This is the story I did for the KtK zine. Since the zine is no longer
available, and the proceeds have gone toward the Hollywood Reporter
ad, I figured I'd finally post it here and add it to my fic site.
Thanks again to everyone who supported the original project.

Standard Disclaimers Apply: The characters of 'Forever Knight' were
created by James D. Parriott, et. al., and are owned by Sony/Tristar.

Setting: Sometime during Season Two, a week before Halloween

************************************************************************

Unnatural Selection (01/10)
Copyright 1998
by Bonnie Rutledge


     He had to walk out.

      Stefan stepped unapologetically into the cool night air. He heard
the gallery's metal door slam and lock behind him, Helen's faint angry
footsteps echoing as she stormed away. Stefan shrugged. It was simply the
same argument over and over. He was through with shouting in circles.

     He walked down the street half a block, hugging his coat tightly to
his body and burying his chin deeply within the folds of the knit scarf
banding his throat. His face was shielded by a hat, its brim tilted down
toward his nose. Stefan unlocked his car and settled in the driver's seat
as he turned the sedan's ignition. The radio blared to life, raging with
heavy guitar music. Stefan grimaced and tipped his hat back for a better
view of the dark streets, then pulled his car into traffic.

     At the first light, he flipped the radio to AM and adjusted the
dial, banishing the blaring strings from his airwaves. A station
identification notice was playing, informing Stefan that the channel
was CERK 490 MHz, and he was listening to 'Nightwatch with the
Nightcrawler.' He let out a deep breath, then allowed his gloved fingers
to fall away from the tuner as the traffic light turned green. Anything
but screaming metal was bound to improve his frustrated mood.

    A fluid voice drifted from the speakers, snaking hypnotically around
his thoughts.

                "Do you feel like an outcast? Do you wander lost,
               isolated  from the souls that  surround you? Such
               solitude. There  is an invisible wall  that separates
               you from the rest of the world. Cut adrift from the
               minute, day to day communion of normal creatures,
               you  stand burdened,  suffocating within  what you
               see as an impenetrable barrier...Tell me: is your pain
               really necessary?"

     Stefan braked as another light turned red, then clenched his gloved
hands around the steering wheel. He squeezed his eyes shut, his thoughts
dancing around the Nightcrawler's words, old arguments, and a life filled
with being the odd-man-out. 

     He scowled in annoyance and reached out to change the channel
once more. Stefan's movement was violently interrupted by a screech
of tires. He heard the collision first, his awareness shifting to a
stop-motion kaleidoscope of sensations. His ears prickled at the
sounds: metal buckling and twisting, the steel seeming to scream at
the energy of impact as it bent. One noise resembled an inflating
balloon. A sickening crack followed, then shattering glass.

     Stefan's nervous system took over as the crash racket echoed
in his ears. He had tensed when the car was jarred forward,
instinctively alarmed. His foot had automatically pressed the
brake pedal to the floor, causing the sedan's tires to scratch along
the asphalt in protest. His head slammed against the steering wheel.
The force of the blow made him dizzy at first. While he was still
coming to his senses, the air bag had been triggered into action.

     It exploded in his face. Stefan had been leaning forward, and
the force of the inflating restraint struck his jaw in a brutal right
hook. His fingers had clutched the steering wheel tightly from the
first moment of impact. Inertia jerked his body forward, then the air
bag crammed him back into his seat. The push and pull twisted Stefan's
right arm at an awkward angle, then it snapped.

     Initially, he simply felt numb. Seconds passed before the searing
pain bolted through his arm, neck and jaw, causing Stefan to expel
a rough groan. His eyes drifted closed as he fell unconscious. The
background noise shifted from a violent cacophony of destruction to
a peaceful quiet, broken only by the soothing tones of the voice
murmuring over the radio.

               "...You consider yourself an obscene anomaly,
              branded foul by your impossible quest to become
              ordinary. What insanity drives this compulsion? You
              are more, so much more than the common man..."

     Stefan twitched slightly, the Nightcrawler broadcast gradually
penetrating his stupor.  The scent of gasoline tickled his nostrils. 

     He heard soft footsteps, then someone tried the handle of the
car door. It was locked. Stefan had automatically latched them as he
entered his car because of the late hour. Now his left hand flailed
to locate the switch that would free him.

     Whoever was outside wasn't going to wait. The driver's side window
was struck with a tire jack, causing the glass to crumble inward. Stefan
whimpered as the shards hit him, the smaller fragments catching in the
hair on his face. A dark hand reached inside the car to search for the
lock switch. There was a click, and the door was roughly yanked open.
The stranger seized Stefan by the lapels of his coat then dragged him
free of the car, uncaring of any injuries the movement might exacerbate.

     Stefan's back and arm pulsed in angry spasms as his feet stumbled
over the asphalt. He stiffened his left arm, trying to hold back the
stranger. "It hurts!"

     He was ignored. Stefan's gaze drifted over his right arm which
hung uselessly at his side. The material of his coat was damp with
blood. It appeared that his broken arm had pierced the skin. His entire
body felt like one unending chain of abrasions, bruises and cuts.

     Stefan let his eyes dart around his surroundings. He couldn't see
the features of the man holding him as a burst of dizziness overwhelmed
him. The street was deserted of cars except for his own and the van that
had plowed into his rear bumper.

     The realization hit him swiftly. He tried to shove the other man
away with his left arm without success. "I'll have your damn license!"
he slurred. "You'll pay!"

     The stranger's answer was cold. "Shut up, freak."

     Stefan started to struggle in earnest. The stranger kicked his
feet out from underneath him, causing Stefan to black out momentarily as
he landed on his injured arm. Again, he woke at the sound of the
Nightcrawler still lecturing over the radio.

               "...What you are defies their comprehension...
              you are ever evolved...immaculate..."

     Stefan's eyes fluttered open. The man standing over him was clothed
entirely in black, his features finally in clear view. Stefan gasped in
disbelief as he processed the other driver's appearance. His face was
close to a mirror image of Stefan's own. "You're like me!" he exclaimed
as he scrambled to his feet.

     The other man laughed harshly. "No...If I was like you, I'd kill
myself rather than be such a malformed brute. You're a beast. Nothing
but an unprincipled animal. How dare you ruin my future, lording your
sideshow face over everyone as though it makes you some kind of saint?
You're nothing." The stranger raised one hand menacingly, showing
Stefan that he still had the tire jack in his grip. "That's why I'm
going to put you out of your misery." He struck at Stefan's head with
the metal tool.

     Stefan managed to throw up his good arm as he tilted his head
to the side to shield himself. The blow landed on his shoulder,
knocking him back into the car. Stefan saw his attacker approach him
calmly, then bend down to again pull him out of the sedan. In a
desperate rage, Stefan fought back, scratching at the other man's
face and kicking out at his stomach.

     The stranger grunted, cursed under his breath, then brought
one prong of the jack down against Stefan's right shin. Up and down,
up and down, and the man struck twice more in the left thigh and
abdomen, violently knocking the air out of his chest. Stefan began
to cough uncontrollably.

     His attacker used this advantage to pull him out of the car, then
shoved him in the direction of an alley just off the sidewalk, between
the corner building and the next shop. Stefan never had a chance to
catch his breath before the blow came that cracked his skull. The
attacker used the jack several more times after Stefan collapsed
to the pavement, metal striking flesh in muffled, pulpy blows.

     There was a disturbance in the darkest part of the alley. The
attacker looked up in alarm at the crackle of newspaper and the
clatter of aluminum trash cans. A sleepy figure stumbled forward,
a homeless man woken from his slumber. "What tha'...?"

     The attacker turned and sprinted for his van as the homeless
man began to shout. He threw the vehicle into reverse, backed away
from the ruined rear end of Stefan's sedan, then ran a red light
as he sped away. The homeless man rushed out of the darkness and
shuffled down the street as he yelled for the police or a doctor.

     The body and the car lay ravaged, abandoned at the intersection.
The scene was oddly still and strangely quiet. Such sights of
violence fit better with the earlier screaming and shouts. Instead,
there was the radio. The Nightcrawler broadcast played on, despite
the unavailability of any present audience who could listen. The words
fell on deaf ears.

               "There are no monstrosities, only fear and cowardice.
              Only the ignorant seek to crush what they do not
              understand. You're smarter than that, my children...
              Aren't you?"


****************************************************************
End of Part One



Unnatural Selection (02A/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     "Okay, so how about calling him 'Don Junior'?" Nick grinned as
he stared ahead at the traffic, knowing that his partner's response
wouldn't be favorable.

     "Thanks, but no thanks," Schanke said. He flipped intently
through a baby name book. "That's the whole reason I'm hunting,
Knight. Myra wants to name him after me!"

     "I think that's kind of sweet."

      Schanke snorted. "For a kid, yeah, but this is a Canadian
Goose we're talking about!" He sighed and shook his head. "Man,
oh man, oh man...why couldn't Myra have adopted a girl? Then we
could've named it after her mother. Better yet, why'd she have
to go and adopt a bird in the first place?"

     Nick found himself grinning again. "You always said Myra had
a strong nesting instinct."

     "Hardee-har-har. It's all those nature shows she watches
that put Myra on this big anti-hunting kick. Now it's her personal
mission to save Bambi and friends."

     "It's admirable that she wants to protect the environment,"
Nick pointed out.

     "Yeah, so Jen can enjoy it when she gets older. I've heard
the drill, and I agree. It's just every time someone mentions
wildlife around me, I picture gang members from the south side."
Schanke shrugged. "Watch: if word gets out that Myra wants to
name a goose out of me, the guys at the precinct will start
calling me 'Donnie Duck.' That is not going to happen." He squinted
at the list of names before him. "'Bill'! We can name it 'Bill'!"

     The crime scene was cordoned off around a late model import,
its trunk crushed like a paper cup. Schanke paused to inspect the
tail of the car while Nick sought out Natalie. She stood in the
opening to a nearby alleyway, making notes on her clipboard.

     "Where's the body?" Nick asked.

     "Hi there." Nat emphatically dotted the end of a sentence.
"The body's already over at the morgue. The paramedics arrived
before the police. They revived him en route to the hospital for
approximately five minutes before he flatlined permanently. I
haven't seen him yet. I was just going over my last impressions
of the scene before I headed back to the morgue for a peek."

     "Anything interesting?"

     "Take a look." Natalie crooked a finger, gesturing for Nick
to follow her to the blue mid-size sedan surrounded by a flock of
forensics workers. "At first glance, the scene looks like a hit
and run - the rear of the car is crushed in, there's blood on the
steering wheel and the cracks in the front windshield radiate
from a central point of impact consistent with the victim's head
rolling forward during the crash. I'd say that he wasn't wearing
a seat belt."

     Nick frowned. "What about the air bag? Wouldn't that have
prevented such an injury?"

     Natalie shook her head. "Not necessarily. Air bags have been
known to inflate inappropriately. That's one of the reasons
there's a movement to give car owners the right to disarm them.
It's possible this one deployed late, after a great deal of damage
had already been done."

     "But you don't think that this is a vehicular homicide."

      "No. For one, there's the shattered driver's window," Natalie
pointed out. "That's unusual for a rear-ender. Look at the glass -
most of it is littering the floorboard."

     "As if someone knocked the window in from the outside," Nick
concluded.

      Natalie nodded. "That's what I'm thinking. Forensics also
collected blood from the passenger's seat."

     Nick was crouched beside the open driver's door, methodically
studying the interior. "Are you positive that there wasn't a passenger?"

      "One who wore their seatbelt and left the scene before anyone
saw them?" Natalie shrugged noncommittally. "It's possible. Once I
have a chance to examine the body, I'll know whether the blood had
a single or multiple source, and the fibers we've found in the car
might provide further clues. Meanwhile, the item that definitely
raises a question mark is how the victim's body relocated from the
car to the alley. Either he remained conscious enough to walk there
before collapsing where the ambulance crew found him, or..."

     "Or someone carried him," Nick finished.

     "Hey, pardner!" Schanke called as he approached. The detective
gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. "You aren't going to
believe the guy who called this puppy in. He's definitely been on
one flight too many without an airplane. The loony expects us to
believe that the victim and the killer were a pair of monsters
from bogeyland."

     Nick and Nat exchanged a curious glance. "What makes him say
that, Schank?" Nick asked.

     "This way," Schanke said, gesturing over one shoulder. "You
can hear for yourself."

     The man was ragged-looking and hunched next to a squad car,
a patched woolen coat enveloping his thin frame. The lights
continued to pulse rhythmically atop the car, splashing the
witness' drawn face with eerie shadows of red and blue. His
hollow cheeks seemed to fluctuate between a demonic and wraithlike
cast. Nick felt trepidation and pity within the same thought.

     He proffered a hand in the man's direction. "Hello. I'm
Detective Knight. What's your name?"

     The witness clutched at Nick's cold fingers with gratitude,
appearing relieved to touch something solid, real and kind.
"Maurice...but my buddies call me Moe."

     Nick kept his tone pleasant and his demeanor friendly. "You
found the victim, Moe?" The homeless man nodded solemnly, frown
lines knotting his forehead. Apparently, he hadn't liked what he
had found. "I want you to tell me everything you remember about
what you saw," Nick urged.

     Moe's eyes narrowed, then he glanced with suspicious eyes at
Schanke and Natalie, mumbling in a low voice, he said, "You aren't
going to believe me. The other cops have laughed."

       Both Nick and Nat sent Schanke glares that should have
shamed an Eagle Scout. Don simply shrugged innocently, then
twirled his index finger next to his temple. In his opinion,
the witness was crazier than Myra's Uncle Morty, who insisted
on swimming Lake Catchacoma every February wearing nothing but
his lodge antlers and a smile. Sure, the guy was a witness, but
a wacko witness, and what good was that?

     Nick did his best to reassure Moe that he would listen sincerely
to any description of the crime. "I won't laugh. Trust me: I've seen
things that you would find hard to believe. Consider me open-minded."

      Moe continued to appear uncertain, but after a moment of
carefully studying the blonde detective, he relented. He was willing
to give the man the benefit of the doubt, since he'd been friendly
so far. "Okay, but remember: this is going to sound wild.
Supernatural, you know?"

     Nick's smile quirked. 
"I'll do my best."

    "Okay." Moe shuffled his feet and dug his hands further into
the pockets of his threadbare overcoat. "I use this alley as my base
a lot because the doughnut place next door tosses a regular supply
of day-olds. Next to the dumpster - it's a great spot. I've got some
cans and boxes lined up to keep out the rain and stuff."

     "Sounds homey," Schanke muttered.

     Natalie socked him in the arm. "Shh!"

     Moe continued speaking, unmindful of the side comments. "So's
I'm catching some sleep in my space, see, when this crash wakes me
up. It sounded like the end of the world, so, at first, all I did
was check to see if I was one piece, you know? I mean, I didn't know
what the hell had happened. I was okay, so I chilled for a while.
Next thing I heard was breaking glass. After that, I heard an
argument. They yelled at each other, then they started to struggle."

     "Could you understand anything that they said?" Nick interjected.

     Moe shook his head. "Not really. There was some profanity,
just some moans, then I heard one guy call the other a 'beast,' I
think. That's about all I got. I wasn't right there for that part,
you know, but down the alley."

     "Then what happened?"

     "The sounds moved my way. That's when I got up, and I saw them."

     Nick's eyes widened slightly with excitement. It was one of the
best breaks they could hope for in a case. "You saw the perpetrator?"

     Moe nodded. "Yeah."

     The blonde detective glanced at Schanke again. Don continued
to steadfastly shake his head. This witness is no good, he's saying.
Nick's curiosity was mounting to discover exactly what problem had
his partner giving up so quickly on what looked like a choice lead.
"What did the perp look like?" he said slowly.

     "A werewolf."

     There was a second of heavy silence. Nick's expression was
non-committal as he asked, "Could you be more specific?"

     "No," Moe said earnestly. "I meant what I said: both of them
were werewolves, the killer *and * the guy who died. Their faces
were covered in dark hair, just like animals!" The homeless man
protested as Schanke gave a dubious snort and a glimmer of
skepticism crept over Natalie's features. "It's true! I know what
I saw! Just ask the guys with the ambulance. They didn't believe it
either when they picked the victim up, but when they started to work
on him, they believed me! It was the real thing!"

     "All right, Moe," Nick said soothingly. "I want to have a
sergeant take you downtown so that we can have you sign a written
statement, and we can do," Nick paused for a split-second, "an
artist's workup. Will you do that?" He called for a passing officer's
attention.

     Moe nodded slowly, a trusting half-grin lifting the corners
of his mouth. "Yeah!" He began to follow the uniformed sergeant to
a squad car, but paused to look at the blonde detective over his
shoulder. "I knew you'd believe me - you look like you've been
around the block." Nick waved briefly as the man disappeared into
the backseat of the vehicle.

     "A really, really long block," Natalie murmured under her breath.

     Nick finished his wave, then turned around to find Schanke and
Natalie eyeing him as though he had transformed into a wrinkled
piece of week-old pastrami. He opened his arms straight out at his
sides and smiled boyishly, demanding, "What? What'd I say?"

     Schanke was the first to let out a groan. "Oh, come on, Nick!
You aren't actually humoring this werewolf thing, are you? The
guy's got to be drunk or wired! Werewolves don't exist! I mean,
what should we do? Wait until the next full moon to make an arrest?
Load up on silver bullets?"

      "Not exactly. Let's just say that I believe what the man saw
could have been interpreted as a werewolf. The alley is dark, and
Nat hasn't seen the victim's body yet. I think we should give our
only witness the benefit of the doubt before we jump to any
conclusions. There could be a perfectly logical explanation for
what Moe saw, without him necessarily being crazy or under the
influence. I, for one, didn't smell any alcohol on him." Nick
looked expectantly at Natalie for backup, because she knew just
how sensitive his sense of smell could be.

     She spoke reluctantly. "Okay, okay. I'll admit it. The first
officers on the scene gave Moe a breathalyzer, and he was sober."
Natalie's brow was furrowed as she considered the possibilities.
She licked her upper lip and began to speak slowly. "A logical
explanation for a perp looking like a werewolf? Halloween is in a
week. Maybe the killer had on a mask to hide his identity."

     Schanke didn't agree. "Our friend Maurice is claiming the
killer *and* the victim were ready to howl at the moon. Both of them
were trick-or-treating early? That doesn't make sense. In any case,
I guess the deceased won the trick."

      "The answer could be more simple than masks," Nick pointed
out. "Moe said he saw hair on their faces. Perhaps both men had
beards. At night, just waking from sleep, he could have been
disoriented."

      "And there we have the recipe for a lousy witness," Schanke
said. "He was disoriented. If we bring a perp to trial, the defense
will eat Moe up. Why don't we go back to the station and have him
tested for drug use, just to cover our bases? That'll show
something about how disoriented he was."

       "Yes," Nick agreed. "We'll have him screened. It's important
to prove that he wasn't under the influence of anything at the time."

       "Right." Schanke held up his index finger. "Give me a minute,
will ya, Knight? I want to see if that doughnut shop Moe mentioned
is open yet." He moved hungrily down the street.

      "Well, that must be my cue," Natalie said as she closed her
notebook. "There's a dead man waiting for me at the Coroner's
Office, and I think I can tell the difference between lycanthropy
and an aversion to razors."

     "Are you sure?" Nick teased.

     "Very," Nat said succinctly. She tucked away her pen, then
paused, giving Nick a curious look. "There isn't any reason I
should be worried about a werewolf on my examination table, is there?"

     Nick shook his head confidently. "Nah. There's no such thing
as werewolves."

     "Exactly," Natalie countered. "You know, I used to say the
same thing about vampires, until one popped up in my morgue."

*************************************************************************
End of Part Two A


Unnatural Selection (02B/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Nick walked slowly through the doors of the Ninety-Sixth
precinct. His limbs felt torpid, as though he was swimming through
open space, invisible strings restraining his movements. His
footsteps seemed deafening. His shoes hit the linoleum like a
mallet to gong, each meeting carrying a harsh finality. Nick's
movements were a broadcast, a shining beacon on a lighthouse.
 He was exposed and impossible to ignore.

     Nick wanted to stop walking. Each pace was involuntary. His
mind urged his legs to stand still and silence his thunderous steps,
but his body wouldn't react to mental commands. He continued to
move ever forward, despite the calls of dread that ravaged him from
the inside.

    The everyday bustle of the station was muffled. There were people
talking, but their words came as unintelligible buzzing, as though
the precinct had been submerged underwater. Papers rustled in the
distance and phones rang with a hive-like insistence. Co-workers
passed, but no one acknowledged him. Nick sluggishly raised one hand
and began to wave, but every officer, every civilian, ignored the
gesture. He attempted to call out greetings to the rookie cops and
dispatchers, but the voice issued from his throat resembled a foghorn
groan. No one listened. 

     Gradually, Nick realized that he was walking towards
Interrogation Room #2. By the time he had crossed the precinct
bullpen halfway, he noticed with relief that the sound of his
footsteps had receded. In its place, another noise began to swell.
It was a heartbeat, thrusting and firm, steady and demanding. It
seemed to be drawing Nick closer, pulling him magnetically toward
its source, calling to him in a simple imitation of a telegraph.

     

     The words pulsed repeatedly in Nick's mind until he could hear
nothing but the insistent command throbbing in his head.  He reached
the door of the interrogation room. Instantly, all sound evaporated
into silence. Nick was finally able to pause his walking because
the door barred his path. He felt a sudden urge to look back at the
fiercely quiet bullpen. Nick instinctively bowed his head as he
turned around, his stubbled chin brushing the top buttons of his
shirt. He kept his eyes pinned to the floor until he had pivoted
completely and could not resist the pull of the room any longer.
Nick felt a need, an inner drive to look up, yet there was sad,
frightened corner of his heart that pleaded to hide. He had a
premonition that what he would find would torment him.

     Nick raised his head and kept his gaze centered upon the
distant, uniformed portrait of Captain Cohen that graced the far
wall. The picture appeared as it should be. It was safe,
unthreatening, just as it should be. Nick allowed relief to seep
through his muscles, savoring the sensation of his body relaxing.
There was nothing wrong, nothing to fear. His face burst into a
smile, the happiness seeming to make his teeth glow with a bright
glare.

     Suddenly, the heartbeat commenced in his ears once more. It
started as a faint whisper, but the pounding grew louder with each
passing moment. The lines of the Captain's photograph began to
shift and waver, the colors melting and swirling until they seemed
to shift in a visible prismatic pulse of shadows and light.
Shades blended, transforming Cohen's features into a living canvas
of red. Panic overwhelmed Nick as he saw blood begin to collect
in the lip of the frame, pool, then trickle downward along the
wall. Blood from Cohen's eyes, blood from Cohen's smile, and
her throat...

     Scarlet tears danced to the floor, then blossomed into a
creeping tide that washed incrementally toward him. Nick turned
desperate eyes to his right and left, as if some escape, some
rescue that could revert his vision to an innocuous tableau, lay
waiting for his discovery.

     There was no deliverance. Nick found only a sea of mortals,
officers seated at their desks, citizens standing with traffic
tickets clutched in their impatient fingers, lawyers, contacts
and suspects in miscellaneous poses about the room. Each individual
stared at him, their eyes hot with reproach. Nick could see it in
their expressions - they knew what he was, and they hated him. They
saw a vampire, a monster, one of the damned, and they shunned him.
Whether it was fear or betrayal that spawned their reactions, each
person turned their back to Nick as the wave of blood overtook
their feet, friends and strangers alike. He felt rejected. He was
an outsider. He was...

     Nick spun around and stumbled inside the interrogation room,
slamming the door behind him. He still was not alone.

     Schanke, Cohen and Moe the witness all glanced up from the
conversation they were having at the long table that dominated the
room. At first, all three merely appeared surprised by his interruption.

     "We've been waiting for you, Detective," the Captain said.
"Mr. Crier was preparing to share the killer's  identity with us."

     Nick watched as she turned expectantly back to Moe, polite
respect for the homeless man etched into her expression. Schanke
pulled his attention away from the witness with a sudden gasp.
"Knight! Are you okay?!" His partner's brown eyes widened until
the black pupils seemed to dominate each lens. Schanke was
terrified by Nick's appearance.

     Nick turned toward the glass window that looked out at the
lineup chamber. The fluorescent lights overhead allowed for some
reflection, and he desperately searched his own face in the makeshift
mirror. He saw, then felt. Nick's eyes had acquired a predatory
shimmer, and his fangs protruded slightly over his lower lip. Nick
willed them to disappear with all his presence of mind, but it was
to no avail. The signs of his vampirism would not go away. They were
emblazoned on his features, tattooed, permanent.

     "Nick! Oh, god, Nick!" Schanke shouted.

     There was a dripping sound. Nick followed the source of patter
to his hands. They were covered in blood, rivulets puddling from
his fingertips. He stared at his palms in horror, while Schanke
continued to repeat his new mantra. "Oh, god, Nick! What have you done?!"

     Captain Cohen stood.  Like the people in the bullpen, she
turned her back to him. Moe stood as well, but he walked around
Nick, grasped the handle of the room's door, then swung it open.
The scene was carnage. Every one of the police, every criminal
and visitor was dead, their bodies littering the bloodstained
floor. Some draped desks, while others blocked the walkways in
piles. Each victim's throat had been ripped open and fang marks
littered their flesh in a rosy pattern.

     "You," Moe hissed as he pointed an accusatory finger in
Nick's direction. "You did it!"

     Nick shook his head urgently. "Please! No! It's not true!"

     Schanke was now huddled in the corner of the room as his
shouts went on. "Oh, god, Nick! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

    "You did it!" Moe repeated. "Murderer! Animal! Beast!"

    "*NO!*"

     Nick bolted up in bed. He was disoriented for several moments,
then he assimilated that he had had another nightmare. Slipping out
from beneath the black sheets, he padded to the upstairs bathroom
and washed his face clean. Nick watched his troubled face in the
mirror, his thoughts sorting out the events of his dream and his
most recent case.

      Nick
mused. 

     Nick wiped his hands dry with a plush towel, then made his way
downstairs. He began the too-familiar morning ritual of collecting
the dark green bottles from the morning before.

    Too much, Nick thought grimly. There was a healthy clatter of
glass as he dumped the empty containers in the trash. 

     He bypassed popping the cork on another liter of steer blood,
opting for one of Natalie's formulas instead. The protein shake
came out of the blender cold, pale, and slightly lumpy. Nick
wrinkled his nose as he tilted his head back and took a swig
straight from the canister. It was hideous. Every taste bud rebelled,
and it took all of his willpower to keep from spitting the mouthful
into the sink. He eyed the rest of the shake without anticipation.
Nick closed his eyes as he resigned himself to taking a second
swallow, but the phone rang at the last moment. Nick set the blender
canister down on the counter with a relieved smile. "Saved by the
bell." He picked up the receiver by the third ring. "Knight here."

     Natalie was on the other end. "Drop by the morgue on your way
in tonight. I've found lots of interesting goodies to share."

     "About the victim?"

     "The victim. I must say this has been an exceptional case for
me so far."

     Nick's expression became quizzical. "You're not saying he was
actually a werewolf, are you?"

     "I'm not telling," Nat said mysteriously. "You'll have to come
see for yourself."

     Nick checked his watch. "Sunset's in an hour."

     "I'll look for you then. Tell me," Natalie asked. "Are you
having a breakfast that would make me proud?"

     Nick grimaced then gave the shake waiting for him in the
kitchen a reluctant glance. "I was right in the middle of it when
you rang."

     Natalie sounded extremely pleased with this news. "Good boy!
Drink up, and maybe you can be a mortal when you're older."

     He grinned, made his goodbyes and hung up. "I can't wait."

*************************************************************************
End of Part Two B


Unnatural Selection (03A/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Natalie was running the saw, preparing to make an incision in
the skull cap of a new guest, when Nick arrived at the Coroner's Office.
She glimpsed his movement from the corner of her eye and flicked the
tool off. As she removed her goggles, Nat smiled broadly. "Aha! You're
here! I'll just postpone opening this one up."

     Nick watched her set aside the saw with a rueful expression.
"If life as a medical examiner ever gets boring, you could always
find work with a logging company."

     Natalie chuckled as she covered up her client and walked over
to the freezer. "I'd certainly have less paperwork. Then again, I'd
probably also have Myra's environmentalist groupies after me." She
made a face of mock horror before she disappeared within the
confines of cold storage.

     "Is Schanke still looking for an alternate name for the goose?"

     "Mmm-hmm." Natalie reappeared, rolling a sheet-covered gurney.
"Schank was in here earlier. He's reached the letter 'H': Hugo,
Humfrey, and Hrothgar are the current ideas for Myra's perusal."

     "Did he try a simple name like Henry?" Nick wondered.

     Nat nodded. "Myra didn't think it was bird-like."

     "And Donald is?"

     "Well, there is that famous duck," Natalie pointed out. "I think
Schanke was ready to move on to the next letter in the name dictionary
when he got a call from Traffic. They picked up an abandoned van
that had damage consistent with rear-ending a smaller blue vehicle.
He went to check it out for this case." Nat gave him an excited smile,
then pulled back the sheet on the gurney. "Meet the deceased: his name
is Stefan Esquivel. Age: thirty-two. Occupation: sculptor. Esquivel
was the owner of the car we found at the scene. It was easy to get
a tentative confirmation of his identity because there was a review
of his current show at the Dreisen Gallery in the art notes of the
morning paper. Apparently, he was quite good. The article happened
to mention his condition."

     "Condition?" Nick stared with open amazement at the body.
Stefan Esquivel did, in fact, strongly resemble Lon Chaney, Jr.
in the early Hollywood treatment of the Wolfman. He had no hairline.
Instead, his upper chest, neck, face and head were covered with a
thick, continuous brown pelt. Nick examined the man's hands: they
were highly furred along his arms down to his knuckles, but there
was nothing out of the ordinary or menacing about the victim's nails.
Esquivel's fingers were long and tapered. The detective could picture
the deceased molding clay, carving creations from stone or creating
marble casts with such hands. Though they were utterly lifeless under
his inspection, Nick felt he understood just what this man's hands
had been capable of. There was a delicacy to them, yet a definite
sense of power. Somehow, he felt a connection to Stefan, a drive to
know everything that shaped the mortal's life up until violence had
ended it the night before. "What was Stefan Esquivel's 'condition'?"

     "Hypertrichosis," Natalie announced, her thrill at the
intellectual novelty apparent in her shining eyes. "It's an
extremely rare genetic disorder. There have been a handful of
examples documented over the centuries in drawings and photographs.
Most of these were publicity shots for sideshows and circuses over
the last century."

     Nick's lips twisted in disapproval. "Why am I not surprised?"
he said under his breath. He had witnessed such things before. The
unique could be quickly exploited, reduced to being an object rather
than human, if a chance at money was involved.

     Once, he had known a man named Greico. Greico had been born
without arms, and Nick had attempted to help him escape a life
where he was considered less than human. His manager thought of
Greico as his 'property,' and he made Greico sleep in what was
tantamount to a cage. Greico was never allowed to simply walk
around and explore as they traveled from town to town, but kept
locked out of sight, lest he give potential paying customers a free
show. Nick had felt compelled to help the man, and he tried to
rescue 'The Armless Wonder' from his prison, but Greico never had
a chance at true freedom. No one was willing to hire him doing any
other kind of work because of his handicap and lack of education.
Nick had set up an allowance for food and lodging to compensate,
but Greico soon became restless. He felt worthless, as though he
wasn't earning his keep, so Greico bid Nick farewell and returned
to the circus. He had died, malnourished and abused, two years later.
It was a bitter memory, and Nick felt the same desperate urge to
rescue Esquivel well up as he studied the man's corpse.

     "These individuals typically worked under such titles as
'Wolf Boy,' 'The Beast Man from Hell' and 'The Ugliest Woman Alive.'
Everything written about them that I located was highly subjective.
However," Natalie continued, "there is a geneticist in Mexico who is
considered the expert in this area. He's published several articles
about his research in medical journals. He identified hypertrichosis
as a sex-linked dominant trait carried on the X chromosome. It was
fascinating reading."

     "How did he manage that? Wouldn't he have needed several
generations of one family to study?" Nick asked quizzically.

     "He has one. There's a three-generational family in Central Mexico
that is considered to be the only living examples of hypertrichosis,"
Natalie said, then shrugged. "Of course, with Stefan Esquivel's death, that
assumption isn't necessarily false."

     "You said it was hereditary," Nick pointed out. "What about
Esquivel's family? Wouldn't a parent have the condition?"

      "Well, not necessarily. It is hereditary, but geneticists
classify the first appearance of hypertrichosis in a family line to
be a mutation that expresses an atavistic gene."

      "In other words," Nick concluded, "the hair harkens back to an
earlier form of  Homo sapiens that lived under harsher conditions with
working tonsils and a functioning appendix?"

      "Ah, don't forget the minor differences in cranium size," Nat
agreed with a grin. Her expression faltered as she caught Nick's dark
frown. "What's wrong? Is it something about this case?"

     "I can't help but think what his life must have been like:
always an oddity, either drawing stares or causing people to look
away. What did they see? A monster like Moe Crier did?" Nick's jaw
tightened in disgust. "Maybe they saw some kind of primitive
throwback with a smaller cranium."

       "Those are only snap judgments based upon his outward
appearance, Nick. That has nothing to do with who Stefan Esquivel was
as a person."

      "Come on, Nat," Nick countered roughly. "How often do you see
people embrace those same snap judgments? If they didn't matter,
centuries of hate and racism would have never happened. Even I do
it. How often as a detective do I go by my instincts, holding up
how one person looks as opposed to another when I choose a lead to
follow?"

     "That is not true," Natalie said with a stubborn set to her chin.
"You have to make quick decisions, yes, but that doesn't mean you
don't think or care. Nick, you're put in the unenviable position of
needing to learn the intimate details of a victim's life in a much
shorter amount of time than they used to accumulate them. Speed
matters, if you're going to have any chance in apprehending their
killer. It's a mammoth task, but you do it, and the reason why
you're such a successful detective is that you actually look below
the surface." Natalie placed a hand on his shoulder, running soothing
fingers over his tense muscles. "You say you follow your instincts.
I say you follow your heart, and that is not something to be ashamed of."

     Nick's mouth slipped into a softer line, and he reached up to
grasp Natalie's hand. "Thanks for the sentiment. It's just sometimes
I wonder, that's all." He began to stare intently at Esquivel's face
once more. "This case feels important to me...important to me
personally. It makes me question if I've shortchanged others."

     "Trust me. You haven't. Besides, it's not as if Schanke is too
bashful to point out what he thinks of any of your detective work."
Natalie's grin had a decisive 'So there!' air.

    "Point taken," Nick said as he succumbed to the humor. "Do you
have any details that will jump start my search into the private
life of Stefan Esquivel?"

     "Hmmm...Well, despite finding a working identity from the
newspaper, I still need a formal ID of his body. The owner of
the gallery that sponsored his exhibition says that Esquivel had
no family. He was raised in an orphanage."

      Nick finally dragged his gaze away from the dead man's features.
"So you're having the gallery owner come by?"

      Natalie nodded. "Helen Dreisen. She should be here soon."

     "Good. I'll want to talk to her."

     "You might be interested to know that she seemed rather broken
up to hear Esquivel was dead. Maybe they had more than a business
relationship," Natalie suggested.

    "And you made that conclusion from your heart, rather than your
instincts?" Nick teased.

     Natalie blinked innocently. "Of course." She motioned Nick
toward her microscope. "The paramedics listed his time of death as
3:34 a.m. They revived him for five minutes, and he was briefly
conscious. The report says he remained aware of his surroundings
temporarily before he began fibrillating then went into cardiac
arrest. Medics tried to revive him once more, but he was D.O.A. by
the time they reached St. Joseph's."

     "The car crash didn't kill Esquivel. I estimate he had a broken
arm, a concussion and some minor spinal trauma from the accident, but
that's about it. All the bloodstains in the car, however, matched his
blood type. I think he must have been initially attacked while he was
still in the car. There were focal points of damage on his ribs,
viscera, windpipe and skull that are consistent with a blunt instrument,
and we found iron residue in several wounds." Nat picked up a small,
white mound of composite material labeled with a forensic tag that
rested beside her microscope. "This is a mold I did of an injury on
the back of his skull." She handed the evidence to Nick and pointed
out a grooved indentation on its surface. "See this hollow? I think
it's an outline of the weapon, like the end was carved with a hexagonal
opening."

     "Maybe a wrench?" Nick guessed.

     "Possibly." Nat flicked on the stage light of the microscope,
leaned over the eyepiece, then made a few minor adjustments before
turning it over for Nick to view. "You're looking at samples of
Stefan Esquivel's hair and some fibers we found underneath his
fingernails."

     After a few moments of study, Nick glanced up from the scope.
"They're synthetic."

     Natalie nodded triumphantly. "With gum residue at the base."

     "So the killer was wearing cosmetic facial hair to hide his
identity, and Esquivel must have pulled at it as he struggled,"
Nick concluded.

     "Right," Natalie said. "Even better, it looks like he got some
of his killer's skin as well as the artificial hair when he scratched.
You just have to get me some suspects to compare it to."

    "Oh, well, that could be as easy as...say...a vacation in the
Bahamas?" Nick said, a hint of sarcasm tinting his voice.

     "Now, now. Don't be pessimistic." Natalie smiled as she turned
off the microscope. "There was one other interesting thing I found:
his clothing had faint stains of turpentine around his lower back
and shoulders. At first, I didn't make much of it, because he was
an artist."

      "But he was a sculptor," Nick pointed out. "How often would
he use turpentine?"

     "Exactly," Nat agreed as she nodded enthusiastically. "Plus, the
location of the stains is unusual even if he had been using it. It
stands to reason that Esquivel would have traces on his hands or
spills down the front of his shirt, not the back of his coat. I think
the turpentine was on the killer's hands."

     "Did forensics retrieve any prints?"

     "Two sets. One was the victim's."

     The morgue door opened. "Yodelea-hee-hoo!" Schanke called. "I am
about to become your favorite person."

     Natalie made a doubtful face while Nick took the liberty of
asking, "Why is that, Schank?"

     Schanke lifted a paper bag that had been at his side and dangled
it tantalizingly before them. "I hit the jackpot at Impounding. One
murder weapon, slightly used. Opening bid starts at one 'Thank you,
Schanke. You're my hero!' Say it with feeling."

     "Thank you, Schanke. You're my hero!" Nick and Nat repeated
dutifully.

     "Awww," Don drawled as he handed the bag over to Natalie's
loving care. "You like me. You really like me!"

     After slipping on a fresh pair of latex gloves, Natalie
unearthed the bag's contents. "Ooh...a tire iron."

     Nick's face fell. "A four-armed tire iron."

     The weapon was cross-shaped. Natalie handled it delicately,
being extremely careful to keep the tool away from Nick's vicinity in
case he had a bad reaction. "There's visible dried blood on one end,"
she said with a measure of satisfaction. Picking up the composite she
had made from the wound in Esquivel's skull, Nat did a visual comparison.
"At first glance, I'd say this looks like the murder weapon. I should know
for sure by tomorrow morning."

     Schanke gave a brief nod. "That's what the forensics guys said
about a paint match."

     Nick watched with relief as Natalie placed the tire iron into its
bag again, safely out of his view. "Who owns the van?" He assumed
Schanke had already run a check on the tags, because that's the way
his partner worked. He would have covered the lead, except for any
paperwork.

     "Some guy named John Bright. He reported it stolen from his home
yesterday around noon. I checked his rap sheet, and he only has one
prior for indecent exposure four years ago."

     "That's not exactly your most violent of crimes," Natalie mused.

    Nick considered her statement judiciously. "The context of the
arrest might tell us something more."

     "So we'll dig up the original report and drop in on Bright for
a visit all neighbor-like," Schanke said with false sweetness.

     Grace popped her head into the morgue, clearing her throat to
attract the trio's attention. "Ms. Dreisen is waiting in the lobby
for you."

     "Thanks, Grace," Nat called before she lifted the ends of the
sheet draping Stefan Esquivel to cover the length of his body. She
glanced between the two men, her gaze resting upon Nick. "Do you
and Schanke want to talk to her while I wheel the remains into the
viewing room?"

     "Sure."

***********************************************************************
End of Part Three A


Unnatural Selection (03B/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     A pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs lined one wall of the
widened hallway the Coroner's Office deigned to call the 'lobby.' A
slim desk took up most of the extra space, providing just enough room
for the security guard to look official as he played Solitaire in the
wee hours of the morning. The slender blonde woman who waited didn't
acknowledge either existed. She simply stood stiffly in the middle of
the floor, staring at the metal door leading outside with a wistful air.

     Nick thought that she was attractive. It wasn't simply beauty;
he'd seen plenty of faces over the centuries that were more aesthetically
perfect. There was something exceptional about her besides a pleasant
flow of features and a shapely figure. She exuded an inner serenity
without saying a word. This woman didn't have a doubt about who she was
or what she wanted. She could be angry, impatient, mournful or feel
regret, but she didn't take on the blame. She had confidence and faith
in herself. Nick felt a twinge of envy for her kind of calm certainty.

     The click of the detectives' shoes against the tile floor attracted
her attention. She looked over her shoulder at the new arrivals, her
eyes swiftly inspecting both men. Under normal circumstances, Nick
suspected that she could intimidate and dismiss someone decisively with
only a glance. Today, however, dread had slipped into the fine lines
of her face, making each tiny wrinkle deepen into a crevice. There was
a stony set to her demeanor, and Nick sensed she was fighting hard to
maintain it. She was trying to appear cold, and she obviously didn't
want to be at the morgue. He wondered whether it was affection or
something more insidious that inspired her reluctance. Nick kept his
voice to a soft, solemn tone. "Helen Dreisen?"

     Something flickered across her expression for a split-second.
It was a brief moment of rage, an instantaneous spark of hate for
whatever circumstances, whatever tangle of knots that fate had seen
fit to deal her. The emotion disappeared in the space of the one
exhale it took for her to fully turn and face the two men. "Yes." The
word held no questions or doubt. Either Helen Dreisen didn't care who
they were, or she had already guessed their identities.

     Nick couldn't decide which reason was the truth.  he thought.

     The detectives pulled out their badges, performing their standard
introductions. "I'm Detective Knight," Nick said, then nodded in
Don's direction. "This is Detective Schanke."

     Schanke gave Helen Dreisen one of his almost non-existent,
'Takin' care of business, ma'am' nods that usually only saw the light
when he was trying to impress Cohen, or all hell was breaking loose.
It was a selective look, and Nick knew his partner didn't give it
unless he had something serious going on inside his head, gut or heart.
Nick's thoughts whirled.  Nick wondered if his partner picked up on the same instinct
he was feeling. There was something genuine about this woman, and it
made you want to show your respect.

     Schanke matched Nick's voice in timbre. "We're from Metro Police
Homicide."

     Her answer was a stiff murmur. "Let's get this over with."

     Nick and Schanke exchanged glances. Neither of them had a problem
with her suggestion, but her attitude was food for thought. Nick
gestured toward a red door that connected the maze of hallways that
made up the Coroner's Office building. "This way."

     Their footfall echoed off the bare white walls. Nick remained at
Helen Dreisen's side, while Schanke trailed behind. Nick watched the
woman out of the corner of his eye, noting the hard set of her chin,
and how the thumb of her right hand belied her composure by continuously
twisted the ring on her middle finger in a digital orbit. "When was the
last time you saw Stefan Esquivel?"

     "Last night," Helen said, her tone short. She released a harsh
sigh, then ran one hand through her hair with an annoyed flick. "Listen:
I'm assuming you don't give a damn about Stefan and his social calendar
if he's not the deceased. Until I identify him, not that I believe it's
him, can we just cut the chitchat?'

     Nick felt like countering Helen's charge about his interest in
Stefan Esquivel, but he swallowed the words and honored her request.
The remainder of the journey progressed in silence. The hinges of the
door to the viewing room creaked as though they were entering a vault.
It really was a vacant space: no chairs, no furniture at all. There
was only a window to the neighboring chamber that began at waist
height. A ledge holding a lone box of tissue lined the bottom sill.

     Natalie was already in the adjoining room with the gurney. She
made eye contact with Helen, then began to lift back the sheet covering
the head of the corpse. Helen's lids fell shut in a sudden fit of
weakness. She didn't want to look. She didn't want to know the truth.
She may have declared aloud that Esquivel wasn't the deceased, but what
she believed was another matter. Helen stood in denial for a quiet
minute. She pressed her lips together with her teeth and made her hands
into fists, letting her nails dig into the skin. After several slow
breaths through her nose, she allowed her eyes to open.

     Helen Dreisen remained still. Weariness crept into her expression,
an empty, fatalistic tiredness. She stared ahead, finally speaking in
a brittle voice. "It's him."

     Nick nodded in Natalie's direction, and she moved to recover the body.

      Helen's voice rang out with sudden, surprising clarity. "No.
Leave it." She stepped forward and rapped her fist against the glass.
Nat looked up and saw Helen shaking her head. The coroner let go of
the sheet and left the room. Helen splayed her hands over the window
pane, her fingers caressing the view. She trailed one tip around the
curve of Stefan's dark chin, and, somehow, the distance and the glass
barrier made the gesture no less intimate. Helen let her forehead slump
against the window before she continued speaking.

     "It's so hard to imagine him dead. I see his body, but this still
feels all wrong." Helen closed her eyes once more and drew in a deep
breath. "A tiny part of me still held out that this would all be a
gross mistake."

     "You knew him well?" Nick asked softly.

     Helen nodded, her back still toward the detectives. "We'd been
lovers for the past ten months. I displayed Stefan's work in my gallery
for two years before that. This current show is the first time I've
managed to convince him to do any publicity whatsoever. He hated it."
She sniffed raggedly and continued to stare with lost eyes at Stefan
Esquivel's body through the glass.

     Natalie quietly entered the viewing room. "Is there a problem?"
she whispered to Nick.

     He briefly ducked his head next to Nat's ear. "Not with the ID.
She just wanted to look at him a while longer. A visitation, of sorts."

     A heaviness overtook Helen Dreisen's posture. "How many people
regret their last words? Do you know?" When no one offered an answer
to her questioned, she continued to speak. "You never think that the
next time you see someone, they'll be lying lifeless on a slab, any
second chances you could have hoped for whittled into thin air and
mourning. I'm so sorry, Stef."

     Her audience became alert at the mention of regrets. "Are you
saying you argued with the deceased the last time you saw him alive,
Ms. Dreisen?" Schanke inquired.

    Her lips twisted slightly. "You bet I did. Loudly. Wholeheartedly.
He slammed out of the gallery swearing we were through."

     Schanke slipped a palm-sized pad from his coat pocket and began
writing surreptitious notes while Nick asked another question. "When
did this argument take place?"

     "Last night. It was around three in the morning."

     Nick, Schanke and Natalie reflexively exchanged glances. They were
all aware how perilously close three a.m. was to Esquivel's time of
death. Though she had her back to them, Helen seemed to sense their
meaningful looks. She turned to stare at the trio over one shoulder,
her eyebrows arched bitterly. "Oh, dear. Did I just incriminate myself?"

     "Are you guilty of something?" Nick countered.

     Helen Dreisen faced them fully then and crossed her arms
imperiously over her chest. "Because we had a fight, and Stef
threatened to leave me? No...make that he did leave me. Are you
imagining that I killed him in the heat of the moment? A crime of
passion?" She sighed and shook her head. "No, it wasn't a new argument,
detectives. Stefan and I had it often. Last night was simply high on
the Richter scale."

     "What did you and Esquivel argue about?" Schanke asked pointedly.

     "His face," Helen said with a shrug. "How Stef always felt as
though he was a freak or a monster, and he let it affect everything
he did in life."

     Nick caught himself shifting uncomfortably. He definitely
believed that Esquivel's condition made life difficult for him, if
only because of public reaction. It would have been a formidable thing
to overcome, and Nick felt the need to defend the deceased. "Did you
imagine he could ignore it? It's a part of who he was, and I'm sure
there was always someone around willing to make it perfectly clear how
distinct he was from the rest of humanity."

     "Ah...people were willing to make an issue of it, but Stefan
didn't have to believe them. He let it hurt him. He'd hide away in
his studio, and he wouldn't go out without trying to hide his appearance.
That was supposed to be a positive way of dealing with his condition?
To just give up?" Helen shook her head emphatically as she protested.
"I always wished that he would speak out, get angry, or say something
publicly about how he was treated, not hide it away inside, letting
the pain eat him up from within. I thought he was making a great
stride by agreeing to this show. There Stef was...standing in front
of them all, right beside his art, taking firsthand credit for his
talent, just as he should have. I was so happy, so proud of him."

     "But something must have gone wrong to set off your argument,"
Nick said firmly.

     "Yes," Helen nodded. "It was too much at once. Every time someone
complimented a piece, he reacted as though they were patronizing him.
By the end of the evening, Stefan decided that every offer to purchase
was just so the buyers could brag about having a sculpture done by a
real wolfman. Where I saw creativity and praise, he saw novelty and
notoriety. We couldn't agree, and Stef declared that the show was
closed. His feelings were bruised, and instead of speaking out,
telling them to all go to hell, he gave me the pink slip. He refused
to sell anything, and stormed out of the gallery. That was the last
time I saw him."

     "Can anyone verify your whereabouts after that?" Schanke asked.

     "Unless my walls talk, no. I ended up spending the night in my
office." Helen eyed the detectives coldly, then directed her
attention toward Natalie. "Would it be permissible for me to spend
a few minutes alone? I'd like to say my goodbyes without an audience."

     "I don't see why not," Natalie answered. "We'll wait outside
until you're finished."

     Helen gave a slight nod. "Thank you."

     Once they had exited to the hall, Nick and Schanke immediately
plunged into a discussion of the case.

    Don started the conversation. "Do you think she had something
to do with Esquivel's death?"

     "She had motive and opportunity. Nat established the killer
was wearing a mask."

     "And our witness assumed both the killer and victim were from
a creature feature, so sex wasn't exactly an issue," Schanke agreed.

     "Wait a second," Nat interrupted. "For a potential murderer,
she certainly didn't seem to give a damn if you suspected her."

     "Sometimes killers are over-confident," Nick explained.

     "Besides," Schanke added, "we aren't saying she's guilty. We're
just saying it's possible that Helen Dreisen stood to earn a pretty
penny from her commission on the sale of Esquivel's work. Stefan
closing the show might have made her unhappy in more ways than one."

     Nick agreed with his partner. "We're just going to check her out,
Nat, to be fair."

     Nick gave her an earnest look that made Natalie want to sigh.
"To be fair. Well, just for the record, I think she's grieving a
lost love in there, not a bank account."

***********************************************************************
End of Part Three

Unnatural Selection (04A/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge


     Cohen was in one of her better moods. "Knight! Schanke! In my office now!"

     Both men promptly moved. "You realize, don't you, that she wants to know 
what we have on the Esquivel case," Schanke pointed out as the detectives dutifully 
made their way toward the Captain's office, "so what do we have?"

     Nick appeared perplexed. "You know what we have, Schank."

     "Nonononono," Schanke countered, shaking his head. "I know what *I* think we 
have. Funny thing, though: half of the time when we walk into that office, and I 
share what I know we agree on, you end up going off on some mental trip a la 
Columbus and contradict everything I say, earning us one of Cohen's 'partners 
in sync' lectures. So...today I'm asking you, pardner: what do we have?"

     Nick stopped walking and leaned against a nearby desk. "We have two suspects, 
an impounded car used by the killer, and one witness who wasn't under the influence, 
but who can't identify any suspect we may bring in because evidence suggests the 
murderer was wearing a mask. How's that?"

     Schanke grinned, then extended his arms in the direction of Cohen's lair. "It 
sounds like what I thought we had. Ah, synchronicity," he sighed. "Dem's good stuff."

     "You're welcome."

     "Hey," Nick's partner confided, "the more organized we look in there, the less 
likely Cohen's going to ask me why I haven't turned in the Collins report. With my 
luck, she'll start talking extra shifts."

     "Collins? I thought that was due two weeks ago."

     Schanke clapped him on the shoulder before moving on. "Time, my friend, is a 
cruel mistress."

     Nick replied after his partner had already turned his back, allowing his expression 
to become mischievous. "Tell me about it. I nearly slept through the Age of Reason."

     Cohen was already seated at her desk when they entered. She had one hand resting 
around a heavy paper cup from Buckstars while the other impatiently tapped a pen against 
the evening edition of the Star. "I don't like this Esquivel case, and I want it off 
my desk. The press is having a field day with the deceased's medical condition, 
gentlemen, and I'm already tired of being hounded for statements for their sensationalist 
'Wolfman Murder' angle. Please tell me that you've uncovered something substantial, 
so I can stop worrying about the day shift wasting their time fining people selling 
wolfsbane without a permit."

     "We have two suspects, Captain," Schanke promised. "Don't worry. One is Esquivel's 
ex-girlfriend, Helen Dreisen. She owns the gallery that hosted his last show. It seems 
the deceased pulled out verbally just before his death, costing her a tidy percentage. 
Now that he's dead, she can still sell his work, jacking up the prices because he ain't 
making more."

     "I have a problem with Dreisen being the actual killer, though," Nick spoke up. 

     Schanke glared at the back of his partner's head. His fingers swiped a rubber eraser 
off of the Captain's desk, and he eagerly considered beaning Nick with it if he torpedoed 
both of their suspects in front of Cohen, even after their little discussion in the bullpen. 


     Cohen appeared interested. "It sounds like a motive to me. What's your reasoning, Knight?"

     "Helen Dreisen volunteered the information about her relationship with the victim 
and their last argument. She's not acting as though there's anything to hide," Nick explained.

     "But we concluded that could just be overconfidence on her part," Schanke reminded him.

     "And I was just rethinking the disguise angle," Nick continued. "We were thinking 
Moe Crier wouldn't be able to help us with identifying the killer between the mask and 
the dark. On the other hand, Crier could differentiate between a male and female assailant."

     "It was dark, and the perp was purposefully hiding their identity. Helen Dreisen 
is tall enough, that, in heavy clothes, she could have hidden her sex," Schanke countered.

     "But Moe heard voices," Nick said swiftly. "He was certain both voices were male."

     Schanke shrugged. "They were outside the alley, and Moe admitted that he had trouble 
even distinguishing what words were *shouted. * That's not good enough to discount Dreisen 
as an accomplice."

     Cohen's head had been bouncing between the two detectives like a ping-pong ball. 
Finally, she sighed and set her pen down on her desk. "I wish you two would settle these 
issues before you set foot in my office."

     Schanke gave Nick a pointed look.  Nick ignored 
him. "All I'm saying, Captain, is that I think we should focus on Helen Dreisen as an 
accessory, if anything."

     "Fine. What about the other possibility?"

     "John Bright. He owns the van that rear-ended Esquivel's car. It was reported stolen 
just after noon on the day of the murder," Nick explained.

     "We looked into the one arrest on his record for indecent exposure," Schanke 
elaborated. "The report says Bright rode naked down Spadina on a child's rocking horse 
pulled by a flock of sheep. Turns out it was supposed to be a piece of performance art."

     "Another artist? That's an interesting coincidence," Cohen commented. 

     Nick nodded. "We're headed to interview him next."

     "I'll leave you to it then," Cohen said, dismissing them. "If you find anything, 
make sure you two are in sync before you come knocking on my door. I want this case 
closed quickly, but concisely."

     Schanke didn't waste time following her orders to leave. "Sure thing, Captain," he 
promised, then headed for the door, relieved to escape without a mention of a certain 
overdue report. He didn't move quite fast enough.

    "Speaking of cases closed quickly..." Cohen announced sternly. "I've yet to see the 
Collins file on my desk. I've signed you up for an extra shift tomorrow to finish it, 
Detective Schanke."

    "I'm practically done, Captain!" Schanke called in a reassuring tone as he ducked out 
of sight. He waited until his partner had closed the office door to mutter the rest of 
the sentence. "...with the first page." Don nudged Nick roughly on the arm. "Oh, man! See? 
I told you she'd use the 's' word!"

***************************************************************

     John Bright had a studio apartment tucked off of Spadina. The layout wasn't altogether 
unlike Nick's loft, but the space was much smaller and the amount of furniture met a bare 
minimum. Bright didn't have a collection of antiques, only a few Scandinavian chairs and 
a forest of covered canvases leaning against the walls.

     The artist's face sported a scruffy beard and his light brown hair reached just past 
his shoulders. He wore faded, relaxed blue jeans coupled with a loose, black cotton shirt 
rolled back at the cuffs to reveal his finely muscled forearms. Both shirt and jeans were 
covered in part by a heavy plastic apron splattered with the mishaps of paintings past. 
Nick picked out certain pigments with a trained eye: Pthylo Blue and Hooker's Green, 
Payne's Grey and Burnt Sienna seemed to dominate his palette. The artist's feet were 
bare except for a large ochre stain just beneath his left big toe.

     John Bright had plain, even features made more appealing by his open smile and 
friendly eyes.  Nick thought,  A subtle 
odor of turpentine seeped off of the painter in an ominous cloud. Nick kept the scent 
in the back of his thoughts as a reminder than not all detection was done solely with 
the eyes.

     Bright ushered both detectives deeper into his home/studio, then held up his stained 
hands. "Normally I'd offer a handshake, but I'm not the cleanest pig in the pen right now. 
Is this about my van? Did you find it?"

     "Oh, we found your van, all right," Schanke said, his expression underlining just 
how much of an understatement that was.

     "So, can I pick it up?" Bright asked.

     "Not just yet," Nick replied. "We still need it for evidence. Would you mind if we 
asked you a few questions?"

     Bright shrugged. "Sure. Whatever will help."

     "When did you first realize that your vehicle was missing?"

     "It was a little before noon yesterday. I take the Metro most places in town," Bright 
explained, "but the weather was clear with a sky so beautiful I heard Vivaldi every time 
I looked up at the birds. It was a perfect day for a few landscapes, and I wanted to get 
out of town. Anything out of town, I drive."

     "Since your van was stolen," Schanke said in a sympathetic voice, "I guess you didn't 
get to scape the land, huh?"

    "Not even a small shrub," Bright agreed ruefully. "Having the van stolen - what a 
letdown! It completely ruined the mood I had going. I spent the rest of the day and night 
piddling around here, but all I could think about was what I was going to do if I didn't
get the van back. I only have insurance to cover the other driver's car in a collision, 
not my own. I sure as hell don't have the coverage to replace a stolen vehicle," he 
confessed. Looking at the detectives for some insight, he asked hopefully, "Say...have 
either of you seen my van? Is it okay? Whoever took it didn't bang the thing up, did they?"

     Schanke envisioned the brutalized front fenders and grill and fought the urge to 
wince. "There's a few dinks," he admitted.

     Disappointment and disgust washed over Bright's features, and his shoulders slumped. 
"Aw, man!" He punched the air in frustration. "Damn! There's no way I can afford any bodywork."

     "Another question, Mr. Bright..." Nick began.

     The painter looked up from his bout of self-pity. "Call me John," he offered.

     "Okay. I have another question, John," Nick repeated. "Do you know another artist 
named Stefan Esquivel?"

     Bright stiffened visibly. "The one who was murdered? I read about that in the Star. 
Why are you asking me about it?"

     Nick gave a casual shrug. "Just a routine inquiry."

     "Is any inquiry* really* routine?" John countered.

     Nick had the grace to look caught. "No. Not really. You never know when someone has 
a piece of information, however innocuous it may seem to them, that cracks a case wide open."

     "Yeah, sure." Bright clapped his hands together, then walked over to a deep-basined 
sink positioned in the corner. He pulled a metal can off of a shoulder-height shelf to his 
right. Unscrewing the can's cap, he picked up a fine wire brush resting beside the faucets 
and began to scrub his fingers after dousing them in liquid. "I didn't know Esquivel. 
Never met him. That's not to say, however," John paused in his clean-up and looked 
pointedly at the detectives over one shoulder, "that I didn't know of him."

     Nick frowned. "What do you mean?"

     "Are you kidding?" Bright appeared incredulous. He tossed down his wire brush and 
turned on the right-hand faucet. After rinsing his hands for a two-count, he shut the water 
off, then grabbed a dingy towel off the sideboard to wrestle between palms. "Have you seen 
any of his work?"

     Both detectives shook their heads. "No," Nick said.

     "Well, you should. This guy's stuff could move you." John tapped his body with a 
fist. "In your gut. In your heart. In your mind. He was the real thing: an artist. Guys 
like me just mess around. Technically, I've got the skills. Esquivel, though, he had the 
skills *and *the soul to create magnificent things. See, there are people who rake in a 
lot of money by being innovative or shocking people," he began to explain, his eyes 
lighting with child-like enthusiasm.

     "Like being pulled naked down Spadina by a flock of sheep?" Schanke said skeptically.

     Bright's face reddened. "Ugh. You looked at my permanent record."

     Nick's lips twisted wryly. "It was a 'routine' check."

     The painter laughed. "I bet. I did that for a friend. *Really,*" John insisted when 
Schanke gave a doubtful snort. "The whole thing was supposed to symbolize this whole 
Adam & Eve, fig leaves and trees mentality. What did I care? The guy who designed the 
stunt offered me tickets to see the Blue Jays in the Series!"

     Schanke sobered. "I'd have gone naked for that."

     "Amen," Bright said. "But that's just the kind of thing I'm talking about - one arm 
of art that makes its mark through shock value. I'm not saying it's bad, okay? I mean, just 
take a look at what I do." John approached one of the covered canvases and swiped its 
dropcloth away dismissively. 

     The revealed painting was mildly remarkable due to its realism, but the subject 
matter was rather dull. It was simply a tree, the tropical setting indicating it wasn't 
a local example of flora. Schanke squinted at the artwork, as if that would reveal some 
hidden value in the arrangement of oils. A long-banished memory wriggled in the back of 
Nick's mind. He'd seen trees like this before.

     "Sure, it's nice. It's unthreatening," John commented. "Most people would have no 
trouble hanging it on their living room wall because it wouldn't clash with their decor. 
It's a steady stream of income, small income, and that's why I paint this kind of stuff. 
People can ignore it, and they buy it because it makes them comfortable. They sure as 
hell don't have to think or feel what it means to hang it on their wall. Nah, my work is 
something that covers up a blank space in the room while you concentrate on your mashed 
potatoes and turkey," he snorted. "It's not art, not like Esquivel's sculptures. He could 
take the intangible - a moment of emotion, a philosophy, a state of being - and he could 
harness that, molding it into solid form. You could look at one of his figurines and 
experience the anger, passion or betrayal well up within you. Esquivel constructed highways 
between the mind and the hands. To me, that's real art," he jerked a thumb toward his own 
tree painting, "not this crap." 

     "It sounds as though you admired him," Nick observed impartially.

     Bright nodded. "His work, yeah. Like I said before, I never actually met the guy. 
Now that I've read in the paper how private he was about letting people see his face and 
why, it doesn't seem so weird anymore. Hey - would either of you like a drink? Some water?" 
Both detectives declined his offer. Bright hung on the crooked door of his rickety 
refrigerator as he raided a clear plastic bottle with a bright blue label out of his stock. 
The door squeaked at his weight, sagging some on its hinges. It looked like a near thing 
that the fridge didn't collapse entirely. Both Bright and his appliance released happy sighs 
as he closed the fridge door, drink in hand, catastrophe averted. The painter settled in one 
of his Scandinavian chairs. "Please, sit down." Schanke accepted. 

     "Why was it weird before?" Nick asked.

     Bright took a swig of water as his brow wrinkled. "Huh?"

     "You said it didn't seem so weird that you hadn't met Esquivel once you read about 
his condition in the newspaper," Nick explained. "Was there some reason that you should 
have known him?"

     Bright gave him a wholesome smile before taking another drink. "We're both artists 
who live and work in and around Toronto. Isn't that a reason?"

     "Are you saying you've met every artist in town *except * Stefan Esquivel?" Nick 
countered.

     "Now you're nit-picking." The painter appeared discomfited and began to pick at his 
beverage's label. Finally, he sighed and gave both detectives frank stares as he spoke. 
"I might as well tell you. Before Esquivel came on the scene, my paintings took up most 
of the space at the Dreisen Gallery. I had a couple shows, a few good sales, but nothing 
that could turn a real profit."

     "So you know Helen Dreisen," Schanke concluded. He slipped his partner a look. 

     Suddenly, Bright's expression seemed unusually empty and non-committal. "Yeah." 

     "Do you still do business with Ms. Dreisen?" Nick continued.

     Bright nodded. "Yeah." He lingered over another swallow of his water. "Helen's let 
me keep two walls of the gallery for old times' sake. Since Esquivel does - did - sculpture, 
he uses the floor more."

     Nick laced his hands around the headrest of one of the empty wicker chairs opposite 
Bright and leaned toward him probingly.  "When were you last in the vicinity of the gallery, 
John?" 

     "It wasn't last night," John stated. "You never told me what this had to do with my 
stolen van," he said, his mouth moving in slow motion as though he was speaking around 
marbles. His thoughts must have been squirming madly, because his lips had trouble lassoing 
the right words to convey what he wanted to know. "This isn't routine, is it? It's not 
routine at all."

     "No," Nick said simply.

     Schanke chose to explain when it became obvious that his partner was going to stay 
stone cold silent. "Mr. Bright, we have evidence that confirms your van rear-ended 
Esquivel's car before he was murdered: paint matches, grill fragments, and we found the 
murder weapon, complete with brain and blood samples in your floorboard. You can see why 
we have questions."

     The open water bottled slipped from Bright's surprised grip, splashing harmlessly on 
his apron before clunking downward to spread in a puddle on the cement floor. "Oh, my god!"

     Schanke stood and murmured irreverently in his partner's ear. "What do you think? Is 
he shocked about the homicide, or do you think he just figured out he's not getting his 
van back?"

****************************************************************************************
End of Part Four A

Unnatural Selection (04B/10)
Copyright 1998
by Bonnie Rutledge

     "I think that was a genuine expression of surprise," Nick commented once they were 
back in the Caddy. "My instincts tell me to believe John Bright."

     "Well, that's great." Schanke was anything but enthused.

     "What? Don't you believe he's innocent?"

     Schanke shrugged then turned his head to watch the passing flashes of sign logos 
along the street. "The guy had motive and opportunity, but the fact that my gut, too, 
says he didn't kill Esquivel isn't good enough. We need actual proof of guilt or innocence, 
Nick." He glanced over at his partner when there was no immediate answer. Knight looked 
suspiciously zoned out, lost on one of his fantasyland funks. "Nick, we could be wrong, 
you know. Our instincts have been wrong before."

     Nick snapped back to attention. He shifted in the driver's seat and signaled a lane 
change. "You're right, Schank. We need to dig deeper on Bright *and *  Helen Dreisen."

     Schanke gave a satisfied nod. "Right. These people could be clean, or they could be 
hiding a barge's worth of garbage." He started to reminisce, giving a brief, thoughtful 
snort. "That reminds me of this one case I worked on years ago. The prime witness was this 
grandmotherly type. I mean, she brought cookies to the precinct when she did the lineup! 
We thought she was one ladder rung below sainthood, and that was just a matter of time. 
I caught sight of her, though, in an archive photo. Turns out our angelic granny was a 
matron of a mob family who had pulled the trigger herself." Schanke shook his head ruefully. 
"Just goes to show you that you've got to walk in someone's shoes before you really know 
what's going on in their head. Still, I got a mouthwatering recipe for pecan sandies out 
of that case."

     Suddenly, the Caddy veered off course, surging into the next lane. Schanke let out 
a shout, and Nick straightened the car, narrowly missing sideswiping a taxi. "Will you 
keep your mind on the road?!?!" Don bellowed.

     "Sorry." Nick tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He'd drifted into a memory 
of his nightmare: accusing eyes, discovery, blood, and betrayal. Schanke was right: a 
person could become adept at hiding entire lifetimes. "My foot slipped off the gas. My 
shoes are feeling a little loose for comfort.

     "Just get me back to the station and my car in one piece," Schanke said, shifting 
uncomfortably. He glanced at his wristwatch then peered at Nick out of the corner of 
his eye. "You sure get strange near dawn."

     Nick pasted on a friendly smile and tried to look nonchalant. "Just punchy, I guess."

************************************************************************************

     Grace shouted Natalie's name from the supply closet as the coroner walked down the 
hall. "You got a phone call while you were upstairs."

     "Who?" Nat shuffled up to her assistant, who was frantically waving a post-it. She 
looked down at her hands, both already holding trays of test samples, then gave Grace a 
hopeless shrug. "I need a third hand."

     Grace beamed. "No problem." She popped the slip of paper between Natalie's lips so 
she had to carry it between her teeth. "It's a pharmaceutical company. It has something 
to do with the disposition of Esquivel's remains."

     Natalie's brow knotted with curiosity. "Wha?" If she wanted to keep a grip on the 
piece of paper in her mouth, she couldn't get more verbal than that. Her thoughts, 
however, were rebounding questions right and left. 

     "I don't know what they want," Grace said sympathetically. "He just said it was 
urgent that you call him back. He said he was Doctor Richard Finnester."

     "Mmm." Natalie nodded that she understood and continued her trek toward the morgue. 


     She pushed the door open with her back and set the samples down upon the nearest 
countertop. Turning around, Natalie stopped short. The freezer was open. She spit out 
the paper in her mouth, leaving it to float carelessly to the floor as she rushed forward.

     She blocked the entrance by extending her arms just as a heavyset man briskly walked 
out. He started at the sight of her. Natalie wasted no time allowing him to collect his 
composure. "What the hell are you doing?!?!"


***************************************************************************************
     
     Nick rolled down the Caddy's window as he watched his partner get into his own 
sedan. "Hey, Schanke."

     Don sat in his car, door open, feet touching the pavement. "What, partner?"

     "Esquivel regained consciousness for a few minutes in the ambulance. What if he said 
something to the paramedics?"

     Schanke nodded, then turned the rest of his body inside the car. "I'll check it out 
when I get up tomorrow for that lovely extra shift Cohen's assigned me instead of a day 
off. Right now, the Sandman's punched my time card."

     Nick watched as his partner waved, then drove out of the lot. He thought about Schanke 
coming in to the station, wasting a Saturday lost in paperwork when he could spend it with 
his family. Nick, on the other hand, would spend his day off with nothing but the company 
of his own thoughts. Paperwork was preferable.

     Nick pulled out his cell phone, intending to leave a message with Myra that he would 
cover the Collins report for Schanke tomorrow. His finger hovered over the speed dial. The 
Captain would see Nick come into the precinct instead of his partner, and that wouldn't be 
doing Schanke any favors. Cohen still thought Don owed a shift for Father's Day, even though 
Nick had filled in on that occasion. The best thing he could do for his friend now would be 
to let him take care of his own business.

     He pocketed the phone again and shifted the Caddy into drive. He was still left with 
an empty day off. Nick wanted a distraction, something that would take his mind off the 
hurrah that the Esquivel case had stirred in his memories.

     His memories spelled darkness, images of people suffering, and Nick unable to help 
them. One failure after another flashed through his thoughts, circumstances where he'd been 
helpless, naïve, or just plain wrong. Each example carried its own unique pain.

     Nick knew how easy it was to lose himself in such thoughts, and the only way he knew 
how to escape was through the blood. The more he drank, the number his mind became. For a 
brief respite, the pain didn't matter if he flooded it in a sea of red.

     

     It was easy to say, difficult to put into practice. By the time Nick pulled into his 
garage, the next twelve hours of daylight loomed over him, an anvil hanging by a thread of 
fishing line. He stomped into the loft, his nerves on edge and scanned the empty space with 
loathing.

     He threw his keys into the box by the answering machine, then stalked to the kitchen. 
Luckily, Nick had left the protein shake mix on the counter the night before. It would taste 
worse, no doubt, but he wouldn't be forced to face the contents of his refrigerator. He 
haphazardly rinsed out the blender and tossed in the necessary ingredients. As the motor 
roared to life, Nick stared accusingly at the doors to the fridge.

     They held the beast at bay. Just thin layers of vinyl and insulation blocked him from 
the mocking row of green bottles that hooked chains onto his soul. Nick could picture the 
glass canisters lined across the top shelf, the backlight clicking on if he just cracked 
the door open an infinitesimal amount, washing each bottle in an incandescent halo. 

     He could almost swear they spoke to him, but that was nonsense. The only things that 
spoke to Nick were his conscience and his hunger. They battled, pushing and pulling in a 
tug of war, whispering endearments of right and wrong in his waiting ears.

     What was a little cow's blood if he didn't kill anyone? What did starvation do but 
make him weak and shake his control?

     But drinking the blood, giving in that small amount wasn't completely harmless. Every 
time he pried another cork free of the bottle, he fed the monster that wracked his sense 
of shame, keeping it healthy and fighting fit just a little while longer. Every time he 
gave in to the temptation to drink away his torment, he made the past's hold on him just 
that much stronger.  Nick thought with frustration. 


     Nick tore his gaze away from the refrigerator, roughly filled a glass halfway with 
the pale, viscous concoction Natalie prescribed, then quickly left the kitchen. He gulped 
a swallow of the shake as he walked. Nick grimaced as the liquid traveled sluggishly down 
his throat, leaving his tongue feeling pasty, his urge to feed unsatisfied. He squeezed 
his eyes shut and tried another swallow. The taste was no better, but at least his palate 
was no longer revolting in shock at the flavor. He already knew he didn't like it. It was 
a small favor that it wasn't getting worse with familiarity.

     He was headed for the stairs, but Nick decided to detour slightly. He stopped by his 
art supplies, supporting himself with one hand on the table littered with tubes of oils 
and cans of tempera while he determinedly chugged the remaining contents of his vile 
breakfast. He'd leave the glass there, then go directly to bed. 

     He gasped with the last swallow, almost throwing the cup to the floor in his rush to 
be done with it. Nick curled his hands around the edge of the table, leaning his head 
forward, his eyes closed in a prayerful stance. He paused for several moments of meditation, 
then allowed his lids to raise.

     A playbill held open at the corners by jars of paint leapt into his gaze. The words 
'The Armless Wonder' filled his eyes with gaudy colors. A hand-sketched portrait of his 
friend, Greico, balancing a pin on his nose as though he was a trained seal, taunted him 
from the heavy paper. Nick had unearthed the worn poster weeks before, believing there 
were some ancient burdens he ought to unload.  Nick thought, smoothing the page with unsteady hands.  

     Nick wanted to curse. He should have thrown this poster away the minute he had 
unpacked it, not left it lying here like a loaded gun because of some lingering guilt that 
he hadn't been able to help the man. Now, the playbill's lettering seemed to burn in his 
thoughts with potent words that had screamed through his mind all day. 

     "Another *condition,* " Nick whispered, his voice low and bitter. Desolation swept 
over him. He felt hopeless and afraid. What if there was no coming back? What if he was 
destined to remain a vampire forever, eternally separate from the mortal life he wanted 
so desperately, from the humanity that would make him belong?

     His anguish was so severe, Nick threw the table against the wall with a snarl. 
Several paint containers cracked open, splashing the bricks with violent shouts of 
color. Nick whirled around in frustration, and his stare landed instinctively on his 
nemesis. He could see the side of the refrigerator from where he stood, the thought 
of what succor waited inside blanketing him like a siren's song.

     

     Nick's gaze turned deadly as he strided back toward the kitchen. "I'm damned if 
I do," he said, pausing for the bare second it took to knock the phone off the hook 
so he could be left to his biting solitude, "and damned if I don't."

     He slammed the fridge doors open, and the neat rows of bottles waited there just 
as he had envisioned: the cool, emerald glass, the glowing halo of light coming from 
the back of the top shelf, and the promise of a momentary escape from his torment.

     Nick blindly wrapped his fingers around the first bottle he touched and ripped 
the cork free. The blood felt cold and smooth as it washed down his throat, but 
endlessly, perfectly hot. It glittered through his body, subduing the ache in the core 
of his heart until the pain was a mild tremor. Nick gasped in contentment, then drank 
more. The shame didn't disappear, the guilt didn't erase, but Nick had a momentary stay 
of the loneliness and isolation that frightened him more than anything. He would have 
been shocked in that moment, if he hadn't lost himself to his instincts and tossed 
conscious reason aside. Even as he drowned his thirst in blood until his lips were 
stained a shiny red, part of Nick continued to pray.

      

*********************************************************************************
End of Part Four B

Unnatural Selection (05A/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge


     "I beg your pardon," the man breathed heavily as he stepped aside
to allow Natalie plenty of room. She quickly scanned the freezer then
locked the door before turning her attention back to the intruder. Nat
crossed her arms in front of her chest and surveyed the man as though
he was a cockroach larvae. He began to bubble over with excuses. "No
one was here, cold storage was unlocked, and I -"

     Nat cut him short. "You thought you would disturb Provincial property?"

     "I hardly think the dead belong to the Province," the stranger said
haughtily, scratching absently at his full, bushy beard.

     "Until these bodies are turned over to the care of a legal guardian,
they're all mine," Natalie countered. Coming to a decision, she moved
toward the phone. "I'm calling security. Grace! Grace! Come here!" she
shouted.

     "That's highly unnecessary," the man insisted.

     Grace appeared in the doorway, her features inquisitive. Natalie
rested her fingers upon the receiver as she spoke to her assistant. "I
found him messing in the freezer."

     "I was not *messing,*" the man said hotly. "I admit I was a bit
presumptive in my actions, but I assure you, I have every right to be
here. If you will belay making your phone call for a moment, I will
endeavor to explain matters to you in full."

     Natalie didn't appear impressed. She lifted the receiver and began
to dial. Grace spoke up, pausing her fingers. "Maybe we should give him a
chance to offer accounts, Natalie."

     Nat studied her assistant thoughtfully, undecided. The intruder took
this opportunity to argue further, speaking with his nose firmly planted
in the air. "You will only embarrass yourself if you act before knowing
the full facts."

     Natalie sighed, thoughts of Nick's fears from earlier in the evening
about judging people too quickly clouding her head.  she promised herself as she replaced the phone on the wall.
"All right...talk," she said dispassionately, crossing her arms in front
of her chest, her eyes flashing the message, 

     The man stepped forward, then produced a neatly folded piece of
legal-looking paper from his coat pocket. "My name is Doctor Philippe
Chauvin, and I have a lien against Stefan Esquivel's body. I've merely
come here to collect."

***********************************************************************

     Nick was walking through a crowd of laughing men and women. They
clapped and shouted as they pointed toward an amusement in front of them.
All of the spectator's faces seemed overly harsh, their teeth rotten and
jagged, their lips violent scarlet slashes across each face. They were
ugly people, with ugly smiles that reflected their ugly, sordid hearts.

     He tried to walk around them, lest he be contaminated by their touch.
Nick ended in a maze of steps, turning dizzily until he no longer knew
which direction faced forward. The cackles of the crowd intensified.
 Nick spun around, searching frantically for the source
of their delight. 

     Suddenly, he was seized from either side. A man and woman in
gaily-colored clothing crooked their arms around his at the elbows, and
began to spin with him.

    "Did you see it? Did you see it?" they demanded.

    Nick shook his head in confusion.

    The woman gasped in dismay, then snaked her tongue across her
reddish-tinged teeth before declaring, "Oh, you must! It is ever so
the sight to see!"

    "Yes, you must!" the man agreed. "No lolling about feeling sorry
for yourself! Open your eyes and look!"

     Nick eyes were open, but it didn't do him any good. His escort moved
so quickly, always shifting the angles of their steps, each pace such a
jagged gyration from the last that his surroundings were reduced to
blurs of color. The faces of the man and woman loomed heavily in the
foreground, their cruel, snarling features drawling each exclamation as
though he was a child in need of instruction.

     "Watch where you're going!" the man snapped.

     "Watch where you've been!" The woman punctuated her order with
a shove.

     The pair began to push at Nick from both sides, causing him to
stumble repeatedly.

     "Out of my way!"

     "What are you doing there? Come here!"

     "Look at that!"

     "What are you looking at?"

     "Can't you see?"

     "Staring? How rude!"

     "STOP!" Nick finally roared. He flailed about for another circle,
and they clawed at him, trying to drag him to the ground. Nick hissed
and bared his fangs. Imprisoning the first figure he could secure within
his grip, he reared his head back for a momentary snarl, then dove for
the jugular. His victim wailed and kicked, but soon, blissfully soon,
lay silently limp in his arms.

     Nick allowed his eyelids to flutter shut, shame seeping through
his spine as conscious thought clicked back into action. He released
the body cradled within his grasp, and it dropped with a solid thump
to the floor. Nick fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

     That's when he realized the sounds of clapping had transformed
from scattered background noise into full-blown applause.

     They were clapping for him.

     Nick opened his eyes and glanced at the body before him. 

     To his surprise, Nick's victim had not been one of his tormentors
in the brightly hued garments. The dead man wore pants of filthy,
coarse cotton. He had no shirt, his nakedness revealing a scarred back
that tapered into two knobby stumps where arms should be.

     "No!" Nick breathed in horror. He rolled the dead man over, gasping
in agony as he recognized the slack, empty features that had once been
his friend, Greico. Nick clutched at his temples, his thoughts overwhelmed
with grief at what he had done. Swinging angrily to face the clapping
crowd, he intended to shout, "How can you cheer for such depravity?!"

     The sight of the bars stilled his tongue. Nick wrapped an indignant
fist around two iron columns, intending to bend them apart. They held
fast, impervious to his vampire strength. He saw the front row of
spectators point and laugh at his predicament, and he struck his right
arm out between two bars in frustration. The audience squealed in
surprise, falling back. Nick tried again, lunging with more force this
time in an attempt to reach one of the wide-eyed, ugly faces.

     There came a slick cracking sound, then a whip flicked around
Nick's wrist twice, making a leather cuff. The wielder of the lash
gave a brutal pull, and Nick slammed face-first into the bars of the
cage, then collapsed onto a pile of the moldy hay that covered the floor.

     As Nick lifted his head, he saw the boots first. They were glossy
and black, shined to the point of reflection, covering the calf and
meeting legs covered in crisp white. Nick brushed at some grass that
clung to his cheek, then took in a full view of the new arrival. It
was LaCroix, dressed as a ringmaster, his costume complete with a
blood-red jacket, top hat and bullwhip.

     "Ladies and gentlemen! Prepare to be amused, amazed and astounded!
I bring you..." LaCroix flipped the whip between his fingers, then
gestured a wide arc with the stiff handle, "...The Vampire Nicholas!"
There were gasps among the audience. Men released guttural shouts, while
some of the women swooned or batted their eyelashes in dazed wonder.
"Witness:" LaCroix instructed the crowd as he began to pace before the
raised cage, gesturing theatrically to emphasize his words. "Nicholas
appears to be human. He walks, he talks, he affects all the dispositions
and demeanors of a man, but he is not a man. He is a creature of the
night. He preys upon mortals for their blood. You!" LaCroix called,
flicking his whip toward one portly audience member near the back.
"You, Madame!" he shouted, snapping the lash against the ground at
the toes of a sour-faced matron so that she jumped. "Any of you good
people could be his next victim, succumbing just as our poor friend
Greico did. Tell me! Does that make Nicholas human?"

     "No!" the crowd shouted.

     LaCroix smiled, his lips pulled thin in a mask of eminent
satisfaction. "Then *what* does that make him?"

     A girl of maybe seven or eight pushed her way to the front of
the mob. She tightened her throat, then spat at the cage. "A monster!"
she shrieked.

     The people began to add their cries to the brew, their insults
bubbling over into frenzied shouts. "Fiend! Animal! Beast! Beast! Beast!"

     LaCroix strolled across the stage until he stood just before where
Nick clung to the cage. He gazed at the imprisoned vampire dispassionately
then waved an elegant hand toward the crowd. "It appears the masses have
spoken. You are not one of them."

     Nick jerked at the bars. "My prison is of your making - you've colored
their view with hate and fear."

     "Oh, really?" LaCroix produced an ornate key, using it to unlock the
cell, then swung the wall of bars at the end of the cage open. "Then free
yourself," his sire dared, "if you can."

     Nick stared blankly as LaCroix turned and walked away.  Shoving his doubt aside, Nick lunged forward, scrambling out
of the cell before someone trapped him again.

     The dusty ground disappeared before Nick's feet touched down, as did
the jeering spectators. He was falling, falling...the light inverting
into shades of black, his shout of triumph transforming into a moan of
agony, and there was fire, flames...

     Nick woke up on the loft floor, the soft braiding of the throw rug
digging into the flesh of his left cheek. A nest of empty bottles stood
within his reach, and he sent them scattering with a backhanded swipe.

     Nick crawled to his feet, then stumbled toward the answering machine.
He flipped open the box beside the phone and checked his watch before
fastening it about his wrist. Nick grasped his keys,
then replaced his phone in its cradle before heading for the stairs.
< ...And I'm sure as hell not staying here.>

     The loft had been empty less than a minute when the phone struck
up an insistent ringing. The answering machine clicked into action.
Nick's voice apologized for not being home and promised to return the
call. Natalie's speech came after the beep, her tone a combination of
worry, excitement, and annoyance.

     "Nick? Where are you? I've been getting a busy signal all day!
Something has developed with the Esquivel case, and I want your take on
it. Nick? Are you there?"

     The answer was silence.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Five A

Unnatural Selection (05B/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge


     When Nick pushed through the entrance to The Raven, he knew it
wasn't the best thing for him to do in light of his quest to regain
mortality. The best thing for him to do would be to go to the morgue and
have Natalie distract him with talk of work for the rest of the night.
A little justice could be chicken soup for his chilled soul. If Nick
did that, however, chances were good that he would let something slip
about his binge the day before, and Natalie would be disappointed and
hurt to hear of it. That would only make Nick feel worse.

     The worst thing Nick could do in his current restless,
self-destructive mood would be to visit LaCroix. Nick was feeling
disenchanted and weak at his prospects of beating the vampire, and it
would be an easy piece of work for his sire to take advantage of his
slightest hesitation. LaCroix would twist the knife of Nick's doubt,
broadening the wound to suit his own purposes. Nick chose to avoid
CERK as a matter of survival.

     He supposed coming here to Janette's club could be considered a
happy medium, though he would never confess as much to the proprietress.
Janette wouldn't force him to bend, nor would her eyes turned bleak if
he failed to meet her expectations. Janette had never been one to make
demands in their relationship. If anything, Nick had taken on that
role. Janette fended for herself. If for some reason she thought she
needed help, she asked for it. It was that simple. As for letdowns and
betrayals of trust, these were paths their relationship had already
traveled repeatedly over the centuries. The first lie, the first selfish
need to have their own way, hiding secrets and holding back, these were
milestones that couldn't be taken back once breached. Nick and Janette
had lived through them all and moved on. That, in itself, made coming
here to this club while his nerves raged out of control Nick's most
comfortable choice. He simply knew it wouldn't add to his troubles. If
he was lucky, a visit with Janette might soothe a few worries away.

     She expressed delight to see him, brushing cool fingers along the
curve of his jaw. "Ah, Nicola! You look as though someone has died. I
don't suppose you found it fun for a change, hmm?"

     Nick shook his head. "No, Janette."

     She kissed him, lingering just a moment too long for it to be
merely a friendly gesture. "Then why are you here, mon amour? Is it
police business, or is the world coming to an end again?"

     Nick shrugged and gave her a casual grin. "I just wanted to see you."

     Janette's face blossomed with pleasure. "That's an excuse I cannot
find fault with."

     She slipped closer to him, moving away from the bar. The half-filled
crystal glass revealed as Janette lifted her elbow caught Nick's gaze.
He clasped her hand, gave it a soft squeeze, then nodded toward the
unfinished beverage. "Can I have some?"

     Janette allowed her eyes to follow the tilt of his head, and her
features registered a hint of surprise as she realized what Nick wanted.
She lifted an arm encased in sheer black gauze and pushed the glass
toward him without hesitation. "Certainment."

     Janette watched as Nick lifted the bloodwine to his lips, sipped
tentatively, then swigged back the remnants of the glass in one swallow.
Nicola didn't drink like that on a visit anymore. Something besides
pleasure at seeing her was on his mind. Janette didn't say a word, though
she had a gallery of comments on the subject of why she wasn't his own
personal 'Dear Abby' stocked up for such moments. She merely lifted a
finger to catch Briana's eye down the bar and motioned for another pair
of drinks.

     Nick gave a slight start of surprise when Briana appeared with a
new glass, plucking the empty one from his grasp before he could set it
down, then replacing it with a new one. He turned to Janette with a
questioning glance. She shrugged one shoulder. "You looked like you
needed it."

     That explanation seemed perfectly acceptable to Nick, as though he
expected the word 'bloodthirsty' to be tattooed across his forehead.
He swallowed another mouthful, then set the drink aside. He leaned
against the bar, joining Janette in watching the figures on the dance
floor. "I don't recognize many faces in the crowd."

     "People change interests so quickly. They come and go, always seeking
the latest, new club," Janette sniffed. "There's no loyalty in the mortal
clientele, just a fickle show-me-more mentality. Besides," Janette flicked
reproachful eyes to him for just a moment, "you don't visit regularly
enough to know who the regulars are."

     Nick nodded and slipped her a smile. She had a point. How often was
he here? "Doesn't it bother you? Don't you miss some of them?"

     Her answer was practical. "There's always someone to take their place."

     "But what if there wasn't?" Nick countered. "What if, one night,
no one new came?"

     Janette scowled, clearly unhappy at the image of being found such
undesirable company. "Then I would close my doors and find amusement
elsewhere."

     "Mortals to amuse you," Nick said meaningfully. "You're calling them
replaceable, but they aren't. Their deaths leave a void in the whole.
Each one is unique. If that wasn't the case, why would they be so
entertaining? Their loss means something."

     "Why should I bother with mortals at all, when I have you to be
so delightful and charming?" Janette said sarcastically. "Yes, humans
differ, that's obvious. Where would be the discovery of consuming them
if they all followed the same pattern? That would be like gruel every
night, and you know that diet historically spawns revolution. Our nature
demands change, and your argument demonstrates exactly why we shouldn't
keep the same mortals around indefinitely. They become stale and dull,
as we do by association."

     "And what if you ran out of new and different mortals?" Nick challenged.

     Janette paused halfway in reaching for her drink. "Ugh. You aren't
still bemoaning the prospect of a giant rock hurtling into the Earth from
outer space, are you? Tell me that's not what this is about."

     "I seem to remember that you were plenty upset about the end of the
world as you knew it at the time," Nick stated.

     "Yes, mon cher, but you yourself discovered that it was a false
alarm. A fraud. A swindle. It's pointless to worry about something beyond
our control when it isn't even a threat anymore."

     Nick shook his head and pushed on with his side of the debate.
"But you've already admitted that humans play a vital role in the
excitement of your life."

     "They're my bread and butter," Janette said devilishly.

      "Exactly," Nick agreed. "So how can you avoid giving any
consideration to the end of a species that continually threatens to
pollute and explode, to push itself right off the planet?"

     "Mortals are not the same as the passenger pigeon or the whooping
crane. I'll worry about humans when they're endangered, not when there's
over five billion of them fighting for my parking space."

     "But it could happen in the blink of an eye, before you even knew
what hit them. Remember the dodo bird? The whole population was
extinguished in less than half a century."

     Janette scowled. "Not the dodo bird again. You know perfectly well
that they were destined to die out long before we landed there."

     "But it still makes my point," Nick insisted. "One mistake, and an
entire species can become extinct. That doesn't recommend much for being
a predator."

***********************************************************************
End of Part Five

Unnatural Selection (06A/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

Island of Mauritius, 1681

     The rain was ruthless, slashing from the sky in impenetrable sheets.
Waves dwarfed the Dutch cargo vessel in size, tossing it easily and
precariously over the violent waters. Three vampires huddled below deck,
listening as each wall of ocean broke thunderous over the hull with
rising dread.

     "This is all your fault, Nicholas!" LaCroix hissed. His hat and
coat were waterlogged, but his tone was heated. "If you had secured passage
aboard an English vessel, we wouldn't have detoured into these waters!"

     "It is not my fault that we were forced to leave England so quickly!"
Nick snapped in response. "Nor am I to blame for the wind and the rain."

     The ship lurched roughly to the starboard side. A crash thundered from
the lower decks, sending vibrations above that ruthlessly shook the entire
ship. All three vampires had been holding onto timbers to keep their
balance. Janette lost her grip, and the motion of the vessel tossed her
across the chamber. She hit the opposing wall, then pulled herself to her
feet with a wail that combined outrage and fear. Water began to leak down
from the upper deck with growing abundance, transforming from pesky
trickles to several full-flowing streams that rapidly covered the floor
and gained depth.

     The cabin door flew open, and a mortal clung to the threshold
timbers. It was the ship's first mate. The man's eyes were wide with
panic. "She's run up the reef! The ship is filling quickly. You'll have
to swim for it!"

     "We're sinking?"  Janette was horrified. Swimming was one of those
mortal pursuits she had never learned. In her opinion, there wasn't much
elegance to sopping wet hair or clothing.

     "That's what the man said," LaCroix bit out, glaring at Nicholas anew.

     "The island's still about ten miles to the southwest. If you survive
the waves, you can make it," the mate promised. The words were meant to
inspire hope, but the man's expression betrayed that they were little more
than wishful thinking. The first mate gave the trio one last sorrowful
look, then turned to begin the fight for his life.

     LaCroix rose to his full height. He flew across the cabin before the
man could complete a step and took the mate's head in a death grip. The
vampire flashed his fangs, then sank to his prisoner's throat to feed.

     "No!" Nick shouted.

     LaCroix raised his chin, his face smeared with blood. "Like the mate
said, Nicholas, it's every man for himself." He drank a few moments more,
then wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

     "He didn't have to warn us the vessel was sinking," Nick said
heatedly. "You could have had the decency to spare his life."

     "Reward him by bringing him across? A noble suggestion, but, in this
case, too late." LaCroix threw the lifeless mate's body aside and wiped
his hands. Noting Nicholas' look of consternation, his sire tsked and
shook his head. "That's not what you meant, is it? Make no mistake,
Nicholas. The mortals plunging like lemmings off the bow of this ship are
destined to die. There is nothing you can do to help them. Why not use
the doomed to insure our own survival?" LaCroix stepped out of the cabin,
and Janette moved to follow. "We'll fly for the island and take shelter
before sunrise. Feed while you can. We don't know what will be available
on Mauritius."

     Janette followed her sire's advice and drained a pair of stragglers
once they reached the main deck. Nicholas refrained from feeding from
those still living, but he took the blood of a sailor whose neck had been
broken when as he became entangled in the ship's rigging.

     Despite their skill at maneuvering through the night sky, the heavy
rain, ocean spray and lightning made navigating the journey toward land's
safety a tedious flight. Their path was wayward, but the vampires reached
land just as the sky began to acquire a faint glow signaling morning.

     The area near shore evidenced no immediate signs of habitation. The
trio, thankful for the overcast sky, found shelter as quickly as possible.
This island had formed due to the activity of volcanic mountains. Steep
fissures and rock outcroppings reached out to the ocean in fumbling fingers.

     In this craggy landscape, it wasn't difficult for the vampires to find
a cave suitable for waiting out the daylight. Wet, yet tolerably fed, they
settled in a dark grotto that was established enough to feature substantial
plant life. All three vampires wanted to end their nightmare voyage as
quickly as possible, eagerly anticipating the coming night so that they
could seek out new transportation away from the island. The simplest, most
comfortable way to pass the time was to sleep. Amidst grumbling and much
rearranging of vegetation, LaCroix and Janette soon drifted into slumber.

     Nick decided to explore the cave a bit before taking a nap. He found
little to inspire excitement, save a nest consisting of a single, large
egg. Nick exercised caution and didn't touch it. He backed away from the
outlet and rejoined his companions. Within minutes, he had likewise fallen
asleep.

     LaCroix was the first to regain consciousness, troubled by an
incessant pounding on his head. Scraping together long-past memories of
mortal afflictions, he recognized that it wasn't a headache. The unpleasant
throbbing didn't originate inside his skull, but without. It resembled a
tap-tap-tapping on his crown. He reached up with a hand to touch the
plagued area, and the pulse transferred to the back of his palm for two
bursts, then paused.

     Frowning, LaCroix rolled over into a seated position and glanced at
his surroundings. Not half a foot away stood two rounded birds. They
appeared about fifty pounds each in size. A downy covering of feathers
bathed their bodies in shades of gray ranging from murky to whitish. Their
feet were a scabby yellow, their beaks matching in color, large and hooked.
Small wings tucked uselessly at their sides. LaCroix decided they were
vastly unappealing creatures. He waved his arms and hissed, chasing them
away, then dropped back to his side to catch a few more winks.

     The now-familiar tapping woke him a second time, followed by a trail
of giggles. LaCroix rose to his feet, snarling. Janette, in light of his
annoyance, slapped a hand over her mouth to help fight back her laughter.
She reached out with her other hand and shook Nicholas awake.

     "It *isn't* amusing," LaCroix snapped.

     "What isn't amusing?" Nicholas asked groggily.

     "The birds!" Janette said, choking on the words. "They keep pecking
at LaCroix's head!"

     Nicholas' face spread into a grin. "They're mistaking him for their
egg." He gestured toward the other end of the cave. "I found a nest over
there."

     "What!?!" LaCroix stormed across the cave in fury as Nicholas and
Janette ducked their heads together in muffled snickering. The two avians
waddled after LaCroix, amid a flurry of gobbling noises.

     Nicholas dared a teasing quip in Janette's ear. "It sounds as though
LaCroix is in trouble. He's a bad egg." He and Janette collapsed with laughter.

     LaCroix, with his supernatural hearing, picked up this humor at his
expense. It only served to make him even more furious. By the time he
located the birds' nest, he was seeing red. "Is this what you're looking
for?" he roared, swiping the lone egg from its cushion of leaves and
grass. "I'll give you trouble!" LaCroix promised, then threw the egg
against the cavern wall, where it shattered and oozed into a pulpy mass
on the rocks. The elder vampire turned on the birds with malicious ire
as they continued to cluck and gaze up at him.

     Nicholas' humor died in an instant, and he scrambled to his feet.
"LaCroix! They're just birds! Let it go," he urged.

     LaCroix had picked up a large stone, his eyes glittering venomously.
"No one makes a mockery of me!" The rock flew through the air like a
bullet and smashed the nearest creature's head with a dull thud.

     Nicholas looked on in horror as the animal fell. The remaining bird
cooed in its partner's direction, then back at LaCroix. It took a
tentative step closer to the raging vampire, so he bent down to grab
another piece of ammunition.

     "LaCroix! Stop!" Nicholas shouted as he darted across the cave,
effectively blocking his sire's path.

     "Out of my way, Nicholas!" LaCroix stormed. "Or I'll crush your
skull as well!" He shoved Nicholas aside with brute force, then grabbed
the remaining fowl about the throat with deadly intent. "Stupid, stupid
bird!" His hands twisted violently, then the clucking stopped.

     Nick slumped against the dusty wall and stared at the pair of dead
bodies. "It was just a joke," he said softly.

     Seeing the brunt of the storm was over, Janette paraded forward and
prodded one of the bird corpses with her foot. "Filthy, ugly beasts,
weren't they?" she sniffed.

     "They were harmless," Nick countered.

     "They were brainless. If they had the sense to live, they wouldn't
have bothered LaCroix, would they?" Janette turned to her sire, looking
for approval. He completed wiping his hands free of feathers, made a
grunt of acknowledgment, then turned away. Janette looked down at Nicholas'
saddened features and whispered under her breath, "You pushed him too far
with your egg comment."

     Nicholas turned away in silence. In his own mind, he agreed he deserved
the blame.

     He did, as well as LaCroix's fists.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Six A

Unnatural Selection (06B/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge


     The remainder of the day passed without incident. As night fell,
the trio left the confines of the cave and made their way toward the
other side of the island. They found a settlement, a small town's worth
of people who spoke Dutch. LaCroix and Janette expressed desire to hunt
an evening meal, so Nicholas used the need to secure travel off of the
island as an excuse to part company with them.

     Bodies and wreckage had already washed ashore at the island harbor.
Between that and Nicholas' own gaunt and bedraggled appearance, he had
no difficulty explaining the presence of three strangers on the island.
Luckily, a boat bound with cargo from the East Indies was readying to
leave on a journey back around the Cape of Good Hope in two days' time.

     Travel plans accomplished, Nicholas decided to venture inside a
well-lit tavern to pass some time. He ordered some ale for appearances
sake, then leaned against the bar where he could enjoy the conversation
of his fellow patrons.

     "All I know," one sailor was saying crossly, "is for five months
I've heard Jensen's blabbing about these dodoes.  he says.  he says. All this talk, and what do I find
once we reach Mauritius? Nothing!"

     "Maybe Jensen's the dodo," another sailor cracked. "You should clobber
him instead."

     A round of cheers arose at this suggestion, followed by the clanking
of tankards. "Hey, now!" A coarsely bearded man with a barrel-like chest
called out in protest. This, apparently, was the braggart Jensen. "There
were dodoes here, mark my word! It's not my fault the natives wrecked the
lot!" He tipped back his mug and chugged its contents with one gulp.
"Clobber me, huh? It'll take more than the likes of you to handle me!"

     That challenge prompted an immediate tussle of arms and legs. Nicholas
grinned at the exuberance of the sailors, then stepped back to wait out
the rumble at a quieter stretch of the bar.  He turned curiously to the
tavern keeper and asked, "What's a dodo?"

      "Bird," the barman said simply. "Looks like a turkey, but has a big
hooked beak. Tastes like swill. You gonna drink that?" He frowned at
Nicholas' untouched ale as though he was its concerned parent.

      Nicholas raised the mug to his lips and forced a swallow. Satisfied,
the barkeep decided to ignore further conversation. A female voice spoke
up behind his back. "The dodo bird was native to this island when my
grandfather came with the first settlement."

     Nick turned to find one of the barmaids. She was small and somewhat
pretty, but sported a hefty frown. Her expression was catching. "Shaped
like a turkey with a large hooked beak..." he repeated. "My two companions
and I were shipwrecked on the opposite side of the island. I believe we
encountered a pair of these dodo birds."

     The barmaid's features transformed into a portrait of joy. "Really?
I believed they were all dead! Louts like that," She nodded toward the table
of quarreling sailors, "think of nothing but killing the dodoes for sport.
The birds are unused to man, you see. Being inquisitive, they'll just walk
up to a stranger and stare at them. Most of the time, folks just up and
kill them because they're there. Call them stupid instead of trusting."

     Nicholas grew increasingly grim. "You said that you thought they were
all dead."

     The barmaid nodded. "The dodo can't fly, so its nests are on the
ground. We brought dogs and swine to the island, and they eat the eggs.
The population hasn't been replaced, and people keep killing the live
birds. I haven't seen a dodo in over a year. Believe me, I've been
looking." She took Nicholas' hand. "Come with me."

     Nicholas allowed the barmaid to pull him out of the tavern, toward
a grove of trees illuminated by a stationary lantern. She pointed to two
of the trunks, each topped with clusters of plump fruit shaped like
mangoes, except they were pointed on one end. "Look at that, and that.
They're Calvaria trees, another item exclusive to Mauritius. The fruit
has been an important part of the island's diet for as long as I can
remember. Many of the trees have been cut down to provide wood for
building, so many that the fruit crop has fallen short of our needs the
past few years." The barmaid turned and leaned against one trunk, glancing
up at Nicholas with a hopeful smile. "That's where I planned to make my
fortune, leaving the tavern behind. I thought I could start an orchard of
new Calvaria trees on my own and sell the fruit." She shook her head
sadly. "It didn't work."

     "What went wrong?" Nicholas asked curiously.

     The barmaid shrugged. "I don't know. I've planted seeds three times
now, treated them like they were my babes, and nothing grew. The thing is,"
she said speculatively, "I haven't seen a new Calvaria shoot since the
dodo became scarce. When the birds were around eating the fruit, there
were sprouts all over the place. Now, they won't grow."

     "You believe that the dodo birds and the Calvaria trees are somehow
connected?"

     "I don't know! It's just something I noticed." She wrinkled her nose
in frustration. "I'm not a farmer. I want out of that damn tavern, and if
those dodo birds are standing between my orchard and me, I want them back!
Will you show me where you saw them?"

     "I could, but..." Nicholas allowed his voice to trail off, guilt
robbing him of the words that would crush this woman's dreams once more.

    "But, what?" The barmaid's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You weren't
lying, were you? Tell me you saw some dodoes, and you weren't just bragging
to hear yourself talk."

     "No, I saw a pair of the birds."

     "Then what's the problem?" All at once, the barmaid picked up on the
shame that clouded Nicholas' eyes. "No!" she wailed. "You killed them!"
She gave him a violent shove, them stalked back toward the tavern. "Those
could have been the last ones!"

     Nicholas followed after her, urgently trying to explain. "It was one
of my companions...We didn't know they were important!"

     The barmaid whirled to face him. "That's all your kind thinks about,
isn't it? Things only deserve to live if they're important to you!
Everything else is to be used, abused and destroyed, just because it's
there. Ah, and if crushing it provides amusement or eliminates the tiniest
of inconveniences, well, so much the better! Kill them! Get them out of
the way! Have a good time! After all, it's just a bird! It's just a tree!
It's just your enemy, or another class being. It's not *you, *" she
sneered, "so it sure as hell isn't important."

*****************************************************************************

     "Predators? You make the word sound so unpleasant, Nicola." Janette
sniffed disdainfully and moved to light a cigarette. "Predator is another
word for carnivore. Carnivore is a word that describes a method of survival.
A diet. The world has always been filled with carnivores. Do you think
the wolf has a bout of conscience before it preys on the rabbit? Do you
imagine the shark weeps over where all the little fish have gone? Every
living thing preys on something else so that it may survive, whether
that nourishment is a leaf or a mortal. How can you judge them? Something
must die for even the carrion-eaters to feed."

     "I'm not speaking of the food chain, Janette, and you know it," Nick
said with a hint of annoyance. "I'm talking about creatures that take
too much. Greed."

     "Mortals are greedy creatures, Nicola. In that sense, they are no
different from us." She gazed speculatively at the blonde vampire. "What,
has some of the shine worn off the apple? You are so critical of the
vampire. If you turned that same criticism in the direction of humanity,
you will find plenty of reason to condemn them. Maybe that is part of
your problem: when you were fresh from the Crusades, you knew in your
heart just how ugly mortals could be. So many of them deserve to die.
Once you became a vampire, you began to overlook that fact. You started
to make excuses for their transgressions, creating some angelic image
of what humanity should be. Well, it doesn't exist, Nicola. Keep searching
for it, and you will always find yourself wanting."

     Nick had unconsciously picked up his drink during Janette's speech.
As her words drew to a close, he stared at it, then pointedly set the
glass aside. "It seems you've given me plenty of food for thought," he
murmured. Glancing a quick kiss off the corner of her mouth, Nick left
the club.

     As he drove through the night in the Caddy, he left the radio
volume muted. No voice from the past lectured him. Since he'd turned
off the ringer on his cell phone the day before, no voice from the present
had anything to offer in the way of guidance, either.

     Nick found himself in the vicinity of the airport, so he parked the
car where he could watch the planes leave the runway and land in the
distance. Over and over, he watched the various marvels of engineering
take to the sky, allowing humans to defy gravity and the design of their
bodies so that they could soar in flight.

     Fallen angels such as himself could fly. Was that really a goal to
which mortals should have aspired? Hadn't he paid for his power in the
currency of regret?

     Mankind constantly bent nature to suit its wants, adapted to the
moment, if not the long run. Too often greed and desire clouded the
issue of consequences. A man excavates a tree in the center of his yard
that blocks the view from his home, only to lose the foundation of his
house to erosion years later. The means could be easy, but the ends...
devastating.

     

     Janette shrugged such mistakes off as the way of the world. As long
as she had the advantage over the mortals, as long as she got what she
wanted, that was all that was important.

    

     Drinking blood provided him with a momentary comfort, but over the
long term it was destroying his spirit. He was giving into the greed,
because it was easier.

     

     Because in the depth of his mind, Nick didn't believe he was
important. His sense of worth colored his self-image with words like
'beast' and 'monster.' He'd damned himself as unworthy, letting the
idea that there was no escape, that he could never achieve deliverance
from his past sins, plant seeds of doubt in what remained of his soul.

     

     Nick paused, arrested by the memory of Helen Dreisen's description
of Stefan Esquivel before he abandoned his show.  Nick recalled the connection between the Dreisen
gallery and John Bright. Day off or not, he decided that it was time
to interview Helen Dreisen further.

     Pulling up outside the brick building, however, Nick found the
gallery surrounded by police vehicles. Crime scene tape already
cordoned off the entrances. He recognized Natalie's car.

     Another murder.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Six B


Unnatural Selection (07/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Nick called for Natalie's attention while he was still several meters away. 
"What happened here?"

    Her expression was a mixture of welcome and accusation. "Where have you been? 
I've been calling all day."

     Nick appeared apologetic. "I turned off the phone."

     "I figured that out. Anyway, the point might be moot now. It's a suicide." 
Natalie gestured for Nick to follow her out of the display rooms, back toward the 
gallery offices. "John Bright hung himself over Helen Dreisen's desk." Technicians 
were working on lowering the corpse to the ground without displacing evidence as 
Nick and Natalie entered the room. The far wall featured a message scrawled in 
cerulean blue paint. 

     "'I'm sorry,'" Nick read aloud.

     "Think that's a confession?" Nat probed. "Helen Dreisen had matching paint on 
her fingers. She said that she touched it, because she suspected the paint was still 
wet when she found the body."

     "Or she wrote the message herself."

     "I suppose so," Natalie said, the tone of her voice and tilt of her head belying 
that she didn't really believe the scenario. "Of course, she insists that John Bright 
would never have killed himself."

     "So her business relationship with him was that close before she cut him loose?"

     "Her personal relationship was," Natalie said confidingly. "In an emotional moment, 
she admitted that she and Bright were lovers until she met Stefan Esquivel."

     "At which point she kicked him out of her bed and gallery," Nick concluded. "That 
certainly sets Bright up with a motive. Do you think it's a suicide?"

     Natalie sighed. "So far, there's no sign that it wasn't, but I've got to tell you, 
Nick: I've got a bad feeling about this."

     "So maybe Helen killed one out of greed, the other to cover her tracks. Where is 
she now? The precinct?"

     Natalie shook her head. "The hospital. She insisted on going to the emergency room 
because she wasn't feeling well. Nick, Helen Dreisen is pregnant. After the shock of 
finding the body, she was worried about miscarrying."

     "Pregnant?" Nick frowned. "She must still be in the first trimester."

     "What makes you say that?"

     "By the fourth month, vampires can pick out the heartbeat," Nick explained. "Until 
then, the fetus just sounds like stomach noise."

     Natalie was appalled. "You can hear my stomach?"

     Nick nodded.

     Nat clapped a hand over her belly and rubbed at the offending organ. "I definitely 
didn't need to know that."

     "Nick!" Schanke's voice called to the detective from out in the hall. Nick followed 
the sound of his partner and found him in one of the smaller display rooms of the gallery. 
Schanke was gesturing to a pair of naturalist paintings, looking rueful. "Canadian geese. 
Just what I need for Myra's birthday."

     Nick studied the artist's signature. "These are the token paintings Bright said he had 
on display?"

     "Right." Schanke rubbed a gloved hand over the top of one frame, displacing a colony 
of dust. "And they've been here a while, from the looks of it." He gestured at the goose 
painting with a thumb. "This reminds me. I think I've found the name Myra will love for 
her adopted birdbrain."

     "You mean, other than Donald Junior," Nick said, enjoying the opportunity to rub that 
possibility in once more.

     "Definitely other than Don Junior," Schanke affirmed.

     "So what is it?"

     "Conrad."

     Nick's brow furrowed. "Conrad? I thought you'd gone through the C's already."

     "Well, yeah, but that was before I started thinking like Myra."

     "And this is a good thing?"

     "Think about it. She's wants to call the bird something cute and personal, which is 
the whole reason she's leaning toward the Junior bit."

     "Right. Her devotion to the altar of Schanke."

     "Exactamundo." The precise klew that made Schanke aware that his partner was laughing 
at him was unclear. He made a face in Nick's direction, rolling his eyes. "Har-dee-har-har. 
I'm just thinking of Myra's even greater devotion to Broadway show tunes. She'll love 
crooning 'We Love You, Conrad' in the shower."

     Nick winced. "I get it. It's from 'Bye Bye Birdie,' right?"

     "Right!" Schanke clapped his hands together. "Myra will love it!"

     Nick's mouth quirked as he laid a solemn hand on his partner's shoulder. "Just 
keep telling yourself that, Schank."

     Don allowed himself a beaming moment, picturing his success when he shared the 
suggestion with his better half, then he straightened his shoulders and his demeanor 
switched back to business mode. "I checked out the paramedics to see if Esquivel said 
anything helpful when he regained consciousness in the ambulance. Did you get the message 
I left on your answering machine?"

     Nick shook his head. "Nah, I was out."

     Schanke squinted at the blonde detective as though he was speaking Mandarin Chinese. 
"Hey, that's right! You still have the night off. What the hell are you doing here when 
you could be out living it up?"

     "Trust me, Schank. For me, a homicide investigation is living. I was driving around 
town, thinking, and I decided to drop by and interview Helen Dreisen."

     "Without your partner," Schanke said testily, "leaving me slaving over forms for 
the Collins report under Cohen's watchful eyes. Do you know how giddy I get on White-Out
fumes?"

     "That explains how you came up with the idea of 'thinking like Myra' in your quest 
to name the goose," Nick grinned. "So what did you find out from the ambulance crew?"

      Schanke gave a lopsided shrug. "Not much. Esquivel spoke before he flatlined, but 
all he said was 'blood.' The paramedics figured he was referring to his injuries."

      Nick mulled over that thought for a moment. "That's possible, but most of the blood 
came from superficial cuts, didn't it? Stefan Esquivel died from physical trauma, not blood 
loss."

      Schanke snorted. "And he was supposed to know that? The guy wakes up in an ambulance, 
and he sees a little red. He comments on it. End of story, Nick. There's nothing there."

     "You're probably right," Nick relented. He glanced at the army of officers scouring for 
evidence around the gallery, then back at his partner. "I still want that interview with 
Helen Dreisen. I'm going to head over to the hospital."

     "Leaving me responsible for the crime scene reports. Gee, thanks, partner. You're all 
heart." Schanke did not appear enchanted. "So do you buy it that John Bright killed himself 
out of guilt for clubbing Esquivel to death?"

     "It just seems a little too convenient," Nick said.

     Schanke made a small grunt. "And convenience is only good when it's doughnuts and 
coffee." 

********************************************************************************
End of Part Seven

Unnatural Selection (08A/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     When Nick arrived at the hospital, he found members of the nursing staff ushering 
two men out of Helen Dreisen's room. One of them was briskly clicking pictures of the 
patient, even as he walked backward through the doorway.

    Helen Dreisen's voice reached sharply across the floor lobby. "Leave me alone! Christ! 
Don't you people have a shred of respect for another human being?!"

     Nick's eyes narrowed as a frown crept over his features.  he thought. 


     An older woman with stern features clasped the cameraman by his elbow. "Ms. Dreisen 
is a *patient,* sir. If you don't leave quietly, I'll have security escort you from the 
facilities."

     The cameraman's associate was taller and stockier. He shrugged the other nurse away 
irreverently. "We're just doing our job, lady. This gal's a suspect in a murder case, 
you know. The public has the right to hear about it. She's a threat to society, you know."

     Nick stepped forward, producing his police identification. "I'll be the judge of that."

     "Whoa, I'd love a statement from the police," the reporter said. "Is it true 
Dreisen's having the Wolfman's baby? Man, I couldn't *make up*  this stuff and sell it!"

     "That's enough." Nick's voice pounded heavily, insistently in their ears. "Get out 
of here and don't come back." The two members of the press blinked blankly, then turned 
wordlessly to leave. Nick lifted one palm and called them back to attention. "Oh, and you 
don't want to keep that film, do you?"

     The cameraman shook his head, calmly unloaded the roll and handed it over to the 
detective. "No, I don't."

      Nick cracked the film case open, exposing the undeveloped pictures to the harsh 
fluorescent lighting before he turned to the hospital staff. The women were watching him 
with undisguised perplexity. "What brought *that *  on?" the elder nurse exclaimed.

      The blonde detective gave them a mischievous grin. "I think they just had an attack 
of conscience. I think you're going to need some officers manning the doors to keep the 
press out. I'll put in a call."

      "Thank you," the elder nurse said. "Those people will completely disrupt the 
maternity ward if nothing's done."

      Nick nodded toward the half-open door to Helen Dreisen's room. "How's the patient?"

      The younger nurse's face spread into an assuring smile. "She seems stable. We're 
waiting for the equipment to give her an ultrasound. You can go in and see her if you'd 
like, Detective. Just make sure she stays relaxed."

      Nick thanked them, then slipped into the hospital room, clicking the door shut 
behind him. Helen Dreisen eyed him warily from the bed, her arms wrapped protectively 
around her abdomen. "Are they gone?"

      "Yes. I'm going to call for some uniformed officers to keep any reporters away 
from your door, okay?"

      "And keep me in sight?" Helen asked speculatively.

     "I didn't say that."

      "Mmm." Helen didn't appear convinced. "But who's to say you aren't thinking it? I 
don't blame you. I would if I were in your shoes."

      "In my shoes..." Nick repeated the words absently, lost for a moment in private 
thought. He shook his head abruptly, then slipped his cell phone from his jacket pocket. 
"Do you mind if I make the call now?"

     Helen waved him on, the plastic identification bracelet provided by the hospital 
flashing in an albino tattoo against her skin. "By all means, be my guest."

     While Nick held on the precinct line for the Captain to pick up, the nursing staff 
wheeled equipment into the room for an ultrasound. Finding himself underfoot, Nick stepped 
into the corner of the room and turned his back on the activity. 

     Cohen was less than thrilled that Nick was working on the case while he was 
technically off-duty without briefing her first. She agreed, however, that the hospital 
needed help keeping the press out of their investigation and promised to send a pair of 
officers over directly.

     Nick turned his attention back to the hospital bed and found Helen Dreisen gazing 
mistily at the blurred image on the ultrasound monitor. Her doctor completed a few 
notations on her chart, then flipped it closed. "Ms. Dreisen, everything looks to be in 
good shape despite your earlier bleeding. I'd like to keep you under observation tonight, 
and you can head home in the morning."

     Helen grinned crookedly. "I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere, especially with all the 
vampires hovering around me." Her forehead puckered as she noticed the homicide 
detective's shocked expression. "The reporters, Detective Knight. I was referring to 
all the press people hounding me for juicy details and making Stefan's memory into some 
kind of freak show requiem."

     Nick's features cleared. "Yes, I could see why you'd think of them as monsters."

     Helen lowered her head momentarily, rubbing her brow tiredly with one hand. "I don't 
mean to disparage journalists at large, you know. Just some of them. Just the ones that 
seem to look on Stefan, me, or our baby as something less than human, just because we make 
good copy." She straightened an arm in the doctor's direction. "I've never had one of these 
ultrasounds before. Can you point out anything for me?"

     The doctor gave her a kind smile. "Sure."

     Nick moved closer to the bed, curious, then sat on the edge of the bed. This was 
also new territory for him. He watched intently as the doctor outlined different features 
with a finger. "I can see the baby's heart beating," he said in wonder. Helen and the 
doctor simply beamed at him.

     "Pretty neat, eh?" Helen said, her voice laced with a dreamy sigh. "Can you tell 
whether the baby is a boy or a girl?" she asked the doctor.

     He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid your baby's turned to block our view. You'll have 
to wait until your next ultrasound."

     Helen nibbled on her lower lip and looked disappointed. "Does it matter so much?" 
Nick asked.

     "It gives me an idea of what to expect. Do you know anything about the genetics of 
the condition Stefan had, Detective Knight?"

      Nick nodded. "If you have a son, he won't have the hypertrichosis gene. A 
daughter would."

     "And that makes a difference."

     The doctor excused himself, leaving the nursing staff to tidy up and remove the 
ultrasound equipment. Nick waited until they rolled out of the room before he spoke 
again. "I thought you said that Stefan made too much of an issue out of his appearance. 
Why make an issue out of your child's?"

     Helen glared at him hotly. "I'm not! Yes, I tried to get Stefan to be proud of who 
he was, to throw his amazing talent in the faces of everyone who would malign him for what 
he appeared to be rather than the contents of his soul. I tried, but I failed. Why 
shouldn't I be afraid of failing again? I couldn't protect Stefan. How do I know I could 
protect his daughter?"

     "Protect her? From people like John Bright?" 

     That suggestion earned him another glare. "No." Helen rolled her eyes and folded her 
arms stubbornly across her chest. "I was wondering how long it would take you to bring up 
John's name. He didn't kill anyone. Especially himself."

     "I see that you still have paint stains on your hand," Nick commented, eyeing the 
bright blue smudges of paint marring the fingertips of her right hand.

     Helen response was brittle. "Well, the hospital doesn't exactly keep a plentiful stock 
of turpentine. It's poisonous, you know." She wriggled her fingers disdainfully in Nick's 
direction like an angry peacock's plumage. "I told the police at the gallery. I thought 
the paint wasn't dry, and I was right. I knew John wouldn't have killed himself, and I was 
afraid his murderer was still on the premises. As you can see, the message on my office 
wall was fairly fresh, and my fears weren't abated until the police arrived."

     "So if you're completely innocent in this matter," Nick said, "you won't mind letting 
us take your fingerprints."

     She made a sound of annoyance. "You say that like you don't think I am completely 
innocent."

     Nick's eyes narrowed in challenge. "You may not have killed John Bright, but did 
you always treat him like he deserved to be treated?"

     Helen swallowed reflexively and glanced away. "Okay. Maybe you have a point there. 
I'm not completely without fault in this mess even if I'm not guilty of murder. If I 
hadn't been so abrupt in breaking off my relationship with John, he wouldn't have been 
such a good target to frame for Stefan's death. That's what John was: a scapegoat. He may 
have had a motive, but he wasn't the type." 

     "How do you really know what type he was?" Nick said solemnly.

     Helen gave a harsh laugh. "I know what you're getting at. I've seen those people on 
television, exclaiming blankly over how nice and quiet and unassuming their neighbor was, 
how they can't imagine him ever doing anything violent or nasty because he was always just 
such a nice man. Meanwhile, that nice neighbor has raised a ruckus by shooting up the 
local Tim Horton's Donut Shop. Well, I've never seen one of those nice, armed neighbors 
who ever turned out to be an artist, Detective. There's a reason why therapists sometimes 
use drawings to learn about their disturbed patients. Ink and paper works as a transmitter 
for the artist's soul. You have to see darkness, be able to recognize it, picture it, if 
you want convey it in another medium. What a person draws reflects something about them." 
Helen seemed caught up in the idea and shook one finger excitedly at Nick. "You know, 
John used to say that he wasn't a true artist."

     Nick nodded in agreement. "He said as much when my partner and I interviewed him."

     "Did you see any of his work?"

     "One painting at his loft, plus the two you have on display at the gallery."

     "Then you should understand what I'm getting at," Helen said in satisfaction. "John 
did nice pictures. That's what he was interested in. That's what he saw: nice things. That 
didn't make him less of an artist. It merely made him a gentle one. A safe one. John's 
whole theory was that true artists make people think and feel, and to do that, the emotions 
the audience experienced had to be climactic, severe to the point of a violent epiphany."

     Nick's expression was reflective. "But his paintings do inspire emotion. They're just  
peaceful. I remember the painting in his loft. It gave me a sense of hope."

     Helen gave him an unabashed grin. "See? He was an artist. The only problem is, art 
critics and serious collectors hate feeling at peace. John was skilled, but he wasn't 
marketable unless you're talking suburban mothers who want something pretty to go over 
the couch."

     "I take it Stefan was marketable. Does that mean he wasn't so nice?"

     "No," Helen replied primly. "That means he had loads of under-expressed anger.  
Critics love anger." Her features became grave, and she reached out to touch Nick's hand 
in concern. "You can clear John, now, even though he's dead?"

     "We can dismiss him as a suspect if his fingerprints and DNA don't match the evidence, 
yes," Nick assured her.

     Helen brightened. "Then you'll need DNA from me, too, right?" She held up her inner 
arm just below Nick's chin. "Want some blood?"

      Nick pushed her arm away a little too forcefully. "I don't think so."

     Helen Dreisen's lips made a sour frown. "Well, I expect you to clear me of 
suspicion, too. I didn't kill anyone. How are you going to do that without a DNA sample?"

     Nick rose from her bedside, discomfited. "What I meant is that Forensics will need 
to take a sample from you. Not me." He cleared his throat. "I don't do blood."

     It was a sentiment he'd expressed countless times, but this time Nick meant it with 
a resolution he'd never experienced before. He was a vampire who didn't do blood.

***********************************************************************************
End of Part Eight A

Unnatural Selection (08B/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Natalie already had some news by the time Nick traveled from the hospital to the 
morgue. "John Bright's fingerprints didn't match the second set we found in Esquivel's 
car. I'm rushing the PCR for you. I should have the results before sunrise."

     "You can send a tech over to St. Joseph's first thing in the morning," Nick offered. 
"Helen Dreisen is ready and willing to give us her fingerprints and a blood sample to do 
DNA tests."

     "Sounds like a filthy, guilty suspect to me," Nat said wryly.

     "Doesn't it?" Nick agreed. "Schanke and I are running out of possibilities."

     "Well, lucky you," Natalie said as she wandered over to her desk and shuffled through 
the surface contents. "Another lead fell into my lap." Releasing a sound of triumph, she 
held up a Post-It with two names, addresses and phone numbers. Handing the information 
over to Nick, Natalie said, "Representatives from two pharmaceutical companies contacted 
me yesterday. Both of them claim that they had agreements with Stefan Esquivel prior to 
his death, and they want to collect. Frankly, I don't think either of them has a right 
to anything. If I have my way, I'm turning Esquivel's body over to Helen Dreisen  as soon 
as possible and let her deal with it as she sees fit."

     Nick appeared perplexed. "What kind of agreement would Esquivel have had with a 
pharmaceutical company?"

     "To donate blood and tissue samples for their research and development teams."

     Nick lowered his head for a thoughtful moment. "This wouldn't be to treat his 
hypertrichosis, would it? Didn't you say that, other than Stefan Esquivel, the only 
known examples of this condition are among a family in Mexico?"

     "Right." Natalie nodded. "What's more, it's not a fatal illness. There are already 
mechanical ways of dealing with removing the excess hair if a person with hypertrichosis 
feels that it's necessary. Electrolysis, for example. This is the kind of request I would 
expect more from someone doing pure scientific research."

     "Like the doctor in Mexico," Nick agreed.

     "Exactly. Pharmaceutical companies are money-making machines. They aren't going to 
pour money into a project unless they believe there's some chance for a future return on 
the investment."

     "So why do they want to study hypertrichosis?"

     Natalie made an annoyed face. "They wouldn't tell me outright. Both representatives 
I talked to claimed the information was confidential because they didn't want their 
competitors to steal their ideas." She followed this information with a sly grin. "But I 
gave it a lot of thought while you weren't answering the phone."

     Nick overlooked her slight rebuke. "What did you come up with?"

     At that moment, Schanke burst through the door to the morgue. He had the face of a 
man afflicted with a chronic bad bowling average. Don raised his hands at his sides as 
though he was imploring the heavens for guidance. "Myra nixed my 'Conrad' idea! Can you 
believe it?!"

     Natalie had no idea what Schanke was talking about and said as much to Nick. She 
nudged him with an elbow. "What's he talking about?"

     "Schanke had the idea that Myra could name their adopted Canadian goose 'Conrad Birdie' 
after the musical rather than name it after him," Nick explained. "Apparently, it didn't 
work. Maybe you need to get back to paperwork, Schank, so you can soak up more White-Out 
fumes. You must not have thinking like Myra fine-tuned yet."

     Schanke looked at his partner's grinning face and scowled. "Fat lot of good that 
will do me!*Nobody *  can think like Myra!"

     "Except Myra," Natalie quipped over a giggle.

     "It's humanly impossible to unlock the mysteries of that woman's brain!" Schanke 
continued as he paced around the examination table.

     "Why didn't she go for the 'Conrad Birdie' concept, Schank?" Nick asked good-naturedly.

     Schanke's nose gave an impression of a Sharpei, while his upper lip curled in 
aggravation. "Aw, she said 'Conrad' was the name of some loser she dated before she 
met me. Myra said she still had too many 'painful memories.'"

     Nick and Natalie shared a conspiratorial look. Herein lay the reason for Schanke's 
severe reaction.

    "Where does Myra get off having painful memories about some guy she hasn't seen in 
fifteen years?" Schanke lifted his head imploringly to the ceiling and shook a fist at 
the spackling. "Will somebody just tell me that?!"

     Smothering their laughter as Schanke continued to rant, Nick eyed Nat speculatively. 
"What would you name a goose?" he asked softly.

     She had a ready answer. "'Duck Duck.'"

     "Duck Duck Goose?" Nick grinned. "That's cute."

     "What about you?" Natalie countered.

     "I don't know," Nick shrugged. "How about 'Oie Oie'?"

     "'Wawa'?" Natalie repeated with a frown. "Why would you call it 'Wawa'? Wait a minute. 
Is that French?"

     A mischievous light twinkled in his eyes. "Yeah...only it sounds better than 
'Goosey Goose.'"

     Natalie doubled over in laughter until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes. 
Schanke ceased his pacing and ranting and stood disapprovingly over them both, his 
hands propped sternly on his hips. "I'm so glad my problems bring you two such entertainment."

     Natalie tried to stop, she really did. "Sorry, Schank...it's just that it's so...
silly!" When Schanke turned away in a huff, Nat straightened earnestly. "No, wait, 
Schanke. I need your input on something..." She swallowed back a lingering tickle of 
laughter. "....for the Esquivel case."

    Nick sobered as well. "Your research idea?"

    "Right."

    Schanke looked curious. "What research idea?"

    "Two pharmaceutical companies are after blood and tissue samples from Stefan Esquivel 
for some kind of project in development," Nick said.

    "For what?" Schanke said quizzically. "People who want to be covered in hair?" 
Realization dawned in Don's eyes, and one hand rose unbidden to massage his sparse scalp. 
"Ohhhhh.....for people who want more hair!"

    "My thoughts exactly," Natalie announced. "What better possibility to help people 
who suffer from excessive hair loss is there than unlocking the secrets of excessive 
hair growth?"

    "Man, do I know some guys who would kill for that!" Schanke said enthusiastically.

    "Maybe someone already has," Nick said solemnly.

    "The manufacturers of products like Rogaine and Propecia have made billions 
with only partial success," Natalie said ruefully. "Understanding hypertrichosis could 
mean a goldmine."

    Nick agreed, sending Schanke a look of invitation. "Let's go check them out."

************************************************************************************
End of Part Eight

Unnatural Selection (09A/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     "Okay," Schanke said once they were in the Caddy, "so we have a motive: money. Do 
you think the killer really believes he can get a hold of Esquivel's body without 
breaking a sweat?"

     "It's probably far beyond that now, Schank," Nick responded. "I think there had 
to be some anger or desperation involved, some resentment that Esquivel wouldn't 
cooperate. Between the bludgeoning and hanging, I feel we're looking for someone who 
thinks they are superior. Esquivel and Bright could die because their lives weren't 
important enough compared to the killer's own desires. I don't think it's just a matter 
of money, but a sense of power. Of unaccountability." 

     Schanke tapped a finger against the yellow paper Natalie had given them containing 
names and addresses. "Nat said that this Doctor Philippe Chauvin guy of Trial Laboratories 
bothered to poke around her morgue. Why don't we visit him first?"

     "Okay." Nick nodded, and Schanke reeled off the location of an office building.

     Upon their arrival, a remorseful female security officer informed them that 
Doctor Chauvin was unavailable. "He's out of the building, you see. Lots of the people 
here work round the clock on projects, but not all of them."

     "Do you have any idea when he might be back?" Schanke asked.

     The guard shook her head, but she was resolved to be helpful since these were 
police officers, and one of them had the *dreamiest* blue eyes. "I'm afraid not. Doctor 
Chauvin...I don't think he's been in much the past few days. You're free to wait for him, 
if you like. My name's Brenda." This introduction was punctuated with a wide smile.

     After half an hour of loitering in the lobby, filled with dodging the security 
guard's attempts at intimate conversation ("Have you ever noticed how working nights 
*kills* your social life?"), Nick began to get antsy. They were well into the morning hours, 
and time was running out for him to follow up on the second doctor before dawn if he didn't 
leave soon. "Schank," he suggested. "How about you hang around here while I see if I can 
catch Doctor Richard Finnester at ChemCorp?"

     "Aw, man! What am I supposed to do while I'm here waiting? Twiddle my thumbs?"

     "Maybe you'll get lucky and think up a name for the bird," Nick grinned. "Why don't 
you ask our friendly security guard, Brenda, for some ideas?" Nick gave his partner a wave, 
and Brenda pouted as she watched him walk out the front entrance of the building.

     "So, Brenda," Schanke said, turning to the lonely and single guard, "what would you 
name a pet goose?"

     "Are you kidding?"

*************************************************************************************

     "I assure you, Detective," Doctor Finnester said hurriedly as he walked beside Nick 
from the ChemCorp lobby to his office, "I was greatly heartsick when I first learned of 
Mr. Esquivel's death. We only had a verbal agreement at that point, you see. The contracts 
are still in my office. He had an appointment to come in the next afternoon and sign them. 
I suppose whatever happens now resides with the decision of Helen Dreisen." He rubbed 
thoughtfully at his chin. "Yes, I believe that's who Doctor Lambert said she was releasing 
Mr. Esquivel's remains to."

     "Do you feel you have reason to be wary of Ms. Dreisen's decision, Doctor?" Nick 
asked curiously.  

     "Well, I was under the impression that she was fully aware of the discussions I had 
with Mr. Esquivel, if that's what you're asking. My hope is that her grief and the more 
negative elements of my profession that he encountered don't cloud her choice."

     "What do you mean by 'more negative elements'?" Nick questioned.

     The rumpled little man's features became highly animated. "Apparently Mr. Esquivel 
was approached by another team before I contacted him. He had tentatively agreed to give 
tissue samples to the group, but he took one of the doctors into dislike. When he informed 
this doctor of his change of heart, apparently the man became verbally abusive. It's 
shameful behavior, I say," Finnester clucked. "I believe that Mr. Esquivel was extremely 
gracious to even talk to me after such an experience. He had no reason to be remotely 
helpful."

     "Did Mr. Esquivel give you the name of this other doctor or company?"

      Doctor Finnester shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not." He stopped before a paneled 
wood door and unearthed a massive ring of keys from his trouser pocket. Unlocking the 
entrance, he ushered Nick into a surprising tidy office. "I wish he had. You may not be 
aware of it, Detective, but the state of scientific ethics today is not all that it could 
be. There's very little trust from the population at large, especially for geneticists 
such as myself." He stepped behind his desk, unlocked the second file cabinet from the 
left and began sifting through documents. "When I hear of instances such as Mr. Esquivel 
related, I am most distressed that the damage will become irreparable. Contrary to some of 
my colleagues, I don't believe science should isolate itself from other sectors of society. 
Others, however, feel that their fields of knowledge set them above the average citizen."

     "Intellectual elitists," Nick commented.

     "Precisely," Doctor Finnester agreed. "I personally think such attitudes are a 
fallacy in judgment. Science should be holistic because that is the nature of our world."

     Nick was impressed. "I see why Stefan Esquivel was willing to talk to you. I think 
he might have considered you 'enlightened.'"

     Doctor Finnester gave a small chuckle. "Well, he was probably in the minority. I tend 
to harp on about long term effects and benefits whereas many in this industry prefer maximum 
profits as soon as possible." He extracted a sheath of papers from the file cabinet, then 
locked the drawer once more. "This is a copy of the agreement I talked with Mr. Esquivel 
about. If you'd like, I'll have one of my assistants make you a copy."

     "I'd appreciate that," Nick murmured as he read over the document. One section gave 
him pause. "You were going to pay him for each tissue sample?"

     "Yes, and a tidy sum at that, considering the rarity," Finnester said. "Esquivel was 
completely uninterested in the money until I suggested that we could set it up in a fund 
for his charity of choice. He quickly warmed to that idea."

     Nick noted the name of the institution. "The orphanage where he was raised?"

     Doctor Finnester nodded. "I think my suggestion was what made up his mind to agree 
to contribute to the project."

     "So the earlier team didn't think of such an alternative."

     "I can't tell you that, but it was my impression that they didn't look upon Mr. 
Esquivel as though he was human. More like a test tube, I'd wager. Like I said before, 
it was a case of shameful behavior."

     After talking to the doctor a while longer, Nick made his farewells. He telephoned 
Schanke and learned that Doctor Chauvin had yet to put in an appearance. Nick related 
the essence of his interview with Richard Finnester, then he put in a call to St. Joseph's. 
There he left a message for Helen Dreisen to give him a call, since the nurse informed him 
that she was still asleep.

     Nick grimaced as he walked briskly through the lobby of the ChemCorp building. He'd 
lingered too long speaking with Doctor Finnester, and an unhealthy amount of sunlight was 
streaking through the plate glass windows. 

     He broke into a run as soon as he had cleared the carousel doors. A few early 
morning commuters squawked exclamations as they witnessed a man literally smoking as he 
tore down the street.

     Nick had parked around the corner, where the sidewalk was less populated. Sprawling 
one hand over the Caddy's aquamarine trunk, he fumbled as he struggled to pop open the 
lid. Finally having success, Nick eased into the cool, dark shelter with relief and 
allowed the buzz of traffic to lull him to sleep.

*************************************************************************************

     The ring of Nick's cellular phone startled him awake. He had been resting long 
enough for the tight space to become stuffy and overly warm from the heat of the day 
pounding against the metal trunk. He rubbed at his head groggily one time, then scratched 
blindly at his coat pocket for the persistent telephone.

     "Knight, here." His voice was as gravelly as his thoughts.

     "Hello." Smooth, but urgent, tones forayed over the line. "This is Helen Dreisen 
returning your call. I'm sorry I'm so late, but I wanted to get back to the gallery and 
see what shape the police left everything."

     "That's fine," Nick assured her. "I'm kind of holed up at the moment, myself. 
Would you mind if I called you back, say, after sunset?"

     "No, I think there's a problem," Helen said, her voice hedging slightly. "Doctor 
Lambert came to the hospital personally to take a blood sample this morning, and she 
happened to mention the names of the doctors who had contacted her about access to 
Stefan's remains."

     Nick massaged his forehead again, resolving that he was going to have to wake up. 
"Actually, that was what I was trying to contact you about. Were you aware of any plans 
Stefan had to give blood and tissue samples to a pharmaceutical company?"

     "Yes. He had scheduled an appointment to sign an agreement with Doctor Richard 
Finnester of ChemCorp the day after he was killed. Of course, I don't know if he still 
intended to keep it after he closed the show that night. That other man, Philippe 
Chauvin, Stefan definitely took him into dislike."

     "So Doctor Chauvin could have had hard feelings toward him?"

     "I think so." There was a rough sigh on the other end of the line. "Look, I 
hate admitting it, but I'm kind of scared. The reason I'm calling is Chauvin just 
phoned here, announcing that he was coming over to make arrangements in regards to 
his contract with Stefan. It was like he ordered me to hand over the body, then 
hung up. I know there's no way Stefan signed anything with that man. He thought the 
doctor was a bigot. I think he's lying, and I sure as hell don't want to see him."

     During her confession, Nick stiffened to attention. "Are you alone at the gallery now?"

     "Yes."

     "I want you to leave immediately. Is there a public place nearby where you can 
wait?" Nick asked.

     Helen rattled off the name of a restaurant. "It's just three doors down."

     "Good. Wait there. I'll be right over."

     Nick snapped off the phone and sat up purposefully, cracking his crown against the 
trunk lid in the process.   Letting out a mild curse, Nick began dialing.

     "Yallo!"

     "Schanke, it Nick."

     "Whoa, Nick! I'm glad you called. I'm ready to blow this waiting for Chauvin thing. 
It doesn't look like the guy's going to show, and I need me some breakfast and shut-eye. 
Good news, though: I think Brenda's come up with a better name for Don Junior."

     "Hi Nick!" an eager female voice called from the background.

     "Schank, Chauvin's not coming in because he's headed over to the Dreisen Gallery. 
He may be a threat to Helen Dreisen. Can you call for some backup and intercept him?"

     "Sure. What about you?"

     Nick pried the Caddy's trunk open the merest millimeter and peered out into the 
painfully sunny street. "I'm working on it."

*********************************************************************************
End of Part Nine A

Unnatural Selection (09B/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge


     Helen was appalled to see that her hands were shaking as she replaced the phone. 
She wasn't of a nervous disposition, wasn't the type to spook easily, but something had 
changed within her over the past few days. There was something about murder, the way 
people could be ripped away, spinning the world out of control, that could make the brave 
of heart think twice about facing potential danger. 

     Then there was that ultrasound at the hospital. Helen hadn't noticed any morning 
sickness, hadn't even confirmed that she was pregnant until a couple of weeks before 
Stefan's death. Perhaps she had indulged a fit of denial, or maybe it was just habit 
that had plunged her into work preparing for that last show. Whatever the reason, it 
had taken a blurred black and white image to strike home the idea in her heart that 
she was *pregnant.* She was now responsible for another person: their protection, their 
care, their nurturing. The thought made her weak in the knees. As far as her courage 
went, all bets were off.

     Helen's thoughts flashed nervously over Philippe Chauvin's words on the phone. 
 A shiver skittered down her spine, 
then she swiftly grasped her purse and double-timed it between alcoves and past displays 
toward the door.

     He was waiting, blocking her path. Helen recognized him, his broad girth, as though 
he was the proverbial bull in the china shop, his heavy arms, his fleshy jowls, this 
time marked with angry scratches. 

     "I warned you not to leave," he said in arched tones. "You're being an errant hostess."

     "You were at the opening," she said accusingly. Anger momentarily eclipsed any rising 
panic. "I saw you talking to Stefan." Her eyes widened in realization. "What did you say 
to him? You're the reason he closed down the show so abruptly, aren't you?"

     "I merely shared a few home truths with him. You set up a nice little freak show for 
Stefan here. I wager that all your patrons were clamoring to buy a picture by the oddity. 
Look! He walks! He talks! He shakes hands!"

     "It wasn't like that," Helen said stonily.

     Chauvin snorted with disbelief. "Do you really expect me to believe that he wasn't 
on display as much as the art? Are you really that stupid?"

     Helen felt a sheen of sweat break out on her lower back. As they spoke, she had begun 
to walk backward, unthinkingly trying to avoid contact with Chauvin. She definitely felt 
odd, speaking with this person who, with growing awareness, she was certain had murdered 
the two most important men in her life. Yes, she was having a conversation, while every 
fiber of her being urged her to run, to flee, to desperately make an attempt to get away. 
She still managed to stand straight, despite her internal reaction, to speak in phrases 
almost casually, as though she was discussing the line and form of one of the statues 
stabled along the tile floor instead of murder. 

     She started slightly as her back encountered the cool, unyielding surface of a wall. 
Chauvin had followed up on her every step, and Helen was, literally, backed into a corner. 
She bit down on the inside of her cheek and commanded herself to appear cool and collected. 
 "All right," she said calmly, "perhaps Stefan was on display that night. So is every 
other artist for whom I orchestrate an exhibition. I had no reason to treat him differently 
from any other human being." She gave the last to words a particular bite, as though she 
was hurling a curse at Chauvin. "In the end, I am a businesswoman." Helen lifted her brows, 
feigning a sudden discovery. "Oh, yes. You're a scientist, aren't you? What would you know 
about the art business?"

     Watching Chauvin's features slip into momentary indignation, Helen offered herself 
congratulations.  

     She took advantage of his temporary distraction and slipped past his large frame, 
trying to make a break for the front door. Chauvin recovered too quickly for her benefit 
and hooked her arms from behind, slamming her face-first into an opposing wall. Helen 
gasped, then caught her breath. Once the doctor was certain he had his prey under control, 
he slackened his grip slightly, allowing her to raise her head off the plaster. Helen turned 
her gaze to the left and found herself eye to eye with one of John's paintings. 

      she thought wryly. 

     Helen let her lids fall shut for a moment as she struggled to regroup.  "Doctor Lambert told me about your visit to the morgue. Funny, she 
described you as having a full beard, so I didn't think I'd ever seen you before. I don't 
suppose the brief addition of that beard would have anything to do with those scratches on 
your face, now, would it?"

     Chauvin whirled her around, clamping one plump-fingered hand around her throat while 
the other self-consciously tendered those said scratches across his right cheek. "Yes, I 
did have some distinguishing marks that I preferred to remain unnoticed. It's a pity for 
your sake that Doctor Lambert interrupted me when she did. I had a biopsy needle primed 
for use, only she interfered before I could take a tissue sample from Esquivel. The same 
thing happened when I killed him. Some fool drunk interrupted before I could finish my 
work, and I'm afraid I had to sacrifice the tire jack I beat him to death with in order 
to make your old boyfriend appear guilty. If I could have obtained the necessary samples 
before now, I wouldn't have had to trouble you at all, you see?"

     "You wouldn't have had to trouble me?" Helen's voice was incredulous acid. "You 
crushed the skull of the man I love and strung a perfectly nice person from the rafters 
over my desk. These events are not supposed to *trouble* me?"

     Chauvin didn't appear remotely affected. "They were both disposable."

     Something in Helen's mind snapped. She hurt. She felt physical pain in the region of 
her heart, and she wanted desperately to strike back. Leaning back with all of her weight, 
she used the wall as a springboard. First, she spit in Chauvin's face, then she kneed him 
forcefully in the groin. Tearing loose, her heels clattered over the tiles as she sprinted 
out of the room. This time she aimed for one of the work areas where she kept items to prep 
for display. Helen mauled through her purse, searching for her keys. 

     In shock, she realized that Chauvin was clambering closely behind her. She could hear 
his heavy breathing, could imagine the moist puffs licking the hairs at the back of her 
neck, making them stand on end. Her eyes zeroed in on one of the worktables, focusing upon 
a utility knife left on top of a stack of matting. Helen lunged for it, exposing the razor 
inside with a flick of her thumb as she whirled around. She slashed at his face, causing a 
line of red to seep across his face as she sliced his nose and added to the wounds upon his 
cheek. 

     This time, instead of falling back from the pain, Chauvin heaved forward angrily, 
swinging both fists blindly like boulders at her head. One struck Helen in the jaw, and 
her world became dizzy. Her vision fluctuated between blackness, a blurred image of her 
attacker, and dancing stars. She felt him seize her hand as she bumped against the 
worktable, taking the knife out of her possession. 

     "Thank you," he hissed, leaning his full weight on her from behind, "how kind of you 
to provide a weapon." There was a rustle of paper, and, as Helen blinked, a contact came 
into focus on the worktable before her. "What I need you to do is sign this agreement 
releasing Wolfie's body into my care."

     "You're crazy!" Helen spat, even as her jaw throbbed with the words.

     "Who's being unreasonable?" Chauvin said, his voice filled with a sickeningly 
sweet tone. "I read in this morning's newspaper that you're expecting his child. How 
thrilling for you: the possibility you could be expecting a little wolf cub of your own. 
Wouldn't it be a shame if this blade slipped," he continued, tapping the utility knife 
with a finger, "say, right about here?"

     Helen's mouth became dry as she glanced downward, where the razor hovered over her 
abdomen. "Is this how you made John paint that message on my office wall? By threatening him?"

     "You have to admit it was effective."

     "Why? You're planning to kill me anyhow. You've said too much, and I've seen too much. 
I'll become disposable as soon as you get what you want."

     "You're becoming more disposable with each passing moment," Chauvin said caustically.

     Helen's lashes fluttered for a moment before her thoughts centered upon an idea. 
 "You know, the police are coming." 
Her resolve tightened as Chauvin snorted disdainfully over her shoulder. "I phoned them 
right after you called. If you don't believe me, hit the redial button."

     "I would have to be a fool to believe that. If the police were coming here," Chauvin 
crowed, "why were you in such a rush to leave? You'll have to do much better than that to 
give me any pause. I must admit I had originally planned to poison you. Sign the paper, or 
I can make your death look like a badly botched abortion instead. It's your choice."

     "No, it's not," Helen said, having acquired a strange sense of serenity as she 
examined the situation. "It's over. You can't kill me and get away with it. Do you really 
expect Metro Police to believe this bruise I feel developing on my jaw to be self-inflicted? 
How stupid is that? The only choice now is yours. You can cut me and face three counts of 
first-degree murder or turn yourself in and settle for two. There's no way out, Chauvin."

     "Shut up! Shut Up! SHUT UP!" he roared in response.

     Helen sensed his arm rearing back, and she closed her eyes, preparing herself for the 
agony of the first blow.

***************************************************************************************

     The brightness hurt Nick's eyes. There were no clouds, no awnings shading the 
sidewalk, nothing to block out the deadly light of day. He allowed the Caddy's trunk to 
click shut once more and rolled onto his back. At the moment, the blackness of the interior 
seemed safe, a protective cocoon. He'd called Schanke - the police would go to the gallery - 
his job was done. There was no need for him to take the risk of venturing out into the sunlight.

      Nick reprimanded himself. 

     

     Nick clenched his teeth, feeling a pulse of fear in his empty belly as he realized 
he'd made the choice already.

     

     Nick flipped onto his side, squinting as he propped the trunk open again. There was 
no way he could manage the drive in full sunlight. The rays would work on the ragtop like 
an anvil dropped on a paper umbrella before he could manage the first ten blocks.

     A car honked abruptly, and there was a screech of tires that caught his attention. 
His eyes centered on the road, Nick picked out a manhole cover.

     

     He watched the traffic cycle once, waiting for the lull in vehicles that came soon 
after the stoplight at the corner turned red. He jumped swiftly out of the trunk, working 
as fast as naturally possible while he had onlookers treading the sidewalk. Nick had 
seconds to pry up the manhole cover in the middle of the road before cars making a left-hand 
turn would start speeding his way. His hands, completely bare of covering, felt as though 
they were on fire. He tossed the plate aside, the flesh of his fingers literally bubbling.

     Nick dove into the tunnels below the street with relief, just as an anxious cabdriver 
honked for him to get out of the way as his vehicle careened past. Soaking in the cool shade 
of the underground as if it was a balm, Nick paused for a moment to get his bearings, letting 
the ache in his body ease away before he started moving.

     When Nick made movement a priority, it was lightning. He bored through the sewers, his 
speed tantamount to invisibility, as he tried to make up for the time he had wasted earlier 
with indecision. In less than a minute, Nick was on the same block as the Dreisen Gallery 
and the restaurant rendezvous.

     He climbed up the utility ladder, clinging with one arm slung through the top rung as 
he lifted the circular grating and pucked it into the lane. There were honks of indignation 
at the sudden obstacle in the road. Nick risked a quick surveillance of the street, popping 
his head up through the opening so that he could visualize his surrounding and plan his next 
move. This swift glance was followed by a low-slung sportscar swerving overhead.  Nick ducked 
out of danger at the last moment.  he thought, 

     Evidently a light must have turned, for Nick saw a truck idle to a stop overhead. He 
eased himself through the manhole, feeling the prickle of light tear across his skin anew. 
Taking a second look along the street, Nick identified his destination before jumping out 
into the open.

     Nick repeated the restaurant's name as he searched the shop 
titles along the avenue.  He noted the entrance was less than twenty meters 
away.  Nick then noted the entire 
restaurant front was paned glass and grimaced. 

     Nick grunted as he rolled from underneath the truck, then sprang to his feet in one 
motion. The undiluted sunlight was a shock to his system, and he felt the beast within him 
roar as it scorched over his skin. Nick ran, his mind centered completely upon getting 
indoors. Looking both ways before he crossed the street no longer seemed a priority. He 
rolled over the hoods of a patchwork of cars as they braked to a halt. The impact of each 
metal grill was nothing, feathers on a scale compared to the searing bite of the light. 

     Nick cut off a statuesque woman with a briefcase at the restaurant's front door. "After 
you," he said out of habit. Proving that chivalry was more ingrained than his instincts for 
survival, Nick propped the door open and practically shoved the irate woman inside ahead of 
him. He immediately followed, stalking toward the back kitchens to escape the glare of the 
windows. 

     Panting, the beast satiated by the intimate lighting in the recesses of the restaurant. 
Nick scanned the clientele for Helen Dreisen. "No window seat," he chanted softly. "Please 
no window seat."

     Conversation that arose from the surrounding tables didn't give him pause.

     "Mmm...Frank, do you smell that? We've *got* to try the hibachi!"

     "Waiter, I asked to be seated in the non-smoking section."

     "Sir, this *is* the non-smoking section."

      Nick concluded reluctantly. In a last vain hope to find her on the 
premises, he wandered back toward the restrooms. He cracked the main door open and called 
her name, only to be told, "Get lost!"  by a stranger's voice.

     Faced with the realization that Helen may not have made it out of the gallery, Nick 
turned his attention back to the windows with fatal determination. 

     The problem was, he had five times the distance to run before he reached the gallery. 
He could venture underground and hop to the next utility opening, but if Chauvin had 
forcibly prevented Helen from meeting him here, there wasn't any time to waste. Nick glanced 
up longingly at a ventilation shaft. No doubt it connected all of the buildings on the block,
but unlike those conveniently found in the movies and spy novels, Nick would be lucky to 
squeeze one leg inside the narrow confines.

     Under the sun it would have to be. Nick took a deep breath, then burst back out onto 
the sidewalk, fleeing perhaps a bit too fast for the credulity of the citizens strolling 
along the boulevard on their lunch hours. Nick promised himself that it was worth it, that 
his speed was far more believable than spontaneous combustion.

     By the time he was at the halfway point of the journey, the pain was incredible. Nick 
swore he could hear his skin crackle, transforming into brittle parchment from the power of
the light. The vampire within him rallied, clawing to the surface, demanding protection from 
the sun's rays. Nick welcomed it, for the struggle to contain the beast gave him something to 
focus upon other than the agony or fear. 

     Nick kept running, though the sounds of onlookers exclaiming over his burning body as he 
passed began to grow, though he could no longer feel his feet as they struck the pavement 
with each step, though the brightness of day had long since rendered his eyes blind. He kept 
running, concentrating upon the rising beacon of Helen Dreisen's voice as he drew closer.

     "You know, the police are coming," she announced.

     "I am," Nick croaked, the sound no more than a whisper. "I'm coming."

     Threats and debates danced in his ears as Nick ran on. His mouth broke into a cracked 
smile as his hit something. His hands molded the cool ridges of the gallery's front door as 
he heard Helen's defiant proclamation, "There's no way out, Chauvin."

     Nick agreed. As he crashed through the entrance, the doctor's voice transformed from 
shouts into screams. Still, Nick felt the heat abate from his flesh as he barreled over a 
statue, sending the figure tumultuously slamming to the floor. He would reach them in time
because this was important. 
  
     "Shut up! Shut Up! SHUT UP!" Chauvin roared.

     Nick tackled him from behind, growling with rage as they collided with hard tile. 
Now that he had his hands on the doctor, and the only light he could sense trickled down 
from a skylight overhead, the vampire shrieked to famished, insistent life once more. He 
snarled, rearing his head back as his fangs flashed in a crooked grimace. The beast implored 
him to kill, to feast on Chauvin's blood and take the pain away. He could hear the pounding 
of the man's heartbeat singing to him, calling his jaws closer to the bite that would soothe 
his aching, scorched skin.

     Another heartbeat reached Nick, this one faster, coupled with rapid, gasping breaths. 
There was another sound running as an undercurrent, maybe it was just stomach noise, but 
just maybe it was...

     Nick turned gleaming, unseeing eyes in Helen Dreisen's direction, then tossed Philippe 
Chauvin's body forcibly away from him. He listened as the man's heart slowed. Unconscious, 
Nick managed to note before he curled up into a sobbing, raw mass of exposed, stinging nerves.

     Time must have passed.

     "Detective Knight?" Helen Dreisen's voice floated into his thoughts - nervous, but 
insistent. "Detective?" He could feel the heat of her nearby. She moved hesitantly, then 
nudged his shoulder ever-so-lightly. He still winced. "Nick, do you hear that?"

     Nick did. It was a police siren, and it wasn't very far away.

     "They'll be here soon. You can't let them see you. Your eyes are still...glowing."

     Nick coughed. "As if they wouldn't notice any third degree burns," he quipped despite 
the fact that his lips felt strung through with barbed wire. Helen kept talking, and though 
he couldn't keep up with everything that she was saying, it struck him that, with each 
passing phrase, she began to sound as though she was calmly discussing the weather rather 
than concealing a vampire.

     "Chauvin?" 

     "He's still knocked out. Don't worry. I tied him up. You've got to move, okay?"

     "I don't know where to go."

     "Here. I'll help you." Helen Dreisen slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled Nick 
to his feet. He couldn't stop the moan that escaped his lips, or the prickle of his teeth at 
the scent of her. They limped along, Nick grinding his jaws together until he thought his 
molars would crack. "You can hide in the storeroom," Helen said. "It's windowless."

     The sirens were insistent by the time Helen pushed him down on the floor again, a pile 
of blankets used for moving cushioning him from the tiles. She moved to leave, but Nick 
grabbed one of her hands. Under the circumstances, considering what Helen had witnessed, 
he felt he had to say something. "I don't know what you must be thinking..."

     She cut him off. "You saved my life. That's what I'm thinking, Detective."

     Helen Dreisen pulled away, and Nick listened wearily as her footsteps padded out of 
the room. Her voice called to the officers as they pulled up to the gallery, and he heard 
Schanke's rise in greeting. There were words about forcible entry and a struggle, words 
about a homicidal doctor intent upon making her his next victim, but not once did Helen 
mention any words about a monster on the verge of passing out in her storeroom. Nick 
struggled to remain awake, but the effort was overwhelming. He wouldn't feed to erase 
the pain, so, instead, he slept.

******************************************************************************
End of Part Nine B

Unnatural Selection (09C/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Helen felt surreal as she dipped beneath the tape cordoning what used to be the 
front door to her gallery. Logic kept telling her that, if she had any sense, she would 
remain far, far away. Her day thus far, however, had been anything but logical.

     Still, she took her time wandering through the gallery. Helen finally examined the 
five-hundred pound bronze statue that she had taken the credit for toppling like a domino
Luckily, the police hadn't bothered questioning her capability to perform that feat of 
strength.

     She clucked over the patch of tile that had been hammered into powder, but noted 
with relief that the statue itself remained unscathed. Wiping her dusty hands off on her 
skirt, Helen continued walking, gradually moving toward the storeroom.

     She eased the door open gently, calling a soft "Hello?" She decided to switch on the 
overhead light, and jumped to find Detective Knight had just been standing there in the 
dark, regardless that she had been half expecting the sight of him.

    "Sorry. I didn't think you'd be startled," Nick said earnestly.

    Helen shrugged and stepped further into the room. "I wasn't sure that you'd still be here."

    Nick grinned ruefully. "There's still another hour until dusk. I'm afraid I'm not 
game for another jaunt in the daylight just yet."

     Helen nodded as she inspected him. He was recognizable now, a marked improvement 
from the pulpy mass she'd left here four hours before. There were still signs of the 
burns, yes, but his skin was intact, just slightly rippled in spots. She glanced up 
with sudden alarm. "The overhead. Is it bothering you? I can turn it off."

     Nick shook his head. "No. Incandescent isn't a problem."

     She made a face. "Right. I've seen you at the morgue and the hospital. I should have 
figured that out. I suppose it was just the thought that you were standing here in the dark 
on purpose that confused me."

     "The overhead lighting doesn't bother me," Nick explained genially, "but I don't need 
it. I was just admiring your statue." He gestured toward a bronze figure on a pedestal in 
the middle of the room.

     "Ah. Stefan did that." Helen approached the statue, running her fingers along the cold 
metal. "I never posed for him. He just did it from memory. I think that was when I figured 
out he was in love with me."

     Nick nodded in understanding. "You could see it in the statue. There's a sense of awe, 
of wonderment to it. I take it this wasn't part of the original exhibit?"

     Helen looked horrified. "Oh no! I wasn't about to share this with anyone. It was just 
between Stefan and me. The only reason I have it here is it's too big to fit through the 
front door of my apartment. Most people nowadays make large pieces in parts so they can be 
disassembled and moved more easily. Not Stefan. One-piece molds were his style. He'd pour 
and pray nothing would crack as it cooled." She stopped talking and leaned her forehead 
against the smooth metal surface. "So much has happened over the past few days. Somehow I 
know that I'm going to walk into this room one day, look at this statue and start crying 
hysterically for everything I've lost. Right now, I'm still stunned."

     Nick pushed away from the wall, appearing uncomfortable. "I'm afraid I've intruded on 
your privacy."

     "And I haven't intruded upon yours?" Helen countered. "I don't mind. Really." Her lips 
twitched as she scanned the statue again. "Even if I appear rather... topless."

     "Nymph-like," Nick assured her.

     "Not many people know it, but bronze is very slimming."

     They laughed, then Helen ventured on to another topic. "Uhm...By any chance have you 
been able to contact your partner? He kept asking about you, and I really didn't feel there 
was anything I could say without appearing..."

     "Suspicious?" Nick supplied. "Yeah, I called him about an hour ago. There's no problem."

     Helen couldn't fight her curiosity. "What did you tell him?"

     "Not much. The police force believes that I have a sun allergy, so they tend to make 
allowances for my disability. Schanke understood that I couldn't get out in the daylight. I 
think he was more worried that I might have ventured out into the sun, more than why I hadn't."

     "You couldn't get out in the daylight," Helen repeated, her voice a mixture of 
bewilderment and dismay. During their conversation, the two had moved closer until they 
were only a step apart. Helen gave a self-depreciating smile. "I'm not used to being a 
damsel in distress, but..." She reached out a hand, gently resting it over his jacket where 
his heart ought to beat. She stared, slightly frowning at his silent chest. "I understand 
the literal pains that you had to go to in order to help me, and," Helen's eyes began to 
mist, so she pressed her lips together firmly before she found her voice again, "I just 
wanted to say I'm touched. Thank you. I won't forget -"

     Nick grasped her hand firmly, cutting off her speech. "Don't say you won't forget. 
I shouldn't let you remember what I am."

     "You shouldn't? You should, because I would remember you with kindness." 

     Nick's grip tightened urgently. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."

     Helen stepped back and let her temper flare. "You sure got defensive quickly. I didn't 
think you were going to hurt me, by the way. If you were going to do me any harm, it would 
have been about the time you were salivating over Chauvin's jugular. You didn't kill him, 
and, God knows, it must have been tempting, so I'm feeling pretty damn safe at the moment."

     "Then you're an unusual woman," Nick said, his expression dark.

     "Why? Because I didn't take one look at your fangs and become terrified and irrational?"

     "Most people look upon vampires as monsters."

     "Oh." Helen eyed him thoughtfully as she put her hands on her hips and walked around 
him in a circle. "So I'm supposed to judge you by your appearance rather than by your 
actions. You know, you and Stefan had a lot in common."

     "Was Stefan a murderer?" Nick asked, remaining solemnly stubborn.

     "No, but too often he believed what other people thought of him, rather than what he 
knew he was capable of. The man I loved, the man who had so much love as to fashion that 
statue of me, there is no way that I could see that man as a sideshow freak or a monster. 
I'm sorry, but I have just as much of a problem labeling someone a murderer when they 
risked their very existence to help me. Chauvin's the one who bludgeoned Stefan with a 
tire iron. He's the one who strung John up like an animal. He's the one who wanted to kill 
me. Do you want to kill me, Nick?"

     "No."

     "Do you want to murder anyone ever again?"

     Nick answered with simple honesty. "No."

     "So enough of this 'I'm a murderer' nonsense. What I see is another guy who has 
problems recognizing his own worth and experiences maybe a little too much self-doubt," 
Helen said, sniffing emotionally. "Hey, that's human. That's not a monster."

     The corners of Nick's mouth lifted after a quiet moment. His face seemed to almost 
glow, his eyes carrying a candid sense of peace. Softly, he cradled Helen's face in his 
hand and glanced a gentle kiss off her lips. "Thank you." Nick stepped back, and his smile 
grew wider. "Come to think of it, I'd like to be remembered with kindness."

     Helen winked. "Good for you." She laced an arm around his elbow and ushered him 
toward the door. "Now...about this statue you knocked over..."

     "I guess I blind-sided it on my way in," Nick said sheepishly. "How much?"

     "Oh, I don't want you to buy it!" Helen assured him. "I just want you to pick it up."

     Nick grinned. "Are you sure you aren't taking advantage of my brute strength?"

     Helen pondered for a moment. "No. I'd offer to buy you dinner, but somehow that 
seems awkward."

     "No, I can do dinner. I need more practice," Nick said easily.

     "Oh, okay. How about 'Nuova Luna?'"

     Nick paused for a moment. "You're on...as long as it's the non-smoking section."

***********************************************************************************
End of Part Nine


Unnatural Selection (10/10)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Eight weeks passed before the Dreisen Gallery opened its brand-new front door to the 
public once more. The event was a new exhibition, a retrospective of the works of both 
John Bright and Stefan Esquivel. Nick and Natalie attended, as well as the Schankes. 

     "Donnie, you're right!" Myra exclaimed as she gestured to one painting. "This does look 
just like our Jonathan Livingston Goose!"
       
     Overhearing, Natalie turned mystified eyes toward Nick as she pilfered a glass of 
champagne from a passing tray. "*That's* what they named the adoptee? But the book was 
'Jonathan Livingston Seagull.' How did that get goosed?"

     "Apparently it was Myra's favorite novel in high school. Schanke said something about 
it figuring prominently in the development of her teenage psyche. Ask her. She'll tell you 
about it," Nick teased. "At length."

     "I don't think so," Nat protested as Nick nudged her in Myra's direction.

     "Dare you."

     Natalie sputtered, but it was already too late. Mrs. Schanke had spotted her and was 
dying to share news of her adopted Canadian Goose with a fresh quarry. Nat glared over 
her shoulder as Myra carted her away, and Nick chuckled to himself. Somehow, some way, 
Natalie would find a method to get even with him later.

     "Nick!"
   
     He turned to find a beaming Helen Dreisen approaching him, arms outstretched. She still 
wasn't obviously pregnant, but her waistline had thickened, and Nick could clearly hear the 
rumble of a second heart coming from the direction of her abdomen. "You look wonderful," he 
pronounced, kissing her on either cheek.
     
     Helen slipped her arm about his waist and pulled him toward a waiter. "I should look 
hungry. Where are those canapes?" She popped something tan garnished with parsley into her
mouth, chewed, sighed happily then welcomed Nick anew. "I'm so glad you came."

     "I wouldn't have missed it for the world," Nick promised. "How have you been?"

     Helen quirked and eyebrow, then shrugged. "As expected, I suppose. As soon as all the 
adrenaline left my system, I think I broke down and bawled my eyes out for a month. Then I 
went up north and visited the town where Stefan grew up."

     "Did the orphanage thank you for the donation ChemCorp made in Stefan's name?" Nick asked.

     Helen waved one slender hand dismissively. "No. I didn't tell them I had anything to 
do with that. Seriously, I didn't want anything more to do with pharmaceutical companies 
or their representatives in any shape or form by the time Chauvin's arraignment rolled 
around, but letting Doctor Finnester take samples was a matter of Stefan's wishes, not 
mine. I surely wasn't going to take credit for it. Anyway, after wandering around said 
orphanage, I started thinking about how selling some of Stefan's sculptures could benefit 
them even more, and I began to put this show together."

     "It looks as though you have a swarm of buyers," Nick congratulated.

     A greedy tint lit Helen's eyes. "Yes, don't I?" She changed directions, tugging Nick 
after her. "Come on. I want to show you something."

     As they walked toward a different wing of the gallery, Nick asked, "Tell me. Did you 
find out the sex of the baby yet?"

     "Mm-hmm. It's a boy."

     Nick studied her for some sign as to how she felt about the outcome. "So are you happy 
or disappointed?"

     Helen stopped walking and turned to face him, taking his hand within her own. "Neither 
and both." She smiled enigmatically, shaking her head. "Some of my friends assume I must be 
relieved that he won't have the hypertrichosis gene, while others think I have to be 
devastated that he won't take after Stefan. They just don't get it."

     "Either way, the baby's still half Stefan," Nick agreed.

     "Exactly." She gripped his hands excitedly, swinging their coupled palms slightly 
from side to side. "And that's what's important."

     Nick returned her smile, then paused as he noticed the image that hung on the wall 
behind her. "I recognize that painting."

     "I wondered if you would. You see, the reason I could include John's work in this 
show was he actually left them to me. When I sorted through the pieces at his loft, I 
came across this one. I remembered you saying something about a painting of trees that 
gave you hope, and I wondered if this was the image you were talking about."

     "Yes," Nick said softly. "It is." Reaching a decision to buy it, he lowered his eyes 
to the catalog. "It's marked 'Not For Sale,'" he said in disappointment.

     Helen's eyes flashed winsomely. "That's because I'm giving it to you. You're the first 
person beside myself who ever saw John was an artist in his own right. I like people who 
agree with me. Just don't hang it over your couch."

     "I wouldn't dream of it," Nick vowed.

     "Good. That settled," she began, giving Nick a swift farewell kiss, "I have to go 
circulate amongst the crowd, convincing those who don't know art when they see it to buy 
a nice painting of a goose."

     "I'll remember you with kindness," Nick said with mock-solemnity.

     She shook a finger at him. "Don't you start." Helen gave a final wave and called 
over her shoulder. "Enjoy!"

     Nick was still studying his new painting when Natalie caught up with him. "What's that?"
     
     "My new painting."

     Natalie peered at the name placard. "'Calvaria.' Hmm...doesn't look like part of the 
skull."

     "That's because it's supposed to be a Calvaria *tree,*" Nick explained.

     "In that case, he did a good job," Natalie relented. "Why, if I may be so curious, 
would you want a painting of a Calvaria tree?"
     
     "Ah." Nick wrapped an arm around her shoulders and smiled. "The story behind this tree 
reminds me of us."

     "Oh, really?" Natalie blinked rapidly for a moment, not certain what to make of his 
proclamation. "This I've got to hear."

     "Calvaria trees are native to the island of Mauritius," Nick began, "as was the 
ill-fated dodo bird. It's LaCroix's fault they went extinct, by the way."

     Natalie appeared suitably horrified. "Why am I not surprised?"

     "Around the time the dodo became increasingly sparse, the people who settled on 
Mauritius began to notice the Calvaria weren't producing new trees. Turns out, the dodo 
was necessary to the tree's reproduction cycle. Only after the birds ate the fruit of 
the tree, and the seeds traveled through their digestive tract, would a new Calvaria 
germinate. Once the dodo became extinct, the remaining population of trees lived on, 
season after season, but, at the same time, they were already dead."

     "So, if you were a tree," Natalie joked, "this is the kind of tree you would be."

     "That about covers it."

     Natalie pointed to the painting. "But this image...the artist shows new shoots growing 
below the main tree."

     "That's because in recent years, modern science came along and decided to try and find 
a way to save the Calvaria tree, bringing it back to life, so to speak. Someone figured out 
that turkeys work just as well as a dodo bird."

     "And they lived happily ever after," Natalie finished. She looked searchingly up at 
Nick, asking, "Do you really believe that I'm modern science meant to bring you back to life?"

     "Yes, I do." Nick hugged her close for a moment, then said, "In many ways, I think 
you already have."

     "Hmm." Natalie smiled, studying the painting a while longer. "I like it. It gives me 
this sense of hope." She tossed Nick a grin. "What can I say? It's art."

***********************************************************************************
End of Part Ten
End of Unnatural Selection

Bonnie Rutledge......Perky Redhead, Barbarian, Evil
Nunkies Anonymous Homepage: http://www.geocities.com/~br1035/nunkies.html
Spare Bambi!                                LaCroix for President - 2000!

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