People's hobbies are more their measures than are their jobs.

-Robert Byrne

*****

The late fall day is cool and crisp, carrying a bit of the chill of the impending winter on it still. Winter. That was a joke in itself. In a place where the trees were still green deep into December and the flowers still bloomed. Winter was supposed to conjure images of snow and freezing temperatures. Well, he could always drive up to Tahoe if he really wanted that. But winter's chill was the farthest thing from his mind as he sat on the ferry, looking out on the world through dark sunglasses. He watched the children on the stern, feeding the sea gulls bits of bread and pretzels. He saw Angel Island pass slowly through his field of vision, still deeply wooded. Then the next island, as it came into view. Stark prison walls on that stark rock of land. Alcatraz.

He still refused to set foot on that island and he remembered that he had once meant to ask Emily if she had ever seen pelicans there. He never had, and that bothered him for some reason. Everything after that had gone to hell in a handbasket. Pazzi planning to kill her before his eyes, then kill him, in revenge for her husbands death. Emily had come out of that encounter anything but unscathed. She had never spoken about it, even now. He wondered if he should have pushed a little harder then to make her talk. She was a stubborn as he though when she didn't want to discuss things. What difference would it have made on where they were now?

One cannot change the past. He had finally succumbed to that knowledge many years too late. He had tried, had made room in Clarice for Mischa, hoping to bring her back into his life. But it wasn't the same, he realized, having the memories and having the real thing were two different things completely. And now his little Starling herself was dead, sunk deep into the Earth in eternal slumber. One red rose, the one chance for love amongst the friends. The wound was closed now, but the scar was still tender. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before leaving the thought of Clarice. She had deserved better.

Back to the present, back to the issue at hand: Emily. He was caught in what seemed to be a moral dilemma. He could no more condemn her for the murders than he could encourage her. Neither was the way it should be. To condemn her would be condemning himself. He had known from that moment in the living room when her mouth was at his throat, that she could, and someday would, kill without regret. She had restrained herself from killing him, because she had found her reflection in him. Those two words that had been uttered to her rose again in his mind. Just alike. And she was proving that to an extreme now. To encourage her, well… Family life had changed him, had allowed him to put aside the tendencies of his younger days. Oh, that didn't mean that he never felt the urge, but he controlled them, not wanting to risk the loss of his family. Emily seemed to be unaware of the risks, or she just didn't care.

The port was coming in closer now, the red neon letter no longer illuminated in the daytime. The clock tower rose above the docks, large in the foreground against the backdrop of the Financial District. The tower itself is two hundred thirty-five feet tall, and is modeled after the Moorish bell tower of the Seville Cathedral. It survived the great fires after the earthquake of 906 due to the intercession of fireboats pumping water from the bay. In its heyday, before the Bay Bridge was built, fifty million passengers a year passed under the bell tower and through the ferry building. Now it is only used by the few ferries that criss-cross the bay, like the one he is on today.

The ferry eventual comes in to the dock and he waits patiently as the other passengers scramble to disembark. No rush, it is easier to wait than to get crushed in the throng. Slowly he stands, turning and taking in the view of the bay he is presented with from the upper deck. He is making his way through the ferry building minutes alter, and he notes the remnants of crime scene tape that still hang, barricading one hallway. No one notices as he stops and looks down the hallway, no one knows that his wife is the one that tortured that young student. Emily, betraying his trust in her, returning to her disturbing 'hobby.' But he still is unable to condemn her. He has done worse than she.

The idle moment lasts no more then just that, a moment, and he is soon stepping out onto the Embarcadero. The boulevard is busy and the sidewalks are filled with throngs of people. He waits with the rest of them to rush across the street with the tenacity of lemmings as the crossing signal changes. Engines growl at them as they hurry across, only to pause on the median and wait to do it again. The pulse of the busy city, measured in stoplights and crosswalk signals. He walks across Justin Herman Plaza, eyeing the now dry fountain. The towers of the Embarcadero loom over him as he heads through them. His home is not far from here, and he is no hurry as he walks, although he will find some other mode of transportation to reach the crest of California Street. He needs time to think, and to plan a course of action to deal with Emily, since she is sure to kill again. It is only a question of when.

*****

It is almost sunset as the doctor climbs aboard a passing cable car, filled with tourists and a few other locals. The cars themselves are a relic of another bygone age, and have been reduced in number with the advance of technology. HE listened to the voice of the conductor as he points out sights to the visitors that pack onto the sideboards of the car. They pass Old Saint Mary's Cathedral, with its imposing brick façade on the corner of California and Grant. In irony, brothels once stood across the street from the old church, which had building materials imported from the East Coast and from China. The large inscription beneath the clock face, 'Son, observe the time and fly from evil' is said to have been directed at them. It occurs to him that with the proper change, a minister could direct Emily to do the same, since the act of murder is more than a crime, it is against the Ten Commandments.

He knew she had been raised Catholic, but had lapsed long before he entered her life. She had questioned her faith while going through Confirmation. She had been confirmed, under the watchful eyes of her aunt, but had basically abandoned the Church after that. She understood the concept that typhoid and swans all came from the same place. Death and life, as well, but he doubted that she had been intended to act as the Alpha and the Omega. His attention shifts from the conductor's tour spiel to the music coming from the boombox of the teenager sitting next to him. Carlos Santana. He recognized the music, and believed his wife had the CD. The song had never caught his attention before, but held it fast now.

"Hey, now, all you killers put your lights on, put your lights on. Hey now, all you children, leave your lights on, better leave your lights on. Because there's a monster living under my bed, whispering in my ear. there's an angel with her hand on my head, she say I got nothing to fear. There's a darkness living deep in my soul, and its still got a purpose to serve… So let your light shine deep into my home, you gotta let me lose my nerve, don't let me lose my nerve…"

It struck him as the precise description of his wife, and he carried it home with him, the tune running in his mind. Trickling into the walls of her room in the palace. He heard it as she greeted him at the door, and it worked its way into his fingers as he lingered at the piano late into the night. Leave your lights on. It was at that moment at the keyboard, as Bach gave way to Santana, that he knew that he had to make a decision, before she crossed the threshold and stepped into her new life completely.

*****