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Message-ID: <47400asstr$1081725002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 22 {Imagineer} (nosex viol dream ScFi)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 19:10:02 -0400
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Cruel Summer

copyright 2001-2004 by Imagineer.

comments to 
imagineer 47: yahoo green eggs com ham
but without the green eggs or ham

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Imagineer/www/


// 22: Tracked



  BOBBY GRANADA
  17350 143RD AVE
  OAK VALLEY

  A dried, crinkled mailing label. Peeled from one of the half-dozen
"Penthouse Forum Letters" piled on the floor next to the toilet in
Valerie's apartment. Apparently Bobby spent a lot of time there. Had it
not been for the magazines, Max would have no leads at all. But he was
unconcerned. Having a single path to follow made it difficult to get
lost. He knew the amulet would see him to his destination.

  He looked up. Old neighborhood. Small houses, big yards. They
reminded him of farmers' mud houses in rural China.

  A knock on the door went unanswered. But a rustling through the open
bedroom window suggested someone was home.

  He walked around to the side of the house, through the gate into the
back yard. Fished the garage key out of the nearest flower pot. In the
garage, fished the house key out of the back of the workbench junk
drawer. Predictable behavior. Bobby's parents must be old enough to
have lived in a time before every American house had to be locked. Had
locks but didn't consider them normal routine, were afraid of locking
themselves out of their own home, so "hidden" keys were necessary. Max
was reminded of his own father in China when the family was moved from
the farm to the city.

  Max glided through the house, mentally mapping it and locating the
bedroom that corresponded with the open window through which he'd heard
activity.

  The door to the room was ajar. Max paused outside it, listening to
the sound of rushed breathing and rhythmic fabric.

  "Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm! Mmm. Hmm. Hmm."

  Max stepped into the room. A young man lay on a small bed, fully
clothed, fly open, swollen member in hand, fist stroking rapidly up and
down.

  Bobby had been blessed.

  "What da fuck?" The young man was a blur of motion, like a strand of
firecrackers bouncing madly about the bed, trying desperately to close
himself up. "Who da fuck are you? How'd you get in here? Don't you
fucking knock? Owww!" he yelled as his zipper snagged. "Oww! Oww!
Shhhit... whew." His breathing was labored. He struggled to stand, his
posture awkward until his member shrank. He grabbed an aluminum
baseball bat leaning up against the wall next to the foot of the bed.
"Tell me why I shouldn't... (gasp) bash your *fucking* skull in!"

  Max was unmoved. "Please. I did not wish to disturb you. I need only
know where Valerie is." Bobby looked younger, less weathered than
Valerie's two other friends. Despite the weapon, Max did not feel
threatened. Something about the bad-boy uniform said fashion more than
fact.


  The asian man's stoic demeanor bewildered Bobby and held him in check
for the moment. "Val? What da fuck you want with her?"
  "That is not your concern."
  "Fuck it ain't," Bobby took a half-step toward the man but then for
some reason paused when the man raised his hand as if to silence him.
  "I wish you no harm. Tell me where Valerie is and I will be on my way
and you can continue your meditation."
  That the forty-year-old looking Chinese guy in front of him showed
not a trace of irony or humor in his comment at once incensed and
calmed Bobby. This was so... weird...
  "I... I guess she'd be at her apartment, unless she's out looking for
a job."
  "She was not there."
  Weird. Every time Bobby got the urge to just beat this guy down --
self-defense against an intruder in his own house, well, his mom and
dad's, but still -- something in him told him to relax and let things
play out.


  The amulet was warm and buzzing. Not as intense as before, but a
clear indication nonetheless. Max crossed the room, his eyes locked
with Bobby's. Bobby twitched the end of the bat once, twice... then
dropped it. Bobby's face wrinkled into confused passive concern.

  Max put a hand on the young man's shoulder, guiding him to sit at the
foot of the bed while Max stood over him. Bobby stared straight ahead,
his eyes looking at and then through the signed Jenna Jameson poster...

  Images came slowly. Clear but not intense. Bobby had felt her.
Perhaps not recently, but not briefly either. Night. Girl. Sapphire.
Chase. Field. Damp. Watching. Thrusting. Spent. Very similar images to
the second young man's visions at the airport. They were probably both
the same event. The taste of this encounter was... *sweeter*... than
the first one's at the airport or the last one's at Valerie's
apartment. Probably owing to this first experience being older, the
bitterness fading with willed memory.

  "You were with her when she wore the stones," Max intoned.
  "Who Val? Oh.. no.. yeah, *her*..." Bobby answered. Why was he
answering this man? And what made him think of that girl they'd fleeced
and fucked that night? The Princess Whore...
  "Where is she?"
  "Who? I don't know, it was just the one time..."
  No wonder he was meditating, Max mused. He emptied his mind to see
what else Bobby had seen...

  Restraining. Touching. Words.
  "What did she say?"
  "Umm..." Bobby mumbled, "Serving us just ice or something..."
  "Justice?"
  "Um, yeah I guess, yeah... justice like the other guys got..."


  Bobby's vision blurred.
  "Where can I find these others?" the stranger asked.
  "I don't know-ohh." Damn, I feel dizzy... "I think they made the
paper. I thought the chick was crazy, but then these two guys started,
ummm..." Would the room just stop spinning for a second? "These two
guys who shot up a convenie shtore umm said they were attacked by some
girl, no wai... ihwuz zat tsabloid raggh, Whirled Noozh..." Bobby
blinked repeatedly to try to stay awake and tie the room down, without
success.
  "If she had to leave, where would she go?"
  "I... I don't know m-m-man." He felt like he was gonna hurl, like
this guy was spinning him around blindfolded, but he was just sitting
down on the bed? "Really, man, I-I-... I dunnohh."


  Max let go and stood up. There was nothing left in this one.

  His path remained oblique to his objective. So be it.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  "Excuse me, where would I find 'World News'?"

  The librarian looked up from her terminal. A Chinese man dressed in
all black stood before her, appearing very proper and still. "Oh, do
you mean like a section, or the tabloid?"
  "The tabloid."
  "Oh, we don't have that one here. Director's kinda snobbish about
junk mags. I had to get patrons to call and complain just to get him to
carry 'People.'"

  The man looked disappointed.
  "Hey, but I'll tell you what, I brought in my own copy of last week's
-- some of the staff here likes to read it on break -- and I'll let you
look at it if you stay here at the counter."
  An appreciative smile grew. "I would be in your debt." He nodded his
upper body as a bowing gesture.
  "I'll be right back."


  "So whaddaya think about the Angel?" the librarian asked.
  "Hmm?" Max looked up from the Guardian Angel article in the World
Weekly News. The librarian had been watching him read.
  "The Guardian Angel. Think she's real?"
  "Of course."
  "Yeah, ordinarily I think those stories are all bullsh... baloney,
but then those two burglars she helped catch actually used her as a
defense...."
  "Defense?" Max was confused.
  "Yeah, their lawyer actually said they weren't there to rob the place
at all, they were just minding their own business when the Angel here
attacked 'em, and they were just defendin' themselves," the librarian
explained, pointing at the blurry image behind the story.

  "I see," Max replied. "What happened?"
  "Nothin' yet, but the DA called for a quick trial hearing so they
should be startin' it soon. Here, lemme check the paper." The librarian
retreated from the counter to a rack of newspapers hung on wooden
dowels. "Yeah, I thought I saw something on the case this morning when
I racked these. Here you go," she said as she brought a dowel over and
laid the paper on the counter, arranging it so that Max could see it
right-side up.

  The librarian thumbed through the pages, turning to one with a
picture of three men in suits, two uncomfortably so, walking down a
flight of stairs surrounded by microphones and cameras.
  "Sonofabitch..." the librarian mouthed, then caught herself. "Oh,
excuse me. I was just surprised. Looks like they got off on a
technicality. So much for an Angel's work, huh?"

  Max studied the photo, then skimmed the article until he found the
two defendants' names, and the name of their attorney. "Thank you."

  The librarian turned to address a couple of rowdy teens. "Quiet!" she
hissed. When she turned back, the man was gone.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Noel knocked on the captain's door. He noticed Miguel Rubio was
seated across from the captain. Rubio turned around and gave Noel an
insulting smirk.

  Captain Ramirez beckoned to Noel. "Ahh, good, come in Aquino." Rubio
got up to leave; the captain gave him a parting comment. "Let me know
if you think there's a connection to Kermit."

  Noel gave Ramirez a quizzical look. Ramirez explained: "Another pimp
died in Twisted Oaks . . ."


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  "You stupid fuck!"
  Valerie shouted at the crumpled young man at her feet. The dark stain
spread around his hand, blood soaking into his 76ers jersey. She
watched his eyes glaze as he bled out.
  She flashed back a few moments...

  "Yo baby whassup?"
  Valerie turned and looked him over as he approached her. Ka-ching!
"Nothin' baby," she replied.
  "Oh, sumthin' definitely up." The vibe turned aggressive. "I watched
you turn down three customers. I don't care if you're a cop, a
reporter, or just a lousy whore, you betta git yo ass off mah street."
Yep, Val's instincts had been right again. This would be score number
four tonight, her second pimp plus the two loaded johns.

  "I'll call it a night just as soon as you hand over your cash." She
stepped toward him.
  "Excuse the fuck outta me!" the wannabe hoops player called up anger
even as his eyes darted over her form suspiciously. Checking for any
sign of weapons, sizing her up for a tussle. Val drew her hands out of
her coat pockets slowly, showing him they were empty. Egging him on.

  He grabbed her arm -- damn he was quick! -- and spun her around him
against the wall. His bigger body pressed in behind her, pinning her to
the wall. She made no attempt to fight him as he patted her down. He
retrieved an unreasonably-fat roll of cash from her pocket. "Now who's
handing over whose cash to who?" Satisfied she was unarmed -- there
weren't many places to hide anything the way she was dressed -- he
pushed off of her and turned to walk away.

  Val struck, grabbing his shoulder viciously and spinning him around
-- turnabout fair play, she thought -- and launched her knee to his
groin -- smack!

  What the fuck? Who wears a cup on the street?

  "Occupational hazard," he smiled cruelly. She heard a Snick! Neon
signs reflected in the blade as it flashed toward her, his whole body
lunging.

  The blade slid off her bare midriff like she was teflon.

  The pimp stumbled -- why wasn't the knife in her?

  Val stepped back, giving her adversary nothing but air to grab on his
way to kissing pavement. His gasp sounded wet. He didn't move. She
stepped up and pushed him over with her foot.

  "You fell on your own knife? You stupid fuck!"

  He looked up at her with a lost expression while she gingerly pried
her cash roll out of his fingers, then pulled his own wad of cash out
of his warmups pocket. The pimp's hand weakly brushed hers in a vain
attempt to stop the appropriation.

  "Thanks a lot asshole," she spat at him. "Thanks to you everybody's
gonna get all up in my shit."

  Lifeless eyes watched her retreat into darkness.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  " . . . Could be coincidence, but there's enough weird shit going on
these days that I want to look at it very closely."

  Noel bristled at Ramirez' reminder that real case work still went on
while Noel was stuck giving daily non-updates for a non-case. He was
beginning to wonder if maybe a real suspension would have been so bad.

  Ramirez reached under his desk and whipped out a newspaper, smacking
it down on the clean desktop. "World News Weekly was nice enough to
courier over an advance copy of their next issue. It hits the stands
later tonight."

  AVENGING ANGEL STRIKES AGAIN!
  Cops Baffled - Can't Stop Heavenly Vigilante

  Noel grimaced after reading the headlines. Shoot. This wasn't good.

  "It's your case, Aquino, so it's your copy. Take it." Noel reached
out and pulled the tabloid into his lap.

  Noel did a double-take on the cover photo. Unlike the blurry shadowy
image from the original Avenging Angel piece, this picture was clear.
He flipped to the article inside; it featured the same picture, but
less cropped, with more background. Noel recognized the particular
alley where the shot was taken -- behind a dance club over in Irving;
the only one still 18-and-up.

  At first it looked like a doctored photo, since the girl was standing
on a guy's front teeth as he was falling over. But there was no
"composite photo" or "artist's conception" fine-print disclaimer in the
corner.

  Flipped-up shredded skirt. Other leg tucked. Something like torn
sleeves parachuting above and behind. She wasn't standing on his teeth,
she was kicking them in, on her way down from a leap of "Crouching
Tiger, Hidden Dragon" proportions.

  Great legs. Great ass. Smooth, arched spine. Long, dark, windblown
hair.

  Damn this Angel was gorgeous. The image was almost sexy enough to
make him stop thinking about Angela. 

  No it wasn't.
  But it did make him wonder what Angela would look like dressed up in
the same costume.
  His own little angel . . . a very naughty angel . . .

  Ramirez had said something.
  "Huh?" Aquino said densely.
  "I said, what have you got so far?"
  "Nothing really."
  "And what have you *done* so far?"

  Noel did some fast talking. "Um, well, I reviewed the files of the
QuickMart perps for anything interesting in their priors, but there's
nothing that suggests any particular suspects or even a strong motive
for revenge." Mental note: better actually do that in case there is
something to be found. 

  Noel looked at Ramirez; he obviously expected more. "A-and I
revisited the scene." Not pleased. More. "Um, and I called the paper
and asked about the photographer; I haven't gotten his name and address
yet." Noel hoped that was enough; he couldn't think of anything else
that wasn't an obvious lie.

  Ramirez grunted disapprovingly before he reached across his desk to
grab a stack of sticky-notes. He tossed it in Noel's lap. "There; I got
it for you this morning. I expect you to talk to him today. Since
you're obviously *not* *doing* *anything* *ELSE* *on* *this* *case!*"
Ramirez' voice ramped up like an unmuffled Hemi goosing up to redline.
Noel couldn't help but shrink down in his chair.

  "Look, I don't care how stupid this case is. I expect you to beat
this dead horse until your arms fall off. The QuickMart pricks' lawyer
is talking seven-figure civil suit now that his boys got off on a
technicality. The mayor wants that shark off his back. And I want the
mayor off my back. Which means you're gonna have me on your back until
every stone's been turned. Hell, if you can't find the real Angel, get
somebody to dress up like her and make up a credible self-defense
story. Quit half-assing it Aquino or I'll put you on parade duty
following the mounted units!" Point taken, even if they didn't actually
have any officers on horseback.

  "Fifteen minutes ago I had the County Times call me for a comment.
This is turning into a Force Five Shitstorm. Clean it up. Or at least
find me a god-damned broom."

  Noel knew stuff rolled downhill, but this was ridiculous. What could
he honestly be expected to do? From what he'd already skimmed this
"new" Avenging Angel report happened the same night, and probably
didn't contain any new information. They were just milking the story to
sell out another issue. For all anyone knew, the whole thing amounted
to a couple of staged photos after somebody got wind of a con's
acid-tripped story. Heck, Noel wouldn't put it past that lawyer to have
staged the whole thing -- all just preparation for a run at a city
council seat on a police reform platform.

  Ramirez fumed. "Why are you still sitting there? Go catch yourself an
Angel!"

  For an instant, Noel thought he said "Angela."


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Max tempered his disappointment. So it had been the amulet and not
his demeanor that had somehow gotten the QuickMart duo's address from
their lawyer; either way, the deed was still done. He could hardly have
expected to walk into the man's office and have the answer given with
as little fanfare as if he'd asked for the lawyer's own business card.
And yet that's what had happened. Somehow holding the amulet let Max
get what he wanted from people. Including, apparently, having them
forget he existed. After all, wouldn't a good criminal lawyer warn his
clients that a mysterious and possibly dangerous man had obtained their
address? And yet Max was now outside the dilapidated garage next to the
old railroad line and the two criminals were sitting inside eating
sandwiches.

  Max gripped the amulet in his coat pocket. Clearly there was more to
this relic and the sapphires he sought than anyone had expected.

  He knocked lightly on the door. Through the window he could see one
of them panic; the other calmly went to the window and locked eyes with
Max. "We're closed. Go away."

  "I would like to ask you a few questions about your attacker."
  "We already sold our story exclusive to World News Weekly. I'd love
to help you out, but it would be a violation of our contract." He moved
away from the window and resumed eating his sandwich. His partner
seemed to have calmed down enough to continue lunch as well.

  "I am not a reporter," Max called out through the door.
  "Then we *really* have nothing to talk about," came the full-mouthed
reply.

  The amulet shivered.
  Max tried the door. It was unlocked.

  He immediately made eye contact with the nervous one in back. His
gaze seemed to calm the man. Meanwhile the bigger one at the nearer
desk stood up, incredulous and steaming.

  "You're tresspassing, Mr. Miyagi." Max did not get the reference, but
he knew the distinctly Japanese name was not meant as a compliment.
"Given recent events, I'm within my rights to kill you where you
stand." He was unusually well-spoken for a common thug. Apparently his
lawyer had schooled him well. He must be Devon; that would make the
excitable one behind him RC.

  Max reached out and rested a hand on Devon's. The taller & thicker
man pulled his hand back like he'd touched a live wire. "...da fock?!"
he cursed. Taking a step back, his other hand reached behind his back
and returned pointing the blue-black brick barrel of an automatic
pistol. "I think it's time you bowed out, Miyagi."

  Max took a step back. He put his hand in his coat pocket. "Get your
hands up!" Devon shouted. Max slowly pulled his hand back out of his
pocket, fingers extended to show he was not holding anything
threatening. A small glass orb, not unlike a child's shooting marble,
was held between his first two fingers.

  "I do not wish to distress you," Max said with an exaggerated accent.
He began a dramatic flourish of a bow, his eyes never leaving those of
his opponent. His empty hand swept out in front of him, palm up in
caricature fashion. Max watched Devon's eyes fix on his forward-moving
hand as the most immediate and suspicious movement, the muscles around
Devon's eyes relaxing as he recognized the harmless gesture. Max's
other hand swept back and then windmilled over his head with great
speed, his wrist flicking the marble free at the top of the arc. The
glass orb disappeared in a blur, reappearing as a mighty Crack! against
Devon's forehead. The impact instantly registered as a searing white
light, momentarily blinding and disorienting the criminal. Max's
windmill followed through, carrying him forward, gripping Devon's
shock-brittled hand. Still bent over, Max spun around like a U-joint,
his other hand coming up and taking the gun.

  Devon blinked as he toppled backwards into the desk chair. Before he
landed, the marble ricocheted off the wall behind Max and
clunk-clunk-clunked to the floor.

  RC sat motionless, his mouth hung open, tuna salad perched
precariously on his bottom lip.

  "I can see how a young woman would have had no trouble with you two,"
Max said ruefully.

  He glided around behind Devon, keeping an eye and the gun trained on
RC. Amulet dangling by its chain over the back of his free hand, he
placed the palm on Devon's forehead. "Tell me what you know of your
attacker."


  Devon did not speak; somehow he knew he didn't have to. Images of
that fateful night flooded him -- images that had teased and tormented
him every night in his sleep.


  Max received a rush of disorienting images that settled into a clear
story. It was much as described in the tabloid, and yet much different.
The girl was small, tiny even, with an impossible wasp waist and
impossible huge spherical breasts. She flitted about like a dragonfly,
dodging and weaving as Devon grabbed for her, laughing and tittering at
his frustration. Then suddenly he grabbed an ankle when she came too
close, hauling her down out of the air like a broken kite. She squealed
alarm in a little-girl voice, "please Mister, I'm sorry I teased you,
let me go, I promise I'll be nice..." Her big breasts jiggled as she
squirmed, his muscular arm circling her waist and squeezing her up
against him. "Please Mister, I... Ooooh!" her surprise cut her protest
short as she felt his hard dick press into her crotch. His other hand
reached around her, up her flimsy skirt, hooking her little g-string
and snapping it off her like a clothing price tag...

  Max could see where this silly fantasy was going. Entertaining,
perhaps, but not instructive. He reached deeper. Devon groaned.

  Suddenly the same scene played again, but dark and foreboding.
Searchlights criss-crossed the parking lot from overhead. The girl was
tall, muscular, with evil glowing eyes and bared teeth. Her wings were
huge leathery appendages, her nails long and sharp like talons. She
moved like a feline predator with slow measured steps punctuated by
lightning-quick leaps. Leaping toward him, bearing down on him with a
howling scream, landing in front of him in a crouch, leaning over him,
her panting mouth inches from his, her fiery eyes burning right through
him. He was small, weak. One hand reached down between his legs; he
heard a rip and felt a cool breeze, her fingertips grazing his scrotum
like icy nails. He twitched involuntarily as he felt the she-demon
lower her sinewy rippling body down on him. She settled, a wicked smile
growing as he lay there, horrified and horny. She towered over him, her
razor-sharp claws snicking against each other as her hands twitched,
something inside her hesitating, no, savoring this long moment in which
she would decide his fate. The air split by her scream, his chest
burned as she dug into him, tearing into his flesh, piercing his heart
. . .

  Max staggered as he let go the man's hand; it fell limply to the
desk. The corpse that was Devon folded accordion-like on the chair,
torso felled forward, head smacking the desk with a hollow thud. The
vision was disturbing. Clearly not events as they happened, but as they
tormented him night after night. But the disturbing image was tempered
with an adrenaline rush more pure than Max had ever felt outside
meditation. His body was adapting to the sensations of shared memory
the amulet elicited. Where at first, at the airport, he had felt
disorientation and nausea, he now felt clarity and power and...
pleasure.

  Devon's contrasting memories were obviously fabrication. The truth
was perhaps somewhere in the middle, but this man had lingered on the
memory so many times he'd replaced actual recollection with equal parts
fantasy and nightmare.

  Max's eyes had never left RC's, but the latter man still sensed a
return of focus. RC looked to Devon with concern. "Your friend is
dead," Max answered the unarticulated question. "He could tell me
nothing useful."


  RC's blood ran cold. He knew he wouldn't be able to tell this man
anything useful either.

  In a flash the Asian stranger was upon him. RC struggled to get up,
but he felt a numbing disconnect with his body as it settled back into
the office chair. The stranger stood behind him now, his hands around
RC's neck. A part of him expected to feel his neck squeezed. Instead,
the squeezing sensation was in his mind... and he felt it pop as
memories of the Avenging Angel poured out.

  Stumbling. A girl. Get away. Car. The Girl. Shoot? No. Retreat. The
Girl -- Witness-Threat-Target. Attack. Disappeared? Above. Impact.
Headache. Retreat. Sledgehammers. The Girl, Here -- Impossible!
Slammed. Head hit. Fade to black.

  RC broke contact; it felt like his brain was on fire, and he wanted
to vomit. He wished the world would stop spinning. "Stop, please,
stop... Please don't kill me. I don't know who she is, I don't know
where she came from, I don't know how to find her. Please don't kill
me."


  Max didn't think of his treatment of this man as a moral issue.
Holding the lives of others in his hands was hardly a new experience to
the weathered "family" associate. For twenty years he'd suspended his
judgement of his own actions. He never wondered why he was asked to do
things; that was not his place. Those questions were pondered by other
men; other men carried the burdens of his actions. Max was merely the
instrument of their execution, the vessel of a higher power's will. As
he was now.

  The amulet was still shivering; Max felt a hunger stirring. There was
still sapphire essence in this man.

  Max's eyes were soothing as he softly placed his hand on RC's head... 

  ...and ripped the life out of him.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  We don't need no education
  We don't need no thought control
  No dark sarcasm in the classroom
  Teacher leave them kids alone
  Hey! Teacher! Leave them kids alone
  All in all you're just another brick in the wall

  The arrangement was instrumental, but Andrew knew the words. A
classic from before his time, required listening for any student. 
  He never thought he'd hear The Wall as elevator music...

  The elevator doors opened. Andrew walked straight past the nurse
station, picking his destination off the room assignment board.

  508 - GRANADA

  A little fantasy played out in his mind. He would catch Eric here, in
the act of finishing the job.

  But that wasn't going to happen. Not if what Bobby's mom had told
Andrew was true. He would know soon enough.

  Andrew glanced up and down the hall. It was almost 8 o'clock. The
rhythms of medical equipment played to a mostly-unaware audience. Most
visitors had left already.

  Andrew entered the room.

  Bobby looked dead. Ghostly pale. After a very long moment, Andrew saw
him take a breath. Not dead, but not far off.

  To think that Andrew had initially figured Bobby was really Eric...
this punk was barely 18, if that.

  There was a chair but Andrew did not sit. His hand reached up behind
his back, checking his gun. The rustle of his jacket, or perhaps the
weight of his presence in the room, caused Bobby to stir.

  His eyes opened with effort, blinking themselves into focus. He
didn't speak, but his eyebrows asked the question: who are you?

  "My name is Andrew. I'm with the federal government." He leaned in
closer, whispered more quietly. "I'm here to find the person that did
this to you. Do you remember him?"

  Bobby's response was barely audible; Andrew cocked his head to hear
him better. "I was just in my room. I was feeling tired, so I took a
nap. I dreamed about... this girl... Val... sex... I woke up here."

  There was no fear in the boy's eyes. Only confusion. He wasn't hiding
anything. He wished he knew what had happened to him.

  "I'm so tired. The doctor won't tell me why I'm... so tired..." his
eyes went from pleading to resignation.

  "Thank you, Bobby. Go back to sleep."

  Andrew left, passing the elevator for the stairs.

  Whatever herb or chemical or accupressure or accupuncture or hypnosis
trick Eric had used, it was effective. No one at all would even have
known anyone had visited the boy if Bobby's mom hadn't come home early
and seen a strange man leaving her side yard. But she was so
suggestible -- her description changed with the questions put to her --
that the idea of an intruder was easily dismissed. With no physical
evidence at the house and no medical explanation for Bobby's condition
beyond a low red blood cell count and a healthy cross-section of
recreational drugs in his system, no one thought anything of it.

  Eric was just cleaning up loose ends. And he was done with this one.

  Andrew was so close, yet so far. Unless Val landed in his lap -- and
that would be too good to be true on more than one level -- he was
fucked. And he was pretty sure a girl like that knew how to disappear.

  "Fuck!"


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Max sat in the old man's chair, phone to his ear as he waited for the
call to go through. A very old ceramic teacup wafted steam from the low
wood end table next to him.

  Max hadn't planned on ever seeing the old man -- a longtime friend of
"the family" whose home in Chinatown provided a contact point and safe
haven for decades -- but recent events prompted too many questions.
Ordinarily he cared nothing for the significance of the people and
objects he was sent to find, but the amulet and the visions it brought
him went far beyond any ancient mysticism he could accept. This was no
abstract curse or pressure-point trick or meditative technique or
mind-altering substance.

  This was power on another plane. And it made him question his
objectivity and motive. Perhaps fate had chosen a more significant role
for him. He needed to know more, to prepare for the day when he held
the sapphires. To decide if they should be his.

  So he decided to go to the source.

  And now he was waiting for Wai-Sun Kwan, archaeologist and loyal
"family" man. He knew little about Kwan. Kwan had been the one to alert
the family to the Chinese government's unusual interest in ancient
sapphire jewelry recovered from his dig in far-west China, jewelry that
had been stolen from the government by an American spy before the
family could steal them. And Kwan had smuggled to family leaders the
amulet with the cryptic proviso that it would help recover the
gemstones.

  "[Hello?]" came the Mandarin greeting.
  "[Kwan. This is Chow.]" Chow was the name given to Max's assignment.
  "[Have you found the stones?]"
  Kwan was speaking directly. Max looked down at the phone. The black
box next to it was supposed to scramble their conversation. It was for
the old man's protection, and Kwan's. Max was unconcerned for himself.
  "[No, but my path remains well-marked.]" True enough; Max had yet to
visit the convenience store where the Avenging Angel had appeared.
Surely the amulet would continue to guide him.
  "[You wish to know more about the stones.]"
  "[And the amulet.]"
  "[The amulet will lead you to the stones.]"
  "[How?]" Was the amulet's behavior expected?
  "[It is not clear. The writings say only that the man with the amulet
sees the path to the stones and defeats others who wish to take them.]"
  "[What of the stones?]"
  "[They protect a woman who wears them. The crown identifies or joins
the stones to the wearer. They focus or collect energy. She bonds with
her attackers or suitors or many people to release or collect energy.]"
  "[You sound unsure of the translation.]"
  "[There is not enough here to fully establish meaning. Much of the
writing remains undecipherable or has too many possible translations to
be useful. Most of what we know is from the pictographs. What can you
tell me of the amulet? Of the stones?]"
  "[I do see the path to the stones.]"
  "[How? You have visions?]"
  Max's instinct told him to hold back.
  "[No, the amulet brings luck. It leads me to those who have touched
the stones. What else can you tell me?]"
  "[There is a gate or portal or ring where the man with the amulet and
the woman with the stones meet.]"
  "[A portal? To what? Do they open it? How?]"
  "[I do not know. There is only one picture of the gate here. It could
be nothing. I have found no supporting text for it. I think there was
more but it has been destroyed. Or removed.]"
  "[So tell me Kwan, why is there such interest in these stones?]"
  "[The government believes the pictographs are nothing more than
warnings of radioactivity -- the area *is* somewhat radioactive -- and
that the sapphires were believed by the ancient builders to protect the
king and queen from the effects of radiation. Their interest lies not
in the story but in the sapphires themselves. The government believes
the sapphires are uniquely pure and perfectly formed, and can be used
to build a powerful laser. If this is true, or even if they simply
continue to believe it is true, the sapphires will be worth a great
deal of money. So will you recover them soon?]"
  "[I do not know. The amulet guides me.]" Max hung up.

  So I am to be a king.


   


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