, maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. I'm going to teach the Outsider what it's like living in a metal box world. And the price for not caring." The Judge looked intently into Alice's face. "You getting tired, honey?" Alice's eyes seem to madden. "No, not at all." ***** "This is the Black Residence. Please state your name and phone number for a return call." Now that was just terse. Watts didn't like this. It was 6:30 a.m. and Watts listened carefully for any sounds in the Black's home. Frank Black had given Peter Watts permission to use the monitoring feature built-in to his family's answering machine. With a few modifications, nice handiwork even if Watt's said so himself, the machine could listen far into the house. Catherine would have been quite surprised at the cost of her little phone system. Frank, on the other hand, had a really mean right cross, and Watt's was always very careful not to abuse this ability. Ardis was right. Frank was being too hard to reach. Peter Watt's life revolved around finding people. Usually he found them dead. Diplomats taken hostage overseas, monarchy running from their countrymen, children kidnapped and murdered by their own parents. Maybe he failed because he depended too much on technology. Gadgets. Matter over mind. Ardis was good at the mythology of group behavior, Frank at individual psychosis, and Watts at tracking people down. The hunter. He had sacrificed everything for the sport. A student had once asked him, "Do you think there are more serial killers than there were Salem witch hunters, Spanish Inquisitors, Nazis, Gheghis Chan soldiers, or Roman crucifiers?" "No," he said, "but there were people trying to stop those others, too." Societies had not always survived their atrocities, and revelations always come too late. ***** "I want to go home." Jordan's tests had come back negative, and her temperature was almost normal. There was nothing to keep her in the hospital, and Catherine suspected that she stopped complaining about her headaches because she wanted out of there. Not because they had miraculously disappeared. "Honey, the doctor's still want to try a few more things." "No." Jordan shook her head violently, then stopped. Almost too calmly for a little girl, she reasoned with her mother. "I'm fine, Cath... mom. I just want to go home. I know I'm fine." Then, heartbreakingly, "Please." It's what she wants, Catherine thought. This place is too scary for her. She looked around at the harsh lights, the bustling strangers, the equipment, the needles. Or something is too scary for her. She's only a little girl. Should I possibly endanger her health by just taking her home. Jordan was getting agitated again. Catherine picked her up. She felt like a wet, rag doll. If something happens, I can get back here in 20 minutes. Maybe even 10. Catherine hadn't brought much with her to the hospital. Her purse, one of Jordan's teddy bears.... She glanced back down at the bed for anything she might have missed. A doll's head. Catherine blinked at the head. Jordan was peacefully sleeping at her shoulder. Catherine picked up the head, stuffed it into her coat's oversized pocket, and took her daughter out of the overly white room. ***** It had been an hour since Ardis last knocked on the bar's front door. Of course, no one came to the door, and she had bruised a few knuckles knocking louder since then. The black wreath stared at her, unblinking. I can stand it as long as you can, she thought back at it. She couldn't sit here all day, though. She had no reasons. Only 17 years worth, she muttered. That black wreath ain't for Munce. Munce. There had to be more clues on that bleached body. Munce didn't have much family, so no immediate plans for a funeral. I could take all the time I want, Ardis thought as she sat in her stuffy, smelly rental car. Rental car. Frank's car was probably from the same rental company as this one's. How long was his rented for, anyway? Cohen's car was in the shop, again, so hers was on loan for a week. Frank was suppose to stay for, what, a day or two? Why wasn't anyone home at Frank's house? Okay, her mind was wandering. Frustrated. Time to go. She didn't want to go. That frigging wreath. Something compelled her to get out of her rental and look at that mocking black wreath again. She noticed it was homemade - leaves and small flowers spray painted black, woven together with strange, black electrical wire and cord. She hated that wreath. She took it. So put me in jail, she thought back at the now bare entrance to the bar. ***** Alice climbed down the small ladder into the special room Peterson had built two months ago for the 'recruits.' The walls and floors were all smooth cement, excellently soundproofed and lovingly built, with small shelves and a few outlets for equipment. Unfortunately, the wiring in the building was old, so there was a limit to the amount of electricity the wires could process. Peterson had to be creative. Peterson. We're such a great team, Alice thought. She lovingly carried the small glass of water to the latest recruit. It was daylight, though never in this room. Alice was disappointed that Frank didn't look at her now that she brought him some kindness. Munce had started begging the second the lights were switched on from above. He was so... heartbreaking, Alice thought. Alice also knew Black was a much more dangerous man. Though not so threatening now, she observed. She walked over to the batteries and flicked them off. I know he heard that, and he's still not looking at me. She pulled a small wooden stool closer to the new recruit and looked into his face. "Look at me." The Outsider kept his eyes tightly shut. Alice reached up and caressed Frank's cheek. The recruit started shaking, but was too dehydrated for tears. "Drink this." Alice had thought about bringing alcohol (there was plenty in the bar) to lessen the distress, but she knew the Judge would not approve. Black didn't want to take anything from them. That they were even in the room with him, watching him, sickened him. He had tried to think of all the things they might want from him, anything he could give, any opening. He tried to sip at the water, but his throat wouldn't have it. Calm down, try to speak. You won't have many chances. "Alice." Frank's voice was broken. "What does Peterson want from me?" Alice looked at Black sadly, and offered the glass to him again. It was a little easier to drink this time. "Peterson wants you to learn, Frank. About sanity." ***** Ardis looked at the black wreath under the most powerful microscope she owned. It was a damn, big creation, and Ardis didn't know what she was looking for. She had also snagged another wreath from Peterson's motel room, and one from Darrel's apartment, but didn't know where that owner of the bar lived. Darrel's wreath was florist made, though he also wasn't home at the time she visited. I've become a wreath snatcher. Another obsession I didn't want. And how was she going to explain all those flaky, black paint smears to the rental agency? "Well, at least its not My flashy car," she grinned. There was a hair stuck to the paint of the bar's wreath. It extended well past the painted leaves. The ends were not blond, like Munce's, or short like Peterson's, or as long as Alice's. It could be anybody's, thought Ardis furiously. Any customer in the bar. Anyone who had knocked on the door. Hell, even anyone walking past whatever bush these leaves came from. Peterson, though, wanted to show us something. A dare. A challenge. A joke. Ardis examined Peterson's wreath next. ***** "Catherine?" Catherine's van was parked outside in the driveway, its hood still warm. She opened the door to Bob Bletcher, who was carrying some small, plastic bags and seemed to want to hide them. "Hi Catherine, how's Jordan?" "We've just gotten home. She's sleeping, but seems okay now. I'm sorry, but I hope this isn't a long visit. "No, I'll try not to. I just hope I didn't wake her. What's that?" Catherine was also holding a package, a brown, UPS package, she didn't seem to feel too good about. "I don't know. It feels light." "Could I have it, Catherine?" "What, Bob?" "It may have something to do with why I'm here." Bletcher took the package out of her hands, and put both burdens on a nearby table. "Catherine, we can't... um ...contact Frank." "Bob?" "It's okay Catherine, it's only been a few hours." Catherine blanked out the rest of the things Bletcher was trying to say. Something about how his rental car was overdue, that he hadn't called anyone, that his cellular was working, but no one was answering it or maybe out of range, that he might be on a lead of some sort. And something about how someone named Peter Watts needed Bletcher to get something from her and Frank's home. Catherine always thought she would be prepared for this. And Jordan's so sick. Bletcher took his plastic bags and tape and tried to think of the best and fastest places to get the damn hair samples. On the way out, Catherine still wasn't responding well to anything he was saying. "We'll find him," was all he could think of blurting out. In the car, Bletcher put the samples, and Catherine's black wreath, next to him. He would deliver both to the local address Watt's had given him. He hoped the guy could find the clues they all needed. ***** Watt's was yelling into the phone. "How could anyone send a wreath to Catherine even before kidnapping Frank?" "I don't know. Maybe he or she was planning this for a long time. Maybe it was meant to be a threat for Frank. I don't know, but I can hear you perfectly fine, Watts. It's a good connection." Watts lowered his volume and gathered his thoughts. "So you found Munce's hair on the wreaths outside both Peterson's and Darrel's apartments. And you think the hair from the bar might be Frank's, according to the data and pictures sent to you. He intentionally put them all there?" "Well, computers still don't scan very well, but that's what it looks like. Especially after getting the information on the wreath that was sent to Catherine's house." Watts felt a chill go through him, and even he knew how much it would take to do that. "What was on Catherine's?" "Bob Bletcher is a pretty good detective. Must have been pretty hard for him, but he gave us some pretty thorough samples. The hair on Catherine's wreath was Jordan's." ***** "Please, Alice. Please. Just give me a few hours to... rest." Alice didn't know what to make of this one. She wished it weren't taking so long. She was getting really anxious, especially with the Judge gone. "Peterson's not around, right?" "He likes to be known as the Judge, but you know that." Her eyes narrowed at him. He was still dangerous. Still.... "Please. Just... awhile." The Judge did say he had a few things to do, would be gone a few hours. What did he instruct? "You can't stop it." "Are you sure stopping wouldn't just make it worse later?" It would for Alice, if He found out. Frank could feel himself on the precipice. He'd been there before. A pausing in the mind between what was real and what was comforting blackness. Everything in him wanted that unthinking, warm, dark. His breathing was ragged. He knew he was crying again. The pauses were getting longer. Soon, he would regard these two as his saviors. Buying time. Give the others time, as much as you can. If they even know yet. She looked at the silent figure. Maybe he wasn't that dangerous. Starting to plead now, like Munce. "Okay." Alice started back up the ladder. She left the hatch open because she knew, if the Judge came wandering in, she would have to get back down here fast. Like the devil was chasing her. ***** Given all his military contacts, Peter Watts could cross continents faster than the Concord. So it was nothing to go from California to Seattle to Portland in less than an hour and a half. He brought all the evidence with him, not that any of it counted. No judge able to dress himself would give them any sort of search warrants based on what little they had. Not that that mattered either. If Watts could touch the items, see the intricacy of the woven wire, feel how it would be to make such a creation... Watts had already pointed out to Cohen that the wreath with Munce's hair on it was woven with something more like fishing wire than metal wire. Frank's with electrical wire along with thin bands of metal and black cord. And since Munce's head was practically garroted off.... What they were doing now was definitely not legal. Nope, not to any court in the world. About 14 hours had passed, though, usually around 10 hours too many. Watt's had already found the street power grid and shut off the electricity to the building. It didn't change the appearance of the bar much, since it was suppose to be closed to business, but they hoped somewhere inside it would. It was not a particularly loud break in. Watts was too skilled for that. But the small group of people who entered Alice's bar had heavy knots in their stomachs anyway. For various reasons. As they knew it would be, the bar was empty and quiet. There was a back room, which had a staircase to the cellar. The cellar was spider-ridden, full of fat, juicy black widows or a couple of communities of brown recluses, no doubt. The caskets looked untouched for years, as they should be. Free-standing shelves lined every inch of space. "Empty the place out." They found that in front of one wall was a shelf on small, hidden wheels. When a few wedges were removed, the shelf rolled easily to one side. Behind the shelf was a narrow door, almost a child's door. 'Through the looking glass?' Ardis didn't welcome the thought. Behind the door was a small utility closet. Brooms, mops, rags, more shelves, spilled cleaning solvents. Disinfectant stench. "Empty this out too." Everyone looked at each other and wished they had brought heavier gloves. "Now!" Eventually they saw the wooden hatchway in the bottom of the closet. Ardis pulled the small cord handle and freed the smell of decaying blood. Now everyone understood the spilled disinfectants. Ardis entered first, her thin frame easily negotiating the narrow ladder. Inside the room, Ardis saw how the smell of blood wouldn't quite be so bad if the electricity has still been on. Small fans circulated air through vents which probably joined the bar's main air vent above. She also saw everything else in that room and, as always, when confronted by such well-thought-out, dreamed, executed evil, she wanted to bolt right back up that ladder and run screaming into the streets. Her little fantasy, she smirked. It would probably be funny if she ever did do that, and scare the souls out of everyone. Ardis looked down. How many people's blood was on that grating? There would have probably been a few dozen more if they had not found this room. Not that that made anyone feel better. Frank. The second location. All good cops knew what that meant. He's still alive, or his body would have been here. By the looks of the room, they don't want dead bodies. They want you alive. And Ardis knew that her stealing the bar's wreath is what caused them to go. ***** "Mommy, we're home, right?" Catherine was sitting in Jordan's bright, sunny room, watching her, wondering what she should say, if anything. It was such a beautiful day outside, nearing a gorgeous sunset. They should all be playing in it. "Are you hungry, Jordan?" "Mmmmmm, no... yes. I'm hungry, Mom." "What would you like to eat?" "Ummmm,... is Daddy coming home soon?" "Yes, honey. How about some piping hot soup and a melted cheese/tomato sandwich? Or maybe something breakfasty, since you missed it this morning. Waffles and juicy strawberries? "Um, waffles! Is Daddy really coming home soon?" Catherine hoped only she noticed how fake she sounded. "Sure Jordan, why?" "I didn't think he was," she mumbled, and fell asleep again. ***** Ardis stood in the middle of the darkened room and opened her eyes. Watts had restored the electricity long ago, and they quickly gathered more evidence than anyone would ever need. Yeah, we'll have plenty of inadmissible proof of who did it when Frank's body turns up. She relaxed her eyes, trying to see more, but only noticed the occasional sparks from the grid. Quite possibly 14 hours in that chair. Watts had gone over how the entire set up worked. His voice was flat and unemotional. Metallic, cold, relentless, like the room. Then Watts went outside and sat in his car, over an hour ago now, and never said another word. He's there, and I'm here. She concentrated on the small hum of the fans, smelled the stench of the room. Tricks to stay sane in a narrowed world. Distractions. She felt the burn marks on her wrists, ankles, back, and chest grow deeper with experience. 14 hours. Probably over 30 hours without sleep. Would they have had to force him from the room? Threaten him? How aware would he be at this point? Black, by this time, might not even recognize what a gun was. They've probably convinced him that *We've* done this to him, that his past life was more or less a lie, and that they have to protect and hide him from us. The persecution strategy. At least we interrupted them. He may not yet be absolutely convinced. But the man Cohen knew seven years ago was a much more confident one than today. Those kinds of hurt don't make you stronger, no matter what everyone wants to believe. Wiser, maybe. More prone to hurt, yes. Strong? Definitely not. Exhaustion set in. Background checks on Kyle Peterson, Alice Taylor, and Darrel Hacker, still missing, turned up little. According to the D.M.V., Peterson never even applied for a driver's license. "Careful son of a bitch." They still could look through hundreds of Frank's old cases for a connection. Except, we don't have the time. "Okay," she yelled at the hatchway, and the lights flicked back on. The second location. This will be impossible. _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 7 _________________________________________________________________________ Author: O Date: Mon Dec 30 23:33 EST 1996 - Wed Jan 8 18:38 EST 1997 _________________________________________________________________________ "I want to talk to Daddy." Jordan rubbed her eyes and looked a lot better than she had all day. "His phone's not working right now, and they think he's very busy." Catherine hoped Jordan would forgive her one day for all these lies. "Who's they? Is it that man and that... woman?" Jordan was digging into a bowl of cereal with strawberries on her bed tray. She said she wanted something cold, that she was too hot. Her temperature was fine, though, thank God. Bletcher had called earlier that evening. He didn't go into details, but he said they found a room Frank was in, and that his kidnappers moved him, and that they were pretty sure he was alive. Pretty sure. The second location. Jordan was looking at her. "Mom, he's alright." "Of course Daddy's okay, honey." Catherine misinterpreted the statement for a question. "Yes. He's just very... you know, like I was in the hospital. Sick, but not sick. It doesn't hurt so much now." Jordan's eyes seemed to grow so large. "If I want to talk to him, I have to go down a... dark, rabbit hole. I'm scared of that place." Maybe Catherine would call Bletcher, and all their children could play together tonight. Catherine needed someone to watch her daughter, just for a little while, so she could cry. ***** He didn't understand where he was. It was windowless in the small, soft room, and he felt as if he had always been here. It wasn't particularly cold, but so stifling that it may have just been his body warmth keeping the place hot. He was over bundled, and could not figure out why. His arms were crossed over the front of his body and wrapped closely to his abdomen. He could stand if he chose to, but the ceiling was so low that it was uncomfortable. He sat in a corner of the room, his knees drawn up close - a defensive position. The walls seemed to be cushioned, and gave in to his weight. The woman came back into the room again. She was kind to him, visited him often, brought him things, tried to get him to eat. But he felt so sick. "It's okay, Sean. It's normal to feel sick after... depression treatment. You've been through a lot. You probably don't remember much, do you?" He remembered sharp, hideously numbing pains, then darkness, and then an unknown time passing. Depression... yes. That was there too. "No, don't cry, Sean. I'm sorry about the jacket, but you've tried to hurt yourself. This room is for your own good. When you are ready, we'll let you outside." Faces appeared in his mind. People he must have known, had feelings for. A family. Friends. He couldn't name them, though. "I should be somewhere." The woman smiled sadly. "You don't have many people in this world, Sean. Some of them are gone. Others, you have tried to hurt. That's why you're here." "I've hurt people." It was a statement. Horrible memories began crowding into his mind. "You've killed many people, Sean." Yes, now he understood the things he was seeing. People terribly hurt. Bodies. Suffering. How could he know such things unless he had done them himself? Sean started shaking. "Shhhhh. It's okay. That's over now. And we're trying to hide you from some people out for... well, what they call justice." "Why are you trying to hide me?" "Because it's not your fault, Sean. You're sick. And maybe, just maybe, you can make up for some of the things you've done." ***** Ardis wondered about Peter Watts. He had no family, or certainly none he talked about. She doubted he ever married, or had kids, legitimate or otherwise (despite the reputation he loved to thickly spread) anywhere in the world. If he had, he wouldn't be in this business anymore. He cared way too much. And it would interfere. A whole world of unknown hurt there. It was easy to see how Watts could cheerfully lose himself to the Millennium Group. Ardis wondered how sad that was. How all of us are. To lose Frank would be a sadness unacceptable in Watts' too acceptable universe. The Group would go on, of course, but the point of it would stop. Cohen was tired. All the people she was chasing were shadow people. Peterson was a drifter. Hacker was an uneventful rent-a-dic. And Taylor, well, she seemed to have never existed at all. I have maybe 17 more hours to figure this all out before it just won't matter anymore. Neither she nor Watts were sleeping, and Watts seemed to be burning at 3 times the rate of his normally intense personality. Multi-colored ghost dots flicked at her from her monitor. She elected herself to be the one to call Catherine. ***** "She keeps talking about Alice in Wonderland, Bob. White rabbits, rabbit holes, Alice, small rooms and doors, animals and pigs. She keeps wanting me to read the story to her." "I think Ann is reading it to the kids right now." "She'll say something about Frank, then about Alice. I can't think how that slight fever might have affected her mind somehow." "Maybe she senses something about how this time her dad's been away much longer than he should be. Except that it's only been a day." "I'm so tired, Bob." Catherine had cried enough for that day. That's what she was doing when Bletcher and his family first got to her home. She wasn't going to again this evening. Instead, she felt a chill right in the middle of her that she thought would never go away. Bletcher looked over into the living room. All the children were listening intently to the story. Alice. Wasn't that the bar Frank was in? Maybe Jordan overheard me mention that name to Catherine. Maybe that's why she's so obsessed with it. Except, Bletcher knew he never described that bar or the particulars of that room to Catherine. Pigs? He deeply remembered one pig auctioneer found in his own pig's filth. Long dead. Another case seldom brought up in polite conversation. "Catherine, you know, I'm not very good at it, but I'd like to see Frank's computer." Bletcher's face and hands were sweating so much he hoped he wouldn't short out the computer. I don't think they work like that, Bobbie-boy. Actually, Frank Black had several computers. New and current cases went on the good ol' Macintosh, the old stuff went into the IBM-clone. Good thing Bletcher's office had a lot of clones, and he tried that one first. Nothing but the best for our boys. What do they call them? Platforms? Just enough of them for me to leap off of and hang myself from. Why couldn't you use a filing cabinet, Frank? But Bletcher was proud that he had figured out Black's system so fast. Just don't touch that Delete key, and watch out for all those X's. But what am I looking for? Maybe that one case first, but what would he call it? "Need some help down there, Bob?" "Oh, Catherine, I... um..." "What do you think will happen if I see some of his stuff, Bob. I'll wisp away like a puff of smoke?" "Now's a real hard time for you, Catherine." "Now's the best time, Bob. When I can help." A small voice answered the telephone upstairs. "Hello? Is this Jordan? It is! Is your mom home?" Jordan was such a sweet little girl, from all that Ardis had heard. How could you make such a wonderful thing, Frank? She smiled, then frowned. "Catherine? This is Ardis Cohen." Cohen immediately heard sobbing on the line. "No, Catherine, don't do that! We haven't found anything yet." Ardis mentally kicked herself. Harder than that, girlfriend. She only hoped Jordan was out of the room. "I just wanted to call to ask..." Ask what? If Catherine knew? That was obvious. If I should give her some more details to torture herself with? "...to ask how Jordan was doing?" Great, Cohen, that doesn't make any sense at all. "Ardis Cohen. You're Frank's ex-partner, right?" "Well, I've worked with him. As much as anyone can work *with* Frank, anyway. Stubborn, moody, hard-headed, blue flaming..." Cohen finished in mutters. She was relieved when Catherine breathed a small chuckle. If Ardis were in Catherine's place, she would be yelling into the phone by now. "Jordan's doing okay. She's kinda oblivious to it. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing, but she just got out of the hospital the day before. She's been having nightmares, though. Maybe I should take her to a counselor. I hate saying this, but I almost can't listen to her nightmares anymore." "Do you want me to talk to her for a minute? I've had... some training." "I think it would be good for her just to talk. Let me get her." Ardis heard the faint background conversation. 'Jordan, honey. This is a good friend of daddy's. She wants to talk to you about your dreams.' A sad voice. "Hello." "Hi again, Jordan! I've heard you've had some interesting dreams. I'm sure your Dad wants me to tell them to him." "You know where my Dad is?" Damn Ardis. "Well, I'm working with him, but not right now. But I'm sure I'll see him soon. What are all these scary dreams about?" "When I was sick, I dreamed a lot about Alice in Wonderland, and she was playing with some pigs. They were saying things to Alice, and to me. I don't remember any pigs in Wonderland. I wanted to ask Daddy about them." "Pigs, honey?" "Yeah, Daddy has a book. He says its too old for me, but I like the cover. I'll go get it." Jordan almost dropped the handset, but Catherine caught the downward motion. "She's been wanting me to read Alice to her over and over again. I haven't been doing too well lately." "It's alright, Catherine. You're doing fine. I would like Jordan to meet my kids. We could compare." Jordan ran back to her mom, handing her a book with a pig and a goat on the cover. She hoped it wasn't another Alice book. "It's 'Animal Farm,' Ardis. Jordan wants to know if you'll read it to her." Catherine gave Jordan the phone back. "Sure, Jordan. As soon as I get back." The CD-ROM clunked angrily and spit the CD back at Bletcher. Crap! Too many years in a house full of children, Bobbie. You don't even remember all the good words now. Maybe he should grab one of his kids from upstairs and have her make the machine work. But after seeing some of Frank's 'stuff' - no way that ever gonna happen. With Catherine's help, Bletcher had found the files about that pig auctioneer. Under the directory 'OinkOink.' Now he was trying to call up a real estate program that searched property information in various areas of the country. I didn't know you had a real estate license, Frank. Looking for yet another 'safe' home? It was a good way of seeing how criminals roamed, though, and the people they most liked to target. He also noticed that many of the CDs were not quite up to date, so maybe Frank wasn't beyond a little software piracy. Hey, isn't that a crime investigated by the government guys, Frank? The CD-ROM spit up again. Was he putting it in upside-down or something? "You have to tap the box a little, Bob. Right above the CD drawer. It sticks." Catherine was at the top of the stairs, listening to the cursing. "Stop sticking your tongue out at me and take that." Bletcher hit the computer a lot lighter than he felt like doing, and the information on the current owner of that pig house popped up on the screen. Alex Tanbour. Was there anyone near the case with that name? Bletcher wondered who was working late at the office. Forgetting where he was, he picked up the nearest phone. There were people talking on it. "Oh... hello. I'm sorry." "Who is this?" The woman on the line had a very authoritative voice. Jordan started giggling. "That's Bobbie,... Mr. Bletcher. Are you coming upstairs soon, Mr. Bletcher?" "Very soon, Jordan. Um, who's your friend?" "My name is Ardis Cohen. I'm an old... friend of dad." "Yes, Mr. Bletcher. She's waiting for him, too." Waiting for him? "Um, Jordan, don't you want to hear the rest of the story? Doesn't Ann tell it well?" "Yes! Okay, bye... um..." "Ardis." "Bye, Ardis. See you upstairs, Mr. Bletcher." Jordan hung up her phone. "Cohen. You're not in the Millennium Group, are you?" "I'm just a consultant, like Frank. Trying to find him. Trying hard. I was calling Catherine to see how she was doing. I would hope someone would do that for me." "Me too. Well, Ms. Cohen, I'm actually sitting in Frank's study and, ah, looking around and..." God, Bob, when did you become such a tongue-tied, cowering idiot? "Did you find something, Mr. Bletcher? Anything?" Cohen's voice became hushed. "Well, it's an old case about... a pig farmer. Actually, a live stock auctioneer. Who went around getting paroled murderers to 'fix' injustices in society. But he's long dead, killed by one of his own recruits. I don't know. I was wondering what happened to that place after he died. Not the kind of guy with a lot of relatives - probably killed them all. I just found out that the current owner, and it was on the market for a long time, not surprising given its history, is an Alex Tanbour. Is there any connection between that guy and someone near the case, or something?" Bletcher felt like an idiot. His whole rambling was groping. What do people in the Millennium Group think about cops like him? "I'll check that name. Thank you, Mr. Bletcher. Let me give you a phone number." ***** Sean was starting to feel better, but was afraid to go 'outside.' He even struggled a little when they wanted to take off the jacket. He just didn't trust himself, trust his impulses or senses, trust anything. Earlier that day they had showed him pictures of his latest murder. It was a blond man, compact build, who seemed to fit his name -- Darrell. He had a young, strong, handsome face before someone divided it in half with a hatchet. Before I did that. I even signed it. Sean. Across what was left of the chest in muddy blood. Yet, at first, he didn't feel anything. He looked at the polaroids blankly, as if he were used to such sights. Then he backed away from them when they tried to remove the strait jacket. "What do you want, Sean?" "I don't know," he said as he cowered in the back of the small, airless room. "There aren't many people around, Sean. There's no one you can really hurt, except us." The tall man seldom said much, but Alice treated him like someone with great authority. Maybe a doctor or psychiatrist. Except he looked more like an angry prison guard than anything else. And he carried a gun. He thought about taking away that gun, but backed off from the idea. See, it's better for Alice if he is a guard. At least he will protect her. He was actually relieved when they handcuffed his arms behind his back before they took him out. It was very cold outside, sometime in the middle of the night, warm breaths whispering away in the moonlight. It was also very beautiful. After what seemed a lifetime in darkness, here was a soft quiet and light that had been missing from him for a long time. It was as if some burden, some undefinable responsibility, were finally being taken away from him. It was no longer his fault. He was helpless before the events that would take place. There could be no struggle, no hideous action to take, and there was a peace in that. He felt if he died that night, for the things he had done, then a justice he had long sought would finally be over. The area was heavily forested, and Alice occasionally hacked away at some bushes that blocked their progress, dulling her sharp blade. He was shivering with cold, hunger, and fatigue by the time they reached the lake. The woman was speaking. "You have to make a decision, Sean. Those people I told you about that are after you. They are very close. We have to keep constantly moving, but... you... hesitate. We can't afford that, Sean. We have to know if you'll do the things we have set up for you, to justify your past existence, to bring about a plan that will justify the world." He was in a confusing whirl of emotions, except for one fact. "I don't want to... see death anymore." The man took his gun from his holster. "But what you do is beautiful, Sean. You just need guidance and understanding." "No." "What a waste," the man said, and aimed. "Yes, it is," agreed Alice. "But, too much of a waste." Alice's chopping blade sliced clean through Peterson's wrist without causing a single digit to flinch. Peterson shrieked, never having experienced such pain in his whole, sordid, violent life. She followed the first cut by trying to slice off Peterson's head, but he was quick, flinching backwards, and the stroke only sheared off half his chin and left jawbone. He fell back, the momentum of his defensive move dropping him to the ground. Peterson lay in shock, staring at Alice, the madness leaving his too bright, blue eyes. It was too easy for Alice to kill him. She planned to make it last much longer than the night. Frank bolted when Alice began hacking at Peterson. The sudden explosion of violence had shocked him into realizing how incapable of insane violence he truly was. His emotions were not dead, just contained behind walls 20 years thick. The forest, so beautiful ten minutes before, became a clawing, snapping, confusing alarm. But its darkness hid him. He tried to slow his breathing and listen for Alice's approach. Alice knew Frank would run, but she couldn't tear herself away from her play. He had dominated her life so. She looked down at Peterson, who was still breathing through several, new, interesting holes. Yes, she would find him since, well, she had the gift now. Peterson still had eyes enough to see her. She liked being looked at. She wondered how long Frank would last. Black tried desperately to get the handcuffs off. If they were just a little less tight, he would have risked tearing off flesh and muscle to get his hands free. He had listened for footsteps for 20 minutes, but Alice didn't seem to be pursuing him. He actually felt sorry for Peterson as he quietly, carefully, moved further away from the area. Save your sorries for yourself, Frank. Because you know you're next. Frank didn't know this lake, and his initial run had been blind. In a forest, like a desert, it's extremely too easy to make a circle. The lake, he thought, stretched to his left, which meant he could only go forward or to the right. He hoped he wasn't in a cul-de-sac, with parts of the lake ahead of him and maybe even to his right. Then there would be no where to go. He couldn't swim it with his hands cuffed behind his back. Maybe she knows that. Maybe she's just waiting for me. Or waiting for me to drop. When Alice was done, it was still many hours until dawn. She calmly located Peterson's dropped gun, her eyes quietly glowing like the fox's whose wild path they had crossed an hour ago. Owls softly sounded and small creatures continued foraging as they recognized one of their own pass them by. They were not the ones being hunted tonight. Why did Peterson want to kill him? That was not the goal. She knew the truth - that was why she had been rewarded. Poor Kyle, his mind was not strong enough. Alice fingered the old harelip scar. On Peterson, it looked masculinely dangerous. On Alice. well, Black would have to pay for a number of things. Like Munce. Just what Alice would do when she caught him, she wasn't sure - but she was sure she would be inspired. Frank finally heard footsteps. The lake did form a circle around him, and he couldn't risk retracing his steps. He had found a tree whose huge roots were partly exposed by run off. There was a small gap near one side of the base of the tree. He had felt the crumbling ground give as he stood panting against it. It was extremely risky, trying to hide in this unstable mud. A slight shifting of the swampy ground, a strong gale, he could easily be crushed if the tree merely rebalanced. Run or hide? His couldn't fight with the cuffs still on. And he was pretty sure about his chances of getting away. But he began to remember the names that had eluded him just a few hours ago. It would be better if they never found him, or parts of him, probably delivered in brown parcels to his home. Better to be buried, the body inaccessible even to judgement. If this tree were ever felled, the untouched bones left for 20 years or more, then an old, forgotten mystery might be solved. Alice fancied that she could smell the trail of fear, and her lit eyes seemed to reveal all. Broken undergrowth, torn bits of cloth, even a slight blood trail (the raw smell of opened skin) screamed the path to her. It was easy. She slowed her pace and began to whistle in the cool night. "No, Dad! Hide!" Frank heard her daughter's voice in his mind. He had been looking back toward the deeper forest, and wondering if he should risk it. The warning startled him, his eyes widening in the deep darkness. Christ, Frank. You can't let yourself get this scared. The forest was so much more attractive than the hole beneath him. She's close. He could feel it. And she'll probably still find me no matter what I do. He almost felt paralyzed by indecision. Jordan. Alice saw him standing by a tree in the muddy swamp. His hands were still crossed, though in front of him now. He must have wrestled the handcuffs over his body, probably dislocating a shoulder, or both. The figure was hunched over, looking at the ground. There still may be some fight left in him. Good. She approached. The moon was much lower in the horizon, and the shadows grew confusing. She would have to take a little care, but not much. Her grip grew slick with anticipation. She stopped. Alice wasn't sure what she should do. The long waited for prey was right there, a few yards away, his neck bowed for the blade. What did she want? [He heard the footsteps stride purposefully right toward the tree. No hesitation at all. It looked like he would have to fight, at least for awhile.] "Frank?" The figure turned quickly. It wasn't Frank. "Freeze! F.B.I.!" Well, that wasn't really true, thought Watts, but it sounded too damn good. Alice lunged at him, her emotions emblazed by this betrayal. Watts too quickly fired when he saw the shine of the blade, caught in moonlight, rise. The attacker was unstoppable, but the blow had no more force or purpose left in it. His jacket's leather collar, fully zipped against the cold, only sustained a minor cut, discovered hours later. The side of the knife slide off Watt's shoulder as the rest of the figure fell to the mud. Watts was panting heavily as he kicked the blade out of its dead owner's grasp. Ardis turned when she heard Watt's gunshots. She hoped that the others, finished with the cabin by now, heard them too. Something came out of nowhere and knocked her to the ground. She hardly saw it, just an outline, a force fighting for its existence. Ardis silently thanked her trainers for teaching her how to fall and roll so well, coming up with her gun still in her hand. She hoped the gun was enough. "Stop! F.B.I.!" The figure was gone, or unseeable in the dark. "Identify yourself!" Ardis had dropped her flashlight, the less important of the two items she had been holding. Damn, she had only been trying to get an extremely sharp thorn out of the side of her foot. "Cohen!" Watts had heard her shouting, and was somewhere to her left, though she dare not chance distraction. She saw something move in that direction. Was it Watts? "Ardis?" Ardis couldn't make out the hoarse, whispered, broken voice. Or was she too afraid to hope? "Who are you?" His voice caught. "Ardis." Ardis reholstered her weapon and embraced the silent, cold, shivering figure. _________________________________________________________________________ "Daddy's Girl (The Path Not Taken)" -- part 8 _________________________________________________________________________ Author: O Date: Wed Jan 8 18:38 EST 1997 - Thu Jan 9 18:54 EST 1997 _________________________________________________________________________ Alice LaRouge, formally Alice Taylor, and very formally Alex Tanbour, owned a number of properties. His family was well off, hence the easy funding for the numerous operations. But something happened in that Seattle pig farm that changed Peterson's and Alice's simple goals of merely owning a nice business. They became obsessed with revenge, especially personal vengeance. Thus the choosing of their blackmailing, betraying college buddy Holliman, whom Alice also loved, but Peterson envied. Holliman had 'normal' relationships with 'real women,' a fact he loved to flaunt at Kyle. It was also Holliman who made Alice think about the sex change, forcing her real personality down a "rabbit hole." Funny that he would reject her after it was all over, laughing. And, not satisfied with his joke and its results, he had also decided to profit from Alice's newly established business without doing any work for it, threatening to tell all about the not just cutely flamboyant Alice. How much of a clientele would they have after that in the bar's proudly straight community? How Munce must have really hated them both, or saw them as his personal playthings. Munce was just a big, vile person with a big, vile mouth, especially when drunk, and needed it shut. Well shut, with pains. Hacker? Just a nosy investigator. Black? Ardis didn't really want to think about what went on on that pig farm. Just another busybody who wouldn't stop harassing them. That's what would go on the report. Tanbour's Portland cabin / gentleman-farm was the only property secluded enough for the kinds of experiments Ardis had witnessed. It was also near an easy dumpsite. Neither Cohen nor Watts had enough official authority, especially after the outcome of this case, to drag that lake. Probably just plumb full of pig and animal carcasses. If it weren't for those factors, they would still be running up and down the Portland countryside tracking down the couple's various dwellings. Pigs. It all boiled down to pigs. And a need to laugh at them, flaunt themselves as Holliman did, as they carried out their plans. Peterson's screams led them to the lake. Ardis and Watts had just finished with the empty cabin - found Frank's leather jacket neatly folded on a chair, untouched wallet inside, found the room, the discarded straitjacket, the still wet, but drained glass of water - and had gone outside, letting the others continue. They had just sorta wandered out there, no direction more important than another, just as long as it was away. Certainly not a professional thing to do. They didn't even remember telling the others where they were going. Just out. To the lake. The very large lake five miles away. Cohen and Watts had not even been dressed very appropriately. They had wandered on faith, a child's faith. One mile. Two miles. It was almost three when they heard the screaming. The screams were so loud and so many, they were surprised when they eventually found only one body. Well, the parts seemed to make up only one. The screaming had stopped abruptly, long before the dark night and thick forest allowed them to reach him. They figured he still lived on for some time even in silence. Peterson did one good thing in his life. He gave us a direction, and an area. The two had worried about their small presence. Not much of a threat, and too late to go back for the others. Their flashlights would have given away their small number and positions, and maybe panic whoever was out there into further drastic acts. The night was so dark and hushed that their ears were better tools than their eyes. Startled birds would screech and take noisy flight in one direction, breaking foliage would sound in another. And once, they thought, they had heard whistling. Going in different directions, they covered more ground, cellulars muted, call buttons flashing. Watts had been by a tree, thinking about 'rabbit holes,' looking down, listening. Ardis had that damn thorn in her foot, had headed quickly for a large tree to lean on and take it out. It should never have happened that way. He should be dead, his body buried in mud and never discovered. He should have never gotten out of that hole. Ardis turned off her computer. Four dead bodies, and one live one. Yes, one live one. And one missing. Ardis closed her eyes. ***** In all their years of marriage, Frank had never slept apart from Catherine. Even after late night arguments, it seemed more painful to separate and be resentful than to just keep fighting the rest of the night. Fortunately, these didn't happen very often, and never after Jordan was born. Together, but resentfully silent, was a better alternative until morning. So they didn't even have the right kind of furnishings when Frank started sleeping on the living room couch. The living room was a social room - the couch too exposed to various drafts, to too much sunlight in the morning, to house 'traffic,' and plain too uncomfortable for overnight sleeping - not a private room for rest. Frank made do with an oversized jacket, and even refused the blankets and thin comforter Catherine tried to give him. He said he was just too warm lately, and didn't talk about the chills and night sweats (nightmares, flashbacks) he showered off too early each morning. Typical symptoms of anxiety attacks - and torture victims. Night after night, instead of getting better, it grew worse, and Catherine knew the downward spiral. Frank was thinking of going away so as not to scare Jordan... further. Or Catherine. "Why can't you talk to me, Frank? Or at least someone down at Victim Services?" He shook his head. "I'll have to work with them eventually, and I don't think I could if...." The sentence hung there. You probably couldn't face me either if you told me everything, Catherine realized. "Well, what about someone else. We have money, Frank. We could probably afford the best, or at least a reasonable facsimile." She tried to take some of the strain out of the conversation, but Frank couldn't even stop looking at the floor. "Look at me," she said. He shut his eyes tightly, shutting her out even more. She abruptly got up, angry, and left the house. Catherine only drove a mile or so away to a private phone booth next to a convenience store. She knew she could never counsel him, and may have already made a few mistakes. Days earlier, she had copied a phone number from Frank's desk downstairs. She was careful not to rifle through too many things, and didn't want to look at most of them anyway, but she found a not often mentioned name. "Hello, Mr. Watts? I'm Catherine Black. I believe we have never formally met." "Hello, Mrs. Black." There was a pause, news not wanting to be heard. "How is Frank?" "Not well," frustrating tears began, "or I wouldn't be calling." "I think I know someone who can help." "Do you think Frank will go? And, most important, keep going to this person?" There was another pause. Somehow, Catherine sensed a gentle smile. "He will." ***** Watts lead Frank into a small office. It was sparse, but its few pieces of furniture were beautiful. A small, beautifully grained maple shelf full of old, important books, a little, dark-wooded desk made for just, it seemed, one pen and a small, unused pad of linen paper, a large, rich smelling, leather couch. All things meant to be cherished, worn, and saved. Watts was speaking. "This is yet another person in our little Millennium Group that you haven't met. Actually, this member might even be called the heart of the group, except that we have many hearts. That's why we're so hard to kill." Watts smiled gently, and left the room. Frank began to feel agitated again. It was a comforting room, obviously meant for that purpose, but every room, alone, became for him one room. He wanted to pace. And less than a minute had gone by. The owner of that room knocked on the door. The door softly opened. "Please, Frank, have a seat." Frank Black had been told over the years that he had soulful eyes. He often laughed at that. He hadn't the slightest idea what that meant. Until he met one of the hearts of the Millennium Group. ***** Alice's body had crawled the 40 or so yards to the water's edge. The others were preoccupied with Black, who was still sobbing from his ordeal. Alice didn't have to worry about such physical weakness anymore. She entered the water, alligator-like, and was not concerned as the water entered her nose and lungs. She heard the voices whispering. "Alice. Alice. Welcome." Even Peterson welcomed her. We were such a good team. She answered them as best she could. "Soon, Alice. Our time will be soon." She needed patience, always a very hard thing in her short lifetime. No more need to concern myself with lifetimes. Until the next one. _________________________________________________________________________ END