How quickly the weeks had passed! It seemed but a day or two since I had first seen her, but in actuality, the month of May had sped by, taking with it the first days of June. Since the Connecticut winter had not been very gentle that year, the school year was going to extend until the very end of June, even for seniors. The days were warm and uncomfortable now, and Christine showed less than complete enthusiasm dragging herself out of the door on those muggy mornings. But since her father was spending more time rehearsing, and since she no longer held her after school job, she was taking more time in the library than usual. She was also practicing at her dance studio several days after school. I knew that her end-of-year recital was coming up very shortly, and I was looking forward to purchasing my ticket. For right now, things seemed oddly static. Her father was in a stable state of health, and the only thing I needed to attend to was that fact that she was becoming upsettingly attentive to that French fop, Raoul.

The stupid boy had gone in the face of my wishes and had consented and in fact urged her into tutoring for the summer academy examination. He had also, to my fury, made overtures towards a more personal relationship. I heard their discussion in the classroom; ever since I knew which school she attended, I made certain I knew how to get around unnoticed, and I was glad that her sense had gotten a hold of her before she went out with him. I saw her the following day refuse to go with him. He went away, disappointed but still resolved. I was proud of her, but he would pay for his refusal to listen to reason. My next warning would be something he would not forget.

It was Monday now, the Monday after Raoul had failed to prevail on Christine for a date. The comparative peacefulness of our situations was seeping into me as well; I watched Christine as she went to school in the morning, but the revenge that I had planed on Raoul seemed to be too exhausting to contemplate. I was allowing myself to become careless, and that was how I saw her father that morning.

Each day, I usually only waited to see that Christine was safely on her way to school before I returned home. I only assumed that her father was well and going to work. That morning, I saw differently.

Charles Day was not in good condition when I saw him. He staggered down his driveway and slumped over the hood of his car. I was curious, nothing more, and I crept closer. He was not holding his violin. He did not look as if he was going to work at all that day. He rested there for several minutes before he started up his car and drove off, heading in the opposite direction of his studio. I watched him as he sped off down the road, careening around the corners at a speed that any lucid person would have known to be unsafe. I again wondered at the duplicity of that man; with such a daughter to care for, he would still actively seek his own death? Of course, I was no mind reader, and there could have been many explanations for his actions that morning. I decided to table the information for the moment and attend to the things I needed to do. I'm sure that I would be able to know what I needed to know when the proper time came.

Little did I know that the proper time would be so soon. Christine did not return from school that day at the right time, and while I drove to the school to trace her location, I was almost blind with the anger that I felt. I was certain that this time she had fallen prey to that idiot boy's overtures and was not planning on returning home on time. When I reached the school, however, no matter how hard I looked, she was not to be found. As a matter of fact, Raoul was still there as well. I looked into his window, where he sat, floundering through a pile of tests.

My anger calmed somewhat, but I determined to look next in the library, knowing that she spent many afternoons there. Mrs. Miller greeted me cheerfully as I entered, and I greeted with relief the coolness of the temperature controlled air. I returned some of the volumes I had borrowed, and ascended to my level of the library. Christine sometimes used that room, especially if she had studying to do. I had been scrupulously avoiding being seen by her, but that didn't stop me from watching her as she worked. There was an attic above that room that no one ever went into. I had, of course, made full use of it. This time, though, I walked right into the room.

My heart, the muscle that I had believed to be permanently atrophied, lurched painfully in my chest. She was there. Her head was bent over some papers, and her pencil was frantically working away. Her pre-calculus textbook had obviously given her some problems; it was face down on the floor, several feet away from her. I smiled. I had never felt the same way about math as she obviously did, but I remembered throwing such fits over my penmanship lessons, certainly. I observed her for a few more minutes, in silence. She had not heard me because I had not wanted her to hear me. I wanted so badly for her to look up at me, and smile, and know me, even for who I was. But there were oceans of space between us, oceans of difference. Even now, I stood in the shadow of the doorframe, and she was bathed with afternoon sunlight.

I had memorized every plane of her face, but her curls were always different. They riled up on her head, in solid rebellion to the heat, like a battalion of disobedient soldiers. Each one was always different; it was one of her many little beauties that I loved about her. Her arms curled around in a half-arc around her piles of homework, and the fingers that grasped the pencil were limber and tapered. I sighed silently, still not wanting her to hear me, and I was on the verge of going back downstairs and out to my car, when I heard footsteps, hurried and panicked, ascending the stairs behind me. I was startled into motion, and I glided calmly into the room, holding a scrap of paper in my hand as if I were looking up some book. Christine looked up at me, and indeed she smiled, and looked as if she were about to speak. But the footsteps that had been coming now burst into the room, and the little figure of Mrs. Miller appeared.

"Christine," she panted, the stairs being a long trip for one of her age and stature, "the hospital called. They want to speak to you at once."

Christine asked no questions. Her face turned bloodless white, but she was strong enough to go down with Mrs. Miller. She left everything except her purse on the table, but neither she nor the librarian seemed to notice. I listened to the descending notes of their footfalls, and slowly turned towards the pile of papers she had left. There was nothing for me there. Nothing I could use. And Christine had learned. She no longer took any of her notebooks out of the house with her. Minutes passed as I waited for her return; she must return for her books. And as a matter of fact, she did.

She was taking the stairs two at a time, almost as if she couldn't reach the top fast enough, but when she did, she looked as if she had no idea what she was doing. Her eyes were red, almost as if she had rubbed them hard enough to keep her from crying. But they still glistened, and I found myself unable to keep myself from staring at them, those dark, yet richly warm eyes with the perfectly framing eyebrows, full of tears yet too proud to let them fall.

She moved to the table, sparing not a glance for me, and crushed all her papers, in a fury of impatience, into her bag. She piled her books in her arms and swung her bag onto her back. When she turned around, heading towards the door again, she caught sight of me. I had no time to hide the fact that I had been staring, but I let her know, with all the expression that I could muster into my eyes, that I was sorry for her.

Christine stared back at me, almost as if I had said something tangible to her, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. Her lips parted and trembled, almost as if she wanted to say something, and a wispy sob came out from between them. Her arms too, shivered as if they could no longer hold up the burden of her books. She looked at me, and she sighed. Her right foot slid an inch or two along the faded carpet, and she leaned, ever so slightly, towards me. Then, shaking her head and managing a smile that seemed to say 'I'm all right', she turned and raced down the stairs. When she left, I found that my hand was clenched so hard that it ached when I finally released the muscles. I was also shaking. What emotions had she just then displayed? It seemed as if she had wanted to come closer, to rest her head on my shoulder, and to cry. I sighed, closing my eyes and leaning back against the dark and heavy shelves. Would that she had, I thought, would that she had.

Either way, I thought, as I saw the taxi pull up to the building and roar off in the direction of the highway, I had to make sure that she was all right.

I had infiltrated hospitals before. I only needed to find myself some resident's attire and play the part of an inmate. I could not, unfortunately, simply take a lab coat and play the part of doctor. My…disability…rendered me incapable of that. Well, what must be done must be done. I donned the green garb and walked with equanimity down the halls of the hospital. I hacked into the first computer terminal I found (I have always been particularly adept with computers) and I found that a Charles Day had been admitted to the emergency ward around noon, as the victim of a car accident. The notes underneath his status were not good. He seemed to have suffered a heart attack upon collision, and while it was only a mild one, complications from his multiple fractures and lacerations made it very dangerous. He was being kept in a stable wing at the moment, but that was because there was no more room in the emergency ward. He was being closely monitored. Miss Day was marked down as being a visitor.

However, if Charles Day really were that unstable, she would also be discussing treatment options and, if it were apparent to the doctors that he would not last, she would also be comparing headstone manufacturers. But my diagnostic eyes saw nothing to make me suspect that even a man in ill health would not be able to heal from these injuries. He might never walk again, certainly, and the way his left hand had been crushed into the wheel from the crumpling car frame made it certain that he would never play the violin again. He was only unstable now because the doctors needed to find the right balance of anesthesia.

I glided away from the computer after wiping it free from all traces of my meddling, and turned my steps towards the wing where the man was being kept. A small, yet wickedly wonderful plan was forming in my mind. Charles Day had serious injuries that could result in death. If he did not want to heal, as he had certainly shown that he did not, he might well die as a result of this accident. What if I were to…speed that process along? He would have no knowledge of it of course, but if he were to know, I was certain that he would thank me for the consideration I showed him. He did not want to live, and who was I to disregard the wishes of a dying man?

A quick walk past the doorway of the ward revealed no video cameras. Tsk, tsk. They should really take better care of their patients. Never know when a homicidal maniac with an unhealthy obsession should come walking along.

Of course, I could not move against him today. But, perhaps tomorrow night…after the nurses had left the stable care ward…and there was cover of darkness in the room…one of Mr. Day's support machines would fail…or he would have a severe heart attack, with no one monitoring his pulse…and Christine would be a poor little orphan, with not a friend in the world. Or so she would think. So they all would think. And when she disappeared, the social services would casually forget her, secretly glad to have one fewer child to care for.

I changed clothes and walked back to my car. As I started up, I noticed that my hands were trembling on the wheel. My heart, in fact, my whole being trembled with the anticipation that the next few days would bring.

Still, first things first. Raoul, that irritating boy, was too close to Christine. And he showed no signs of leaving her, despite my first warning. I was filled with enthusiasm and energy now, and I was more than ready to deal with him. Tonight, he would be taken care of. Tomorrow, I should make arrangements with my contacts to have a flight to Paris on a private jet. I could also tell him to make my apartments in the city ready for me…and my guest. There were many things to be prepared, but long ago I had seen to the need of having efficient and quick staff. They all knew me, some to different extents, but I trusted them all, and I trusted them to hold their tongues. I paid them too well to have any disobedience.

The day after next…she would be mine. I could have no more delays.

Raoul's home was deserted. Many of the people who shared his condominium complex were single businessmen and women. They would all be gone for much longer. Raoul, however, I knew would be home. I crept up beneath the window of his living room, where he was having a heated phone conversation with someone. His French was so rapid and troubled that I had to concentrate to understand him. When I finally ascertained that he was speaking with his mother again, and remonstrating her for being so upset with his choice in career, he slammed the phone down and paced around the room for another several minutes, swearing and muttering imprecations against his own flesh and blood. I smiled. Very soon he would have something much more serious to be angry about.

When he muttered something about dinner and stalked off to his kitchenette (which thankfully did not adjoin his living room) I heaved myself inside and concealed myself in one of the many closets that his home seemed to contain. I counted on his aristocratic tendencies to force him out of his home for dinner, and indeed, in a few moments, he stalked back into the living room, mumbling about there being nothing decent to eat in the whole of America. He pulled on his jacket and went out to his car. I waited until he had reached the other end of the street before I left my hiding-place, and I very quickly set to work. Even though I knew that he would take the time (and the money) at a very nice restaurant, I wanted to be back in time to see how Christine was handling her father's new escapade. I also had my staff to contact. I thrived under pressure, and this time was no exception.

I wondered as I worked whether or not Raoul had gotten to see his brother's body before he had been cleaned up by the local constabulary? In accordance with my orders, I had not made one neat cut to the jugular. I knifed the boy up very thoroughly, in order that the men might think that this had been a violence killing by a random serial killer. I had not had the energy to point out to them that a random killing would not take place in a secured home, but I had known that it would not change their opinion. In either case, the body had been very nicely diced. It was not, to me, aesthetically pleasing, but I took a picture of it anyway, as I was in the habit of doing, with a rose beside it, in order to keep an accurate portfolio of my work. I was, after all, an artist, but even an artist has to take the good with the bad.

This was the picture that I had enlarged, to poster size, before I came to the house. I had not accurately measured Raoul's ceiling space, the last time I was there, but my guesstimates are fairly close, when I have to make them. The place I really wanted to hang this was in the little alcove above his bed. The architect of this little shell had probably wanted some sort of artistic bent to his pitiful design, and so he had made the ceiling above the bed a foot higher than anywhere else, certainly feeling that the little alcove (entirely out of place) added shape to his room. It was useless in every way, especially in the way it had been intended, but it was seemed created expressly for me. It would serve my purposes wonderfully.

And indeed, the picture fit! A little spray adhesive (that was almost impossible to loosen) made sure that Raoul would have his brother's face to look at for the rest of his term in that house. Of course, he would not see it until he lay down to sleep. But that was the beauty; it was sure to give him pleasant dreams. For an added touch, I taped a note to the edge of the portrait, just to remind him of how easily his brother's demise could be replicated. Smoothing out all traces of my presence, I left his house and returned to my own. I had been particularly impressed with the vibrant colors of the enhanced picture. What technology could do nowadays!

I saw no sign that Christine had yet returned home, and, as it was getting on in the evening, I decided to place my call to Paris. I needed a good night's sleep in order to prepare for the next evening. And I had been remiss. I needed to plan Miss Day's abduction. Social services would descend upon her like a plague. I needed to be sure that her father's death had no time to reach her before she was gone. That would mean as little time possible between her father's sudden death and her disappearance. It took me at least fifteen minutes, under the best circumstances, to drive from the hospital to her home…

But I was getting ahead of myself. The first thing to do would be to make sure that the jet was ready and waiting for me, and that all I would need would be aboard. My chief of staff, Nadir Khan, would be the one to call.

I had forgotten the time difference between myself and Geneva, where he had made his permanent residence, but if I woke him his voice showed no surprise or even fatigue.

"Sir?"

"Nadir," I said, my voice slowly taking over its old accent of power, "I will need the jet waiting for me with its usual outfit. Midnight tomorrow, is that possible?"

His voice was even, showing no surprise, even though when I had last parted with him, I had told him that it was going to be forever. He had known me since my earliest days as an assassin in Turkey, though, and since it was I who had gotten him ousted from his comfortable position as chief of police, he knew that I would do anything should I become bored enough.

"It will be waiting for you, sir. Nearest airport to your position?"

I was surprised that he was not going to try and talk me out of it. Usually, he was incorruptibly pure, despite all the atrocities that he had carried out in the name of his despotic commander. He was very upset with me each and every time I killed, though those I killed deserved to die, and it was really my only decent livelihood. For some reason, he still too it amiss.

"Yes." I kept my replies likewise short. "I will also need the apartments in Paris opened up, with rooms prepared for a…" I hesitated over the word, knowing how Nadir would take it, "guest. Make sure that the doors lock only from the outside."

But if I had been in the mood for any difficulties, he was not going to supply them.

"Very well, sir, I'll wake the staff in Paris. How many rooms for your guest?"

"Bedroom and bathroom. No telephones."

By this, I knew that he understood it was to be an unwilling guest.

"Should I tell the staff to remain?"

"No. Stock the apartment but clear it out. I will wish to be alone. And Nadir?"

"Sir?"

"Have the organ tuned."

He hung up, knowing that our business was finished. Shrugging off the sense that Nadir had washed his hands of me, I went downstairs to my organ. There would be enough time to gather what his motives and emotions were on the flight to Paris. Right now, I imagined, checking my watch, the little de Chagny boy would be coming home, tired after his long day and frustrations over his dinner. As a matter of fact, he might want to go lay down instead of watching TV or reading a book. Right now, he might be staring at his ceiling, not realizing what is actually covering it until his poor tired brain clicks in.

I struck a chord on my organ, so dreadful to hear that if I had not played it a dozen times before I might have covered my ears in shock.

He must be reading my letter right now, I thought, moving into one of the many songs I had composed upon thinking of Phillippe's death. I wonder if he knows that I mean every sentiment?

I stopped playing, so abruptly that the silence echoed into the cavernous underground, where the darkness waited, cringing, to hear another sound from my organ.

"Dear Mr. Chagny," I whispered, repeating the words of my note, "I wondered, quite out of a friendly impulse, whether you wanted greatly to see your brother again. Since I, unfortunately, only knew him in a professional context, this is the only picture that I happened to have on me. Still, I know that you will remember him as he was, and not as he is. I only care to caution you sir, to remember my earlier warning. The Comte's fate is easily duplicated."

Signed with a rose. I sighed in satisfaction. I really should thank the boy. He had given me the chance to express myself in such new ways! I really felt that I had never been this artistic before. I might have to send him a postcard, from Paris, from both myself and Christine, thanking him for his inspiration.

I played well into the night, thinking all the while of how to orchestrate Miss Day's disappearance. And then, when the sun crept up, I rested my tired fingers and my aching mind. I was filled with euphoria though. Just a few more hours. And then the real work would begin.