Unfortunately our free enterprise system is not working as it should for many reasons, all bad for the average American entrepreneur. Many equate free enterprise with capitalism. It is my contention that our brand of capitalism will cause the demise of free enterprise and left to its own devices will eventually make every American a unit of labor competing with every unit of labor overseas. We are in the process of becoming indentured servants to the corporation, a working commodity.

Those afforded the ability to gain the most from American innovativeness are no longer the innovators; they are no longer the entrepreneurs. We have become a society that rewards those who move capital and have the ability to cater laws to their benefit. We reward a class of people that provide no real tangible service or product of value proportional to their earnings or wealth.

The wealth and income disparity in the country is not an accident. There are many systemic reasons why this disparity will continue. As long as we have a Right Wing misinformation engine that remains effective in indoctrinating a large percentage of the population to vote policy makers into office that ultimately pass laws that is against their own financial interest, the trend will continue. The following chart shows the progressive decline in wealth of the bottom 80% of the US population.

When the elevator doors opened I was immediately aware that something was amiss in my hallway. There was a large box leaning up against my apartment door. I looked up at John who was still on the phone. He was eying the package and was now regarding my reaction. I wasn’t expecting anything and the pit of my stomach started churning at the thought of who this was from. Usually packages where picked up from the doormen. I was struggling to fight a feeling of dread for this moment that I knew was coming.

After I settled into the apartment and put my bags down I went to open the box. It was a large vase with a dozen long stem lavender and pink roses. My heart stood still since it couldn’t sink and soar at the same time. There was no note, but I knew who they were from. I put them on the counter and went to the fridge to grab a water bottle silently offering one to John who was wrapping up his phone call. He headed towards me accepting the water and eying me expectantly.

“Sooo, who is your admirer? That is one heck of an arrangement.”

He was so hard to read sometimes, but common sense told me there was some jealousy and concern to be dealt with here.

“I would love to tell you, but there wasn’t a note.” I gulped my water hoping the chill would help cool my internal stirrings.

“No note? Well, shouldn’t it have been left with the doorman?”

No amount of water was going to help me.

“Um. Yes, packages are usually left with the doorman.”

There was an awkward silence as he pulled away from me and loosened his tie.
I watched really in suspense, because I didn’t know how he would react. I didn’t want to lie but I knew my evasive answers weren’t going to cut it either. He picked up the box examining the exterior.

“Well there is no label, no note, and it wasn’t left with the doorman which is usual protocol. Pink roses mean happiness or romance, and lavender roses mean adoration or love at first sight. So, Jade, either you have a stalker or you are not telling me something.”

He put the box back down and walked over to the chaise, lying back with his hands supporting the back of his head.
Grow a pair and have this conversation already!
I followed him over to the couch.
“I think it’s the Dark Knight.”

There I said it.

I didn’t do anything wrong and needed to stop acting like I did. He nodded in satisfaction that his hunch was correct and that I told the truth.

“Are you still seeing him?” There was no expression in his tone.

“Really? When would I be doing that? I haven’t seen him since the last time you saw him so this is equally weird to me. As far as I knew he was out of the country so…” I replied.

He didn’t ask any more questions so I walked back to the kitchen to unpack my groceries so that I could get started on dinner and my light house work. My thoughts raced as I wondered if Julian was really back. I felt the stirrings of panic at the thought of one of his emotional confrontations.
Would I be strong enough to resist?

As I was putting my eggs and bacon into the fridge, John came up pushing the door closed from behind, pinning me up against it. Lost in my own thoughts I jumped at his sudden presence behind me. I didn’t even hear him approach me. I could feel the intensity of his emotions and it made me tremble as he played with the loose tendrils of my up do.

“Jade, I asked you if he was your guy and you said he wasn’t. If there is something more going on please tell me. I hate finding things out,” he finally responded.
I shuddered from both the soft touch of his fingers as they lightly caressed my neck and the strange darkness that lined his words.

“John, there is nothing going on that I am hiding from you. I met him before you and he was interested in me. Very interested but for some reason unexplained to me he had to go away for business and I haven’t seen him since nor have I heard from him.”

My voice sounded like a small child. I turned around to face him not being able to stand the torture of being cornered anymore. He placed his other hand on the fridge trapping me in his prison. We stared at each other wordlessly, me because I didn’t know what I should say and him because he wasn’t sure what he could say. He had to trust my words and any further questioning would indicate a lack thereof. He also had to know that I couldn’t stop another man from wanting me.
I anchored my hands onto the side of his navy blue dress shirt wanting desperately to break the silent impasse between us. It was almost as if he didn’t want to take off the armor that he just put up but I didn’t want him to slip away from me.

“John? I love you.”

He leaned down pressing his forehead against mine. His body trembled and I knew he had to be afraid because I was too. Even if it was for different reasons.

I turned my face up to his in an offer, leaving it up to him to decide how far he wanted to go, and rubbing my cheek against his. His eyes were closed tightly as he slowly let his lips find mine. We both whimpered with the need to make things right between us and he began to kiss me hungrily. I curled my arms around his neck grabbing onto the hair that barely grazed it. His breathing heightened as his kiss became more aggressive and his hands grasped at me as if they couldn’t decide where to touch first. I felt so fragile as if I could shatter at any moment.

The smell of blood was overpowering and his stomach was yearning for more.

The girl, where was the girl? Had she been telling the truth? He ran to the door and opened it to find her sitting on the doorstep. He ran to her and pulled her roughly to her feet. She shied away and cringed before him.

“What have you done to me?” he screamed. “What in God’s name did you do?”

He was shaking her and screaming at her. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.

“Take your hands off me before I break your arms off!” she snarled.

She was no longer a demure little girl. Her eyes were ice blue and her canine teeth had grown in length. She looked very scary and very angry. He dropped his hands to his sides in shock.

“I tried to tell you, I turned you into a Vampire,” she said talking through her teeth and not taking her eyes off him.

“Now, if you will shut up and stop whimpering, I’ll tell you what you need to do to survive. It’s my duty, as I’m the one who changed you. But once I’ve warned you and told you how to hunt . . . the responsibility stops there and you’re on your own!”

He nodded and sat down on the step next to her, docile and attentive. She proceeded to tell him that life as he’d known it was over, as was his career, until he could get a handle on the blood thing and find a mortal woman to love him!

This life is dark, my Father,
I cannot go aright,
Oh, take my hand, my Father,
and guide me to the light.
the way is long, my Father,
thorns bleed my weary feet,
Oh, come to me, my Father,
it will be very sweet.
Long have I toiled, my Father,
while fears oppressed me sore,
Lift me above them, Father,
up to the heavenly shore.

#98 Hymns and Sacred Songs of the Old German Baptist Brethren

“And he shall go before him in the spirit and power of Elias, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children … to make ready a people prepared for the Lord” Luke 1:17

The Ohio Valley, May 29, 1973

Chapter One

She’d been called Birdie for so many years, that when the superintendent called on Roberta Mona Alexander to give the Valedictorian speech, she didn’t respond.

If a classmate hadn’t jabbed her and whispered, “That’s you,” Birdie might have missed the second call as well.

~~~

The following morning, as Birdie entered the conservatory that housed her father’s experimental plants, the rest of her life stretched before her. The lyrics of Helen Reddy’s song, I Am Woman, raced in her mind.
Elation surged through her body like a jolt of lightning. If she had her way, by the end of summer any one of these plants could win a blue ribbon.

During her high school years Birdie had taken special care in learning about each of the cultivars Alexander’s grew. Wanting to learn more about plant genetics, she’d checked out the horticulture classes at the local junior college.

She knew that some plants needed to dry out between watering while others preferred to be kept constantly moist. But no plant liked soggy soil. Birdie was determined to give each one the exact amount of water and fertilizer they required.

It was still dark outside. Birdie flipped on the lights and almost tripped over a two-foot roll of ½” tubing that wasn’t in the room yesterday. She wondered how long it would be stored here. Could she find someone to scoot it out of the path?

Moments later, as she headed down the first row of herb-scented geraniums, a tickling sensation crossed her ankles. Birdie bent and scooped Miss Chloe into her arms.

The cat smelled of the foliage where she loved to play. “If you get much bigger, I won’t be able to lift you,” Birdie said as she straightened and draped her pet around her shoulders.

Last winter when she’d found the miniature cat shivering in the snow-covered display garden, the kitten was just a fluffy fur ball and fit into the palm of one hand. Now five months later, she weighed twenty-five pounds. Chances were she wasn’t yet full grown.

Birdie hummed as she deadheaded the plants. The contented purr from Miss Chloe was like a massage on the back of her neck. The dried blooms crumbled between her fingers gave off a lemon-rose scent.
Before long, the tabby jumped down to pounce on the wilted flowers. Birdie laughed and threw a few more of the special geraniums blooms toward her. Miss Chloe tried to catch them in her paws.

How had Birdie’s father known which genetics to track to get the various scents? Would he take her more seriously if she learned more about DNA? Would he take her more seriously if she used her formal name? Would he ever take her seriously?

A powerful thud startled Birdie from her thoughts. A head poked into the doorway’s opening, and Uncle Bryce filled the doorway.
“We’re short-handed today, Birdie. Can you help sort orders?” he asked.

“Just let me finish here.” Birdie grinned. As one of the taller girls in her peer group, she always felt petite working beside her uncle. “Where will I find you when I’m done?”

“We’re working outside in unit three,” Uncle Bryce said, then he swiveled and disappeared.

Birdie finished grooming the experimental plants and took one last glance around before she left the Victorian-style conservatory. She loved the arched windows and the curved glass roof. Grandfather Ora had built the glass room twenty years ago, in the days when supplies were less expensive and labor was cheap.

She shut the door and headed toward the main block of newer greenhouses with Miss Chloe at her heels.

Once outside, Birdie glanced back at the building. The filigree trim at the very top of the antique hothouse blended with the gingerbread on the old brick building. It was off limits to the customers, because it housed their trial cultivars, but it still gave the place dignity.

With a grin, she continued on the path until she passed the first two greenhouse units and entered number three.

“We’ve sorted the purchase orders according to the time they came in,” Nathan said as he handed her a clipboard. “This is the next one in the queue.”

“Thanks, Nathan.” She took the large order and looked it over.
Birdie sorted out five sold tags and wrote Fran’s Fantasy Gardens on them with a Sharpie, then wired the tags to each of the trolleys she would use to assemble the inventory.

She knew where Alexander’s kept every cultivar, and rushed to the proper unit for each item on her list. She gathered six-packs of petunias and snapdragons in several colors, then marigolds, salvia, and alyssum. Before long, large plastic trays full of blooming annuals overflowed three of the trolleys.

Geraniums were next on the list, and she filled empty cardboard flats with six-inch pots. While these varieties are considered perennials in southern locations, they’re annuals in Ohio’s climate. Dad was experimenting with a hardier strain, but those plants weren’t ready to sell yet.

The last line item called for twenty medium sized hostas. But Birdie could only find eighteen. She glanced at the order again, then checked and rechecked the other plants in the unit. The remaining sizes weren’t close enough to substitute.

Her shoulders sagged. She’d learned life was a competition, and she’d have to hustle to keep up with men. And that included her Uncle Bryce and her brother, Nathan.

As they continued throughout the afternoon, Birdie kept glancing at Nathan and her uncle. She made sure she worked faster. Faster and harder was her motto. It was the only way to get ahead in this male-dominated world called Alexander’s.

Some people say, when a person completes a stretch in a Tennessee correctional facility, they’ve paid their debt to society. They didn’t know Noyd LeQuire.

After his release from Brushy Mountain State Prison and a bus ride to Knoxville, a taxi delivered him to the town square in Prospect.

After he rented a single-wide on Doc Beasley Road, it became known as a bad neighborhood and property values dropped drastically.

All that happened just before Thanksgiving.

Four weeks later, I sat double parked in my unmarked police car outside Prospect Bait & Tackle waiting for Sergeant Bettye Lambert to purchase a Christmas gift for her son.

The city’s Department of Buildings and Grounds had once again overdone the holiday decorations with illuminated wreaths on every utility pole, millions of twinkling lights in the bare branches of trees on the town square, and a Christmas tree to rival the monster at Rockefeller Center in front of the municipal building. If the citizens of Prospect didn’t know the city’s kilowatt hour meter was spinning at warp speed, they should have.

I looked in the rearview mirror and watched a GMC suburban vacate a spot three car lengths behind me. As the big SUV drove past, I tapped the gear shift into reverse and parallel parked in the vacant spot.

Two minutes later, a twenty-year-old Chevy Caprice slid into a parking spot near the Prospect Citizen’s Bank & Trust.

As I looked away from the yellow Caprice, Bettye startled me by opening the back door of the Crown Victoria and tossing in a disassembled fishing rod. Then she jumped into the passenger’s seat, next to me.

“Hey,” I said. “That was quick.”

“I sure hope you’re right about what rod and reel to buy for Li’l Donnie.”

“Of course I’m right. My friend Richie is a fisherman and he says a Penn reel and Ugly Stik rod is the way to go.”

To my left, three car doors slammed. I looked across the street at a trio of men wearing night watch caps and rain coats exit the Caprice and head toward the bank.

“Damnit,” I said. “This does not look good. Get on the radio and tell all units we’ve got a 10-15 in progress at the bank.”

“What?” she said.

“I’m moving up to that blue car across from the entrance. Get backup and meet me there. And be careful.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

I stepped out of the car and tried to stroll to the sidewalk without drawing attention to myself. As I reached the first parked car, I ducked down and scrambled to a spot directly across from the bank. A few moments passed and luckily no pedestrians showed up on either side of the street. After making a radio call, Bettye hustled over and squatted down next to me on the sidewalk, her back against the Camry I hid behind.

“Come over here behind the wheel,” I said. “I don’t want you to get your backside shot off.”

She moved and I peeked over the hood. One man carrying a sawed-off shotgun with a cut down stock emerged from the bank. He looked right and left through the eyes of the cap which was now rolled down into a ski mask.

In only moments, a second man wielding a handgun emerged carrying a cloth sack.

To my right, a Prospect PD cruiser with its blue lights flashing stopped, blocking both lanes of Main Street. The robbers looked to their left as a second police car came screeching up from the opposite direction, assuming a similar posture on the roadway.

I could feel the panic emanating from the two criminals as their heads darted left and right. And then a third man hurried from the bank carrying another bag and a short barreled riot gun.

To prevent a hostage situation, it seemed essential to keep the robbers from reentering the bank. The sporting thing to do would have been call out and give them an opportunity to surrender. But I didn’t have the luxury of time to take that chance, and I couldn’t talk and shoot simultaneously.

“When I tell you,” I said, “as loud as you can, yell police don’t move.”

Bettye nodded.

I braced my Smith & Wesson on the hood of the Toyota. As soon as I said, “Now,” Bettye yelled. The robbers turned toward us and I squeezed off two quick shots. Each of my hollow-points struck the man with the cut-off scattergun in the chest. His weapon fell to the ground and he crashed, face first, on the concrete.

After seeing their comrade fall, the crook with the other shotgun ran toward the Caprice and the man with handgun fired three quick one-handed shots at me. Two went high and shattered the plate-glass window of the store behind us. One hit the side window of the Camry. The booming reports echoed in the narrow street. I guessed a .45.

Bettye drew her Glock and began to peek over the fender just as a fourth shot hit the sheet metal of the Toyota. I grabbed her shoulder and pushed down.

Two more shots sounded from our left and right. The sharper, cracking sounds told me they came from two cops firing their .40 caliber Glocks. One hit something with a thud. The other sounded like it hit metal, but both missed the gunman.

Leather soles tapped the blacktop just before two more .45s struck the Toyota. I dropped prone and looked under the car. The man shooting had walked toward our hiding place.

I had counted his shots. If he was using a traditional Army .45, he might have two more rounds.

I tried an old trick by firing three shots under the car at the ground in front of our assailant. If you don’t have a big target to aim at, sometimes the bullets can do the finding for you. Before I could roll over and conceal myself behind the rear wheel to reload my revolver, I heard a scream.

Bettye and I peeked over the car at the masked man writhing in pain and clutching his ankles.

I stretched over the trunk lid and fired my last shot at the Caprice, but only shattered the moving car’s left rear door window as the third robber accelerated straight for PO Lenny Alcock’s cruiser. The Chevy hit the rear quarter of the police car and spun it sideways. Alcock ran for cover behind a nearby Honda. After grazing another parked car, the escapee nailed the gas and took off down South Main.

I ran to the wounded man and Bettye followed. We met Alcock there with his gun pointed at the bank robber’s head. I used my foot to move the big automatic from the man’s grasp.

PO Billy Puckett maneuvered his patrol car through the carnage in pursuit of the one who got away.

Bettye scurried back to the radio to alert the adjoining districts. I ejected the six spent shells from my Smith and reloaded.

“Cuff that son-of-a-bitch, Lenny. Then get something to wrap his ankles. I’ll cover him.”

When Alcock returned with a first aid kit, I bent down and pulled a navy blue ski mask off the prisoner’s head.

He kept repeating, “Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Got-damn that hurts.”

Bettye returned looking a little out of breath. “I put out an alarm for that yellow Chevy—for all the good it’ll do. And I called the medics for this one.” She pointed to the wounded man. “I’ll go back and see if Billy’s called in yet.”

“Okay. Lenny’s got this guy. I’ll check the one across the street.”

She nodded.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yes. You?”

“For a minute there, I almost soiled my knickers, but yeah, I’m fine.”

She touched my arm. “I’m glad you’re a good shot, darlin’.”

“Just like the OK Corral.”

Bettye shook her head and walked off saying, “We really don’t need this.”

From far off, the hi-low siren of a Rural Metro Ambulance broke the silence of the crime scene.

“I think the cavalry is coming,” I said, to no one in particular as I reached the second gunshot victim.

A pool of blood covered the sidewalk in front of the bank. The manager, Joe Rex Wilcox, and three of his employees stood in the doorway looking into the street.

I lay two fingers across the man’s carotid artery and felt nothing. I rolled him over, looked into the lifeless blue eyes, and turned to the banker.

“Joe, stand here and keep an eye on this shotgun and the sack of money. This guy’s not going anywhere. Don’t touch anything and don’t let anyone near you.”

My ears were ringing from the gunfire and I couldn’t hear well.

When he didn’t respond I yelled, “You hear me?”

“Yessir, yessir. I’ll do it. Lord have mercy, Sam . . .”

“Everything’s okay now. Just keep an eye on things until I can get another cop here.”

Joe Rex nodded and I walked over to Lenny and the wounded man, who had calmed down a little and might have been lapsing into shock. I kneeled down next to him.

“Boss, I’m sorry,” Lenny said. “I couldn’t get off a second round without shootin’ at Billy.”

“It’s okay, Lenny. Sometimes you can only do so much.”

I took hold of the shooter’s face and turned it.

“Hey, look at me,” I said.

His glassy eyes focused on mine.

“The ambulance will be here in a minute.”

He nodded.

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

He gave a slight shrug. “Von Butler.”

“Who’s the other one over there?” I gestured to the body with my head.

“You killed my brother, Wyatt.” Butler spoke with as much distaste as he could muster.

I couldn’t resist a little sarcasm. “Yeah, sorry for your loss.”

“I’ll bet.”

“And the one who drove away?”

“I ain’t sayin’ no more.”

I made a fist and rapped my knuckles against his bandaged ankle, hoping to change his mind.

“Ahhh, got-damn!”

Von Butler passed out and I didn’t get my answer.

 

Bettye walked over scowling. “What did you just do?”

“I was questioning him.”

I guess she saw me hit his leg.

“What am I gonna do with you, Sam Jenkins?”

It was a rhetorical question. One she often asks.

“You have news for me, Sergeant?” I returned her scowl.

She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I do, Chief. But not good news. Billy lost him.”

I shook my head. “How could he lose a tub like that old Caprice?”

“On the Thirteen Curves. And there’s more bad news. Billy ran off the road.”

“Jeez. He get hurt?”

“No, but the car’s mashed up a little.”

“Mashed up?”

“The air dam got ripped off and the grill’s broken. He’s not sure if the frame was bent.”

“Can he drive it?”

“Stuck in the dirt.”

“Super. Two cars out of commission.”

“A deputy’s coming up from Maryville to help out. The County’s dispatching a wrecker.”

“And the Caprice is?”

“Last seen headin’ down Sevierville Road.”

I began to open my mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “I amended the alarm.”

“See why you’re my favorite desk sergeant?”

“I’m your only desk sergeant.” She made a face again.

“You know you’re beautiful when you’re being sarcastic?”

“Oh, give it a rest.”

I laughed. She smiled and ran a hand through her blond hair.

 

Since the FBI claims to have a vested interest in bank robberies—Federal Deposit Insurance and all—I called Ralph Oliveri at the Knoxville field office.

“Just my luck I’m catching the squeals today.” Ralph’s from Queens and speaks with a very New York accent.

“For a young guy, you sound like an old squad dick. Where do you get language like that?”

“Probably from you. Sometimes I wish you had stayed in New York. My caseload would be much lighter.”

“Fate brought us together, Ralphie. Hey, before you leave the office, bring additional help along with your evidence technicians. We’ve got one bad guy dead and one wounded.”

“You guys killed one and shot another?” He sounded surprised.

“Well, actually just me. But one more got away. Sorry.”

“So, you want us to investigate the shooting, too?” Now he sounded overworked.

“For chrissakes, Ralph, there’s not much to investigate. I was justified. One pointed a 12 gauge at me and the other was popping caps at Bettye and me when I took him out.”

“Okay, don’t get your dander up. Who’s the third guy?”

“Beats me. I can’t do everything for you.”

No excerpt was provided by the author.

Things happened in 1968. Assassins killed Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I was a young soldier waiting for my twelve-month vacation to the Republic of South Vietnam. And Prospect, Tennessee, a small town in the foothills of the Smokies, gained prominence. Thanks to the national media, an armed robbery which took place in Prospect became known as The Great Smoky Mountain Bank Job.

Forty-three years later, Sergeant Bettye Lambert buzzed my intercom.

“Chief, there’s a Miss Lucy Frobisher here to see you.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Something you’ll want to hear.”

I get suspicious when a good-looking and well-dressed woman walks into my office carrying a briefcase. I expect her to hand me a document and say the magic words, “You’ve been served.”

That didn’t happen.

Instead, she offered me a hand. “Hi, I’m Lucy Frobisher. I’ve got a problem and Special Agent Ralph Oliveri thinks you can help me.”

I grimaced at the mention of Oliveri. “Obviously you already know I’m Sam Jenkins.”

She smiled. “I do.”

I shook her hand.

“Sit down,” I said, pointing to one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. “Tell me about your problem.”

Lucy took a seat and looked at me with expressive light brown eyes. Her two-piece navy blue suit appeared expensive. The skirt landed only an inch above her knees, which she held together very properly.

“My father was murdered,” she said. “I’d like you to help me find the killers.”

That’s not the kind of request you hear everyday in a small Tennessee police department. I’d ask how Ralph Oliveri, my pal from the FBI’s Knoxville field office, got involved, but I started with a few more basic questions.

“Did this happen in Prospect?”

“It did.”

“When?” I sounded surprised. No one had mentioned it to me.

“April 15th, 1968.”

After that I was surprised. I did some quick math and came up with a figure. I would have placed Lucy Frobisher in her late-thirties, but with her father getting killed forty-three years ago, she had to be at least forty-two.

“I assume your father’s death was reported back then?”

“Of course. My father was the guard at the Prospect Citizen’s Bank and Trust when it was robbed. Are you familiar with what the papers called The Great Smoky Mountain Bank Job?”

“No. I’m sorry. In 1968 I was at Fort Bragg and not reading too many newspapers.”

“The robbers were anarchists—anti-war types. They killed my father when he tried to stop the robbery.”

“And you spoke to Oliveri because the FBI assumed responsibility for the case?”

“Yes.”

I noticed her looking around the room—at the flintlock Tennessee rifle hanging on the wall behind my desk, at the shadow box with the medals and badges from my time in the Army, and at the counter where the mini-refrigerator, coffee maker, and a vase of artificial flowers sat.

“And no one was arrested for the robbery or your father’s murder?”

“No.”

“Why do you think I can solve this mystery after forty-three years?”

“Because I think at least two of the robbers were from New York.”

I stared at her. She pushed a few strands of shoulder-length dark brown hair behind her right ear and smiled. Lucy Frobisher was trim and quite pretty in a very professional way—like a tall Audrey Hepburn.

“And Oliveri told you I was a cop in New York for a long time.”

She nodded. “He did.”

“And you think I can resurrect an old case and track down former SDS or Black Panther members or other anti-war, anti-government thugs when the entire FBI couldn’t?”

“They were part of the Revolutionary Youth Movement and I have new information.”

I heard the radio crackle out in the lobby. Bettye dispatched PO Jamey Hawkins to a first aid case at a trailer park off Doc Beasley Road.

“Why won’t the feds act on this information?” I asked.

“They say it’s not sufficient to reopen an old case.”

That sounded like rubbish to me.

“Ms. Frobisher, I’m sorry your father was killed, but I’m only one guy with a small police department to run. Even though it happened in Prospect, I doubt I can . . .” I let my sentence trail off.

“May I tell you the whole story?” she asked.

She sat back and crossed her legs. I think she anticipated my answer. That or she knew a big smile and a few extra inches of lovely knee would influence my decision.

“Sure.” Then thinking she may take more than a few minutes, I said, “Would you like coffee? I have a fresh pot.”

“Thank you. Dark no sugar, please.”

I fixed two cups and watched her take a stack of newspaper clippings and official reports from her briefcase.

I sat behind my desk, took a sip of an extremely hot Indonesian blend, and listened to Lucy tell me her father, Douglas “Buck” Frobisher, not only worked as a bank guard, but also served as a Blount County deputy sheriff, the security job being only a part-time gig.

According to Ms. Frobisher, the robbery went off like something from a 1970s “heist” movie. Three males and one female entered the bank just before closing time carrying shotguns and pistols. All wore rubber Halloween masks. After an attention-getting shot went off and Buck Frobisher stepped out of the men’s room, he drew his revolver and foolishly told the four armed felons to drop their guns. One of the males fired his shotgun and Frobisher bought the farm. The anarchists made off with $46,000 dollars before a bank employee could trip a silent alarm connected to the police station.

Two days later, in a message sent to the Knoxville News-Sentinel, members of the RYM claimed responsibility for the robbery.

The former Prospect police chief, one Eli “Peanut” Crowder, called in FBI assistance. Lucy said the investigation lasted for months, but as with many crimes perpetrated by a crop of home-grown anarchists from the late ‘60s, it remained unsolved.

“You don’t seem to have a problem talking about your father’s death,” I said.

“No, I’ve lived with the fact all my life. And I never knew him. My mother was pregnant when he died.”

“You’re certainly tenacious.”

“Unfinished business.” Lucy slowly nodded with a look of resolution crossing her pretty face. “I think these people should pay for what they did to my mother.”

She looked at me over the top of her coffee mug.

“No argument there. But the same question keeps popping up, Ms. Frobisher. Why do you think I can solve this?”

“Please,” she said, batting her eyelashes, “call me Lucy.”

“Okay, Lucy, back to my question.”

A little more eyelash action, then, “May I call you Sam?”

“Sure, everyone else does.”

“Well, Sam, I believe you know one of the killers.”

The sixty-degree temperatures of several days earlier had cooled slightly. The cloudless Wedgwood blue skies we‘d been enjoying had turned to a muddy, hazy gray hanging over Prospect. The pollution of Knoxville and Oak Ridge had been blown southeast by the prevailing winter winds.

When we pulled up at the repair shop, it took me less than a minute to spot Elrod sitting in his office reading a magazine. Another young man worked on a pick-up truck in the garage bay and two others sat on folding chairs nearby, drinking soda from cans, talking with him. We sat twenty yards from the open garage door and heard a radio playing. Someone lamented the loss of his girlfriend and contemplated his exodus to San Antone. The song didn‘t sound like one of the icons of country and western to me.

Len Alcock, Bobby John Crockett, and Stan Rose pulled their marked police cars curbside, blocking the driveways after Junior and I drove up to the office door. The two soda drinkers were about to run when Alcock and Crockett put the arm on them.

Stanley rousted the mechanic, a guy who looked like he ate pit bulls for breakfast, before he could hide in the supply room off the work area.

Junior followed me into the office. I walked up to a scarred and dented gray metal desk. An open bag of pork rinds lay on top, next to a two-liter bottle of Mello Yello. A half-eaten corn dog hid in a wrinkled wrapper.

“Hi there,” I said. “I‘ll bet you‘re Elrod Swaggerty, aren‘t you?”

He was a thin, shady-looking character with short hair and side-burns ending below his earlobes. His dark blue mechanic‘s outfit hadn‘t seen soap in a long time.

Elrod eyed me for a few seconds and then shifted his look to Junior and back again to me. If he didn‘t assume I was a cop, he was more mentally bereft than I anticipated.

“That‘s me.” His voice cracked a little as he tried a nervous smile.

“The Elrod Swaggerty?” I started to enjoy myself.

“Uh-huh, whot‘s up?”

I held up a copy of the arrest warrant for him to see. “I know you were hoping Officer Huskey and I came from Publisher‘s Clearing House and we were about to give you a check for a million bucks, but I‘m sorry to disappoint you.”

Junior tried to stifle a laugh, which came out like a combination snicker and snort from a clogged sinus passage. I should have remembered to smack him when we finished, but didn‘t.

Someone in the garage turned off the radio, stopping the Nashville sound.

“Elrod, my friend, you‘re under arrest,” I said.

“Whot fer? I didn‘t do nuthin‘.”

“You just committed a double negative in public. If you didn‘t do nothing, you must have done something. May I take that as an admission of guilt?”

“Do whot?” He was almost gasping.

“Elrod, son, you have the right to remain silent. I suggest you avail yourself of that right before I feel compelled to flatten your head with a brick.”

“Hey now, don‘t go gettin‘ mean an‘ hateful on me, I really didn‘t do nothin’.”

“Pal, you haven‘t seen hateful yet,” I said. “We‘re only having a spirited conversation here. If you see me call in a helicopter or break out a field phone with little alligator clips attached to wires, you may infer I‘m going to get nasty.”

I heard Junior giggling behind me. I should tranquilize him the next time we go on an arrest.

“Let‘s go, guy, on your feet. Time to put the cuffs on,” I said.

“Cuffs? Are you crazy? I said, I ain‘t done nothin‘.”

When he stood, I gave him a push and moved him up against the wall behind his desk. Just to the left, hung a two-foot-tall calendar showing a girl in a bikini, holding a gallon can of anti-freeze, standing next to a shiny black Mustang with the hood raised.

“Assume position one, Elrod. Hands on the wall and walk your feet back some.”

Elrod seemed familiar with the steps to that dance. I took hold of his belt and backed him up even more, and then I used my right foot to spread his legs wider.

“I‘m going to search you now,” I said. “Is there anything in your pockets or on your person that is a weapon or might cut me, stick me, or in any other way piss me off?”

“Do whot?” he croaked again.

“Now listen carefully, Mr. Swaggerty, these are not multiple choice questions, just a simple true or false. Do you have a weapon or something sharp on your body?”

“I got me a folder on my belt—that‘s it, it ain‘t concealed.”

I removed a cheap knock-off of a Buck lock-back knife from a beaten-up leather pouch on his belt and handed it to Junior. I finished patting him down, put cuffs on him, double locked them, and brought him back to the position of attention.

“Whot am I charged with? I got a right ta know!” he crooned.

“Larceny by inveiglement—four times and scheme to defraud.”

“Do whot?”

Obviously, vocabulary hadn‘t been one of Elrod‘s favorite subjects.

When Junior and I walked our prisoner out to the car, I saw John Leckmanski filming the festivities from a discrete distance, far off Elrod‘s property.

I looked toward the garage area and thought Stan and the boys also hit the jackpot. Elrod‘s three minions were in cuffs, too. Stan found the mechanic with a shirt pocket filled by a baggie brimming over with the evil weed. The guy drinking Dr. Pepper was wanted on a Blount County Traffic warrant for failure to pay fines, and the lad with the Mountain Dew was named on a bench warrant from the Rockford Justice Court for failure to appear. The two cops would transport the prisoners. Stan Rose would stay to secure the scene and inventory any cash found in the office.

The time involved in messing with Elrod‘s mind and processing his arrest would take us well beyond the 3:30 deadline for arraign-ments. Swaggerty would spend the night as a guest of Prospect PD and be transported to the county justice center in the morning. I timed the arrest that way for two reasons. I thought of Elrod as a first-class scumbag who needed to remember you don‘t screw around in Prospect. And second: I wanted to give my favorite TV newsgirl time to catch him tomorrow after he made bail and see if she could get an interview during the morning light.

When Rachel and I spoke, I suggested she attend the arraignment. She and John could watch the judge set bail, but because the county deputies and court officers may be less enamored with good-looking female reporters than I am, they wouldn‘t let her get close to the defendant. I thought they should wait in the Justice Center parking lot until Elrod‘s release and follow him back to Prospect, when he‘d undoubtedly go to his shop and check on the status of the working capital he left behind. There he‘d find a copy of the search war-rant with an inventory of the confiscated or secured property.

I‘ve lived to regret that suggestion ever since.

He stood in the shadows and watched the woman as she walked down the passage towards him. He could see all of her as the white overhead lights flashed over every line of her face, every curve of her body, hiding none of her gracious movements. She wore magicians’ clothing, a pair of black loose fitting pants and a white shirt. Magicians wore this as their uniform underneath their robes, but it was unusual to see a non-magic person wearing the same clothes.

Her red hair was slipping from the thing she had it tied with on top of her head. Her lips were tight, but he couldn’t see her eyes to decide if she was angry or upset.

He watched the woman open the door to their apartment. She would be alone tonight and probably every night from now on. He sighed aloud –he hated giving people bad news. Even though the satisfaction of arresting a criminal was always a high, the thought of the people they left behind or hurt in the process left a bitter taste in his mouth. Waiting any longer was not going to make it easier. He stepped into the bright light and made his way to her front door.

 

Elizabeth stared at the cup of tea she had just made, wondering if she should cook or wait until Mertin came home. Another glance at the timepiece on her left wrist, told her that he was late. He was never late. She went into the main room, kicked off her shoes and sat on the couch drawing her feet under her. There was a book on the couch, but after a glance at it, she decided against reading. It had been a long day. The foremost fabric supplier in the five territories had recently lost its managing director and part owner, her father, and his responsibilities were passed on to her uncle, the other owner. Her uncle needed her to step into her father’s shoes. Trained in management, her experience was mostly at a lower level of management as the head buyer of the V and L Fabric Company.

Thoughtfully she eyed the book again, it might help her mind to relax. Taking another sip of her tea, she opened the book. Two pages later, the door bell sounded.

“Computer, open the door.”

Mertin never used his own key. She put the book down, and got up to ask if he wanted tea before the evening meal.

She never got that far. Shock paralysed her body as she looked into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Recognition flashed through her mind. Impossible. She opened her mouth, but not a sound came out. The next moment there was nothing.

 

Randall caught the woman before she hit the floor. He lifted her into his arms and went down the passage to the main bedroom. It was dark. He called to the house computer to switch on the light before he stepped inside and gently laid her down on the bed. He sat next to her and waited for her to wake up.

Naturally blond, her hair was now a bright copper red, done by a salon close by. He liked it. She had grey eyes according to her file, but he always thought silver was a better description. Before she fainted, he noticed her eyes were different; the soft blue hue was brought out by the bright contrast of her hair. Leaning forward, he brushed a few wayward strands from her face. For the past three moon cycles, he had been investigating her and her mate, and he never saw her wear it down. A tight bun, for a cold woman. The comment had been made by one of the female officers who had assisted him. Cold was not the way he saw her; reserved, maybe, perhaps a little shy. He ran his fingers through his hair. If she didn’t wake up soon, he would have to call a medical officer or a healer.

 

Slowly she opened her eyes, and again the shock was almost too much. She must have imagined it. Probably too much stress. This time however, she managed not to faint.

“Hey,” the ghost of her past said softly.

She tried to sit up, but her arms and legs felt too weak to do as her brain commanded. She gave up and laid back down.

“Randall Storm?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said in that husky voice she used to love so much.

Elizabeth looked up at the man quietly watching her. Physically he was bigger than she remembered, his shoulders broad and the light jacket he wore could not hide the power in his arms and upper body. Quietness and maturity surrounded him, and she sensed a tremendous strength in him. She also sensed something more, but could not identify it. His blue eyes were his most potent physical asset, and she always felt that he could look into her soul when he looked at her, like now.

She moved to get up from the bed. “Why are you here? And why are we in … this bedroom?”

“This is your mate’s room?” It was decorated in shades of cream and brown, but it looked empty.

“Yes.”

Once on her feet, she still felt dizzy. It had been hours since she last ate, no wonder her legs were weak. She stumbled, and he easily lifted her into his arms. Without thinking, she put her arms around his neck for support. They left the bedroom and he took her back to the main room where he gently put her back on the couch where she had been sitting when he arrived.

He sat down on the table in front of her and took her hands in his. The simple gesture filled her with dread.

“I have some bad news.”

 

She looked from their hands to his face. “Mertin?”

“We arrested him this afternoon.”

She could sense that he kept his voice calm for her sake. She just looked at him. It took effort to find her voice. “Arrested? Why?” Then she saw the gold badge attached to his jacket. It read senior detective with his name underneath.

He looked down at their hands and sighed heavily. “Contract murder.”

Her hands went cold. She felt the heat from his body, but it did nothing for the numbness in her chest.

“C-contract m-murder?”

“Yes.”

“Who? Why?”

Releasing her, he ran his fingers through his hair, before he got up from the table.

“Your father and his business partner,” he said flatly.

“But my father died in a transport accident.”

He stopped pacing for a minute to look at her. “It was no accident. We arrested the thugs that did the damage to the transport your father travelled with, and they confessed everything.”

“And my uncle?” she asked as tears were forming in her eyes. She swallowed hard. Haydn Ville was like a second father to her.

“Last night. Two guys jumped him and killed him on his way home. We arrested them this morning thanks to the excellent security your uncle had installed in the outer perimeter of the factory.”

So that was why he wasn’t at the office today, and she couldn’t get hold of him or her aunt. “Mertin? Are you sure?”

He ran his fingers through his hair again; it made him look like a wild man. “That is why it is called contract murder. He paid them to do this. We have the proof, not just the confessions of career criminals.” He sat down on the table again.

She stared at him. “But, why?”

“He wanted your inheritance.”

She blinked. “My inheritance? How? The company will not be mine alone, and besides we were joined with an asset exclusion contract.”

He handed her a message disk and watched her put it in her hand computer that laid on the table. She read the file he pointed to: it was her uncle’s will.

“But this isn’t right,” she said glancing up at him. “This document says that I inherit the controlling share, but the will I saw after my father died, only gave me twenty five percent, the controlling share belonged to my uncle and the rest was given to my two cousins in equal proportion.”

“It is the final will should both your father and uncle die. Control of the company goes to you.”

She sat back on the couch, stunned. It made sense to give control to her, because her cousins were the Peace Ambassador and the Grandmaster. A thought suddenly occurred to her. “Was the previous will a forgery?”

“No, it was a legal will. Remember your uncle was still alive, so only your father’s shares were divided, but your uncle was still in control.”

“Then why would Mertin m-murder my father and my uncle?”

He pointed to another document on the disk.

It was another will, hers it would appear, giving Mertin all her assets after her death. She frowned at him. “I have no such will. When I die, without an heir, the shares would go to Stefan’s daughter and any other children that my cousins might have. The company must stay in the direct control of the Ville family or blood relations.”

He nodded. “We know that. It is part of the statutes of the company, so he would have had a difficult time to get it anyway. There is another problem that is actually a little more pressing.”

She looked at him. “What problem?”

He took her hands again. “You are next,” he said flatly.

She frowned. “What do you mean, next?” Then her eyes widened. “You mean, he plans to kill me too,” she whispered.

He dropped her hands and got up again pacing the room. She could feel the waves of frustration coming off his body. He messed up his hair even more.

“The contract has already been given to someone. The problem is that we do not know who it is.”

“Why would he do something like that? I have never done anything to hurt him.”

He told her the truth. “Mertin’s own business is in a terrible state. He has made bad investments and if he does not do something quickly, the company will go under.” He shrugged.

She rubbed her temples, feeling a headache coming on, and only partly because she had not eaten. She slowly got to her feet and found that her legs supported her well enough this time.

“Would you like some tea? Something to eat?” she asked as she took her empty cup from the table.

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

She turned around. “I heard you. Everything is too much right now. Whatever you want me to do about it, will have to wait until I eat something. I don’t want to faint again.”

He held up his hands. “There is no need for you to go to any trouble.”

“Well?” she asked. She really didn’t know what to do, what to think, but she knew that this childhood friend made her feel safe. He turned her world upside down, but somehow managed to help her keep a level head at the same time. She wasn’t ready for him to leave, not yet.

“Only if I can help,” he returned with his most charming smile as he followed her to the kitchen.

She gave him the vegetables and fruit to prepare. Her hands were shaking a little too much to handle the sharp knives.

They ate in silence for a while.

“There is one more thing.”

She waited for him to continue.

“You will need full time protection, until we catch the assassin.”

She paled, but her voice remained steady. “But I thought that since you have Mertin, that I will no longer be in danger.”

He shook his head. “I wish.” He paused for a moment. “The contract was paid in advance, and if it is who we suspect, he will come after you until he has succeeded.”

For the first time in her life she felt real fear. Law abiding citizens didn’t need to worry about assassins.

“How will you protect me?” she asked in a small voice.

“Two security officers will be assigned to stay with you full time.”

“Will you be one of them?“ A different kind of fear got hold of her. She didn’t want anyone else. It was irrational, but the man sitting at this table watching her, sharing a meal with her, became the only one she felt safe with.

“Why?”

A blush stole onto her pale cheeks. “Because I know you will protect me,” she said so softly that she wasn’t sure that he had heard her.

Stefan did it the hard way. That Friday after the ball for business leaders, he tried to make love to Teresa again. He was completely unaroused.

When they finally spoke about it, Stefan admitted it was not a temporary thing, but that he found her unexciting. Teresa cried, speaking of all the exciting events they had gone to in the ten months they had been dating. He reminded her none of those had been in bed. This time it was Teresa who slammed the door, exiting his suite with her overnight bag and demanding a ride home from the Sentinel detail.

Thank God for Saturdays and Mother’s little afternoon classes. Stefan threw himself into the circuits Mother had designed until she was working with Evan and Josef alone. He asked if he could look at her lab notes for her crystalline resect data storage cubes while he waited for her to finish with them. She drew them up immediately, and he threw himself into studying those. By the end of the session, Evan was growling, Josef was rolling his shoulders to release his tension, and Stefan was calm and cool, back on track again.

At dinner Josef asked Stefan, “Hey, I could use some help on this little project I am doing. Would you consider looking it over?”

“You have a project? What are you working on?” Mother seemed professionally interested but somewhat reserved. Stefan figured she would prefer her sons to spend their limited spare time studying stargate circuits.

“I’d rather not say yet, Mother. It is just an idea I came up with one night. After all, you surely cannot expect to be the only inventor in the family,” Josef teased her with a smile.

She at least smiled back at him. “I see. Does this have anything to do with our own little project?” She was being circumspect, since Anne had invited Andrés to dinner.

“No, Mother, not at all. Just trying to reinvent the wheel,” he drawled.

Stefan snorted. Josef had been teasing him and Evan about this mysterious project for some time now. “Sure, I’ll look it over after dinner.”

Father gave him a puzzled look. “Aren’t you going out tonight?”

Flushing, he bit his lips together. “No. I don’t think Teresa and I will be seeing each other anymore.” Going back to his meal, he began cutting and recutting his meat until it turned to mush. Putting his utensils down, he glanced at Father. “May I be excused, please?”

Everyone was staring at him now. Realizing that all conversation had stopped since his announcement, Stefan flushed again and looked down at his plate.

“Certainly, son. Come see me if you need to talk,” Father added gently.

Stefan nodded, set aside his napkin, and left.

 

◊ ◊ ◊

 

Evan and Jessica were almost to his suite that night when Josef left Stefan’s suite and stormed toward his own door, grumbling. Evan wondered what that was about. “Bad night?”

Josef stopped and shook a data card. “He solved it. Made it look easy. Dammit, I’ve been working on this idea for four weeks! Now I’ll have to share the patent with him.” Emitting a brusque growl, he stomped through his own open door just down and across from Evan’s.

“What did he invent?” Jessica wondered as they waited for Evan’s Sentinel agents to scan his suite.

“I don’t know, but he’s been alternately smiling and frowning whenever he mentions the project. You would think he’d be happier to have it done, but I am starting to suspect there’s some real jealousy there. Stefan seems to have no problem picking up – anything mathematical.” Evan caught himself before saying anything about Mother’s project.

“You mean he hasn’t said a word to you on what it’s about, yet he told Stefan all about it? I thought you were the mathematical genius of the three.” She frowned in suspicion, and the Sentinel agent indicated they could enter the suite.

“Genius? Hardly that. I just prefer it to the physics or the microengineering classes we are taking,” he said hastily. Pushing her gently toward his suite, he ogled her openly. “I can think of a few engineering feats I’d like to try with you right now, though.”

Jessica laughed and pulled him to her. “Teaching science now, I see. I’m going to have to sign up for that class.”

 

◊ ◊ ◊

 

On Tuesday, Mother looked over their work. “Much better. I can see you’ve finally applied yourself, Evan.”

“Not fair, Mother. I apply myself all the time,” Evan complained. “It just finally clicked, that’s all.”

Josef and Stefan looked at each other. They had drilled Evan for three hours before that click had come, just before dinner. He had been apprehensive during the meal, wondering if he remembered everything, avoiding conversational gambits with little more than a few words to throw the subject back to the speaker. Renee had looked at all three of them solemnly as if she knew just what it was costing them to maintain their pleasant façades.

“Now, the next circuits in the series work in parallel. These are the ones that release the plasma energies into the crystalline couplers that – never mind, we will get to it once you master the series,” Mother explained obliquely.

“How many more designs are left in the series?” Josef asked.

“Twelve,” she said matter-of-factly.

Evan groaned very softly as Mother began teaching again.

 

◊ ◊ ◊

 

Stefan spent two hours in the gymnasium on Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday. The twins would come for their workout when Stefan had already done his warm-ups and begun sparring, and leave about the time he headed for the knife alley.

Stefan spent over three hours in the gym on Saturday morning and ate lunch in his suite. When the twins finally cornered him in Lord Charles Strauss’ antechamber to Mother’s lab that afternoon, Josef asked, “Man, when do you find time to study? If you aren’t in class or working out, you are taking on social duties like crazy. Are you on some kind of stim?”

“I study in the mornings before breakfast. I don’t get much sleep, though,” Stefan admitted. “Since I got rid of Teresa, I feel like an enormous cloud of worry has dissipated. I can think clearly now.”

He pulled a paper out of his pocket. “Here, I thought of another easy tweak. This will make the running lights shine brighter if a vehicle approaches within a meter of a shielded ground car. It should be bright enough to alarm a driver to at least brace for impact, if they are that unaware in the first place.” Handing it over to Josef, Stefan put his computer down on the bench next to Mother’s airlock lab door and went across the room to chat with Charles.

Josef looked over the diagram and the formulas, shaking his head. “At this rate, I’m going to just patent it in Stefan’s name.”

“What is this design, anyway? You never told me,” Evan complained.

Josef described his force-shielded bumpers to Evan, who whistled with approval. “I even got Roberta to help me price the components. It won’t add more than ten percent to the price of a ground car, and that could easily be covered by the savings an owner would get on insurance alone.”

Looking over Stefan’s schematics, Evan’s voice went plaintive. “No wonder Mother thinks I’m a dunderhead. Between you and Stefan, I might as well be a horse in her eyes, just someone to ride until I’m knackered.”

A sharp breath came from the doorway to the corridor. Mother stood stiffly, staring at Evan and blinking back sudden tears. She looked over at Stefan, who was busy with Charles, and then at Josef, who felt as embarrassed for Evan as his twin looked. To their great surprise, Mother turned and walked away.

Two minutes later, a Sentinel agent peeked through the open doorway. “Your Highnesses? The Empress says your class has been cancelled.”

Stefan glanced up from his position looking over Charles’ shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

The Sentinel agent’s face was blank. “I do not know, Highness.” He retreated quickly.

Josef waved Stefan over. When he was within earshot of a confidential whisper, Josef replied, “Mother caught Evan saying something indiscreet. She finally realized how much pressure she’s been putting him through.”

Evan couldn’t hide his misery. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have complained. I’m just jealous that it takes you two no time to absorb everything, by osmosis apparently, whereas I have to beat my head against it all. I hardly see Jessica on weekends anymore, even. I feel like I am about to explode,” he confessed. “Even workouts don’t seem to relieve me. Or sex, what little I get anymore.”

“I do understand the feeling, but if it’s going to interfere with me and Josef getting trained, I object,” Stefan said coolly. “This is the chance of a lifetime, and I am ready for it, even if you are not. Would you please at least go apologize to Mother? And make sure she knows it is your problem and not ours?” A brief look of thunder crossed his face.

Josef was torn. Try to keep up with Stefan, whose brilliance he already resented, or stick with Evan’s reluctance to continue and have more time for himself? He was mad as hell to be caught in this conversation. “Go ahead and take the training, Stefan. It’s not like you have other people you want to spend time with.”

The look on Stefan’s face made Josef desperately wish he had not said a word. Stefan blanched a sickening greyish-white before striding over to pick up his computer and leave without even glancing in the twins’ direction. Josef could hear his steps pick up in the corridor, almost to a run.

Evan shook his head. “Thanks for the moral support, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the horses gets ridden to death today.” He sighed. “I’m going to go find Mother. Would you like to come witness my personal humiliation? I’m used to you being there for it by now, after all.”

Josef huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I’ll give you points for groveling. Five on your knees, ten on your belly.” As Evan chuckled a bit, Josef grew more serious. “But if you screw it up for Stefan and me, we better schedule our workouts at different times.”

Evan gulped and nodded. “Are you going to grovel to Stefan?”

“Only if he succeeds in killing a horse. Or a Sentinel.” Josef rubbed his still-bruised wrist.

 

◊ ◊ ◊

 

Stefan did kill a horse. He worked on his jumps until he decided to take on the circuit all at once. He knew when he approached the fourth jump that Feverfew was tiring, but he spurred him even harder. Feverfew landed with a sickening crunch and stumbled an extra step before falling, giving Stefan just enough warning to kick out of his stirrups and follow the horse down until he could push away into a rollout in the soggy mulch of the jump corridor. The horse had screamed twice, writhed a bit, and now lay blowing in pain, eyes wide and panicked.

His two Sentinel agents came up immediately. After seeing Stefan stand and brush himself off as if nothing had happened, Captain Russell and Sergeant Clovis immediately surrounded the horse. One called back to the stables on his wrist phone for the head groom, but the latter had gone to a distant duchy that day to look over a few young stallions to be purchased for the Imperial stables. Since the break was an ugly compound fracture and Feverfew was a gelding, the consensus was to put the horse down.

Sickened by his actions, Stefan nevertheless sat and stroked Feverfew’s head and neck until his two Sentinels agreed to use their pulse pistols together. He stepped back to a safe distance, brushed away tears, and watched with sorrow as they executed the beast. They had removed its riding gear by the time the grooms got there with a new horse for Stefan, and a veterinarian’s air van arrived to remove the dead horse.

As they rode back to the stables, Sergeant Clovis said gravely, “That was a remarkable rollout you did, Highness. I’m glad we didn’t have to take you to surgery for a broken leg. Or worse.”

Stefan looked down the access road and stopped his new horse. Father and six Sentinels were headed for the Preserve. Since he had already ridden out that morning, it could only mean Father had heard about Feverfew and suspected Stefan had disregarded the horse’s signals. Not wanting to be dressed down in front of the grooms, Stefan turned his horse back to the Preserve and headed for the small glen where the truly private conversations among Imperial Family members took place, with Sentinels barely visible among trees atop the ridges.

The little grotto had several objects decorating it now. Besides Sophia’s crystal angel, there was a silver drinking goblet near the trickle running to the pool, a small candle-cup complete with melted wax on the bottom, and an offering of late-summer wildflowers tied in a ribbon, drying out nicely. Stefan wondered who had placed the candle and flowers there; it seemed reminiscent of some kind of rite. Love rite? Fertility ritual? He sat cross-legged and wondered what he would place as a memento, as well as whether such a rite actually beckoned the desired outcome into reality.

Father found him there beside the pool. Dismounting and leading his horse to drink, he sat beside Stefan and stretched out his legs, arms propped behind him. After a few moments, he very casually remarked, “You know I did not meet your mother until I was almost 31. About this time of year, too.”

Stefan didn’t want to talk about women. “I’m sorry about Feverfew. I pushed him too hard and I shouldn’t have taken that last jump so fast. Russell and Clovis did the deed. I could have used one of my knives, I should have, it was my responsibility, but I didn’t want to see the blood spatter.”

Father continued as if he had not heard. “Phillip didn’t date for about two years before he found Annette. I was surprised Zhaiden bounced out of his relationship with Colette within one year. And Brian and Christian have never settled on one lady for more than a few months. Besides all your married siblings, you are the one who has had the longest relationship with anyone. That kind of investment in time and emotion is bound to be painful when you watch it drain away into nothing.” He bent his knees and sat up, brushed negligible dirt off his hands, then pierced Stefan with his warmest gaze. “We will support you, no matter what.”

“No matter what?” Stefan brooded, tossing a stone in the pool. “Are you sure about that?”

“Well, if you were to demonstrate violence against a lover, we would probably send you to get help, but otherwise, yes, no matter what.” Staring at the grotto, a moment later he added, “One of your brothers even had a few experimental homosexual encounters.”

Stefan turned to him, then. “I… have to admit, I’ve wondered about that kind of thing. I know I enjoy women, though Teresa turned out to be a real turn-off. But sometimes when I am working out, I find myself enjoying the wrestling moves more than I think I should. I don’t know whether that means anything, though.” He groused bitterly, “And it’s not like I can ask about it. What Sentinel would want to work with me if he knew I was thinking about him like that?”

Father uttered a short laugh. “You would be surprised. Shall I have Chief Savat send you some new agents? Ones who would not mind?”

Stefan gaped. “Father! You can’t be serious!”

“They are the most discreet men in the Demesnes, after all. And Chief Savat knows all about them; he has to in order to give them security clearances. They will behave professionally at all times, but they would understand completely if you were to have questions, or more male friends than female friends.

“And as long as your Sentinel detail knows, your mother and I don’t have to know,” he pointed out. “Your mother only asks you to introduce her to possible bedmates in order to ask them personally if they have contraceptive implants, you know, as well as to make sure they do not expect a marriage contract to result just from a night of sport. And to check for their parents’ approval if they are under 21.”

Stefan’s mind was boggling, now. “I had not realized all that was going on. I just thought she had to approve of the girl, personally speaking.”

“As always, your mother is practical above all other concerns. Even in love.” Father chuckled. “You should have heard us negotiating our marriage contract. We agreed not to speak of its terms because we knew no one would understand.” His chortling wound down. “She’s not quite sure what to do with you three boys. As the youngest children, she feels like she has shorted you her attention, and she truly does think you deserve to carry on her stargate legacy. But if Evan is having problems with it—”

“We three spoke about it briefly. They don’t mind if I take the training by myself. At the least, they may train with her in the future, just not when so many other things are going on in their lives.”

“Ah, yes. I can see now how your mother thought it would be efficient to train you all together, given that you are taking the same classes. And it has been a boon to Sentinel Command to have you all together so they only have to concern themselves with a few classrooms, as well as for your personal details to be able to protect you with their comrades.” Father rose to his feet. “I shall speak to her about this fetish for efficiency and how we might personalize our attentions to you in the future.” He dusted off his hands once more. “Is there anything else you would like to talk about, son?”

Stefan rose, too. “Not at this point. I really am sorry about Feverfew. I had no idea I was taking my own stress out on him, until that last drive to force him over the jump when he was unprepared.”

Father tilted his head. “There’s a strong metaphor in that, if you think about it.”

“Indeed.” Stefan sighed but stood straighter as a result. “I shall see it doesn’t come to that again.”