SERAPH

Part 9

By Linda Ryner

September, 1985

Norma Lindsey, the head of the daycare facility where I took little Michael almost every day, gave me a puzzled frown over her bi-focals.

“Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs came in about two o’clock,” she replied smoothly. “He said he’d phoned you, that you knew. Said he was going to spend some quality time with his son at the office.”

It was unusual, but not out of the realm of reasonability that Michael would have done something like this. I was just surprised he hadn’t let me know about it, not to mention that he lied to the head of the facility in the process.

“OK. I’ll give my husband a call. Thank you.”

I walked to the empty front desk and picked up the phone receiver, dialing Michael’s private extension. For once I didn’t have to wait to have him paged. He answered after the second ring.

“Deputy Director Coldsmith-Briggs,” came his business-like voice over the line.

“Hello, Mr. Deputy Director,” I said, smiling gently. “How is Michael Junior liking the atmosphere of The Firm?”

“Rachel, sweetheart. I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I call you back?”

“Yes. Just next time tell me when you’re going to make an impromptu visit to the daycare to pick up Michael. I made an unnecessary trip.”

“What?” The tone in his voice began to make me uncomfortable. “What do you mean, impromptu visit? I haven’t been to the daycare today. Or any other day.”

The full horror of the situation shot through me. “Gods. Oh, Gods. Michael . . .” I stuttered.

“You mean someone waltzed in there and took our son?!”

I could see him rising from the chair in disbelief, even though I wasn’t in his office.

“Gods, Michael, how . . . how . . .?” I was horrified, I was aghast, I was panicked.

“Stay there!” he barked. “Rachel, you stay there. I’m sending some people over and I’m coming with them. Do you hear me? Stay THERE!”

I was a mess when Michael arrived with his entourage. His staff set to work immediately, questioning the employees of the day care, while Michael sat with his arms around me, absorbing the force of my silent sobs.

“I’ve set up monitoring systems on the phone lines both at the beach house and the ranch,” he told me. “And even the penthouse, just to be safe.”

“You think it’s a ransom, then?” I asked.

“I think it’s most likely. Someone has been following you and has your routine down,” he told me logically, softly. “He somehow disguised himself as me and snatched our son with no problem. I told the owner of this daycare they needed retina scans a long time ago, or at least fingerprint confirmation. I was even willing to fund it. But I was told they’d never had trouble like this before, even with the kids of some pretty high profile people."

“Are we going to bring in the police?” I asked, swallowing hard.

“Absolutely not. They don’t trust us and I don’t trust them when it comes to my son’s life. We’re better off handling this ourselves.” And that was final.

It’s a well-known fact that if you don’t find a missing person within the first 48 to 72 hours, you probably won’t, or if you do, that person usually winds up dead. I’d heard horror stories about missing kids and now it all came rushing back to me, which did nothing for my sanity.

I wanted to do something. I couldn’t. I felt useless and scared. My pacing probably unnerved Michael more than he let on. Listlessly, I walked around the front desk and my eyes fell upon the sign-out sheet.

The sign-out sheet.

My hands trembled when I picked up the clip-board. The daycare facility insisted on all parents signing kids in and out, give them credit for that much. I did it every day. I looked down at one of the last signatures to be penned in. It was Michael’s name. But it definitely hadn’t been Michael’s handwriting. I knew his handwriting like I knew my own and scrutinized it carefully, finally spotting something.

“Michael.”

He turned away from the agent he was talking to and came over to me. “What is it, sweetheart?”

I pointed to the forgery. “Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III.” I looked up at him. “Whoever was impersonating you wasn’t ready to have to sign out our son. That looks nothing like you’re handwriting, but it looks terribly familiar. How many people look enough like you to almost get away with your impersonation, but not with your handwriting?”

“Damn few.” He frowned, biting his lip. “In fact, I haven’t had a look-alike on the payroll since --" His voice dropped off. “Shit.” He looked up at me in incredulity.

“Whatever happened to Vince McComb after Melissa’s trial?” I asked, knowing what he was thinking and swallowing hard.

“Damn it. It could be him.”

I took the roster with me and ducked into the little back office, making a copy of the sheet. Michael followed me, reaching for the paper. “You can give that to me. I’ll see that . . .”

“No.” I snatched the photocopy from his hand. “I’m going nuts here. I’m going to compare the handwriting and do a little further checking. Call Marella for me and make sure that I can access everything I need in the computer system at the Firm?"

“Rachel . . .”

“Do it, damn it!” I nearly roared, eyes becoming wet with tears. “You do what you have to do! But you can’t expect me to sit by and do nothing! Besides, somebody’s got to sit here in case a ransom call comes in!”

“You let Marella work with you, then” Michael conceded.

I was going to yell at him and tell him to stuff it, but got hold of myself. Screaming at my equally terrified husband wasn’t going to solve anything. This was the time to acquiesce.

“All right. Call her. Please. Tell her I’m coming in now.”

I tore out of the daycare and sped along the freeway to Firm Headquarters. My mind was racing as fast as the car’s engine. If Vince was involved, might not Melissa be involved, too? That was one question amongst several that needed answering.

I squealed into the parking garage and tore into the building. Apparently, Michael had called ahead to security, too, because they let me in without even showing my pass – a rarity in itself. Marella met me at Lillian’s desk and hustled me into Michael’s office. She sat down at Michael’s computer and began clacking away wordlessly. That was one thing I liked about Marella. She didn't waste time with platitudes and pleasantries when there was a crisis to be dealt with -- it's why we worked together so well.

The big screen came down and I lowered the lights a little. She pulled up Vincent McComb's employment file with The Firm, then printed out a hard copy of a document with his signature. We fed both documents into the computer to see if it would constitute a possible match. In less than three minutes, the data was collated and the printer spit out a match of 93% that it was McComb’s handwriting.

“That’s good enough for me,” I said grimly. “Where did they put him after making him an accomplice to murder?”

“A firm detention facility in Tacoma, Washington to serve out a 13-year sentence,” Marella replied, pulling up the information effortlessly. “Whoa – hold the phone.” She flipped down over some more info. “I’ll be goddamned. He was released.”

“When?” My stomach was knotting.

“Three weeks ago.” She shook her head. “No mention on who’s authority, but it had to be high up in the Company.”

"Somebody from The Committee who evidently didn't have to justify it." I chewed my cheek. “Pull up Melissa Hiatt’s current whereabouts,” I directed softly.

Marella looked over at me. “You think they’re working together again?”

“Gut feeling. Where Melissa went, Vince was never far behind. Never hurts to check, right?”

Marella pulled up Melissa’s personnel file. She was currently working in Oslo as a division head in Investigations. However, she had been put on indefinite leave for what was listed as a special project investigation. The director had OK’d the time, but at the request of someone from The Committee. Melissa had been a lend-out.

“I’ll bet it’s the same person who got Vince out,” Marella said.

“Proving it is another matter,” I muttered. “She wouldn’t be listed on a commercial flight, either. Company jet, most likely.”

“That can be tracked. But we don’t have time now. We’ll have to investigate later. I’m pulling up the travel log to see if any of our vehicles, helicopters or jets here in L.A. have been signed out under Committee authorization today.”

Marella clacked away some more. After awhile, a short list appeared. I peered over her shoulder.

“Three jets – one to Guadalajara, one to Toronto and one to Oahu,” Marella read.

Michael’s phone rang. Marella picked it up. “Deputy Director’s office.” She listened intently. “We have some news too, sir. We’re pretty sure it was Vincent McComb involved. We have reason to believe Melissa Hiatt is in on it, too. Yes, sir. That has to mean someone high up has pulled them out for this. And I think we both can guess who that might be.” She listened a moment more. “All right, sir.” She hung up as she pulled up some more info. “Ransom was called in.”

“Airwolf in exchange for our son.”

She looked up at me and nodded. “You had your suspicions, too?”

“The moment we found out about Melissa’s leave, right here and right now. It has to be Zeus pulling the strings. The history alone he has with Michael would bear it out, even it if it’s mostly circumstantial. He really had it in for Michael right after the decimation at Red Star Control.” I stared at the computer screen. “Just the jets? No vehicles taken?”

“Just those. Wait a minute, I have an idea.” She went to work, and the computer buzzed busily. “We don’t have any holdings in Guadalajara,” she finally said. “But we do in Toronto and Hawaii.”

“Whoever kidnapped our son signed him out at two, two-fifteen,” I told her. “When did the jets leave?”

“The one to Toronto – seven-forty-five this morning.” She clacked a few more keys. “The one to Hawaii – about four-fifteen this afternoon.”

“That narrows it down. How about a list of the properties we own in Hawaii?” I asked.

Again, her magic hands went to work and in less than a minute, a list spewed out from the printer.

I tore it out and looked at it. “All of these are in Waikiki?”

Marella shook her head. “It's more than likely they’ll avoid too much public exposure. They’ll go from the airport straight to the Firm-owned facility in the mountains, just outside of the city. It's the most logical course of action to take.”

I sighed. “Why do you think Melissa was pulled out for this? Why not just use Vince?”

“I’m just guessing,” Marella said, swiveling toward me and folding her arms over her chest, “but I’m betting that Melissa is traveling under your identity and passing herself off as little Michael’s mother. The two of them together as Michael’s parents wouldn’t generate a lot of suspicion. As to why they jetted out to Hawaii instead of a safehouse here . . . too much chance we could easily track them down on the mainland. Hawaii is five hours away from the coast – ample time for a warning if anyone suspected them and to move to a different location even more remote than where they are. You guys wouldn’t take chances with your son. Everyone knows that. Michael would give over Airwolf in a heartbeat in exchange for Michael Junior. You would, too.”

“Hawke’s another matter,” I said grimly.

“I think if push came to shove, Hawke would give it up,” Marella replied staunchly. “Which also means our puppet-master must have a couple of pilots from the original program under his thumb to fly Airwolf out from the drop-off point.”

“Why beat around the bush? We know its Zeus that’s doing this,” I said tightly. “There's enough circumstantial evidence right here to hang him. He’s wanted Airwolf under his direction since it’s inception. Remember Redwolf?”

“Don’t remind me.”

I glanced at my watch. “How long would it take to get one of the jets ready to go?” I asked.

“Not long after Michael gets back here. A couple of hours tops.”

“No, Marella. Now.”

She stood, looking at me compassionately for a moment, but shook her head. “No way. Not until Michael is briefed and certain phone calls and arrangements have been made.”

I was silent for a long moment. Finally, I nodded my head. “OK. I’m going down to the cafeteria. Let me know when Michael gets here.”

I knew that the cameras would catch me going out of the building, but I hoped I could make enough of a head start before anyone noticed I was gone. I wasn’t about to sit and wait when my son’s life was in danger.

Something kicked me into gear like never before. It wasn't that I didn't trust Michael to handle the situation. It was just that I had such a sense of urgency -- that I couldn't wait, couldn't think of waiting. Maybe it was nothing more than panic but one thing I knew. I certainly didn’t trust Melissa Hiatt around our son, and the sooner I had that precious little boy back in my arms, the better.

As I pulled onto the busy L.A. streets, I picked up my car phone and contacted my friend at the local pawn shop who I knew had connections just about everywhere and gave him a list of what I needed.

Sure enough, he knew somebody in Waikiki that ran a military supply store. I told him I’d call him back with an address to have the supplies delivered to and then went to work calling a cheap motel to book a room. It was on the outskirts of the Hawaiian city, unobtrusive, seedy, and just the kind of place I wanted to be, so I would garner the least attention. I did all this under an alias and matching alias credit card.

I stopped at a local K-Mart to buy some jeans, tennis shoes and a couple of casual tops with cash. As I was heading out to the airport, I phoned the pawn shop again and gave him an address and let him take a hefty $500 referral fee from my credit card for his trouble.

LAX was well-occupied this early evening. After parking, I grabbed a dufflebag I kept in my car at all times with all sorts of toiletries and a few changes of underwear and clothes, grabbed a wad of hundreds, fifties and twenties out of my glove compartment and hurriedly made my way into the terminal. I paid for my ticket in cash and then went to the car rental desk to book a car when I got to Oahu. It was as if I were on automatic pilot. Nothing was going to get in between me and my son. Nothing and nobody.

“Mrs. Briggs to the courtesy phones,” came an overhead voice over the speakers. “Mrs. Rachel Briggs to the courtesy phones.”

Michael. Or Marella. I debated whether or not to answer and decided not to. They would only try to talk me out of leaving. Resolutely, I ignored the page again and got to the gate of my flight, which was already boarding. Quickly I checked in and half-jogged up the ramp to the interior of the plane. My heart was still pounding as I slid into my first-class seat. I had to get to my son. The thought of him in the care of the woman who would have killed me was almost more than I could bear.

I’d used an alias the Firm didn't know about, I’d paid in cash and it would take them some time before they could ferret me out of the several flights headed for Hawaii. I had no doubts about being able to get my son out of enemy hands, I was that determined.

It was the same mind-set that had become a part of me when I was down in South America blowing up cocaine labs, or assassinating third-world government heads of state in hostile third-world countries, or any number of covert operations that I’d pulled off successfully. I’d had no compunction about taking lives then. It was a job. It was something that had to be done.

I had absolutely no compunction about killing either Vince or Melissa if they stood in between me and my son, especially in this personal vendetta that Zeus had seen fit to continue, using an innocent child as the bait.

Big mistake, I thought furiously. Big mistake, you bastard, because you've just pissed off the female of the species and set my maternal instincts way off the charts. You're dead.

I settled down in my seat and covered up with a blanket, bypassing the first-class amenities offered. I had to sleep. I had a lot to do the moment I stepped onto the Islands and I had to be in good shape.

I felt like a mess when I got off the plane. It was a bit after six p.m. Island time. In about three more hours it would be dark. I had just enough time to get my rental car and a map and head out to my seedy little motel on the way up the mountain.

It was about a forty minute drive with the traffic, just south of Waiplo on Highway 2. The motel was a couple of grades below a Motel 6 – not something I really concerned myself with since I didn’t plan on doing any sleeping there. I checked in and collected my items from the pawn shop that had been delivered to the front desk and paid for a couple of nights in advance. Then I locked myself up in my room and threw down all my stuff, ripping the box open sent from the pawn shop.

Inside lay black jeans, black socks, black rubber-soled boots, black cotton long-armed tee-shirt, black knit cap and black gloves. Also inside was a taser gun that would emit 30,000 volts, a 9 milli with a silencer and the serial number taken off, and a snub-nosed .38 I could holster inside my boot. To add to my weapons was a short, serrated blade to be attached to my belt. The remainder was a back baby-carrier that would attach to my back and a car-seat. There was also a satchel for diapers and a few cans of pudding and fruit with plastic eating utensils.

A shower was the next order – I wanted to feel as fresh as possible for the upcoming ordeal and I had a little while before it got dark. I took my time in the steaming water. It felt so good after the long flight. Then I brushed my teeth and pulled my still-wet hair back in a ponytail. This was my pre-mission ritual. It never varied.

About eight-thirty, I dressed and took the car a bit north of Waiplo, turning into a private drive that was more of a rough country road near the base of a mountain. There was a side spot in the road about half-way up and I pulled over, placing the baby seat in the back of the car. I left the foodstuffs in the front, hauled the baby-carrier over my shoulders and began the ascent upwards to the well-hidden house. As I neared the front gates, I saw video-cameras and cursed.

To hell with it, I thought.

Boldly, I went up and put a slug in the lens of each of them, then shimmied over the gate, walking straight toward the house.

I heard the sounds of dogs and they rounded the side of the house, three German Rottweilers, muscles honed and pace swift as they ran towards me, their intent clear. Without a trace of regret, I fired three times. My aim had never been so deadly accurate. The three dogs lay silent, a single bullet through their brains. I advanced toward the front door, quietly thanking my father for insisting I practice at a gun range three times a week when I was growing up.

I could hear the alarms going off. I didn’t have much time before the local police would be present. The front door was locked and I shot it open, kicking it wide, making my way inside. There was movement in one of the back hallways but I heard my son’s cry from upstairs and that was where I fixed my attention. Carefully and quietly, I made my way up the winding staircase, keeping close to the wall, both hands on my gun. I followed the noise to the first bedroom on the right and peeked around the corner.

Melissa had just taken my son from the crib by the window and was almost to the door to the hallway when I stepped around, my gun leveled at her midsection. I afforded a glance toward little Michael, and his round chubby face was red and wet with crying.

“Mommy!!” he screamed in sudden recognition and reached out for me.

As hard as it was, I couldn’t let that be a distraction.

“Back up into the bedroom, Melissa. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

The woman I had wanted to spare from death’s cold embrace after all she had done to me and to Michael stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowing.

“If you’re thinking of trying anything, I can get a head shot in before you’d have the chance,” I told her levelly. “You’ve used up your wild cards with me. Put Michael back in the crib."

Warily, she did as I ordered. “You’ll never get off this Island alive, you know,” she told me.

“Test my patience anymore and neither will you.”

As I expected, as soon as she’d gotten Michael set down, Melissa went for her gun inside her jacket. My gun rang out twice, throwing little Michael into a fresh round of crying. The bullets forced Melissa backwards, and she crashed through the French doors, falling over the railing from the outside balcony. I heard her short scream as she careened over it. I didn’t bother to look over the side. I hoped the fall had bashed her skull in.

Quickly, I picked my son up and strapped him in the baby back carrier, giving him a pacifier before slinging him over my shoulders.

I reloaded my gun as I walked toward the stairs. Michael was still crying, muffled with the pacifier in his mouth. I didn’t know where Vince was – unless he’d just jumped ship, and I didn't know how many other people I had to worry about. I just wanted to get my son out of there.

I left the same way I came in, through the front door. I was forced to drop a couple of agents as I ran toward the front gate and buried my hunting knife between the ribs of a guard on the other side. Blood-soaked, I made the trek to where I’d stashed the car . . . and was met there by my husband and a contingent of about twelve field agents. My heart flooded with relief and I promised myself I would let Michael yell at me as long and hard as he wanted to when this was over.

At least, I thought it was over.

Something felt oddly wrong when I surged into Michael’s arms. It didn’t feel like Michael. It didn’t smell like Michael. My instincts made me recoil and when I looked closely into his face, I realized it wasn’tMichael.

It was Vince. I’d played right into the hands of the enemy.

He smiled disarmingly as I was stripped of all weapons. “Sorry, Rachel. A few years ago I would have done just about anything to get a hug like that from you.” He lifted his gun. “Go on. Start walking. Try anything and remember -- I've got my gun trained on the kid.”

Defeated, I retraced my steps up the mountain road. Little Michael began whimpering and I shushed him quietly. As we walked through the open gates onto the grounds, I heard someone telling Vince that the local authorities had been headed off with the explanation that the alarm had been accidentally tripped by a new security guard. All the while I was cursing myself for carelessness, for not relying on my warrior instincts when I needed them.

Vince forced me around the side of the house to the back, where the grounds sloped downwards towards a tropical treeline to a sandy beach and the ocean beyond. There was plenty of open space in the back to land a small fleet of helicopters and I realized this was where the exchange would be made. My son for Airwolf.

As if reading my mind, her unmistakable whine filled my ears. I looked up to see her dark hulk against the night sky, hovering over the cement heliport. Hawke’s face was visible as was Michael’s in the copilot's position. I glimpsed Dominic in the back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two pilots in flight-suits approach us from the house as Airwolf set down.

Michael’s face was granite as he exited from the chopper. He walked across the expanse of lawn until we were standing nose-to-nose, oblivious to everyone else. His hands went to my arms, fingers bruising my flesh. Then I felt myself thrown to the ground, flat on my belly, and Michael’s body was over me and our son. I heard the explosive gunfire about us and then, after what seemed like an eternity, Michael hauled me to my feet and we were running toward Airwolf amidst a hail of bullets. Airwolf had let rip with the chainguns, cutting down Zeus' field agents as they emerged from the house. Bodies were littering the grounds.

Michael climbed in her first and gripped my arm, hauling me inside. A sudden shot rang out and exquisite pain lanced through my leg as Airwolf lifted up a few feet. Looking down, I saw a patch of red flowering through my thigh and I yelled, losing balance. Michael clawed at me as I fell and I barely remembered to turn before hitting the ground so little Michael wouldn’t be beneath me, taking the impact of the fall. I hit the ground on my wounded leg and the pain of it caused me to see stars.

More of Zeus' operatives were coming out of the house. I had to make a decision. Quickly, I unstrapped our son from my back and handed him to Michael, carrier and all. He took hold of the carrier and hauled our son inside Airwolf, then looked down at me, hand extended.

"C'mon!" he yelled.

Hawke was hovering indecisively. For the longest moment, I looked in Michael’s eyes and a sudden calm came over me. I could barely use my leg. I'd probably had a vein nicked.

“Give me your gun!” I called to him, knowing I couldn't get to my feet quickly enough or make it to safety.

By the look on his face, I could tell he read my lips. His look of shock and denial was evident.

"No!" he yelled vehemently, shaking his head. "No! Rachel, you've got to try! You've got to! I can't . . . you're not going to die on me! I won't let you!"

“Michael . . .! Give it to me!” I screamed.

I would love Michael beyond the grave. Our emotions were palpable as we stared at each other.

"Michael!" I screamed again. "Please!!"

It happened as though it were slow motion. I saw him reach inside his jacket, extracting his Walther P-38. He hesitated just a few moments, then with agony in his eyes, he threw it down to me. It hit my hip and I grabbed it in my hand.

“GO!!” I screamed a third time.

Airwolf lifted and turned, impervious to the gunfire around her. I brought Michael's gun up and was just starting to insert it into my mouth when a hand grabbed it from me. The barrel hit my top teeth and my lip split.

“No way,” came a husky male voice I recognized as Vince’s. “You just cost Zeus a bundle. No way you’re gonna take your life.”

Now that he had ascertained it was safe, he'd given up his defense behind one of the stately palms and had thwarted my plan to terminate my life. My moment of bravado was gone.

Vince hauled me up by my arm, making me walk towards the house on my wounded leg. With each step, the pain sliced through me. Through the haze of pain, my desperation and fury surged up.

Zeus had cost me just about everything and Vince had been a part of it. He'd been a part of it and he was by the Gods going to pay for that. If I was to be deprived of my life, so would he.

“Fuck you!” I screamed, jerking out of his grasp.

I grabbed his gun and tumbled to the ground again, but rolled and came up on my good leg, gun poised. The pain was so intense, my hands that held the gun were shaking, but I steadied them determinedly.

“I may not come out of this alive, you son-of-a-bitch, but I’m going to at least have the satisfaction of killing you!”

The shot rang out and Vince stopped in his tracks, a hole of vibrant red flowering about an inch above the bridge of his nose. I'd seen the spray of bone, blood and brain just a second before, hitting an operative behind him. My fury was cold. So cold it would have frightened me if I had been any less calloused. This was retribution and for me, it felt liberating.

I heard drumbeats in my ears and ancient voices. They became louder and louder and that’s when I dropped, the gun falling out of my hand. Sweat and blood stung my eyes and I was losing consciousness from the blood gushing out of my leg.

Little Michael was safe. My husband was safe. Airwolf was safe. I’d had my long-awaited vengeance. Our son had survived.

At the moment, that was all that mattered.

What happened now was up to the Gods.


October 1, 1992
The Hole

And so here I am. In The Hole. Waiting. Watching. Remembering.

Until the time comes when They release me.

And when They do, I plan on looking up my long-time love, my husband, my lover, my life.

My Betrayer.


October 2, 1992
The Hole

It was still dark when I heard my jail cell door open and got a whiff of Big Sally’s perfume. I frowned, wondering what the hell was going on but I waited until I felt her big, meaty hand on my shoulder.

“Rise ‘n’ shine, sweetie. You’re gettin’ cut loose,” came her southern drawl.

My heart rose in my throat as I turned over to look at her. “What?”

“You heard me right, darlin’. You’re free to go. I’m s’posed to make sure you get cleaned up. I’ll tell ya the rest when you’re done.”

Sleepily, I got to my feet and trudged down the hallway like I had hundreds of times. The showers were constructed like military showers – open and tile. Wonder of wonders, the water was actually hot at this hour and I took my time, letting the steaming spray wash away my tension.

After toweling dry, I walked around the partition and saw some clean white jeans and a light casual sweater along with a pair of comfortable Nikes and a pair of running socks. A pair of cotton panties and a clasp-front bra also were thoughtfully provided. I looked at the brand name. Whoever had provided the clothes knew I liked Bali bras.

White, white everywhere. I didn’t have to guess who the provider was.

Goddamn you, Michael.

All I could feel in my heart was murderous rage. The man I had loved and had a child with could only now get me out of my cell? Or perhaps it had been convenient to let me sit there for all this time. Six years, I thought. Six years stolen from me.

My son would be almost eight years old, now. Did he even know he had a mother? Or had Michael conveniently hidden that from him?

There was one fact evident. Just like most of the other men in my life, Michael had betrayed me. He had left me here. For whatever reason. After I found out what that reason was, I was going to kill him.

Or . . . maybe I wouldn't even ask what the reason was. Maybe I'd just shoot first.

Now dressed, my hair pulled back in a wet ponytail, I exited the showers and was met by Big Sally again.

She smiled broadly. "Lookin' good, Rach. You got anything in your cell you want to take with you?"

I thought for a minute. "Yeah," I replied.

We returned to my cell and I went inside, walking over to the small writing desk I'd been granted. I opened the left front drawer and drew out my musty little mojo bag from years back.

I hadn't seen much point in wearing it while in the cell. Hadn't seen much point to anything, except biding my time, waiting.

For the most part, my brain had been on auto-pilot the whole time I'd been here. It had been the only way to maintain any sanity I had left. I placed the little bag around my neck and swayed a little. Then, after a few long, deep breaths, I turned and joined Big Sally outside my cell again.

"What now?" I asked, voice calm.

"We go to sign-out. You get your personals back."

We made the long trek past a holding area to the sign-out cage. My personals were sparse. My wallet, a little over two thousand dollars in cash, hundreds, fifties and twenties. A couple of lottery ticket stubs. Half a pack of Rolaids. Then, Sally led me down another hall to the front doors to the grounds. The outside gate was two hundred feet beyond.

As we approached, Sally turned her head slightly. "Your Jaguar's just outside the gate with the keys in it. It's been all spiffed up -- ready to go. There's a map inside showing roughly where you're at. Do yourself a favor -- get as far away as you can and don't ever show your face up here again. And hey -- things aren't all what they seem. What you think might be true probably isn't."

We reached the gates that automatically opened. It was dark outside -- early, early morning. Time pretty much stood still inside the prison I'd been in. One couldn't tell if it was day or night. Even by the lighting.

"So this is it," I said, facing her. "They just let me leave."

Sally nodded. "That's what They said."

"No orders. No instructions."

"Nope. Just the green light to let you go. Good luck, darlin'," Sally said softly. "Don't worry. You got a guardian angel lookin' out for you."

"Yeah, right," I muttered, walking out the gates. My fury had not abated. I stood by my coveted Jaguar for a few moments, touching the smooth surface. It was pristine, as I'd left it. Someone had given it a wash job and the interior was a lot cleaner than I'd left it six years ago. Michael would have had access. I saw red. Michael.

Michael.

I couldn't quite figure the game. If he'd really cared, if Michael really had not known about my incarceration up to now, he would have been on the doorstep of this facility with his armored limo and six armed choppers, banging on the front gate in righteous rage. He wouldn't go to the trouble of taking my car out of storage to have me drive down to L.A. myself after six fucking years. I couldn't figure what he was up to. But then, I'd been out of the business for so long, nothing much made sense to me.

The only thing on my mind was catching up to Michael and sending him to his Maker.

How I had loved him, forgiven him for coming into my life and turning it over, lying to me about his motivations, about setting me up, about our relationship, about Gabrielle. But this -- leaving me here to rot, to be without my little boy . . .

I scrutinized the map that had been given me and after a few minutes, I was able to ascertain I was a few miles south of Rainer, Washington. Close to the same facility Vince had been incarcerated in before Marella and I tracked the son-of-a-bitch down. Well, well.

I took the dirt road to 507, turned south on Highway 5 and then just drove. My car felt familiar and comfortable. It felt good to have something familiar again.

I think my brain must have been on auto-pilot for quite some time, even as darkness turned to morning light. I stopped for gas in Salem, Oregon about noon and found a Denny's where I got a decent meal. It wasn't champagne and caviar, but the food in The Hole for the most part was tasteless and for me, a Denny's Patty Melt combo was Nirvana. Occasionally, Sally would slip me treats now and then, but it wasn't often, though I was grateful for the change.

It was late by the time I hit Red Bluff, California. I'd been driving for hours and I needed sleep. I found a Motel 6 just south of town and pulled in. Time to rest, refuel and recharge.

I took a quick shower, grabbed something to eat over at the all-night diner next door and then passed out for the next twelve hours. Somewhere inside of those twelve hours, my phone rang and I remembered talking to someone. But when I woke up later, I could barely remember it and after realizing that no one who really knew me knew where I was except for maybe Michael, I concluded it had been a dream or the manager had rung the wrong room. It hadn't been Michael's voice and I didn't remember the conversation.

It was about noon. The sun streamed in under the curtain and I could tell the day was warm because I hadn't turned on the air conditioner and I was sweating. After another shower and a steak and egg dinner at the diner, I started my journey once more. I would be late getting into L.A. because I'd slept in. But that was OK. I knew exactly where I was headed.

The lights of L.A. are really something to see at night. But it was the last thing on my mind as the hands of my car clock inched toward nine p.m. as I sped down Highway 5. The suburbs gave way to familiarity. I turned off the AC and rolled down the windows. The salt breeze was wonderful.

Finally, I came upon the exit I was looking for and peeled off, going down the familiar access road to one of the working-class suburbs. I pulled into the parking lot of a pawnshop I'd done business with in the past, wondering if the same owner still ran it.

The place hadn't changed one iota and lucky for me, neither had the owner. He glanced up and it occurred to me that he was in the process of closing up.

"Help you?" he asked as I approached the counter.

I nodded. "Yeah. I did business with you some time ago. We dealt in products that weren't over-the-counter."

Even though we were obviously alone, he glanced furtively about, just to make sure. "You sure you aren't thinking of another pawnshop, lady?"

"Pretty sure." I leaned forward on the counter. "Last I knew, $450 bought an police special."

He looked hard at me a moment. "Gotta ask. You a cop?"

"Never have been. What's the going rate?"

He hesitated. "Six-seventy-five. Price has gone up."

"Throw in a box of ammo?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

I inspected the gun carefully before leaving and left $100 extra. I think he finally recognized me as I walked out the door; the neon lights were doused as I walked toward the car.

There were several places I could search Michael out. But the best bet I had was Firm Headquarters. The white limo with the Angel 1 plates were a dead giveaway. My car phone was working and I called his direct office line. It rang twice before it was picked up. The voice on the other end froze me to the core.

"Deputy Director Coldsmith-Briggs." I stared at the receiver for a long moment. "Hello?" There was another pause. I resisted the urge to say something and hung up.

About twenty minutes later, I saw the limo leave the gates. I started up the car and followed a discreet distance behind. I was beginning to get my old instincts back. The limo went up onto the freeway and I followed, three cars behind. He was headed towards the beach house. Either there or Santini Air. After half an hour, I knew my first instinct had been right. I passed the exit the limo turned off of and then doubled back, driving about a mile south of the exit to park at a public beach.

Michael would not be going there for just a few minutes. If he was coming all the way out here, he was there to stay for awhile. I holstered my gun in the beltline at the back of my jeans, throwing a leather jacket I always kept in back of the car over me to conceal it. Then, I started walking.

It was not a hurried walk. It took me a good seven minutes to arrive at the exit where Michael's car had exited. Instead of proceeding down the exit to the gated drive, I veered off into the treelined bluffs, just to the right. The bluffs led down to the beach and from there, I could walk along it to the beach house, knowing that no cameras had been set up there. At least, not that I knew of, unless Michael had done so sometime over the last six years.

The salt air smelled good as I made my way towards the sprawling beach house. How many times I had traipsed along the sand, towards this seaside haven. A single light burned in the living room area, but I couldn't see Michael through the windows, concluding that he must be showering in the master bath off the bedroom.

Quietly, I stole up on the deck. When I tried the sliding glass door, it was open. I could feel my heart thudding inside my throat as I crept inside and quietly closed it behind me. I could hear the hiss of the shower coming from the bedroom area and I reached in back of my pants to extract my untraceable revolver.

The bedroom was dark and the bathroom door was only part-way open, the light on. I entered the bedroom stealthily, knowing that he couldn't hear me over the water, but nevertheless exercising caution.

My goal was just within reach. My Betrayer was just beyond that door. Retribution was here and she was mightily pissed off.

Light suddenly filled the room and I whirled, my gun raised. It took a split second to register that it was Michael standing by the light switch, also with a gun in hand.

A furious and unreasonable gutteral cry erupted from my throat and I fired. In the next second, a bullet hole appeared just above his left shoulder in the wall and before I could get off a second round, Michael had tackled me. Both of us tumbled to the floor, his hand clamping down on my wrist, putting pressure on bones and muscle. The gun dropped from my hand.

He was breathing hard when he looked down at me, having pinned me with his body from chest to toe. I couldn't move. My instinct was to knee him in the groin, but I couldn't even do that. He was dead weight on top of me. After a few moments, I ceased my struggle, looking up at him with hate-filled eyes. He looked back down, as if in incomprehension at my loathing gaze.

"It is you." His voice was breathless with wonder. "Good God. Rachel. My Rachel."

The fact that he spoke my name with such tenderness sent a fresh wave of fury through me. I struggled helplessly against him, my cries ringing out in frustration.

"Rachel, stop. Stop," he pleaded. "For God's sake, let's sort this out!"

My cries turned to sudden, shrill laughter. "SORT IT OUT?! You leave me to rot in a hole for six years and you want to SORT IT OUT?!"

He looked as if I'd struck him with a right cross and an uppercut at the same time as his jaw dropped.

"You think that I . . ."

"Tell me, Michael," I hissed viciously. "What did you tell our son? That his mother was dead? So you could raise him and brainwash him into your way of life before I could get my hands on him?! Didn't THAT just work out so well in your favor, you traitorous son-of-a-bitch!"

"You can't believe that. You can't. You have absolutely no idea what I have gone through these last years . . ." He choked on the last word, but I chose not to hear it.

"Fuck you, you bastard!" I screamed. "You had it all tied up in a neat little package! How could I interfere with his upbringing if I was in prison? Did you think you'd break me in that place, Michael? Did you think I'd end up a sniveling little mess to be mopped up from the floor? Every day I was in there, I kept hoping you'd come and break me out. And as each day passed, and that hope dwindled, I started hating you. If you wanted a divorce, all you had to do was say so! It would have killed me, hell it would have ripped my heart out! But better that than what you put me through in that Hole!"

I felt the heat from him and despite my desperate anger, my body was remembering what it was like to be in such close proximity to him. It sent a burning, tingling sensation through me and all I had to do was look up into his face and know that he'd felt it, too. But the thing that I saw that shocked me most was the tear in the corner of his eye.

"Rachel . . . it took me this long to even find you. And for the record -- I NEVER wanted a divorce from you." The tear detached, sliding down his cheek. "Listen to what you're saying. Even if we did disagree on some ways to raise our son, what in the world makes you think I'd put you through something like that? There is no reason on God's green earth that I would leave you to rot somewhere if I knew where you were, and certainly not for something as petty as a disagreement over certain points about raising our son! For God's sake, you're my WIFE!"

The words hit me like a ton of bricks. But they lost their effect in the next moments. All I could feel was black agony hitting me from all sides. My urge to destroy dominated everything else. I was trembling from head to toe. I screamed like a wounded animal, my towering rage bursting forward from the flimsy dam of control that was now non-existent.

Several operatives suddenly converged on us. I felt other hands hauling me up to my feet and I strained savagely against them, managing to wrench free for a few seconds. Michael was on me again, grabbing me from behind. His arms went around me like a vice, effectively trapping my own arms against my body, across my chest. He placed one foot between mine. This infuriated me even more and I struggled harder. Michael's hold was unyielding.

One operative approached me with a hypodermic. For some reason, this threw me into a state of terror I had never before known. The horror in my screams was real and I heard Michael's voice shouting next to my ear.

"NO! Back off! Not yet!"

I'd always been a scrapper. But caught in Michael's grip, I was helpless, even though I fought continuously. The harder I fought, the tighter he held me and my screams of wrath became hoarse shouts. My struggles gradually abated and my breath started coming in short bursts, but Michael's hold remained secure.

I felt dizzy and hot. Sweat was running down the back of my neck and down my forehead to drip off my nose. Finally, I sagged against Michael, simply too exhausted and weak to continue. I hurt . . . physically and emotionally. My rage pulled itself back in for the time being, but I could still feel it bubble just below. My fear and terror had not disappeared, either; tears mixed with sweat rolled down my face and hate filled me along with despair.

"Why does it always turn to shit?" I barely knew the words came out of my mouth.

I felt myself being lowered to the edge of the bed, arms still fastened about me. I felt one hand stroking my damp hair -- a soothing gesture. I felt calm enough to find some comfort in it.

"It doesn't always." I heard a gentle, assuaging voice near my ear.

Vaguely, I was aware of hands divesting me of my jacket. I looked over as a hypodermic was being applied to my arm. I reacted with a screech, but Michael held me firm.

"It's OK," he told me soothingly. "It's fine, Rachel. It's fine." What happened next was a total blur. I don’t remember much of it. A lot of it seemed a dream. I remember someone touching something on my chest one time -- and realized it was my mojo bag they were fingering.

"No, don't take that off. It stays on." Michael's voice, firm, unyielding. Why would Michael care if I wore it or not? Son-of-a-bitch keeping me away from my son, incarcerating me for six years . . .

" . . . scopolamine in her system. Pretty standard drug for brainwashing. It can cause amnesia after awhile . . ."

" . . . not bad. Tox screen's only positive for Scopolamine. Other readings are pretty normal. Iron count's a little low. She vegetarian?"

"Does she need to have those restraints on? You've got her drugged, she's not going anywhere." Again, Michael's voice, and why would he care?

In and out. In and out. There was no sense of time, not even any sense of where I was.

"Medically, she's cleared. But she's going to have to be evaluated psychologically," came Marella's voice.

Marella! My fury renewed. Marella was in on it! Was she being a surrogate mother to my son?

My eyes snapped open and I roared, trying to sit up. The bright lights hurt my eyes. I focused and saw a hooded figure at the foot of my bed. Fear pricked at me and my first instinct was to scream. But I swallowed it.

"Who are you?" I half-whispered.

The figure's white hands lifted the hood so it lay delicately across its shoulders. Black hair and a pale face emerged. Dark blue eyes ringed in black and black-colored lips. Starkly, gothically beautiful and dangerous. My breath caught in my throat.

She was me.


She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
Upon her crest she wore a wasnnish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar:
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
She had a woman's mouth with its pearls complete:
And for her eyes -- what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?


She was my Shadow Self. She was everything of me that was Dark. She was Deception, Anger, Hostility, Dishonesty. She was Vengeance and Retribution. She was Cunning and Stealth.

She was my Lillith, held separate from my Eve.

Out of her voluminous robe, she brought something out, an object that was bright and red. It took me a moment before I realized it was the most beautiful red-skinned apple I had ever seen in my life. It reached out to me. It sang to me.

"Sister," she addressed me in a sibilant voice. "Open your eyes and see."

Shaking, I took the fruit from her cold hand. She smiled then, a beautiful smile revealing long, elegant fangs.

This could not be real.

Then, I felt myself falling, carried by a soft current of air. Gone was the Dark One, and I slept.

When I awoke, I found myself surrounded by tall grass and lengthening shadows. The smell of autumn assaulted my senses, the call of orioles and swallows, the sound of falling leaves dropping from the tree branches. Slowly, I rose to a sitting position, and my eyes adjusted to the brilliant colors that surrounded me, though the sun descended behind familiar hills.

I was in Effigy Mounds, near my father's cabin.

Getting to my feet, I looked down at myself. I was wearing my favorite old Chic jeans I'd thrown out years ago. My black cotton sweater covered over with my brown leather jacket and knee high moccasins on my feet. I wore the silver and turquoise jewelry from my teen-age years which I knew I'd given up at the start of college.

The apple was still in my hand. It shone lustrous and bright, a temptation I was forced to put in my pocket, or I would end up taking a bite.

The wind blew around me and for long moments I stood there, letting it sing to me and encompass me in its cool cocoon. I walked the familiar dirt path through the woods, delighting in the sounds that seemed crystal clear to my ears. A woodchuck scuttled from some undergrowth, across the path to the other side. I continued down the trail, where I knew it would widen and take me to a fresh-water spring near the cabin. When I broke through the treeline, the cabin was in my sights, and there was smoke coming from the chimney.

There was only one thing that could mean. With tears in my eyes, I ran around the shoreline, desperate to reach the cabin. When I mounted the steps, the door came open and my father, Lawrence "Black Crow" Sands was standing there.

"Daddy!"

I launched myself into his arms and felt his laugh surround me. He picked me up and whirled me around and the laughter came from my mouth . . . no, from my soul.

"It's a dream!" I said suddenly, leaning back from my father's tall frame, and looking into that oh-so-familiar face that I had missed for so long. "This can't be real."

"And what were you taught about realities?" My father smiled, pulling me by the hand into the house. "C'mon. I've made your favorite outdoor grub. Beef stew with biscuits and honey. Stocked up on a case of cashews, too. I know how you like 'em."

The cabin was the image of what I'd left in Iowa when I'd come back to California to be with Michael. It was modernized with air-conditioning and indoor facilities.

"It can be whatever you want, you know." Dad's voice was quiet. "If you want it to go back to rustic and primal, all you have to do is think it."

"So it is a dream. If I can change things, it must be a dream." The cabin seemed so very quiet after I spoke.

Dad dished me up some stew and the biscuits were in a basket, covered by a checkered cloth. He poured me a glass of milk and then sat across from me.

"Your soul needed a rest, honey," he told me quietly. "So you came here. You loved this place growing up. It's become your refuge."

My eyes met his. I could not comprehend my father being here. Given my background and supposed spiritual knowledge, this shouldn't be fazing me. But it was. Maybe because I had ignored it all in my captivity. Because I had allowed my real-world reality to overshadow everything else.

"Did I call you here, Dad? Is that why you're here with me now?"

He smiled patiently. "Didn't I tell you I'm still watching over you? Nothing's changed. I'll still be hanging around until you don't need me anymore. When that time comes, you'll know it, and I'll leave."

"Would you be real upset if I told you I wanted to stay here for always?"

"I know you do, Rachel. And you can stay here for as long as you need to be protected and to heal. But you must leave when it's time. After you've found what you've lost and acknowledged The Truth. You'll know when that time is. Then you will leave here and take your place where it's needed."

"What if I don't ever find it?"

My dad always had the patience of a saint. "You will, Rachel. You just need some help, is all." He smiled again and pointed to my full bowl of stew. "Now eat up. We'll go fishing in the morning, bright and early and get us a mess of Mississippi catfish."

I smiled back. I could stay here forever.

Eventually in the days to come, the weather turned, bringing with it snow and ice. But the cabin was a warm respite in the Iowa wilderness. I was with my father who I adored and was making up for a lot of lost time.

We never went into town, hunting our own food from the woods -- venison and beaver, fish and small game. The root cellar never ran low of potatoes and onions and the pantry was always stocked with canned food. The deep chest freezer never ran low nor did the refrigerator. All I had to do was think of what I wanted, and it was readily available. If I wanted Jewish Rye instead of an onion bagel, it was provided. If I wanted bear meat instead of venison, we had it. Even sushi was provided if I so wished, all prepared and waiting on the counter at a single thought.

Dad and I did everything together. We fished and trapped. We hunted. We hiked. We sang the old songs from the reservations. We stared into the fire for hours, sometimes holding lengthy discussions through the night and other times, saying nothing at all. We read from the old classics and watched some classic movies on the TV.

Winter changed into early, early spring and the crocuses were popping up from under the snow in mid-February. Icicles dripped their rhythmic droplets onto the porch and the cardinals and sparrows were gathered near the birdfeeders for their quota of sunflower seeds. The skies were a robin's egg blue with a few wispy clouds. I had never been more at peace.

The serenity was shattered by the plaintive howl of a wolf.

I looked up from the leg of lamb I was preparing for dinner and a shiver went up my back. The sound was hauntingly familiar and sad, almost breaking my heart. It sounded again and I approached the door. It was so close. My father opened it from the outside and stood inside the doorway.

"Rachel." His voice sounded heavy, laced with sorrow, as the wind blew back his black hair laced with grey. "There are people here to see you."

I backed up. A feeling of dread began to come over me. My dad waited patiently at the door.

"I don't want to see them." My tone was hushed. "I don't, Dad. Send them away. Send them far away."

"I can't, honey. They've come too far for me to refuse them. They've brought you some things that are yours. Things that you've lost." He approached me, cupping my chin in one hand, his thumb brushing over my cheek. "Things that you need to take back."

The call of a hawk arrested my attention. I looked past Dad's shoulder, outside the door. I could make out two figures coming through the melting snow. A wolf walked steadily beside one man and a hawk perched on the arm of another.

"Invite them in, Rachel. We'll have plenty of food for all."

He walked past me, before the fire, resting his arm on the mantel. The door was still open and I stood framed in the doorway, my heart wary and full of trepidation. My feet took me down the steps and the two figures closed the distance between us.

The first man was a Native American I thought I recognized, but was unsure. His long white hair trailed down his back, over his woolen coat. His face had many lines etched into it, he looked over a hundred. Brown eyes full of wisdom met mine as he stopped at the foot of the outside steps.

"We've journeyed far," he told me in a strong voice, stronger than I'd expected from an old man.

It was custom to never turn a stranger away; even stray animals were welcome to the warmth of one's fire. I stood aside, indicating the interior of the cabin.

"Then come share the warmth of our fire and our house," I invited softly.

"And the animals -- are they also welcome?" the old man asked.

I nodded. "Most welcome. Please, treat this house as you would your own."

The second man, much younger, clad in a white woolen coat and white clothes that matched the snow, followed him in, bearing the hawk on his arm. It flapped its wings upon entering. I imagined a perch and it appeared near the corner of the fireplace. The man approached it and the hawk hopped from his arm, settling comfortably.

Dutifully, I took their coats, hanging them up in the coat closet. My father invited them to sit before the fire and offered them brandies. Both men accepted.

The wolf curled up on the rug before the fireplace, panting softly. His gaze turned on me once and he seemed to smile -- if wolves can truly smile. I returned to the kitchen, preparing the rest of the meal. The men were talking in low tones, in voices I was certain I was not to overhear. So I ignored them, though I easily could have listened in.

I was thinking of appetizers and when I opened the refrigerator, a gorgeous antipasto platter sat there, brimming with mozzarella, Italian olives, Genovese sausage, scallions, tomatoes and sweet gherkins. When I retrieved it, a basket of hard Italian breadsticks on the kitchen counter caught my eye.

Carefully balancing both, I entered the living area, placing both items on the low table. Small plates appeared on the corner as well as small forks.

"It looks delicious," the younger man said, looking up at me with eyes that were mesmerizing.

I smiled a bit flirtatiously. "A feast for the eyes, but meant for the stomach. Enjoy it."

I moved to leave, but found his hand on my wrist. "Please, stay and join us."

My gaze averted from his and I sought my father's eyes. He sat back, holding my gaze, but either unable or unwilling to give counsel. Apparently, the choice was mine to make.

Quietly, I sat beside the second stranger. I frowned.

Napkins.

They appeared in a fan-shape on another corner of the table. Satisfied, I picked them up, passing them around, and then the plates. Everyone partook heartily of the platter and that pleased me, as if I had put it together with my own hands and they were enjoying it.

"It is time for us to introduce ourselves to you," the old man told me.

Introductions. Yes, I'd forgotten. But shouldn't the introductions have been made when they had first come?

"I am Silent Bear, medicine man of the Dakotah Sioux, from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation," he continued. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Moonhawk. I knew your grandfather."

I nodded acknowledgement.

"And I am Michael," the man beside me said.

The name warmed me. I found my lips curling into a smile and my eyes lifted to his, unafraid. It was then I noticed that he wore glasses and that one lens was blacked out. But to call attention to this would have been rude.

"My name is Rachel," I replied. "Moonhawk is my Indian name."

We talked of many things. Of battles lost and won, of Indian lore and legend. When a lull in conversation presented itself, I excused myself to check on the dinner. As always, it was perfect. I went about setting the table and plating the food. When all was ready, I approached the men and announced that dinner was served.

Though the atmosphere was polite and a bit subdued, it was not uncomfortable. Conversation was continual and the meal passed quickly. I placed some leftovers on a large plate and rose, taking it to the wolf by the fire. He ate with gusto, and I prepared a smaller plate for the hawk, who swooped down to the floor and partook of the feast. When I straightened, I realized the eyes of everyone were on me.

"We have brought back what you've lost, Moonhawk," Silent Bear told me. "We seek to reunite all parts of the whole."

This time, dread did not go through me. My fear had abated but an anxiousness still pervaded.

"What is it you've brought me?" I asked, lost in Michael's powerful stare.

"We've brought you back your power," Silent Bear replied softly.

"And some parts of your soul you've lost," Michael added.

The wolf's sharp cry manifested and suddenly I felt tears fall down my cheeks. I dropped to my knees and the wolf came to my side, circling about me and nuzzling my face, my hands, as if to wrap it's furry body around me. My arms went around the animal and I sobbed into the soft fur. The hawk lighted beside me, in his bid for attention, and my hand found it's downy feathers, stroking down his back.

"You've forgotten to honor your power animals," Silent Bear told me, but there was no recrimination in his voice. "Your bitterness drove them away. Take them back, Moonhawk. Allow them to serve you once more. The hawk with his wisdom. The wolf with his strength."

"Forgive me," I begged, my face burrowing fully into the neck of the wolf. "I have been such a fool. Forgive me."

My guardians and teachers. How could I have let go of them? How could I have been so cold?

"There's more." My father looked at Michael pointedly.

Michael stood and came to me. He took my hand and pulled me up to face him, away from my guardians.

"Do you know me?" he asked, voice nearly breaking.

I stared at him, my eyes roving hungrily over the contours of his face. My mind forced through the barriers I knew had been of my own making.

"Reach down deep inside yourself," he told me, almost whispering. "Because it's there that you have a piece of me. I need it back, before I can give you what I hold."

My hands slid from his and I clasped them to my chest, staring at him. It all tumbled back to me in chaotic imagery, sounds, sensations . . . I felt a hardness in my palm and looked into my hand. A quartz crystal lay there, shimmering. I knew it was Michael's. I knew I had been in possession of it for a long, long time . . . and that it wasn't mine to have.

I knew him. Michael was mine already. I didn't need a piece of his soul to know that. I already had his love.

"Michael."

My voice was sure and strong and I felt a joy in my heart as I pressed the crystal against his chest. I blew across it, watching as it absorbed into him. Michael's eyes closed and he clasped my hands once more, stretching his head back and lifting his face upward. His lips parted and I heard his long sigh as the shimmering particles became part of him again.

After long moments, he came out of his reverie, aligning his eyes with mine. The look on his face was not something describable, so many emotions came into play within just seconds. His hands went to my face, then he ran his fingers through my hair.

"I've waited so long for you to just say my name," he told me lovingly. "You've given me my soul back, Rachel. The part you took. Now, I need to give you yours back. I took more than one piece, and all I can do is offer them back to you and beg your forgiveness."

"But Michael, there's nothing to forgive," I told him earnestly. "I gave them to you, in a sense. One can't give up their soul unless they want to. Sometimes, we collect pieces of other people's souls without even knowing it. Your soul is yours now. I've given it back to you."

"I took your innocence. I deceived you with lies I felt could be justified. And then when we were together, I took another piece of you because I could not -- would not -- ever let you go. I wanted to possess you, to have you become part of me." He sank to his knees, his cheek pressing into my belly, arms holding me tightly. "But I couldn't integrate your soul into mine. It wasn't mine to have. It didn't belong there. I didn't understand that then, but I understand it now. I never want to take anything away from you that's you again. I can love you with all my soul and give you that love to keep. But I don't ever want to take away any part of your soul again."

"You made this journey to bring me back," I said, wonderingly. "Because you've done this, I will never have cause to doubt you again. Give me my soul back, Michael. Give me my strength back."

He rose to his feet, and in his hands were the glowing blue-white crystal shards of my core. Gently, he blew on them and they disintegrated into gold filaments that reached toward me, absorbing into my body, my skin. A glow suffused me and I felt lighter than air. My arms outstretched, I reached for the sky, feeling it come down around me and hold me in its twilight darkness. Slowly, I opened my eyes, staring into Michael's. He took my hand and led me to the cabin door which he opened. The white snow blanketed the earth, the moon giving it an icy sheen.

Three robed figures stood at the edge of the wood, one robed in green, one in vibrant red and one in black. A great metal pot with flames coming out of it was before them. I looked at Michael in confusion.

"You have to go to Them," he told me quietly. "It's the only way you can come back to us. It's the only way you can reclaim The Truth."

"Michael. I want to stay here with you." One of my hands feathered back his hair.

"I want to be with you, Rachel. But not here. Where we both belong. Where you know we both should be." His eyes reflected everything good I knew of him. "You have to choose the path."

His voice was so achingly gentle I wanted to cry. Firmly, he extricated his hand from mine and stepped back from me.

"You have to go, Rachel. Come back to me. See your way clear to come back to me."

To my utter shock, he stepped back inside the cabin, shutting the door. Instinctively, I tried to get in, but it was locked. I pounded on it in self-righteous anger, but it yielded me nothing. Inside, the draperies were pulled back and I saw all three of them -- Michael, my father and Silent Bear -- all looking at me in silent expectation.

I had no choice.

I called on my totems for power and safety.

The winds picked up, became colder.

I walked down the porch steps toward the flaming pot and the three female figures who stood around it.

As I approached, I saw three paths leading into the woods behind them. The paths to the right and left were barred by two more figures, robed in brown. I recognized Marella who stood on the path to my right and Gabrielle -- my dead friend, Gabrielle -- on the path to my left. The woman in the center of the three, clothed in red, was beautiful and pregnant, dark-haired and her eyes were warm and dark. The woman on my right was young and lovely, with hair of gold, her green robes flowing about her like a spring field. The woman on the left was elderly, her silver-grey locks blowing incessantly in the winds, the black robe swirling around her legs. Her eyes held knowledge and wisdom.

"You come here, seeking us out," the mother-figure stated, her voice musical bells, very pleasing to listen to.

"Ah, but she hesitates," the younger one observed, eyes dancing.

"Come closer, child," the old woman encouraged.

If I was dealing with Spirits here, and it seemed that I was, they were deserving of my respect. I clasped my hands over my chest and bowed to them.

"I'm told I must choose a path," I ventured quietly. "But I don't know which one to take."

The mother-figure smiled gently. "The three of Us are One. All paths lead to Us."

"She is Light," the elderly woman said, indicating the young woman.

"And she is Darkness," the youngest of the three apprised me, indicating the old one.

I hesitated. The etherealness of the young woman had such a strong pull for me. My eyes met hers.

"I choose Your path, Young Sister," I said.

She dimpled at me and held out her hand. "Come with me, then."

The blonde sprite pulled me along the path to where Marella stood. She looked up at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. It was as if she didn't know me.

"Now what? What are you looking for, Rachel? This way leads to gentleness and clear thinking. There is no danger here. No obstacles or challenge. No impressions of oppression or corruption. No evil lurking about to conquer. It is as Day without Night. There are no puzzles to solve."

She turned from me and I bit my lip. My eyes went to those of the Young One.

"This was the wrong path for me?"

"Only you can answer that question, Sister," she told me, as if that should be a comfort.

She took my hand and led me back to the flame pot and took up her place again. For a moment, I stood there. My options were dwindling.

"Maybe," I addressed the old woman, "I should be looking toward your path, Grandmother."

With a patient, sublime expression, she held her hand out to me. "Come, then, child. Come with me."

I followed her to the opposite path, approaching Gabrielle who looked up at me. I stemmed the temptation to hold her. She looked like Gabrielle, but she may have been a Spirit. I sensed no recognition in her, either.

"You've chosen the Darker Path, Rachel," she informed me. "There is no light here and little comfort. The path is full of thorns and holes. It is overgrown with despair and barrenness. Here there is no laughter or smiles. There is no music or companionship. It is Night without Day. Here, you walk in nothing but Shadow."

Gabrielle also turned from me. My eyes sought the wisdom of the other woman.

"This isn't it either, is it?"

"That is something only you can answer," the old woman replied.

She led me back to the flaming pot and she took up her position once more. I faced the mother-figure and the answer was suddenly clear.

"Your path was the right one all along," I told her. "I was so busy traveling the Path of Light, always trying to do the right thing, that I forgot there was always a Darkness that had to be integrated into my world. That there had to be a balance maintained. There can never be Light without Darkness or Darkness without Light."

The mother-figure gave me her hands and I took them.

"You have beheld The Truth, Rachel," she told me approvingly, her smile mysterious and warm. "Tell us what you have learned."

"You are Three but One and One but Three. All Paths are Yours and lead to You." The revelation had been so obvious, I couldn’t believe I didn't know it before. "And to be Whole, I must walk all of them."

This time, all three smiled at me. The Mother reached out a hand to me and an apple appeared in it. I breathed in sharply as it changed into a silver cup.

"Dare to keep this knowledge," the mother-figure challenged. "Drink from this Cup and you retain this knowledge forever. Refuse it, and you return to your world as sad and sorrowing as they." She indicated the two figures of Gabrielle and Marella behind them.

My heart was beating rapidly in my chest. This, I knew, was a life-altering decision.

I looked at the Cup with its blood-red contents.

I felt Michael's call. I felt his warmth. I felt his love.

My hands closed over the warm metal of the Cup.

I held it to my lips.

I drank.

It tasted oh, so bitter-sweet.

When I opened my eyes, it was all gone, except for a howling wind that had sprung up. The cabin had disappeared. I was alone in a windswept clearing by a lake.

I whipped around, sighting a hooded, black-robed creature.

My Shadow Self.

Her hood slipped from her head and her black hair whipped about, her skin pale as Death. The black-red lips parted and I saw her fear.

Yes, fear. She feared me.

"You are Darkness to my Light," I called to her. "I need you. And you need me."

"Your Light will burn me!" she protested, falling back.

"No! My Light will soothe you. Your Darkness is what strengthens me! We need each other!" I approached her slowly. "All this time, I didn't want to acknowledge you. That was why you tried to possess me! I promise you, I will never ignore you again. But you must promise me -- you will never try to possess me in whole! We can unite and live together and use each other when we have need."

"All I ever wanted was what was mine," the Dark One told me as we stood face to face. "Sometimes you would let me out and give me my due. But you would hate me after. I can't stand having you hate me."

"I don't hate you anymore." I placed my hands on her shoulders. "I need you to be part of me. I need what you can give to me. You need what I can give to you. Please, Sister. Be part of me."

"You've gained the knowledge. You know The Path. Once given, your invitation cannot be revoked. I am part of you forever." Her words were almost a warning.

"Then be part of me." I let go of her shoulders and held out my arms. "I welcome you, Dark Sister. Be One with me."

Her lips parted and she took my warm hands in her cold ones. "By your command, Sister. We are now One."

The split in my Being healed.

I was alone, in the Dark. But then, I saw a shaft of Light.

And I moved toward it.


My tears were those of rapture and when I opened my eyes, I was on my back in a darkened room on a soft, woolen blanket. The only light was from the glow of candles, and few of those. I focused on the ceiling, sensed someone lying beside me. When I turned my head, I saw Silent Bear next to me and he turned to look at me. He smiled, eyes crinkling and I returned it. I remembered this man from my childhood, regaling me with tribal stories with the other kids on the reservation.

He rose to a sitting position. "You've had a long journey," he told me, eyes crinkling with his century-old smile. "You rest here now."

He got to his feet and exited the cabin.

The cabin. I was in Iowa. This was Dad's cabin. I was stretched out near the fireplace.

I turned my head the other way and Michael's face met my eyes. He took my hand, fingers entwining with mine, then he leaned up, staring down at me for a long moment, hand still grasping mine.

"Welcome home, Rachel."

I reached up, wanting nothing more than his arms around me, to be surrounded by his scent and his presence.


Two weeks later

"It took you six years?" I was unbelieving. "It never takes you that long to find anybody. You even found Gabrielle's body . . ." I stopped, choking back the memory. " . . . in record time. Why was it so goddamn hard for you to find me?"

I was convalescing at the beach house after my ordeal. We had stayed on at the cabin for about a week afterward, so Silent Bear could teach me how to call back any pieces of my soul I felt was still missing, that had not been given back to me. He guided me into shamanic journeys to reacquaint myself with the powers and Spirits I had denied myself when incarcerated. If Michael was uncomfortable with it, he never said so. He told me to do what I had to do under Silent Bear's guidance and it was done when it was done. He was in no hurry.

"It took me almost nine to finally locate Stringfellow's brother, St. John," he replied quietly. "I never stopped looking for him. Just like I never stopped looking for you, and St. John didn't mean anything to me as you do. The truth was, I didn't have an inkling about this new facility you were being held in until a few weeks ago." He paused for a long moment, letting that sink into my brain.

Michael hadn't touched me since my return to this world. Even before, when apparently I'd been taken to the psychiatric unit after the battery of medical tests I'd undergone, he had not been allowed to even see me, only on rare instances. But then Marissa Laveau showed up on his doorstep and told him what needed to be done regarding my welfare. Michael had never heard of anything remotely associated with soul retrieval, and had limited knowledge about shamanic journeying, but he'd summarily ordered my release into his custody, since he'd signed me in to begin with. The medical personnel had no choice since I was his wife and he was in charge of my medical decisions when I was incapacitated.

Marissa had been here when we had returned. She stayed with us at the beach house for another week. She still didn't trust Michael completely and would scowl at him occasionally, deliberately bait him, and when she couldn't get a rise out of him, sit back and pout and scowl some more. But on the day she left, she gave him a heartfelt hug.

"You be good t'my Missy Rachel," she told him in what was more of a warning. "Or I'll be comin' back to put some Voodoo on that nice white ass a'yours!"

My mind was clearer than I could ever remember it being. Even the colors of the world were more brilliant. My perception of sound was more acute than before. My olfactory senses and sense of taste were razor-sharp. From where I sat, five feet away from my husband, I could feel his love for me as a tangible connection.

"Tell me how little Michael's doing," I almost mumbled, ashamed I hadn't had one thought of him up until now.

"He's doing very well. He's enrolled in a private school near my sister's in Connecticut."

"Wonderful. Shades of Village of the Damned."

"Lighten up. He's shown an aptitude for literature and art." He paused, giving me a wide smile. "And he's gotten his mother's penchant for Native American history. I can't tear him away from The Battle of the Thousand Slain." My mouth dropped. "He's reading on that level already?"

Michael nodded, rising to come over to me. He knelt at my feet, taking one of my hands in both of his. "Our son is going to be brilliant. A shining star, like you." He kissed my knuckles, a gesture I cherished, remembering when we'd met fourteen years ago. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

"I'll go get the car."

We drove with the top down, and the wind smoothed its fingers through my hair caressingly. I looked over at Michael as he drove, noticing how his face had slightly aged. It was a wonder he didn't look older, I found myself assessing.

I was nearing the fringe of middle-age myself now, though I didn't feel it, and Michael still had that magick to draw me like a moth to a flame, even when he wasn't actively doing anything to promote it. Even in the few short days after being in my Iowa cabin, Michael and I had a reached a new level of understanding and of mutual respect. The scene that had played out in that rustic retreat of my father's cabin had really played out, albeit on another plane of existence . . . it was a moment in our lives that would be burned indelibly in our minds for life.

"What?" Michael asked as he pulled in the parking lot of the restaurant club, apparently noticing even my subtlest actions.

"Nothing," I demurred. "Just thinking."

The restaurant was such that one could order from a full menu while listening to the jazz group on the stage. It reminded me of the coastal restaurant establishments of the 40s and 50s and the aura of the place was soothing. Everything smelled so good and I was so hungry. I smiled to myself. This heightening of my senses would have to be controlled carefully, or I'd wind up as big as a cow.

For the first half of the meal, we simply relaxed and listened to the blues, eating slowly and making a lot of eye contact. It wasn't that we didn't have things to say to each other. It was just very easy to communicate things we felt through our eyes, our body language and our touching now. Finally, he slid next to me in the round booth, one arm going around my shoulders. He tipped my chin up, covering my mouth with his and I could do nothing but let him, powerless in his embrace. His kiss was sensual and warm. The body rush I felt was beyond titanic.

"I've been wanting to kiss you since you tried to shoot me," he told me raggedly.

I laughed a little, leaning back. "I thought so. You get off on the danger."

"Let's get out of here so we can have a real reunion." He pulled me closer. I would have wordlessly followed him, but then reality kicked me in the backside once more and I leaned away.

"Not yet." My hand smoothed through his silver-blonde hair. "Six years were stolen from us. I want to know why. I need to know what the hell happened."

Michael glanced around. There were several couples throughout the room, but we were far enough away from anyone who might overhear if we kept our voices low. He relaxed against the back of the booth, bringing me with him. I curled up at his side, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Let's start with Hawaii," I prompted quietly.

There were a few long moments of silence. Finally, he spoke.

"You have to understand. Airwolf shot out of there like a cannonball. I was almost certain you were dead, that you'd shot yourself with my gun. I didn't even know Vince and Melissa were dead until a day or two later."

"I shot Melissa when I was rescuing our son," I told him quietly. "And I shot Vince when you left. Vince wasn't about to let me kill myself. Right before I killed him, he confirmed what I already knew -- that Zeus was behind the whole thing for that damn stupid helicopter."

I could feel Michael nod in agreement. "Yes. And he managed to cover everything up with his usual efficiency. We were presented with the remains of a body. I never believed it was you. But when I pulled the regular files, everything confirmed they were, indeed, your remains."

"He switched my records with Melissa's?" I queried, not surprised.

"Probably, though at the time I couldn't prove it conclusively. There wasn't enough left for decent ID. A few teeth. We're just starting to be able to use DNA testing now and it's still isn't fool-proof, though it's getting close. And it's amazing what sea critters can do to a body that's been out in the ocean for awhile. Especially the larger species with about a million sharp teeth."

I shuddered. "But how did Zeus explain Melissa's disappearance from the Netherlands outpost?"

"Zeus never even admitted he pulled Melissa out on loan. She went AWOL, according to her supervisor's story. A story that quickly changed from the original OK'd leave of absence she'd been granted for a special project. According to the supervisor, Melissa didn't report back after the assignment. With her knowledge about investigative work and covert operations, she could drop out of sight indefinitely. Apparently, Zeus fixed it so that it was made to look as if Melissa forged some orders in order to permanently drop out of sight. So the official story is she's still alive. Just AWOL. The whole thing worked very well for the ones covering things up."

"Zeus had me incarcerated," I murmured. "Why? Why not just kill me and get it over with? If he really wanted to hurt you, killing me would have done it."

"Oh, sweetheart. No. You see, Zeus knew exactly how to get to me. Let me think you were dead and then brainwash you so that at some point in time he could use you against me. Like he tried to last October." He looked down at me. "He knew exactly where to hit."

"But how could I have not known what they were doing to me?" I asked in a hushed tone. I could feel Michael's agony more acutely now than ever.

"They had plenty of time to work on you. So much so, you didn't even realize you were being brainwashed. You were ready to kill me without a qualm when you came to the beach house that night. There was no doubt in your mind that when you walked away, I was going to be dead." He paused, taking a drink of his scotch. "Zeus has patience when it comes to revenge. A lot of patience. He wouldn't have gotten as far as he did in the business if he didn't have that." Michael took a swallow of his scotch. "Tell me what makes more sense, a set-up to have me killed and then being blamed for my death? He couldn't risk that because of his past history with me and what an investigation might turn up. But what if your wife, who everyone thought was dead, comes back crazy as a loon to do you in -- for any number of trumped up reasons? Which scenario do you think the Committee is most likely to want to deal with?"

He was right. I'd had no doubts about the fact that Michael was going to be dead at my hands -- no matter what. For reasons that I had perceived as being very logical. For reasons, from a sane person's point of view, were absolutely crazy. A sane woman didn't gun down her husband just because she disagreed with him about the way their child was being raised. I didn't remember being brainwashed at all. But that didn't mean it didn't happen. Zeus had played on my worst fears and perceived short-comings. He'd played them like a master pianist. I knew Michael was right. I remembered my first year training, and being brainwashed had always been something I dreaded. I would have rather been dead. Somebody getting into my head that deep to make me do things I never thought I'd be capable of terrified me worse than anything even a child's nightmare could dredge up.

"That's what he did to you, Rachel." Michael shifted a little and looked across to me, his face intense. "The facility you were held in was a new one Zeus had constructed. He uses it as a combination high security detention center for traitorous operatives and international criminals and prisoners -- people he can pull out and make deals with -- with other governments or individuals when he has need of it. No one knew about it. Not me, not anybody. When you turned up supposedly dead, I began work on placing a mole inside Zeus' organization. It took time -- a lot of time -- to get her in a position of trust. Almost five years. During that time, I had operatives worldwide looking for you. Every day. Every night. Non-stop. Then -- lo and behold -- your security guard came to me a few weeks ago."

I stared at him in surprise. "Big Sally?"

He nodded. "The one who likes to read the tabloids, and thank God she did. She found a piece with a picture published of you and me from several years back. She put two and two together, figured out you were my wife and really weren't dead. So when she came down to Anaheim to take her grandkids to Disneyland, she called me at Firm Headquarters and bullied Lillian into letting her see me." He paused, smiling. "She liked you. And she knew what they were doing to you. She put her job, if not her life, on the line for you, Rachel."

I smiled sardonically. "She didn't do it for nothing. I'll bet she had a price."

"A new identity for her and her family and about six million bucks in an off-shore account."

"Yeah. Thought so. So did you raid the Firm coffers or was that your own personal fortune you dipped into?" It didn't matter, but I still hadn't lost my teasing sarcasm.

"Don't take it so lightly. If it hadn't been for her, I still would have been looking for you." He cleared his throat and smoothed his moustache. "And just for the record, it was out of my own pocket. I had her keep an eye on you. And to keep her ears open. I would have sprung you out right then, but Zeus was up to something, according to my mole, and she was right. Not long after, just a matter of days, Zeus had one of his cronies sign out your Jaguar, which was in storage at a Firm facility. He also made some clothes purchases by credit card which my mole traced back to Zeus' department. When your car was delivered, it had a tracking device implanted on it, in the rear taillight, courtesy of my inside spy. The moment you left that facility, I knew where you were at all times. I was pretty sure you'd come gunning for me, if half of what Big Sally said was true about what goes on in that place. So I was more or less ready for you when you sneaked in."

"Zeus wanted to kill you. A final act of ultimate revenge. And he was going to use me to do it."

I don't know why I should have been the least bit surprised. In the Firm, such things happened frequently -- in some departments more than others. Certain people were assassinated or had "accidental" deaths to make room for those who wanted their jobs -- or to absorb their departments. Zeus had been on Michael's ass for years.

"Ironic, no? So he could take over my department and finally get his hands on Airwolf."

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "That goddamn helicopter. But it had to be more for revenge, Michael. I imagine Airwolf is pretty much obsolete by now."

"Ah, but she could be improved upon if she fell into the right hands. A real war machine of the future." He kissed my forehead. "So, Mrs. Coldsmith-Briggs. What now?"

"That's the easy part." I looked up into his handsome face and traced the dimple line at the side of his mouth. "I track Zeus down and kill him."

Michael allowed a small, sardonic smile to play about his lips. "If only it were that easy, my love."

"It is easy. I'm dead. Everybody knows that. So I'll kill him. Can't hang a murder on a dead woman."

Michael's gaze trained on me for a long time. Finally, he touched a long finger to my cheek, rubbing the skin.

"My lovely lady, even if you were to succeed -- if you could somehow kill the man without getting caught or cover it up well enough -- I still couldn’t let you do it. Your motive would be suspect the moment we re-established you as being alive and in the mainstream -- which we are going to do very shortly. And then you're going to take an extended sabbatical in Connecticut for medical reasons. You'll need to be monitored for awhile. We need to know what kind of lasting effects the brainwashing has had on you, despite our successful journey to bring you back to us."

I let out a long breath, eyes boring into his. "I'm not asking for permission. I'm telling you in no uncertain terms -- that asshole is a walking bulls-eye and I have no intention of creating a flesh wound. That man . . . is going . . . to die."

"Not by your hand he's not." He drank the last of his drink "We've worked too hard to bring you back from the brink. C'mon."

I started to slide out of the booth. "Where are we going?"

He smiled. "Back to the beach house, of course. In a day or two, we'll get your accounts and identity established again. Then we'll work on getting you completely well."

"And Zeus?"

"Zeus be damned. We'll worry about that windbag later. He won't dare try anything for a hell of a long time."

I felt like I was in high school again when we returned to the beach house's inviting atmosphere. It wasn't hard to know what was on Michael's mind and I felt a lump lodged in my throat that I couldn't swallow down. As I gazed out at the ocean, I felt him come up behind me, pulling me back into his strong, hard body. My hands folded over his and I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling safer than I had in a long, long time. Feeling almost whole. Not one thought of revenge against him had crossed my mind since my initial attack on him that evening and I knew that most of my healing was already done.

"We don't have to . . . if you're not up to it tonight," he murmured softly in my ear.

I turned in his arms, looking up at him with a sultry smile. "Oh, no, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. You don't get off that easy. You're talking to a woman who hasn't had sex in quite awhile. I may put you in the hospital yet."

Michael laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're welcome to try. I can take anything you dish out, Mrs. Coldsmith-Briggs. And then some."

"You're really not afraid I might try to kill you in your sleep?" With any other man, that was not a question to ask in the prelude to lovemaking.

Michael laughed again, meeting the challenge. "I don't plan on getting much sleep at all tonight, my darling. My eye will be on you every second."

There are some nights that just seem to be magickal. There was a perfect full moon and a perfect ocean outside -- and the sea breeze was cool and misty through the open sliding glass door leading from the bedroom to the back deck. Everything was in a blue-silver haze.

For the longest time after we'd undressed, Michael and I touched each other, re-exploring territory long-abandoned but not forgotten. He'd lost none of his masterful skill at lovemaking, making my body rise and fall at will, eliciting soft moans and cries from me with his hands and the butterfly-touch of his mouth and I realized it was more likely he'd kill me with his ardor. Yet, I caught him by surprise when I turned, forcing him on his back. His eyes widened as I straddled him at the waist, lowering myself down until he was sliding all the way up inside me. His moans were loud as he arched upward. I tightened around him as hard as I could, maintaining an even, steady rhythm that tested both our endurance and patience.

His hands went to my hips, forcefully bringing our bodies together in union. Finally, he roared -- springing up to force me beneath him. My legs anchored about his waist and his mouth was on mine in a ferocious kiss, forcing my lips back against my teeth, his tongue nearly choking me. I didn't care -- I wanted the savagery, wanted the raw animal lust, the feeling of being possessed. I knew that despite all the wildness, despite the raging animal instinct to mate, it was always done with love. Michael loved me, and I'd been a fool to ever think otherwise. I'd been a fool to think he hadn't pulled out all the stops to search for me. I knew my soul would never again be in danger of being taken from me by him. He would die before ever letting that happen again. He had allowed me to reclaim it and by doing so, he had bound us more tightly together than ever.

"More," I whispered desperately in his ear. "Oh, Gods, Michael! More! More!"

He looked down into my eyes for a moment and I could see the emotions running rampant in his eyes. My words had only fueled the beast's appetite.

"My soul is on fire," he told me in unbelief.

I felt the heat blossom inside of me, threading through my veins like liquid lava. I couldn't quell the scream that rose to my lips -- didn't have to, because Michael's mouth came crashing down on mine. Then the passion broke through the flood-gates and we rose on the vicious, lovely tides that carried us together to more calming, cooler seas.

Afterward, Michael was dead weight on top of me. I felt him stir, as if to move, but I held him cradled on top of me.

"Stay," I told him quietly. "Stay inside me. Please."

He lifted his head, eye glazed, sweat dripping down his nose, his face. His hair hung down damply.

"You are incredible," he said, almost in a moan. I moved my hips gently, creating a soft heated rhythm, even though he was spent inside me. He moaned against my shoulder. "God, I love that."

I smiled, whispering some erotic endearments in his ear. Again, he moaned, beginning to respond to my gentle movements even more. His recovery period was record and this time, it was oh, so gentle, but no less powerful.

Afterward in the pleasant glow that surrounded us, I felt him shudder repeatedly, face buried in my neck and I could hear his breath struggling to even out. The longest time passed, and then he lifted his head, looking down into my eyes.

"I love you," he told me in the dark, an unreadable, intensity in his face. "I love you -- and no one will ever take you away from me again."

He turned with me in his arms and I snuggled into his embrace.

"No, they won't," I agreed softly.

"I feel different. Changed."

My fingers caressed his collarbone. "Different how?"

"More whole. More complete."

I smiled in the darkness. "That's because you took part of your soul back that you were missing. Now you know loving someone doesn't mean possessing them. Things will be more clear to you, now." I almost cringed at my next words because I knew I was spoiling the moment. "Zeus has to pay. For everything he's done and everything he's tried to do."

"He will. But you won't be the one administering punishment. I can't let you lose a piece of your soul to him again."

"I'd have to give him the power to take it from me," I disagreed. "He will never get that from me again." I was quiet for the space of a few seconds. "Once, you forced a gift on me that I didn't want," I reminded him in the gathering nightfall. "It almost ripped us apart. It did rip us apart. This time, I'm asking. I'm asking because it's due me and you cheated me the last time. I have the right. Zeus has something that belongs to me. I believe he has something that belongs to you as well."

Ordinarily I never would have laid such a guilt trip on him. But this time, it was different. Things were clearer. Much clearer.

"I can't risk you getting caught," Michael answered. "I can't lose you on murder charges. If he turns up dead or disappears and you turn up a few days later, there'll be a full-blown investigation, and I'm not so sure I can keep you out of it."

"Remember what you said about Zeus having patience?" I asked, kissing his shoulder.

He nodded. "That's how he manages to pull a lot of things off."

"I can have patience, too. For six years, I learned how to." I could feel Michael tugging at my essence again and I firmly put it down. "If I told you that I could guarantee Zeus would pay for what he's done and that I wouldn't be caught -- or even blamed, because I would have a very public alibi -- would you grant me permission to take care of the problem?"

There was a long silence. The tugging stopped. Finally, he shifted, looking over at me.

"Rachel -- you'll be doing it because it's personal. In the past, you had a real problem with that. What makes this different?"

"He had no regard for our son. Or for you. Are you telling me that if it suited him, he couldn't attempt to have you killed -- like that?" I snapped my fingers. "He has a twisted need for revenge. He'll do anything to do it -- to make the point. He almost succeeded. He almost got me to kill you. How sick is that? And you're asking me how I could do this? I could give you a laundry list of reasons." I sighed, my arms going around his neck. "My darling man, this is for us. I'm not being self-serving here. If something isn't done about him, who's to say Zeus won't try again? I don't want our son to lose his father. I don't want to die, either. And it would destroy both of us if we lost our son. Don't you see that it's necessary? I may have my soul back, or most of it, but I haven't forgotten what it is to be a warrior if I need to be one."

"But afterwards, Rachel. That's what I'm worried about. What it would do to you afterwards."

I leaned up on my elbow. "Where is this coming from? What do you mean, afterwards? You're afraid I'll be an emotional cripple or something? Because I couldn't handle the revenge I'd be taking out on him?"

"I've seen it happen, Rachel. That's why I say, it's got to be business. When it gets personal, it gets messy. It kills a piece of you. Some people can't handle that."

"I can." My voice was resolute. "I killed Melissa and Vince. What more proof do you want? That didn't mess me up one bit."

"You did it out of necessity. They were threatening our son. They were threatening you."

"Zeus is threatening us. I could've shot to wound Melissa and Vince. I didn't have to kill them. That was vengeance and I won't apologize for it. When someone attacks my family, I react." I traced a finger over his broad, beautiful chest. "Can you live with the fact that I can do this?" My question hung in the air for a few moments.

I saw him lick his lips. "I can live with it. I don't like it, much. I also know I owe you. I just don't want our son to be without his mother any longer."

"He won't be." I lay back down in his arms. "I won't let that happen."

"Rachel . . . can you do the job without getting caught?"

"I can." I stopped, resolving something within myself. "But I won't if you absolutely forbid me to. That isn't giving you power over me. It's me deciding to let you have the absolute last word in the matter."

He was silent for a few beats. "Do I get to ask how you're going to do it?"

"No." My answer was adamant.

"Trade secret?" he queried, one hand running through my dark hair.

I breathed out. "Yeah. Something like that. The less you know, the better off you are."

We lay there, listening to the sea breeze and the waves crashing on the sand. Five minutes must have passed, maybe ten. Then, Michael turned over, still holding me in his arms, staring down at me in the dark, silver flecks of the moonlight highlighting his silver-blonde hair. He kissed me gently but with passion, smoothing the flesh of my cheek with the back of his fingers. When the kiss ended, I pulled his fingers to my lips, caressing each one.

"You can guarantee me you won't let yourself get caught?" he asked again.

I loosed his hand and held his face between my own. "I will have a very public alibi. You and several hundred witnesses will be able to testify exactly where I was at the time of his unfortunate demise."

"But it could be argued that you orchestrated it. Any connections . . ."

"There won't be any connections. I guarantee it."

"How can you be so damn sure?"

"You'll just have to trust me. Completely. I know that can't be easy for you, Michael. But I'm asking you -- just this once -- trust me completely."

I stared up into his hard-planed face and thought how blessed I had been with this gift I held in my arms. He kissed me again, a strong, heated kiss that threatened to take my breath away. Finally, he looked down at me once more.

"It's easy for me to trust you. It always has been." A small kiss to my nose followed. "All right, Rachel. This one I surrender to you. No strings. No questions. You take care of it." He smoothed back my hair. "We'll go see our son at the end of the week. After you're established again. You'd like a vacation in Connecticut and Virginia, wouldn't you?"

I smiled. "As long as you're with me."

"After everything that's happened," he intimated in my ear, "I'll be hard-pressed to ever let you out of my sight again."

Michael left early in the morning, leaving me to sleep until nearly noon. When I woke up, I pulled on my clothes from the day before and went for a walk down the beach, to my private little cave in the cove. My little hide-away, used for personal ritual and long disused. I rifled through the stuff there, finding everything to be right as I left it. I lit an oil lamp to dispel some of the darkness and then sat down, meditating, clearing my head, listening to the sound of the waves as they came ashore.

"'Bout time. Somethin' ya shoulda been doin' in dat cell."

I opened my eyes to see Mama Marie squatting down on her haunches by the mouth of the cave. It unnerved me a little. I hadn't seen her in such a long time, except once in awhile in my dreams. Her tone aggravated me a little bit, but I knew she was right.

"I didn't see you rushing to my aid," I replied a little sharply, my guilt facilitating my tone of voice.

"Ye too busy feedin' yer hate ta even see me, li'l girl," Marie answered, spitting off to one side. "Took off the mojo I give t'you. Let it sit in a skanky ol' drawer. An' ye wondered why ye couldn't even he'p yerself?" She snorted. "An' ye let yer talents slip, girl! Ye coulda been out o' that place years ago -- if'n ye tried!"

I was floored. "You're telling me -- I could've escaped? Did you see that damn fortress I was in?!"

She shook her head. "Mama sees a lot of t'ings. T'ings dat ye forget about, missy. Ye got talents. Ye forget dat."

She was right. The whole time I was there, I had been waiting for Michael to save me. I'd fought Them in my own way. But it hadn't been enough. If I had fed my gifts instead of my rage, if I had relied on the power that had resided in me instead of putting my trust in those on the outside, indeed, I may have been on my way out of that facility a long time ago, as Mama Marie said.

How truly foolish I'd been, never seeing that truth. Getting caught up in the web of the future and the past without acknowledging the now. I had fed my fury and my rage -- coupled with the brainwashing they had done on me -- letting it grow totally out of proportional control. Only now did I have that balance.

Maybe I'd deserved that time rotting there.

"Nah . . . ye no deserve it," Mama told me gently, coming over to sit near me. "Nobody deserve dat." She drew a few strange symbols in the sand. "Ye learn. Ye go on. Even Mama, she had t'ings ta learn. So . . . ye gonna start feedin' yer magick? Start reverencin' the Gods again?"

I nodded affirmatively. "I think it's about time, Mama." I looked up at the agelessness of her face. "And I have a huge thing to ask."

"A favor ye be wantin' from Mama Marie." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"A big one, Mama. One that probably only you could teach me how to do." I smiled. "Remember that sapphire and diamond tennis bracelet I like to wear? You do me this favor and the next time I'm in New Orleans, it becomes a permanent part of St. Louis Number One."

"Ye make good offerin'." She smiled with me, her teeth gleaming. "Mama help ye -- if ye throw in pearl ring."

I had to smile. She was referring to an Akoya pearl ring that was upwards of $2500.

"Boy, mama. Did you hit up all your boyfriends for as much stuff as you do me?"

She laughed. "Ye get off easy, girl! Mama respec' ye 'cause yer a woman!" She leaned in closer. "So. Tell Mama what favor is."

"OK, Mama."

By the time the sun was setting and the tide was starting to come in, Mama had gone, after our conspiratorial conversation, and I felt a peace come over my mind once more. I looked into a small mirror I had set up over in the corner.

How I had changed. Not so much physically, although I'd aged some. But my eyes were bright, and I could look at myself and appreciate what I saw. I didn't cringe or feel regret.

I could look at myself in the mirror.

I left the cave and started walking back up towards the beach. Michael was there, limo parked beside my Jaguar in the driveway. I walked onto the deck and opened the sliding glass doors.

Marella stood there, talking to Michael, and upon seeing me, she broke character and immediately had me in her embrace. I heard her crying into my shoulder and I held her tighter, feeling the tears seeping out of the corners of my own eyes. We parted, and she still held onto my hands.

"God, Rachel, you look . . ." She stopped, clearly at a loss. " . . . different! Good, but different! And it's only been a couple of weeks since you've been back!"

I laughed. "Your boss has a way of doing that to a woman."

Michael gave me a sideways smile and I knew I had gratified his ego. Then he motioned me over to sit by him on the sofa.

"Marella and I have been re-establishing your existence, Rachel. I've already talked with the Committee. Zeus wasn't too happy to see me before he'd had his first cup of coffee for the day. He knows that I know exactly what's happened and what's going on now. But he's playing along. Even shook my hand and congratulated me on your recovery and apologized for how the forensics department screwed up. Of course, our DNA lab will be testing the remains we had established as yours -- and I'm sure they'll turn out to be Melissa's."

"No doubt."

"And as much as Zeus hates you, sir, I think it's very unlikely he will ever do anything retaliatory again," Marella said, plopping down in one of the overstuffed chairs. "He's going to be looking over his shoulder for quite awhile."

"Good. Let him keep looking." I smiled, gazing over at my gorgeous husband. "I need clothes, Michael. Any chance I can borrow your credit card?"

He reached inside his jacket pocket. "Got you your own. First stop in the morning, Rodeo Drive, and if I see anything other than designer labels on any of the clothes you buy, I'll burn them."

"Arrogant blueblood."

"Midwestern bumpkin." He grinned. "Marella, we're good to go? Everything's ready for her?"

"You can pick up right where you left off as far as your bank accounts and credit cards," Marella confirmed. "You'll be reissued your cards in a couple of weeks. Meantime, that credit card Michael gave you is what you can use. It's on his personal account." She pointed out a few bags on the floor with such names as Saks emblazoned on the sides. "A few outfits to wear for right now."

Marella left after a few minutes, the limo driver taking her back to headquarters where she could close up for the night and go home. I told Michael I'd take him in to the Firm in the morning and then spend the day shopping. He approved.

"Maybe I'll drop by Santini Air," I murmured as we settled back on the sofa. "I miss Dom. S'pose Hawke'll be there?"

"Dominic and Cait and St. John and Hawke will be there," he told me. "I found St. John two years ago." He paused, looking down at me. "Yeah, I think you should go. Hawke would love for you to meet his brother. Cait and St. John are married, by the way."

I sprang up, dismayed. "And I missed it?!"

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind a belated gift," he assuaged my disappointment.

"Well, just so you know. They're topping my guest list."

"Guest list? For what?"

"I've haven't talked to your father yet, but I'm going to. We're going to have the Christmas Ball to end all Christmas Balls this year. We're inviting everyone who's anyone. Politicians. Celebrities. Diplomats. Heads of State. Like the old days. What do you think about that?"

"At my father's house? How are you going to talk him into that?"

I smiled sweetly. "You have two sisters and I have eight months."

He rolled his eyes and threw his head back. "Oh, my God. He doesn't stand a chance."

I laughed delightedly and slipped my arms around him. "No he doesn't, darling."


Christmas Eve 1993

The mists swirled around me as I walked in the darkness, past the dreams of many and towards the dreams of one man in particular. Fear did not dictate to me. I had no fear. I knew what I was facing.

I knew that I would win.

Onward I pushed, guided to the man who had caused so much harm to me and mine, following the narrow trail leading to my ultimate nemesis -- to the man who would have destroyed me utterly to suit his own selfish ends. I would take back what he had stolen from me and what he had stolen from Michael.

There was light up ahead, grey with shadows, and then I found myself in a richly-decorated hotel room. This was not unlike the experience I'd had before Red Star had been blown up. It had the same feel to it . . . almost. The purpose here was different this time. The very smell of the air had changed. The atmosphere fairly crackled with energy.

He lay there comfortably in bed, reading a spy novel of some sort. It was Christmas Eve and the man had no where to go except the emptiness of his government-maintained hotel room.

I sensed a woman had been here awhile ago -- and the more than three-quarters empty magnum of champagne ensconced in ice confirmed it, along with the two champagne glasses resting on opposite end-tables flanking the bed. I felt the wolf at my side and the hawk at my shoulder, though they were not making themselves visible. Their protection was palpable, surrounding me. And my goddess-sister was waiting in the wings for my command.

I stared at him, willing him to see me in my wavering, spirit-like state. I willed myself to become solid to him, to appear as a living, breathing form of life. I could feel the change manifesting, could feel my ectoplasmic self becoming more than that . . . yet remaining an apparition.

The molecular change brought with it a brightening of the room, and I was never sure if it was something I caused to happen, or if it was something that naturally came with this transformation. Eventually, Zeus looked up and started upon seeing me. I almost wished I could see me through his eyes.

"I've come back for something you've taken from me." My voice reverberated with the authority of command.

"Rachel Coldsmith-Briggs." He registered surprise and . . . I thought maybe, even a little fear. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"How isn't so important as why. I'm here to take back the part of my soul you've stolen." I stepped up to him, feeling my anger rise up. "No bargains. No deals. Give it to me."

"What are you talking about?" He sat up a little straighter, the look on his face guarded.

"What you took from me those six years I was a prisoner in that stinking, rotting cell. Every time you hauled me in to wash my brain. Every time you whispered lies in my ear. And your voice was so gentle, Zeus. So caressing. It was like listening to a lover with the poison of a serpent on his tongue." I took a few more steps forward and he tensed, but didn't move to get out of bed. "Your voice was black velvet . . . you wheedled and cajoled and seduced. And when you broke me, when you finally convinced my mangled mind to believe your corruptions and deceptions, you reached in and pulled out a piece of my soul . . . and I was too bitter and weak at the time to take it back. Well, I want it back, now. Give it to me."

His voice was cold. "What is all this dithering? Get out before I call hotel security. I doubt even Michael will be able to get you out of this one. Threatening me, my girl? I don't suppose I could get you put away for very long, but I can make life miserable for you while you are incarcerated."

"Not this time, you son-of-a-bitch."

I stepped back. The righteous anger took me. It rose in my body, singing through my blood. It flamed into my mind, burning into my eyes. I approached him again and this time he was up and out of the bed, hand going for the phone. I swear, I'm not entirely sure how it happened. I only knew that in the next moment, I had him by the wrist and he was down on the floor on his knees. He did cry out, then.

I reached into his chest, extracting the crystalline shards that were mine and Michael's. He shouted, then realized there was no pain. He had no part of me now. Nor of my husband. He was empty of the two of us. When I had reached into him to extract those things that had belonged to us, I realized he held there pieces of so many other souls he'd extracted during his lifetime. But in reaching in, I also discovered something else.

He had no remnants of his own soul.

As a human being, he was dead. The other pieces that he had were not his, and therefore couldn't be used by him. Yet, he was trying to use them to simulate life in himself, something totally impossible to do.

Soulless. More a machine than a living thing.

I almost let it go, right there. My heart lurched when I realized how empty he must be and for a moment, I pitied him.

But I realized that if I let that pity prevail, I could be letting something even more dangerous loose. He had tried to kill Michael through me, and then he probably would have had me killed, too, or sentenced to a life worse than death.

I made the judgment. A judgment I live with to this day.

I released him, and he stumbled away from me, astounded at the course of events, barely believing in what had just transpired.

I felt Kali's Wind, a prelude to her appearance. My sister-goddess was on the threshold. I only had to call her.

"It didn't have to be this way," I told him, and I think I might have even felt a little sadness. "All you had to do was stay in your own sandbox, Zeus. But you were always after Michael. You never let up. You stepped over the line this last time. This time . . . I'm the shark, and you're the prey."

"What did you do to me?" he demanded, face changing into a pale shadow of fright. He touched his chest where my hand had been moments before.

I smiled. "You don't even fathom what is you've lost. Even now, when you're going to die."

"You're crazy. Abso-fucking-lutely crazy." His eyes slid over to the phone again.

"Oh, no, sir. I've never been more sane in my entire life." I casually walked between him and the telephone and he moved away from me, warily. "I think it's time you met one of my Sisters. She's sure to make a very big impression on you."

"Sister? You don't have a . . ." He broke off, and I knew that he unconsciously felt the air changing about us.

"Mother Kali, awaken from your Black Sleep . . .
Mother Kali, I call to you in your slumber to bring the Spirit of the Warrior . . ."

The words were mine and came from my lips. The howl of a wolf sounded in the distance. The cry of a hawk screeched overhead.

My soul was complete.

"Dark Mother," I said softly into the void. "You are the Dark Side of my soul . . . my warrior spirit. I am your daughter. Hear me now, Great Kali. Bring your swift justice . . . and do what you will."

I turned my back on Zeus. I turned my back on the pain.

"Take him." The words went past my lips and into the air.

Kali's Wind flowed past me and formed behind me and I kept on walking. Back into the darkness. Back to my world. I carried Michael's shards with me to replace them in their human temple. My part was done.

I heard a man's ghastly, terrified, scream as I traveled back the way I had come . . .

And then, all was still.


Christmas Eve Ball
The Coldsmith-Briggs Estate

"And you were where?" Michael asked me, plucking a glass of champagne from the passing tray.

Stunned, I looked about a little quickly. A sea of over five hundred guests filled the ballroom. Everything about this night was magick and everyone was having a wonderful time, including my husband and his father. For them, this was like the old days, truly a night to remember. We had allowed select members of the media to cover the event and to their credit, they were very discreet. It would be the talk of the town for several weeks to come.

"Checking to make sure the Dom Perignon was holding out," I lied.

I felt a sting in my heart and met his gaze. He knew. I don't know how he knew, but he did.

"Taking care of something that needed my immediate attention," I amended, and I felt better when I saw his face relax, now that I'd erased the lie.

He leaned over and kissed me. The shards of his soul I had carried back with me passed through our kiss with my breath. He leaned back in utter surprise, a look of utter bliss flowing over his features for a moment. When the astonishment wore off, he touched the curls at the side of my face.

"Thank you," he whispered to me, breath warm on my ear. "Dance with me, Mrs. Coldsmith-Briggs."

As we whirled around on the ballroom floor, any unwelcome remnants of the past were finally shaken off. We'd come full circle together.

We'd finally come home.


The Coldsmith-Briggs Estate
December 25, 1993

Christmas arrived with a feeling of hope and happiness. We had allowed little Michael to open up one present the night before during the Ball -- of the many he had under the tree -- a Gameboy that he had been wanting for almost six months. And we knew that like many boys his age, he was half-way between believing in Santa and not.

However, like the dutiful son he was, he had retired to bed by eleven -- we rarely let him stay up past nine-thirty, but Christmas Eve was an exception -- we knew he would be awake at least by seven the next morning, to make mince-meat out of the wrapping paper and packaging of the remainder of his presents. For the most part, we spent a quiet, simple Christmas at Michael Senior's estate with family, partaking of the leftovers from the party, of which there was plenty, and treated to the traditional turkey dinner prepared by myself, Evelyn and Elizabeth. We took pictures, relived old times and went horseback riding.

I watched as Michael's father played with our son, instructed him on riding techniques with his new pony -- one that Michael had bought him that Christmas. The English saddle had been a present from Michael Senior, as well as a riding habit.

The winter season had been very dry -- while there had been a little snow in New York, there had been virtually none in Virginia. Just cold. Little Michael was impatient to try out his new pony, so the men gave in to his demands, spending the better part of the afternoon outside.

The night came quickly and I went outside to see how things were going. They were just putting the new pony away for the night and as little Michael slipped off the horse, he came running, slamming into me and giving me a huge hug. I hugged him back. When had I ever been this happy?

"It's the best present ever!" he crowed, as I knelt down to give him another hug. "Mommy, Grandpa says he's going to teach me eques-- eques--"

"Equestrian horsemanship," his grandfather finished, walking up to us from the stables. "You're father's unsaddling the horse, Michael. Wouldn't hurt for you to learn how. Go on." He gave a terse jerk of his head towards the open door. "You're going to have to learn how to take care of that horse on your own, even if you are here just on occasional weekends."

Little Michael hugged me again, then hugged his grandfather, and turned tail towards the stables. I smiled and Michael Senior pulled me into his side, one arm over my shoulders.

"You look damn good for someone who's supposed to be dead," he quipped, eyes dancing. "Rachel, it saddens me to know how much you missed out on your son growing up."

My smile dimmed a little. "Yeah, me too. But I'm here now. I don't plan on leaving anytime soon. Besides," I replied, rather matter-of-factly, "it looks like he didn't suffer much without me. Not with you and Evelyn's family raising him. And Michael."

"Nope. We actually did a damn good job. But he still could've used your touch, sweetheart."

That endearment meant the world to me, sending a tingle up my spine. My husband used it frequently but hearing it from Michael's father was like hearing it from my own.

It was at moments like this I truly missed my Dad. Fourteen -- no, fifteen -- years since I'd been recruited into Michael's elite corps. How could I have ever known I'd be standing here now, with everything I ever wanted, with a family I loved dearly. It could have been so different if I'd gone to Julliard to teach. Incredibly different.

"Oh, now, Rachel. I didn't mean to make you sad." Michael Senior squeezed me about my shoulders.

I smiled through tears. "You didn't. I just feel so much a part of this family. It got me to thinking about my own father. I miss him. But I know he's always with me. You know how you can feel that sometimes?"

"Blood calls to blood. When it all comes down to the bottom line, all you have is family. You may not be blood, Rachel. But you're so close you might as well be. You've always got a place here. No matter what. No matter what happens. We love you like you're our own."

"I treasure that." I hugged him hard. "More than you will ever know."

He smiled. "You know, you were to the manor born. You came off like the Queen of Sheba last night at the Ball. I enjoyed watching you. I think Michael got pretty jealous at the way you were flirting."

"It was all in good fun. And that's all it was. Flirting."

"You certainly were the Grande Dame."

I smiled. "I tried hard."

"Don't be so modest. You're a natural."

We both turned when we saw one of the maids coming across the cobblestones, arms wrapped around herself because of the cold. She held the portable phone in her hand.

"For your son, sir. It's his office. Very urgent."

Michael Senior took it from her. "I'll see he gets it, Mary. Thank you." We walked to the stable and Michael's father wordlessly handed the phone to his son. Little Michael was currying his pony.

"See you back at the house," Michael Senior said, turning to leave, giving his son some privacy.

"This is Michael." There was a pause as my husband listened to the party on the other end. "When was he found? Early this afternoon? Well -- didn't he have someone waiting in the wings as an appointee? Thought so. I won't be able to make the meeting. No. Not until after New Year's. Someone from The Committee can fill me in then. Nothing much we can do until after the holidays anyway. No, they'll follow standard procedure, I'm sure. Fax me a copy of the autopsy when it's available and a transcript of the meeting. All right. Thanks, Marella. 'Bye." He deactivated the phone and looked up at me. "Well. That almost makes me believe in stories like A Christmas Carol. You won't believe this."

"What happened?" I asked, slipping under his arm.

"Coming, Michael?" he called. "C'mon, let's go get something to eat, and then I want you in your pajamas."

"But I wanna play with my Gameboy!" he protested, setting down the curry comb and racing to his father's side.

"After dinner and after you put your pajamas on. And I want you in bed by nine-thirty, young man."

"OK." Little Michael wasn't happy about it, but he craved his father's approval. We watched as he ran ahead of us to the house.

"It seems," Michael said as we walked slowly and casually up towards the house, "that Zeus met his Waterloo. He was found this afternoon in his hotel suite. Dead. They think it's massive coronary." He stopped, turning to me, taking my hands in his. "An autopsy isn't going to turn up anything it shouldn't, is it, Rachel?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "Absolutely not."

He squeezed my hands. "You're completely sure about that?"

"Michael . . . they will not turn up anything in the autopsy that could be attributed to homicide," I answered very calmly. "In fact . . . they won't find anything at all."

"Natural causes?"

"Probably not. He never kept himself in shape like you do. He never watched his cholesterol or sugar levels. Massive coronary sounds reasonable, considering his lifestyle."

He paused, disengaging his hands from mine, placing them on either side of my face. "Rachel -- when they found him . . . it was . . . well, it was as if he'd been literally scared to death."

I placed my hands around his wrists, my gaze never wavering. "Now that I know that, what do I do?"

He kissed me, hard. "Nothing," he murmured, grasping my hand in his. We walked silently up the rise to the back door of the house. "How do you feel about meeting little Michael's new Headmaster after New Year's, when he goes back?"

"I think that's a wonderful idea," I replied thoughtfully.

"Good. We'll go together." He stopped, turning to me again. "Nightmares have seasons, like hurricanes."

"And just like the hurricanes, they leave destruction in their wake, but they soon pass," I countered softly, and I didn't even know where that came from.

I looked upward at the darkening sky before going inside to the inviting warmth of the house.

Life must be embraced like a lover, I thought, as we stepped inside and shut the door on the cold winds. When life brings evil, it must be dealt with, sometimes with Darkness.

It was a lesson Michael had taught me well. It was what had stripped me of my innocence. It was Darkness that had to be integrated into a world where we would prefer to have nothing but Light. A world of Light that could never exist without Darkness. It was a lesson so few understood in their journey through life. It was something Michael had long-accepted, and I had just realized and was beginning to accept, this time without it costing either one of us our souls.

I passed by a wall mirror and stopped, looking at my own eyes in the depths of the glass. Michael stood behind me, hands on my shoulders.

"Sometimes," he intimated in my ear, "when the disease is so great, the only remedy is poison."

I was startled at his perception and I stared into his eyes as we looked into the mirror together.

"I will always love you." His voice shook with conviction even as his fingers dug into my skin. "Always. Always, Rachel."

My sense of calm must have transmitted itself to him because he relaxed his hold. I turned to him and smiled. "Always," I repeated.

We were fixed as the universe -- and as mutable.


Early A.M.
December 26, 1993

I look at my diary and shut it with a decisive thud. I don’t feel the need to record events in my life anymore. It's enough to experience them with my family -- my darling men, Michael and little Michael and his grandfather, Evelyn and Elizabeth and the rest of the family. For the first time since my father's death, I don't feel bereft of a family unit. I am loved and adored by my husband as I love and adore him. Peace has truly found its place in my heart.

Zeus' death was a shock to the Intelligence community. An autopsy revealed no foul play that could be ascertained by the physical evidence, but the photographs taken bespoke a horrible end to this man who had been nothing but a plague to almost everyone who crossed his path.

The look of glazed terror in his face was something out of a late-night horror film. It was as if he had been trying to ward off something -- a force, maybe -- or something worse. His lips had been drawn back over his teeth and his eyes had been about to pop out of his skull. The M.E. reported that he was quite literally scared to death.

There were no prints. No DNA traces pointing to a murderer. No bruising on the body. There was no forced entry. A prostitute he'd been with that night had been questioned, but nothing ever came of it. A very high cholesterol count was confirmed. And an examination of his heart muscle indicated five times more fatty tissue than there should have been. Massive coronary.

End of story.

My adventure with Michael and our son is really just beginning. I look forward to our years together. Maybe when I'm old and gray I will write my memoirs. Certainly, it would be considered a fanciful remembrance. I'll probably make a mint from it. At least six weeks on the New York Best Sellers' List. Right up there with Clancy and Grisham. Or maybe more likely, Stephen King and Clive Barker.

Michael is beginning to stir . . . he always seems to instinctively know when I've left the bed. I look on him fondly, resolving to gently awaken him in a few minutes so we can make love.

My smile fades. It has taken me a long time to get here. But I am here. My mission is to safeguard what I have with my husband and my son, to defend it valiantly should any threaten it. To maintain and use the warrior spirit I was born with, ignored and that I now nurture. Maybe I will even go back to The Firm in a few years. Later. When little Michael is older.

My secret and my sins are great. But it was inevitable. Everything that happened in my life was inevitable.

I do not excuse myself. I do not justify what I did, what I have done. For what they are, I have more than paid for my transgressions. The price was high. Sometimes I think higher than it should have been. But it was worth it. If I had to do it over again, I swear I wouldn't change one bit of it.

I can still look at myself in the mirror.My journal has been a friend for many years. My confidante, my secret-keeper. There is only one secret I've kept from the pages of my friend. One secret, that will never appear on its pages. One secret I have kept from my husband, though he knows it, but will never ask me.

One secret -- that perhaps I even try to keep from myself.

It will lie beneath my thoughts, buried, until I make the journey everyone makes at the end of a human lifetime. If there is a penalty to be paid in the Afterlife, I will pay it, and gladly. But for now, I will openly live my life with Michael and with our family.

For now, I will be content and happy, knowing that Michael and I share an intimate knowledge about each other that few know or can experience.

Carefully, I lock my journal and place it in my dresser drawer. My hand grazes the shimmering stones of a diamond and sapphire bracelet that snakes over the edge of my jewelry box. I have a pilgrimage to make and some gifts to leave as soon as I can get to New Orleans. A promise is a promise.

As I draw down to Michael in the gray light of morning, his eyes open and he reaches for me.

"Where were you?" he queries sleepily. "The bed's so cold without you."

I am pulled into his arms under the warmth of the sheets and quilts. I kiss him softly and seductively and the heat rises in both of us.

"I'm here," I whisper against his mouth. "I'm here and I'm warm and I love you."

His frown melts away with his ardor and we sink back into the comfort of the bed, two lovers inseparable as a shadow to a body or twilight to night.

Outside, the Sun rises, his beautiful rays quelling the inviting Darkness that retreats, seeking her refuge beyond the ever-changing horizon.

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FINIS