Author's Note: So, dear readers; this is the next chapter. And we ARE getting closer with each chapter, you know. I hope you'll all prove to be very patient people. :P I'm glad you seem to like my nasty Jackson. I've interpreted him quite freely in this piece. We do, after all, not get to know a lot about him in Red Eye, and I've tried to make him a real full-dimensional man and not just the 'obsessed-with-Lisa'-man that he's so often portrayed as.

You'll see.

And as for Lisa; all she wants out of life at this point, is for nothing at all to happen. That is sort of making the challenge of writing her all the greater…

/Nic.

-

4. Winnipeg's Greatest Bitch

Mrs. Erica Davenport has a well-known name, a husband in high politics, a mansion, private guards, and some mighty enemies.

She lives behind iron gates on a hill on the outskirts of Winnipeg and I've been keeping her under surveillance since last Tuesday. That's four days.

Her big blonde bob bounces on skinny shoulders as she makes her way through the small boutique. Her so called bodyguard carries a pair of jeans on his right arm, a Gucci bag, and a couple of glossy paper bags from the previous shop she visited on his left.

Sloppy. Very sloppy.

If she knew the danger she's in, she wouldn't occupy him with nonsense like bags and shopping. She'd have him call in three other security details from his company and she wouldn't leave her house, terrified, her shining hair a mess, her makeup smeared on her cheeks from all the crying and whining. She'd be praying to a God that she's long since forgotten if he exists or not.

But she doesn't. Instead she hauls out her Platinum AmEx for the third time in an hour and pays the little tough-looking, gum-chewing bimbo at the front of the store before she heads out to her limo.

All the easier for me.

Before I hit the road, I give the little twenty-something in the store one more look through the large window. Way too confident. Way too cocky. My pants grow tighter and I squirm as I adjust in my seat. Tempting… But I'm here on a job.

Maybe another time.

I back out the car and weave in and out through traffic to get at a working distance to my target. Wonder who wants her dead. She seems to be stepping over corpses on a daily basis and appears anything but likeable so the choices are numerous. Still, there are many of her kind out there, and most people wouldn't hire a professional.

Most people wouldn't even know where to find one.

As I follow a couple of cars behind them and watch her park outside her lover's apartment complex, the thought strikes me again that it could be her husband. But remembering that HE took a little mini-vacation in Toronto with his mistress - his secretary - leaving last night, scheduled to return tomorrow morning, I doubt that he would be too upset by her adultery.

Disgusting people. All of them.

Waiting, my feet propped on the dashboard, the hours dragging by too slowly, I pick my nails with the tip of my blade and think of Lisa for the hundredth time since I turned off the ignition. She's out there somewhere. My DAUGHTER is out there somewhere, and it's eating at me. She must be a year and a half now, starting to become aware of her own self, starting to talk, I figure, maybe walk.

And I'M NOT THERE!

The blade slips as my hands tremble and I feel a prick at the tip of my index finger. One single drop of fresh red blood forms while I look at it.

I think of death. Someone's death. Any-fucking-one will do. I hear a car door slam shut and quickly put the finger in my mouth, sucking away the metallic tasting fluid.

She's not particularly likeable, the blonde bitch, and tonight I'll sate my blood thirst.

It won't be pretty.

-

Breaking The Vow

We've been outside for two hours when it's time to go back and prepare for lunch. Cece's beginning to get tired, but I can't allow her to sleep right when we get back; she needs to eat first, and also she'd just want to sleep one more time before evening, and then it would be hell to try to make her come to rest for the night.

And maybe, maybe I enjoy her company a little too much to want to be without it. But that reason I don't really articulate, because it doesn't sound quite right.

Maybe I'm beginning to feel a little lonely after all?

I swing her up in my arms and stagger a little. She's become a lot heavier, but I can still carry her all the way back. Cecilia snuggles up against me; her soft cheek is warm against my cold skin. I kiss her and she laughs and kisses me back.

Ray McConaghan should be making a delivery today and I don't want to let him wait. He's a funny little man. Rather overweight, lives with his mother, breeds doves, and runs the local grocery store. He supplies me with life's necessities, like bread, milk, potatoes, meat, and books when I ask for them and sometimes just when he thinks he's found something for me. He has also brought loads of toys for Cecilia; old inherited worn stuff, but always clean and fully functional. Lego, blocks, wooden trains, cars that I wind up and then watch race across our floor, dolls of all colors, sizes and shapes.

I think he might have taken a liking to us and I pray to God that he won't ever come on to me in any way. I've tried to make myself as unattractive as possible.

I hope it works.

I let her down with a sigh of relief. She immediately sits down, leaning dangerously to the left, and I have to lift her again and place her on one of the chairs on the porch. I don't want her to catch a cold. I stretch my back and flex my shoulders. They ache from all the carrying.

Before we go inside I pile up the sticks I've collected on the logs by the side of the house. I always try to think ahead. Last winter was tough and there were a few days when no one could come or leave and it was only thanks to my storages that we didn't freeze or starve. There's no telling what this winter will be like, but it kind of thrills me. It's back to basics; it gives me real things to focus on instead of the unreal; the surrealistic patterns that have been my life these past years.

I have only got a few sticks left to pile when I hear the low distant murmur from an engine. My head snaps to the left, listening. Then I react on instinct. I drop what I'm carrying and swing Cece up in my arms faster than she can blink. I'm inside in no time. I look around me in desperation, then I decide to place her in the tub in case there'd be any shots fired. Rushing to the bathroom, I grab a blanket on the way and carefully let her down on it, still fully dressed. I pray she'll be protected there. She grunts a little. PLEASE be quiet.

I dash back out in the main room, grab the shotgun and hide between the door and the window, barely breathing, tensed, dead frightened.

It IS a car!

It stops right outside. The engine dies and I hear a door open and then quietly shut. The little hairs at the back of my neck stand straight up. Who bothers to close the door so carefully? Someone who has something to hide?

The need to glance out the window almost kills me, but I press my back tightly against the wall and remain still. I hear steps in the gravel. Oh God! Cocking the gun I pray silently that Cecilia has fallen asleep in the tub and that she won't make a noise. Who's here? Who's sneaking up on us? Every hair on my body stands straight up in fear.

And deep down I know who. I know I'll have to use my gun. And it scares me so much.

"Miss Lisa? Hello! Are ya there?"

Ray! It's Ray!

Trembling violently I have to use both hands to secure the shotgun again and hang it back up on the wall.

Oh, stupid, silly Ray.

I open the door and lean against the doorframe, somewhat casually I hope. "Hey Ray. Ehm… is there a problem?" I smile but it feels too strained and I have to fake a cough to wipe the tears away from my eyes. I don't want to show him how much he frightened me.

"Hi, Lisa!" he shouts, blissfully unaware of the commotion he caused. "I've got-"

"Hang on a sec," I interrupt. I leave the doorway to go and fetch Cece. And I need just a moment extra by myself to calm my nerves. She sleeps on her back, her legs sticking up, looking like a turned over frog. Stopping in my tracks I decide to let her have her nap until I have had time to fix us lunch.

Christ!

I'm gonna have to have a serious talk with Ray.

He stands with his head bent, and at first I think that he is ashamed over showing up in spite of my 'no-show' rule, but then he raises his head and kicks away a little stone as he approaches me, grinning and carefree.

God, I feel like such an evil woman knowing that in a minute I'm going to have to wipe that beam off his face. He is such an honest, and almost child-like, human being. I'm sure he meant no harm. But our safety comes first.

His ginger, fleshy smile becomes hesitant and then it vanishes as I walk down the steps to meet him. I realize I must be a frightening sight as I fight the urge to hit him.

Poor man.

-

Wicked Stranger – Erica Davenport

When the doorbell clangs its typical happy melody she jerks from her reading and glances at her watch. It's late. Ten thirty. Who in their right mind pays someone a visit at this hour?

Hm.

She puts the book on the side table and gathers the silk robe around her frail form as she listens. Why isn't Lenny getting it? Is he asleep?

Oh!

Mrs. Davenport groans when she realizes that she needs to open it herself if it's going to get done. It's Lenny's night off.

For a moment she plays with the idea of just ignoring it. It would be perfectly okay. But then curiosity takes over and on light feet she sails down the stairs to see who it is, her robe flailing like a white cape behind her.

"Who is it?" she calls through the door as she ties the ribbon to the robe tighter around her waist. One can't be too careful. Through the little window she can only see a silhouette in the dark.

Dark? Is it usually that dark? Did the lamp break?

"Name's Jackson, miss.; I'm here on behalf of a Vincent Mehn- ehm…"

The pleasant voice falters at the attempt of pronouncing the name. She thinks it's cute. Mennér. Oh! She smiles at the thought that the man she's been seeing the last few weeks would come up with a surprise like this. Maybe he's even here? Since Jake is gone it could very well be the case. And 'miss', huh? That was a long time ago…

The chain rattles as she unhooks it and then she swings the door open, hand on hip, leaning casually and with just the right amount of tease against the doorframe.

Well… hello! Her small smile widens as she regards the man before her. Lean, high cheekbones, an even row of white teeth, a glittering smile and eyes… oh, wow, eyes to die for. In the faint light she sees them glint the bluest of blue. He's beautiful and it's as if he's directing a beam of attention towards her and her only.

"What can I do for you?" she purrs huskily, Vincent forgotten. Then she remembers. "Did Vin… ehm, Mr. Mennér send me something?"

The dark haired stranger cocks his head and smiles even broader. A warm feeling spreads in her chest; he's clearly flirting with her.

"What do you think?" he asks softly, his voice raspy in all the right ways.

She raises an eyebrow and purses her lips, knowing this particular kind of exchange so well. "Why don't you tell me?"

The man, Jackson, takes one step forward and enters the hallway. She takes one step back and lets him. A tiny voice nags very far back in her mind that this isn't sensible. Handsome strangers don't just show up on your doorstep late at night for no reason. But the warmth in her chest has quickly spread to the pit of her belly and she loves the game too much to stop.

"I'm not really here because of Vincent," he says coyly.

Erica licks her lips and can't help but smile. "I didn't think you were."

The tickling in her belly grows more persistent as he closes the door and plunges them into near darkness.

He bolts the door behind him. "I'm here for you."

At first her mind doesn't get the fact that he has pushed her chest so hard that she slams into the wall behind her. Ow. That hurt. She staggers to regain her balance. When he grabs a fistful of her hair her first instinct is to tell him to be careful with the 'do. But when her head hits the wall again, harder this time, she finally lets out a terrified scream.

"Shut up," he snarls in her ear, pulling her hair so hard that her eyes water. "This doesn't have to be very complicated. You will hurt a lot more of you make my ears bleed. Are we clear?"

So Erica Davenport tries her best not to scream as the stranger she so easily let inside virtually pulls her by her hair all the way up the stairs and into the library where she a few moments ago sat so peacefully.

And all that escapes her lips are small whimpers of pain and fear.