This was just a stranded bit narrated in Chapter Three, but then it turned into a 4,000-word stand-alone. So, here is the second part of Hooroo.

Thanks for the kind reviews, Anticipation of a New Lover's Arrival and ivanpotapov4 for pointing out the typos and the kind messages.

Author's note: I do not own anything related to the show.

CROSSING LINES

PART TWO
WHITE KING

CHAPTER TWO
HOOROO
(2)

Cameron checked herself out in the sun visor's mirror under the pale light cast by the lamps embedded in its frame. Her hair fell in soft black waves on her thin shoulders; for the rest, she wore a simple black dress over herringbone-pattern tights and black ballet flats. She fastened her big, golden hoop earrings then she lifted her dress to strap the nine-mil to her inner thigh and said, "Time to go."

Derek was drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, fidgeting in his seat like a big cat on a leash. "You sure about this?" he asked.

She cocked her head in a way that surely meant no and he caught sight of the smooth, milky skin above her stockings. Derek shook his head back on-task. They had a mission. They were Poppy and Kyle Cole, newlywed couple. They were on the prowl. He exited the car and tucked the Beretta in his waistband, under his Hawaiian shirt.

The night was warm, well above sixty degrees, and the sky black ink and stars; they strolled in silence along the curb until they reached the discreet, unlit entrance of the Café Noir. The place looked old but in a bizarre way, as if an interior designer had been given a gross concept of what the twenties should look like. The raspy voice of Louis Armstrong filled the basement with La vie en rose and they found a booth that would give them a good vantage point on the entrance and the neon-lit glass counter. A handful of patrons were installed under softened lights in the other leatherette booths lined up the wainscoted walls and small, round tables made of fake marble and iron-wrought legs were arranged on the parquet floor. A lone piano sat on the oiled floorboards of a small stage and vintage advertising plates were placated on the walls, peppering them at random along with framed photographs of long-dead Hollywood stars. Derek went to the bar to order White Russians and Cameron complained that the thing tasted like cow's secretions and that the foam tasted like white noise and he told her to shut the hell up. The man was on edge again and he was talking to himself. Is she human? Does she know us? Can't you sense her?

"What?"

"Can't you sense her," he stammered. "Like – like you did with that machine back on the interstate?"

Cameron lapped dully at her cocktail. "I could isolate her heartbeat in a room but that's it. If she comes here. If she's human."

If there was a heartbeat to be found.

John had worked his black magic on the computer to locate the jump site near Yosemite. He had found a photograph taken by a traffic light's camera during the storm of a petite, black-haired woman with full lips, crouching naked by a streetlamp... Jesse Flores. She was another anomaly, another Riley. John Connor had let her go. Derek had not. Cameron didn't like anomalies. The woman had scraped by and fought and ended up in drunk tanks a lot. She'd been popped along the boulevard bordering the Café Noir twice, yelling that they would all be bleached skulls scattered on the vitrified ground. They had found mug shots of her, black-eyed and split lips. She's a mean drinker, had said Derek, and a creature of habits. She'll come.

Louis Prima was now just a gigolo and Derek made a growl, throwing his straw in Cameron's tumbler; she dodged the splashed droplets swiftly. "Would you stop lapping at your drink like a goddamn pussy?" he snapped. "We're trying to blend in. Just use the straw."

She did and emptied her cocktail in one long sip. She belched softly afterward.

"You're edgy," she said, then, "do you like my earrings?"

"Are we making small talk, now?"

"I like your shirt." It was the blue one with turtles and ferns and pineapples on it. "This is a happy shirt. I don't know a lot of happy things."

"Huh… thanks, I guess."

"And you didn't answer."

"Earrings are fine, I prefer the feathers."

"What about my shoes?"

"Damn it, shoes are fine. And you're lacking a purse by the way." Cameron tilted her head to the side. "It's a dead giveaway you're not a real woman, the lack of purse."

"Thank you for explaining. You didn't say anything about my hair."

"You know what? I don't like your hair." His tongue was a bit loose because of the alcohol. "It's like Jesse's."

"I thought you loved the woman."

"Why?" he snarled. "You did it for my sake?"

"No, I just wanted a change."

Derek snorted in disdain; he ordered a second round of drinks and the basement filled itself slowly with young patrons: most were in their thirties and some were moving slowly on the dancing floor in front of the small stage, swaying leisurely to Peggy Lee's Fever. Derek had switched Cameron's drink to a Black Russian, which was the same but without the foul-tasting milk.

"What are we gonna find?" he mused, running his fingertips in circles around the edge of his hammered-copper tumbler.

"About Jesse?"

"Yes. What are we gonna find?" he repeated. "She shouldn't be here in our time." He sighed and massaged his temples. "But she's here for a reason, ain't she?"

"She was a deserter."

"But still she had a mission. To separate you from John."

Cameron cast her eyes to the side, taking a dull, encompassing look at the basement. "She succeeded in the end," she said. "We're outcast."

Derek grunted a reluctant approval and said, "One good thing with dead folks jumping back to us. I might walk into Kyle again."

"Where is he now?"

"In the grass. Connor promised me she'll take me to his grave someday."

And she appeared out of the ambient dimness, into the pink light cast by the neon-embedded glass counter: black-haired with a toned, doll-like body. Cameron took Derek's hand and dragged him to the dancing floor, blending in with the other couples. There, she put her hands around his neck and kept his back to Jesse's.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, close to her face.

"Just play along."

"Dancing cheek-to-cheek? I don't think so."

"Put you hands on my waist."

"Hell… happy, now?"

"She's here," said Cameron.

His eyes grew wide. "What?"

"Behind you." She maintained a death-grip on his neck so he could not swivel his torso and catch a much-needed glimpse at Jesse. "She might know you," she whispered.

"She might know you too," he retorted.

"I'm hidden behind you. You're thick, Reese."

"You're the worst date ever, sham-woman."

"Quiet, now." Cameron closed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. The world around her faded into blackness… the noise and the basement evaporated slowly until all that remained was the petite woman leaning on the glass counter. "She's ordering booze with sugar," she said in a perfect imitation of Jesse's voice. "What is it?"

"That's just booze. What else?"

"She's talking to the bartender. They know each other," stated Cameron. "She comes here almost every night. They have occasional sex."

Derek grunted, low, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm narrating their conversation, is all. You're crushing my waist."

"You're unbreakable."

"And you stepped on my foot. You're the worst date ever, Reese."

"How do we get her out of there now?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Without being noticed? Not much to do. We wait for her to make the wrong move."

"The place runs from midnight to six in the morning, you expect us to grapple until dawn?"

She deadpanned a tacit no and they danced uncomfortably for a moment and Derek breathed relief when Cameron led him to their former booth. Jesse had sauntered to the dancing floor with a glass of red liquid and she had started to whirl and sway to the faster beat of Stevie Wonder's Part-time lover, sucking on her straw. She was making round trips to the bar, refilling her tumbler at a fast rate. They would glance at her from their recluse position, nursing their own cocktails.

"What's the plan?" asked Derek. "We gag her and stuff her in the trunk?"

"A sound plan," agreed Cameron.

They waited nearly two hours - and Nina Simone felt good and Ella Fitzgerald took the "A" train and Ray Charles hit the road - for Jesse to become aware of her full bladder and make her way to the bathroom.

"I'll get her," said Cameron.

"Sure," slurred Derek. His head was lolling on the backrest. "Just don't hurt her, 'kay?"

"Keep your head, Reese."

"I think I lost it after the…" He stared intently at the three fingers raised on his hand. "Fifth Russian. I gulped down yours, too."

"Thank you for explaining."

Cameron followed Jesse's shape through the small crowd as she vanished behind the swing door tagged with a pin-up girl and the word SITTERS beneath it. She approached the bathroom and stopped in front of the door, listening. She heard the sound of an opened faucet and pushed the door open. Jesse was crouching on the edge of a washstand and water was gushing from the overwhelmed ceramic basin, cascading over Cameron's bare ankles. The power supply of the hand-drier had been yanked off the wall and let loose on the wet floor. It was too late when Cameron understood what was happening and Jesse hit the hand-drier's switch. The world became dull light and bright black and muffled sounds and for a hundred and twenty seconds, Cameron only knew void.


White noise crackled and came into focus: the voice was male and female at the same time and then the jumble of words ordered itself from the primordial chaos. Is she alive? I don't know, I can't find a pulse! She's not breathing. Call nine-one-one.

Something came lying upon her chest, making a rhythmic push-and-release motion and she felt a strange wetness on her parted lips and warm air being forced down her throat... she's breathing! I feel a pulse. Do I still call the ambulance? Of course, girl, she's been electrocuted. She needs assistance A-SAP.

Cameron's eyes snapped open and she saw the blurry face of the bartender hovering inches above hers. A waitress was on the phone, crouching on the floor right next to him and biting the nails on her free hand.

"Are you okay Miss?" shouted the man.

Cameron sat up. "Yes," she said with an electronic-tinted voice. "Thank you for…" What was the rest of the sentence? She couldn't tell. "I need to go now."

"What? No, we've called an ambulance."

"I need no ambulance." Cameron stood up and exited the ladies room.

She was soaked and she smelled like burned pork and Jesse was gone. Derek was gone too. Some patrons ogled her still fuming frame while she strode to the entrance hall to retrieve her ID and Derek's. She heard the bartender yell that she would be so lovely to keep it quiet and that, of course, the drinks were on them. Cameron exited the Café Noir and the bouncer, a tall black man, told her that, Miss, you're going to get a cold wandering like that in wet clothes and she said that it was unlikely but thank you for… what was it? She had no idea.

She found a phone booth at the corner of the street. She wrenched the coins reservoir and a small mountain of metal pieces fell on her feet. She inserted a few coins in the slot – and they fell right back on her feet – and dialed the number.

"Black queen takes knight," she said in the mouth-piece. "I need your help."


James Ellison - aka countergambit - was not living up to his namesake. In chess, the term "gambit" would be employed when a piece was sacrificed to obtain better control of the board. The "countergambit" move would parry such bait. Derek - aka black knight - had been sacrificed and Jesse had been lost in the wild, hence the loss of board control - aka the shit storm.

"Just tell me what to do," said James in the prepaid phone.

"Go to the computer then follow my instructions."

He put Cameron on speaker and laid the cellphone on the kitchen table, next to the laptop. They had left a grainy print of a mug shot on the keyboard. He shoved it aside and followed the instructions, which quickly took the shape of an alien language. It was an occult art, really, columns of gray characters emerging from a pitch black console. Cameron had to spell most of the words and James performed his duty with great care as if the computer might collapse upon itself and explode if only he missed a semi-column. This is my Purgatory, he told himself, and after twenty minutes of painstaking typing, he called out, "I'm in!"

"Browse the mug shots," she ordered. "The portraits are automatically uploaded to this server so they can be flagged by other agencies."

"Okay, okay... I'm browsing... still browsing."

"Just tell me when you find him."

"Got him! God, his face... it's a mess."

"Where is he?"

"1107 Batavia Street."

"That's Orange County's precinct. I'll go and get him."

"Wait -"

"What is it?" she pressed. "I gotta act fast. If you found him, they found him."

"That woman you're seeking," said James. "She's there."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Her face is fine but her fists might not be, judging by Reese's face."

"Okay." A pause. "Preacher man."

"Yes?"

"Be safe."

And the line went dead with the sound of Bakelite being crushed into smithereens.


Graves snapped awake. He might have been sleeping, might have been dead. He did not breathe, did not blink. The face appeared on the monitor, beaten and swollen. 1107 Batavia Street. Graves's eyes became iridescent with red and they cast sanguine shadows in the dark room.

And the hunt began.


Orange County's precinct was a flat building encircled by a small ocher rampart with

POLICE FACILITY

written on it in big, golden letters. Behind the four-foot wall, some trees hid the windows of the building. The entrance was an arch of red stone, topped by a bigger arch of glass and metal. Cameron went up the few concrete steps lit by cylindrical streetlamps. A man opened the bullet-proof glass doors when she came to stand in front of them.

"Yes, ma'am?"

She made a warm smile. "Hi," she said. "I'm Poppy. Poppy Cole. I'm here to collect my hubby."

"What do you mean, ma'am?"

"I saw you guys take him in. He's not a mean drinker, really. He just doesn't know where to draw the line. I always say, three White Russians, no more, Mister. But you know what he did? He emptied mine while I was in the ladies room. The oaf."

The policeman took a step back to let her enter the building. The hall was tiled with white tiles and two detectors were separated by a metal rail that had a small gate hinged onto it.

"Do you have his ID?" sighed the man. "And yours." He took the papers. "Poppy and Kyle Cole," he mused over the passports. "Your husband's in the drunk tank, ma'am, and I'm sorry to tell you that he's in bad shape."

Cameron looked at the man in awe. "Ohgosh. He didn't fight or anything, did he? He thinks he's dangerous but he's like a cat. He's my big cat."

"Okay. Step through the metal detector and you will identify him."

"What did you say?"

"The metal detector."

"I'd prefer a pat down."

"Can't do, ma'am. We need a woman to pat down a woman and there is no female officer in the precinct, tonight."

"Thank you for explaining."

She made a fist and...

"Hey!" shouted the man. "What's the matter with you, pal? You don't just walk in like that."

James Ellison fiddled with the buttons of his blazer, closing it over his chest. He straightened up his tie and produced a card from his chest pocket.

"Agent James Ellison," he said. "FBI."

The man took the card and squinted his eyes at it. Cameron felt James push her in the small of her back and she hopped above the metal rail to avoid the detector. She threw one ballet flat in it to activate the detection and trigger the green light above.

The young officer looked lost for a second. He took his eyes off the FBI card to stare at Cameron. "You went in, after all?" he asked, and she shrugged. "Go to the office on your right, ma'am. Peterson will take you to the drunk tank. Tell him I sent you."

"Do we have a problem, officer?" quipped James.

"No, no. Just have to run those in the computer. Step in the detector."

James walked through the gate, shoved Cameron's shoe aside, and the light blinked green again. The young officer flattened the FBI card in a small machine, which beeped and hummed softly.

"Looks fine," he finally said. "Out of date, as per usual with you folks. We'll fix that in the morning. What's the Bureau's purpose in here anyway?"

"Got a face flagged on my computer. I understand she's here."

"What's the name?"

"Can't tell, right now. Went by the name of... Catherine Blake," he lied. "She must have changed it by now." He had brought the grainy mug shot of Jesse with him and he gave him to the young officer.

"We picked up an Aussie that could match... funny, though: she was the one mauling that woman's husband. Small world, I guess."

"I'd appreciate if I could identify the suspect quickly. My own wife's not to keen on sharing a bed with an empty space."

"Yeah, sure. Follow me. She's in the drunk tank, too. Maybe we should've isolated her if she's dangerous."

"White collar crimes, mostly."

They were all reunited in a small corridor. Cameron was standing next to an old and stocky officer. He had a huge, gray mustache. Peterson. James stood by the young officer. Behind the bars, a bunch of people: some looked homeless, some looked rich and all smelled like piss and vomit. Derek sat in a corner, half his face bruised in all the shades of the rainbow. Jesse sat on the opposite side with her back to them, her black hair hanging loose between the rusty bars.

The stocky officer talked first. He rammed his nightstick against the bars. "Cole!" he yelled. "Wife's here to collect you."

Derek mumbled something and half-walked, half-crawled to the metal door. The officer opened it and grabbed Derek by the neck to shove him into Cameron's arms, where he just leaned limply, drunk and beaten.

The young officer was the second to talk. He hit the edge of his nightstick next to Jesse's head. "Girl," he said. "Someone's here to collect you."

The woman wearily turned her head toward the corridor. There was no recognition in her eyes when she saw James. "Who's that fucker?" she asked.

"Just watch your mouth now. Is that her, agent Ellison?"

"It's her, all right."

"Okay, let's fill in the paperwork and you can collect her then."

They made their way out of the corridor, James with the young officer and Cameron supporting Derek's weight on her petite frame.

"Can you manage, ma'am?" asked the older officer. "Your guy here looks heavy."

"That he is," she confirmed, "but I'll manage on my own."

"Suit yourself."

They retrieved Derek's possessions at the entrance of the precinct through a sliding glass drawer: a pack of cigarettes, fifty-three bucks, a Johnny Cash lighter and the keys of the car. Cameron caught a glimpse of James sitting legs crossed, facing a desk and filling in some forms.

"Where are we going?" mumbled Derek when they staggered down the flight of concrete steps outside.

"Home."

Cameron didn't know why she cared about the big lump of meat called Derek Reese and her head-up display would not give her the answer. She told herself that he was an ersatz of John. They looked the same now, burly men with murder in their eyes, and they shared the same blood, even though she never revealed she knew the identity of John's father. She had come for Derek in the precinct, not for Jesse. She was the primary mission but Cameron could not have cared less. She would let Derek sleep a few hours then they would drive to Albuquerque in the morning.

"You have the same hair," murmured Derek. "You have Jesse's hair."

"You told me that, earlier. No, don't touch the hair."

"It's soft, like a curtain with wool bobbles. And you smell like Sundays' barbecues."

Cameron made the faintest sigh. It was going to be a long walk back to the car.


The tall man strolled into the precinct and the young officer sighed heavily, slouched in a wooden chair. His shift was coming to an end and he looked like he had just emerged from a shallow slumber.

"What is it with you black suits, tonight?" he mumbled, glancing at the stern man. "ID, please." He took the card. "Agent Graves. Is that for the woman? Your pal came here earlier to collect her."

"My pal?" asked Graves.

"Yeah. Big fellow… ahem, Ellison? That's it, Ellison. You guys could communicate."

"The woman is gone."

"Yes."

"I'm looking for this man also." Graves produced a black-and-white photograph from his blazer.

"Don't know him." It was a blurry picture of a bearded man with a paunch and chubby cheeks, with a tuft of brown hair and a parrot-ornamented shirt. "Got a fellow with a Hawaiian shirt, for sure. But his wife collected him. Pretty thing, that girl."

"You don't mind if I check for myself?" asked Graves and he made his way through the metal detector. The thing blinked red and rang loudly.

"Hey! Wait –"

The young officer was shot in the throat with a suppressed barrel and he dropped to the ground in a gargle of blood. Graves shot an older policeman in the mouth, splattering blood on his mustache and making his jaw disappear in a hail of bone and enamel splinters. When he got to the drunk tank, Graves's head-up display found no match. The men were crying and begging for their life and he shot them through the rusty bars, one by one. He was not built to be cruel, but he had to remain… discreet.

Graves found a lone ballet flat in the hall. He left the precinct and hopped on his bike. He was going to pay James Ellison a visit.


Author's note: Upcoming: into the Head.