Early that evening Michael stepped out of the shower of the Parker house and into the steamy bathroom which was doubly thick with moisture due to the day's sweltering heat. He dried off with a towel and pulled on a pair of navy sweatpants. From downstairs he could hear the beep-beep of the microwave telling him the spaghetti was defrosted.
He ran a towel through his hair, a light from the neighboring house next door catching his eye out the window in the darkening room. He went there, moving the knotty lace curtains to see Ambra's house better.
The light in an upstairs room illuminated a square on the brown sided house, through which he could see her slender form as she pulled off her blouse and tossed it on the bed. She unfastened her bra and let it drop, putting both hand to her loose hair and pulling them back slowly, sighing in the heat of the dusk.
He stopped drying his hair, watching with growing fascination as she turned her back to him, looking around in her bedroom. She paused, and then turned slowly to look at the window through which he glimpsed. He stood straighter, realizing he was hovering over the sill, having opened the curtains wider.
He couldn't see her smile, but it was there as she stood to one side of her window, leaning slightly against her own long curtains as the light of the lamp behind silhouetted her shapely figure. One hand went to her stomach, sliding down the sleek skin, her fingers easing down to the clasp on her jean cutoffs. Michael made himself turn away from the window.
"Damn Larry," he muttered, pulse already quickening, making a stalwart effort to not take that second glance. He forced himself to go down the stairs, the aroma of Rukia's spicy spaghetti steaming up the microwave.
He looked at the device and pushed the buttons to heat it from thawed to hot, and then went into the living room. It took a moment to find the remote control, but he did, and switched on the TV to the boxing match he had $40.00 riding on.
The phone rang, and he reached for it, muting the TV as the announcers rehashed the last fight between the welter weights.
"Hello," he said, eyes on the TV before recognizing the voice of the caller, bringing a smile to his face. "Hey, Rukia, honey. How's it going there?"
"Okay," she said, voice sounding strangely timid long-distance. "How was work?"
He nodded. "Good."
"Are you alone?" Her words were thin, as if she'd said them as she inhaled.
"Of course I'm alone." He closed his eyes momentarily. "Just getting ready for a pile of spaghetti while I watch Pickertt beat the hell out of Manford. How much longer are you going to be there?"
"Maybe a week. Grandpa York had some assets I didn't expect, and, well, the attorney is helping me figure out their worth." She sighed. "I've got a few things to take care of, but I'll be home soon."
He nodded, looking to the TV screen. "Hurry back, Rukia."
"I will. I love you, Michael," she said softly. "I just wanted to say goodnight."
"Goodnight, honey."
* * *
Across the state line Rukia hung up and sat back in her chair at York's farmhouse, fingers tapping on the table as darkness fell over the kitchen. She hesitated, looking at the phone's ear piece in her hand, undecided, until the high-pitched noise came over it announcing she'd timed out to make another call. She pressed the release button and then dialed another number.
* * *
Ichigo wasn't in the mood to answer the phone when it rang in his modest motel room thirty minutes from where he'd gotten mugged that afternoon. The two points of singed holes below his right ribs itched a little, but the scrape at his head was downright painful. He'd spent twenty minutes after getting robbed coming to his senses enough to know that he'd been attacked by at least two people, but had managed not to get shot.
It should have been a great consolation, but it left him in a foul mood and more eager to get out of New York that afternoon. He adjusted the ice pack at his temple, grimacing as he sat in the arm chair before the TV set where a boxing match was underway, and reached for his cell phone on the sixth ring.
"Yeah?"
"I'd like to sell," Rukia's voice told him over the phone line.
He sat of straighter at the sound of her voice, a cheer going up from the crowd on the TV. "Mrs. Parker? Rukia?"
"I want to sell," she said. "As soon as possible. Are you watching the fight?"
"Yeah, my man's losing." He frowned, pressing the ice pack harder where his hair was standing up belligerently over his ear. "Don't tell me you're a boxing fan."
Her giggle came over the line. "Not much. So, what happens now?"
He grabbed his cigarettes from the small lamp table to the chair's side, pulled one out, cradling the phone below his ear, trying to avoid unseating the ice pack as he used the other hand to retrieve a light from his jeans pocket. "Are you free tomorrow?"
Her breath caught, making him grin as he flicked the lighter and held the flame to the cigarette at his lips.
"So soon?" she asked.
He took a drag on the cigarette, wiping the falling ashes that trickled to his bare chest. "I thought you were in a hurry."
"I am, I am," she said, taking a deep breath. "Okay."
"Do you have a passport with you?"
"Uh, no."
"We'll make do. We'll leave tomorrow. Bring a photo and be at ..." He thought for a moment of the small shopping mall strip he'd seen on the outskirts of town while there. "Be at that barbeque place in the strip mall in town tomorrow at ten a.m. so you can pack."
"Pack?" she said weakly. "What do I have to pack there?"
Ichigo watched Manford down Pickertt with a punch to the jaw line on the TV screen. "You gotta pack your stones, Rukia."
Across the city Aizen sat alone at the collection of desks pushed to his in the dimly lit room, the other D5 agents having left hours ago, eyes on the screen of the computer monitor he'd plugged into the scanner showing the whereabouts of Kurosaki's tracking chip. Even his partners had abandoned his vigil, Shoren home with a promise to keep tabs from her laptop, Esparo departing at the first opportune moment since his tepid electrification.
Aizen watched the screen, eyes narrowing on the steadily blinking red light that placed Ichigo Kurosaki thirty miles away, within snatching distance if it weren't for Ichimaru's strict orders to remain hands off.
He sat back in the chair, pulling his files closer. Actually, Ichimaru hadn't exactly said hands off; He'd made it clear not to apprehend Kurosaki, not to bully him into a back alley interrogation.
It left so many options, Aizen had concluded. He flipped through the file, seeing the same photos he'd seen dozens of times, the startling nature of a few of them having faded over the years. He found the sheet of paper detailing what little was known of Ichigo Kurosaki. Not much on the teenage boy who'd walked away from the automobile accident that killed Isshin. No blood type -- nothing they could conclusively prove, anyway -- no definite fingerprints, not even a photo of his last age. Only a school photo that showed a sophomore with absurdly orange hair and a determined scowl on his face.
The phone rang on Aizen's desk, jolting his trip down memory lane. He picked up the receiver.
"He's moving, Sousuke," Shoren said over the line.
"Sousuke is it now, Thomason?" He chuckled.
"No. Sorry, I'm at home so everything is casual."
"Sousuke is fine, Shoren." He looked to the monitor.
"He's moving."
He frowned. "I'm looking at his tag right now, Shoren. He's stationary."
"Not for long. I've got his phone traces, and he's talking to someone in Wisconsin. That's it, a very vague trace."
"How close can you narrow it down?"
"Can't; not with this trace. He's had some training, Aizen," she said with a sigh.
"This tag is useless," he muttered, glancing at Ichimaru's dark office.
"Prove it and maybe they'll let us get more personal." There was a pause for a moment, and then she continued. "I really don't want Field, Aizen. Can't you get someone else?"
He shook his head, closing the file and looking to the monitor's single red light over the grid lines that were the west suburbs of the city. "Not soon. We'll see once Ichimaru gets back from his luxury holiday."
"Okay," she said with a sigh. "See you in the morning."
Aizen hung up the phone, eyes still on the monitor. "Who the hell do you know in Wisconsin, Kurosaki?"
Rukia's taxi pulled into the small shopping mall at the edge of town the next morning just as most of the stores were opening, mostly small boutiques, outlet pick-up fronts, and a few restaurants. They passed these and parked near another taxi already there. She looked to the back door as Ichigo stepped out and crossed the few spaces to her taxi.
"Morning," he said, opening the rear door when she hesitated moving. "Still coming, aren't you?"
She nodded, getting out and smoothing her raspberry skirt in the balmy breeze that swept the parking lot. Her fingers closed nervously around her denim pouch handbag. "Are you sure about this, Ichigo?"
He nodded, reaching for her single suitcase in the back seat before paying her driver. She turned as the taxi pulled away, then looked to Ichigo. "How do we get through the airport with illegal stones?" she said in a lower tone, leaning to him as her eyes went to his waiting taxi driver.
"We'll get through."
They met his taxi and he opened the rear door, waited for her to settle inside and sat next to her, keeping her suitcase on his knees. He handed the driver two folded bills.
"Get lost for ten minutes," he said.
The driver frowned at him, turning in the seat.
"Keep the meter running, but get lost," Ichigo said, tapping his shoulder with the money.
The man looked at the bills, then snagged them and turned off the ignition and left the car.
Rukia watched the man saunter to the sidewalk as 'Open' lights in the blinked on in the mall shops, counting the money as he went. Ichigo reached over her for the knapsack on the floor near her feet. He unzipped it and handed her a shell pink cosmetic case.
"Open it."
Thoughts of Michael rushed her mind for a moment -- how she would explain agreeing to go to France with another man, how she'd tell him of the abundance of money from her inheritance, and of the sharp, painful memories that still echoed through her psyche on rare moments when he was late coming home from work.
"What's in it?" she asked, easing open the snap lid, Inside were two compartments of assorted toiletries, all brand name hair and beauty products. Duplicates of each. "What's all this?"
"The gemstones won't show up on the airport security scanners as solids when immersed in petroleum jelly," he said, pulling several of the containers out. "Sink the stones deep in these and we'll cover them with the genuine product, in case security opens them."
Rukia's fingers paused on the open jar marked Pond's face cream he handed her. "Are you sure this will work?"
He nodded, unscrewing the cap from mud mask bentonite clay. "Works every time, Rukia."
She sunk the first few stones in the Pond's jar, making sure they were out of sight in the half filled container of petroleum jelly. Twenty stones later, Ichigo took it from her and used another jar of Pond's to fill with a layer of white scented cream
"How'd you figure this out?" she asked, fingers pushing a sapphire deep into the facial clay jay of petroleum. "A trick from your mother?"
He chuckled, wiping the jar's lid threading of excess cold cream with a tissue. "No. Just an old trick."
"Wouldn't it be easier to simply take the chemical wash off the stones? Something like fingernail polish remover," she offered, handing him the clay jar hiding thirty-two stones.
"It's been tried; doesn't work." He filled the jar top with oatmeal scented clay to completely cover the petroleum below. "They're working on a cleaner."
Her eyes shot to his. "Who is?"
Ichigo stopped wiping the jar, realizing his slight slip. He looked back at the violet eyes watching him intently. He shrugged. "Different people," he said, handing her another jar of hand cream labeled almond body butter. "All those basement methamphetamine labs that the BATF raids, the ones that blow up or catch fire," he nodded, "some of those are people working on a cleaner for the wash. Not every one of them," he said quickly as her stare turned suspicious. "But quite a few the last couple of years."
She finished the last jar, hands moving slower as she considered his explanation. He took the jar when she was done and gave her a handful of tissues and alcohol towelette packets. She carefully removed the slick cloudy jelly from her fingers, wiping bemusedly as she rethought his theory, watching him fill the last jar with an off-white cream that smelled of almonds.
He stuffed the empty containers and slick tissues in the knapsack, watching Rukia's knee edge near his as she packed, noting the hem of her skirt offered a brief glimpse of her leg before she automatically pulled at it.
She placed the gemstone laden jars in the cosmetic case, oblivious to his fleeting attention, trying to smile. "Well, I certainly look like a high maintenance diva now."
He grinned as she sighed and snapped the case closed, surprised by her sudden humor. The taxi driver returned and seated himself in the front, glancing at them in the rear view mirror.
"Are you sure we can sell these, Ichigo?" she asked in a voice he could barely hear.
He nodded, watching the doubt flit through her eyes. "Absolutely."
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Ichigo settled his arm across the back of the seat behind Rukia. "Central Wisconsin Airport."
