Repeated thanks for those of you who continue to read and review this story, and for your kind and generous praise. And again, how nice to pick up a new reader! I am really enjoying writing 'And Then There Was One', and I feel privileged to be able to share it with you. Cathy.
Chapter Thirty-Two
"Wow, it got real quiet in here all of a sudden," Brass said with forced lightness. "Was it something I said?" he quipped, as he brought his cup to his lips, and sipped the lukewarm brew, lowering his gaze to the highly polished tiled floor. He didn't really want any coffee, he just needed something to do, something to concentrate on, so that he could have a valid reason to look away from the shocked, unsettling stares of the trio seated across from him.
Cecilia had been intrigued as she had listened to Jim relate the case of the Juneau murders. Just as she had that night when she had watched him interrogate Michael Strickland, Cecilia enjoyed watching Jim at work, and in his element. She was so impressed that he had found the link between the deaths and validated his suspicions, even as her heart sank to realize that the three detectives had been murdered, their lives unfairly cut short. She had envisioned Jim hunched over the files, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking for connections, and tenaciously digging for something tangible to support his intuition. Finally beginning to unravel the mystery.
But now, Cecilia stared at the detective, her normally tanned features waxen and pale. Her extremities felt icy, and as she moved to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and her fingers brushed her face, she was aware of how cold they were. She was surprised when Jim mentioned how quiet the room had gotten. For Cecilia, the blood that surged through her veins...pounding in her head...made a cacophanous, whooshing sound in her ears. Surely the others could hear it, so loud was the sound of her near panic.
Four men had worked the Holiday Murders nine years ago, and now three of them were dead. If someone was seeking to systematically murder the detectives involved with the case, contriving to make their deaths appear like accidents, then there was no reason to believe that he or she would stop there. Not with one of those four police officers still alive.
Cecilia watched with a curious detachment, as small, black flecks danced across her line of vision, while the blood continued to roar in her ears. Her limbs felt rubbery, no longer under her control. Her breathing was too fast, and too shallow. Cecilia realized that these strange sensations signalled the onset of fainting. She gripped the arms of the chairs, and closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. She would not embarass Jim this way. Making a concerted effort, Cecilia fought to steady her breathing, and regain her equilibrium.
Jim was in danger! The idea of something terrible happening to him...and Cecilia couldn't even frame her thoughts any more concretely than that, not beyond a veiled suggestion of something terrible...rocked her. She concentrated on the memory of how it felt to be in his embrace, to feel his strong arms around her, and to hear the steady beat of his heart beneath the dark hairs of his chest. Surely nothing...or no one...could steal the warmth from his solid frame, and cause that brave and caring heart to cease pumping. But to even know that somone might try...that there could at this moment be an unknown enemy out there seeking to do just that, scheming to do Jim harm...that was just too terrible of a thing for Cecilia to contemplate.
"Have you received a letter like this?" Catherine was asking Brass, holding the copy of the letter taken from Denny Martens' safe, in the air. Her blue eyes were narrowed suspiciously. She leaned forward in her chair, her body tense.
She knew that if he had, Brass would already have told them so, but Catherine had to ask anyways. She stared at her old friend with concern. Despite how outwardly cavalier Jim was being about all of this, she knew that he had to be worried. It was just Jim's style to downplay any threat to his own safety, however. But Catherine could see the tightness in his craggy features. He understood the enormity of the situation.
"No," Jim replied simply, looking up at Catherine for a moment, his dark eyes inscrutable.
"Then it's only a matter of time," Grissom remarked coolly.
Gil had been stunned by the turn of events. That this investigation was precipitated by the deaths of three men, three detectives who had worked right here at LVPD, and that it had ties to a serial killing spree of the past, had been information that he had eagerly absorbed. Grissom had been engrossed by the retelling, fascinated by what Brass had learned and how he had pieced things together. Gil had regarded the case as a giant puzzle, and looked forward to contributing his own talents towards a successful resolution. At the very least, it would be something to take his mind off of the disasterous exchange he had had with Sara, and the less than enthusiastic hiring of Paul Tennyson that had followed it.
But now, this was not just another case. There was a very real threat here, towards the life of a man that Grissom had come to know and respect. Someone that he cared for, as much as Gil disliked admitting his emotional involvement.
Then it's only a matter of time. "Yeah." Brass acknowledged Grissom's prediction with a heavy sigh, trying to muster the semblance of a smile.
"Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life and when it comes, hold your head high, look it squarely in the eye and say, 'I will be bigger than you. You cannot defeat me.' " Gil gazed at the detective. "You know what you're up against. You have knowledge that Martens, Keeth and Takei didn't. Even with the letters, they didn't realize the true extent of the threat. You can take the steps that they didn't. And now that we're on to what's happening, we'll find out who is responsible for their deaths." The forensic scientist spoke with quiet assurance.
"You can't minimize this!" Catherine protested, frowning at her supervisor. "Three very smart, well-trained detectives were killed. Someone got past their defenses. And he was clever enough to make it look like an accident. We're dealing with someone who is maliciously cunning." Her cornflower blue eyes were wide. "I think you should go on vacation, Jim. Just leave Vegas for a while. Until we can sift through the evidence and nail this guy." Catherine looked at the detective, perched on the edge of his desk, and felt an ache, deep inside. Jim Brass was her friend. It had been hard enough to bury Denny Martens and Elliott Keeth. She couldn't imagine having to say good bye to Brass too, especially not under circumstances like that.
"I'm not going to run and hide," Jim rejected coldly. He folded his arms across his chest, frowning at her. "I'm working this case, and I'm going to see it through to the end."
"Even if it's the end of you?" Catherine asked in exaspiration, stress causing her voice to rise.
Brass gave an exaggerated wince. "Give a guy a little credit, will ya? I've managed to stay alive this long. And I've been in some pretty tight spots before."
Catherine knew he was talking about the undercover work that he had done back in New Jersey. She knew that he was more than capable of handling himself in the face of an open and overt threat. But what of the threat that he might not see coming? One that he might not be able to recognize or even conceive of? Catherine's eyes sparkled, damp with emotion.
Brass tilted his head and smiled kindly at the blonde, understanding that she was worried and that she cared about him. He was touched by the level of her concern. "I'll be careful," he assured her. "I have no intentions of checking out just yet." He winked.
The smile died on Jim's lips as his gaze shifted to Cecilia. Her pallour alarmed him. His first instinct was to move to her chair, to put his arms around her and pull her into the protective circle of his embrace. But that wouldn't be appropriate. Cecilia wasn't here as his lover. She was here as a writer, shadowing a CSI criminalist. When Jim had called Grissom, asking Gil and Catherine to meet him at his office, the detective had known that Cecilia would accompany them. He had thought that it would be easier to share what he had learned with the three of them in the room, all at one time, and to present it as a case in progress, rather than to have to tell Cecilia later, when they were alone. To have to tell her not as a cop, but as a man.
The intensity of her fear for him, moved Jim. In all the years of their marriage, through all of the dangers he had encountered in his career, he had never seen this kind of haunted expression on Nancy's face. Not even after he'd been shot, and rushed to the hospital, and his wife had been called to his bedside. Jim was used to worrying about other people, not them worrying about him.
'And the wicked go free...' The litany had continued to replay in Jim's head over and over that morning. The familiarity of the words had taunted him. He had known that he had heard them before, or something similar, and he knew that they were pivotal to discovering what had really happened to the three detectives. Jim had left the apartment before dawn that morning, with Cecilia still slumbering temptingly in his bed. He had felt driven to examine the old cases again, the ones that Martens, Keeth and Takei had shared in common.
Brass had gone through the unsolved cases intially, of course. It had made sense that if there was a connection to the past, it would involve one of the cold cases. He had read through them, one after another, with a thorough intensity that strained his eyes and gave him the beginnings of a headache. But he had persevered. And the wicked go free. The words were familiar to him, Jim knew. They were personal. And so he had turned his attention to the cases that he had worked in conjunction with the dead police officers.
How could he have forgotten? Jim had wondered, when he had first opened the Juneau file. The floodgate of memories had broken, washing over him like the swirl of moving waters. He was back in time, Martens, Keeth and Takei all vividly alive, all four of them a decade younger. Martens and Takei had pulled the Miller murder, the dead prostitute. Brass and his partner Elliott Keeth had been the detectives assigned to Marilyn Hegel's murder.
When the second letter had come into the station, they had realized that they were working the same case, and that they had a situation on their hands. They had pooled their talents, and a round-the-clock investigation had begun. By the time the third victim had shown up, they had begun referring to the killings as the Holiday Murders.
As Jim had sat at his desk, rereading the old letters and comparing them to the one that Denny Martens had received, he had already begun mentally composing what he would say to Amy Martens. He would have to let her know that he was re-opening Denny's hit-and-run as a homicide investigation. He had promised that if anything came of the letter, he would keep her apprised. He knew now why Denny had kept the letter. He could understand the vague sense of disturbance that Denny must have felt when the other detective had read it. Also recognizing that it was familiar, but not quite understanding why or how.
Jim had kept himself busy all day, reading, and making notes. Busy enough to keep from thinking about the full import of what he had discovered. That had been his intent at any rate, although he hadn't been entirely successful. Thoughts of how he would be the next target, continued to encroach. Especially once he had received Annie's call, confirming that Joe had received a similar letter to Denny's just a month prior to his death.
It wasn't until he had made the call to Grissom though, and sat waiting for Gil, Catherine, and Cecilia to arrive, that Jim had finally allowed himself to accept that his life might be in real danger. He had sat pondering that unpleasant thought. Everything pointed to the fact that whoever the unknown assailant was, who had orchestrated the deaths of three of the detectives that had worked the Holiday Murders, he or she wasn't likely to be satisfied with culling only three quarters of the group.
Jumbled with those thoughts were ones of self-doubt. Had Juneau had a partner? Was someone involved in those murders still at large? Totally unknown and unsuspected by the investigators? As far-fetched as it seemed...could they have gotten the wrong man? Could Juneau have been innocent of the killings, as he had claimed? The more Brass had gone over old memories, the more he realized that the proof of Juneau's guilt was mostly circumstantial. But the killings had stopped.
At least...until several months ago and the death of Joe Takei. One by one the other detectives from that case had been eliminated. And now, there was only one left.
Seeing that knowledge now in Cecilia's eyes, and sensing her fear, was sobering for Jim. He wanted to say or do something to comfort her. But anything he could offer her would be a lie. He could not downplay the danger. The moment he did that, he might start believing it, and then he could leave himself vulnerable.
Jim needed some sort of contact with Cecilia, though, and he wanted to offer her some sort of reassurance. So he stood up again, and began to stroll around the three who were seated. He paused behind Cecilia's chair, and put his hand on her right shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Hoping to communicate the things that he could not put into words. She reached up for a moment, to wordlessly touch his hand, and Jim noted how cold her fingers were.
"It's way past my bedtime," Jim began, moving away again and circling back around to once again stand in front of the others. "I'm gonna call it a day. I have a copy of the file for you, Gil. Handle things any way you see fit. I don't know if you can get anything done tonight, but I'll check in with you tomorrow morning."
"Ronnie's in then, and I'll have him do a handwriting analysis to compare the letter Denny Martens received, with the others from the Juneau case," Gil replied.
"We'll have to go over any old evidence connected in the Holiday Murders," Catherine stated, all business again. "There are a couple of new tests we can run now that weren't available nine years ago."
"I leave things in your capable hands," Brass smiled. "Thanks, guys. Oh, and if you could keep this as hush-hush as possible, I'd appreciate it. Try to bring as few people in on it as you can. We may still be looking at someone on the inside as a suspect in the recent deaths, and I don't want to broadcast what we're doing."
Grissom and Catherine nodded their understanding in unison. The three who had been seated now rose.
Gil moved towards the door. Catherine hesitated a moment, hanging back, looking closely at Cecilia. "Uh, I just want to talk to O'Reilly about that robbery case," the strawberry-blonde said. "I'll be a few minutes, if you want to wait here." Her knowing sapphire gaze went from Cecilia to Brass.
Cecilia smiled gratefully at the other woman. She knew that Catherine was just giving her a moment alone with Jim. She watched as the criminalist pivoted gracefully and strode off down the hall. Cecilia turned back towards Jim who moved now to take her into his arms. Cecilia laid her head on Jim's shoulder, circling her arms around his waist and holding him tight.
Jim felt Cecilia tremble. "Hey," he said gently.
Cecilia raised her face, her eyes dark and wide, stark against the paleness. Tears shimmered in their velvet chocolate depths. "I'm afraid for you," she whispered, her voice strained.
Jim kissed her forehead. "Forewarned is forearmed, they say," he replied, striving to keep his tone level and confident.
She nodded at the cliche. Then Cecilia's lips were on his, with a kiss whose passion and intensity stole his breath away. "Be careful," was all she could say. Anything more, and she knew that worry and emotion would overcome her. She clung to him, wanting time to stop.
Jim held her, his face against her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of his own shampoo. He closed his eyes, trying to ingrain the feel of her soft contours pressed against his body, to memorize the silkiness of her bronzed skin, and to capture the husky tones of her sultry voice. He wanted to remember it all, to imprint it on his memory so that he would never forget. He wanted Cecilia to know of the wonder and joy she had brought to his life, how her prescence had made it now a thing worth living, his own existence more valuable to him than it had ever been before. Jim wanted to tell her that now, more than ever, he didn't want to die.
But instead he said simply, "I will."
Jim looked over Cecilia's shoulder to see Catherine standing in the doorway, back already. He wondered how long he had stood there, just holding Cecilia in his arms. Catherine's smile was soft, understanding, and Jim didn't feel the need to part from Cecilia guiltily or with embarassment. Reluctantly, he slid his arms from around her, and kissed the corner of her mouth.
There was nothing more said, as Catherine and Cecilia headed back to the lab, and left Brass standing in the middle of his office. On his own again, Jim felt the solitude now as a loneliness deep in his bones.
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
Jim heard the knock, and rolled over in bed, pulling the pillow over his head to muffle the intrusion. Drowsily he cracked open one eye, and saw the sunlight streaming through the partially opened slats of the blinds. Obviously he had gotten some sleep, but it didn't feel like it. He felt disoriented, still caught in the plateau that separated slumber and cognizance.
The knocking came again, the pounding more insistent now, and this time Jim snapped fully awake. He sat up in bed, the covers sliding down to expose his bare chest. His heart thudded wildly, and he reached for the loaded gun on his night table. Taking a deep breath, he realized that anyone who stalked him was not going to come knocking on his door. At least...not likely.
Jim swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and padded down the hall to the front door. His muscles were bunched and coiled with a wary tension. He retained the gun, though the safety was still on, and it dangled at his side, and not up and ready to fire.
He was exhausted, and as he passed the hall mirror, he noted the dark smudges beneath his red-rimmed eyes. Not even Visine was going to help those babies, Jim thought idly. He had come home from the precinct last night, after talking to Grissom, Catherine and Cecilia, feeling as though he could tumble into bed and sleep for twenty-four hours straight. Perhaps if he had just laid down then, not even bothering to undress, let alone hop in the shower, he might have dozed off.
But he hadn't done that. And after cleaning up, and slipping into pajama bottoms, Jim had returned to the kitchen, and poured himself a generous measure of scotch. As he stood at the counter, looking at the cut crystal glass of amber liquid, and then at the half-finished bottle of Chivas that Cecilia had sent him that day, his gut had suddenly spasmed. He remembered the bottle that he had taken from Elliott Keeth's apartment, and his suspicions that someone might have added sleeping pills to the whiskey, so that they could overpower an unsupecting Keeth.
Jims' hand shook as he poured the liquor down the sink. He recapped the bottle of Chivas, and then opened another cupboard and took out an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured himself a new drink, then wandered into the livingroom to stand at the big window that overlooked the city. The refrigerator made a soft whirring and clicking sound then...the kind of noise that it regularly made, and one that he normally wouldn't even have noticed...and Jim started. He had whirled, sloshing some of the whiskey out of the glass.
Christ, was this how it was going to be? he had thought angrily. Afraid of his own shadow? Suspicious of everyone and everything? Not even feeling safe and secure within the walls of his own home? Jim had run one hand over his face, and then back through his thinning hair. He hated the sense of vulnerability that had been steadily growing ever since he had realized what he was up against.
When he had entered the lobby to pick up his mail, it had been with trepidation that Jim had removed the contents from his box. He'd had a moment to wonder if he should be wearing gloves, to preserve any possible trace evidence if the ominous letter was there. But it hadn't been. Just a cable bill and some junk mail. One day though...one day he would go to his mail box and it would be there.
But just because he hadn't received it yet, didn't mean that Jim was safe in the interim or that he should let down his guard. Knowing that, knowing the position that he was in, was infuriating to the detective. He wasn't supposed to be the victim. He hated the doubt and...yes...the fear.
He had cleaned up the spilled drink, and then sat on the sofa, no music or television to distract from the unpleasant thoughts. Jim had sat there for hours. Thinking about the many possible ways that you could kill a man. Wondering when an attempt would be made on his life. How it would be made. He'd refilled the glass more than a few times, staring into its bottom as though seeking wisdom and knowledge there.
Jim peered through the peephole now, looking out and seeing Cecilia standing in the hallway. He set the gun on the hall console, covering it with a magazine, and quickly undid the deadbolt and the lock, wondering why she hadn't let herself in with the extra key. And then glancing at where the 9mm rested, he understood. It wasn't wise to come in quietly on a man who knew his life was in danger...a man with a gun.
When Jim opened the door and stepped back to let her in, Cecilia felt weak with relief. When she had left the lab that morning, and driven over to his place, stopping at Mama Talia's for two orders of bacon, lettuce and tomato on a bagel, Cecilia had had to stave off a horrible premonition that she was going to arrive at the detective's apartment and find him dead. When he hadn't answered her initial knock, she had grown more certain that something horrible had happened to him, and so she had pounded fearfully on the door.
She hadn't used her key initially, because she didn't want to sneak up on him if he was sleeping. His senses honed for danger, Jim might mistake her for an intruder. Cecilia didn't honestly believe that Jim would accidentally shoot her, but she didn't want to do anything to startle him. She had just been on the verge of opening the door herself anyway, and had the key in her hand, when she had heard the deadbolt turning.
"Jim!" she exclaimed, happy to see him standing there, alive and unharmed. Cecilia threw her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead against his, while the bag containing breakfast rested warmly against the back of his neck. She felt the tension in his frame, and was not too greatly surprised by it.
"Hey," he said tiredly. Then drawing back a little and turning his head apologetically. "Morning breath."
Cecilia laughed as her arms slipped from his neck, and she kissed him on the lips anyways. Then she observed how fatigued he looked. And she felt guilty for waking him. "I'm sorry," she said apologetically, "I should have waited til later this afternoon. I woke you, of course."
Jim shrugged his shoulders. "Not a problem."
"I brought breakfast," Cecilia said, more relaxed now that she had ascertained that everything was fine with the detective. She had been worrying about him all night. "BLT bagels from Mama Talia's." That was the deli where Jim had picked up the chicken soup for her when she was sick, what seemed like eons ago. "I'll put on some coffee." She smiled warmly.
"You shouldn't be here," Jim blurted suddenly.
Cecilia coloured. "I won't stay long. I know you need to rest. It was selfish and impulsive of me to come over so early. I'm sorry, Jim."
"I think you should just go," he replied quietly. But there was no mistaking the forcefulness of the suggestion, or the narrowing of his dark eyes.
Cecilia bit her bottom lip. She felt awful. The coldness that he was emanating did not seem like Jim Brass. Not the Jim Brass she had come to know and care for. "Of course," she mumbled embarassedly. "I'm so sorry," she repeated. She stood there, wrists crossed, clutching the small, white paper bag. "I'll see you later?" She hadn't meant it to be, but it was more a question than a statement. Jim was acting strangely and it made Cecilia nervous.
He looked at her, his dark eyes holding hers. "I don't think that's a good idea," Jim said brusquely. Her eyes widened and he forged ahead. "There's a lot going on right now."
Cecilia nodded and bowed her head. She couldn't begin to imagine all that Jim was dealing with. "I know. I want to help you. In any way that I can. I'm here for you, I hope that you know that." She paused, looking at him longingly, understanding that Jim Brass had come to mean more to her than she might have wanted, or could have imagined. "Jim, I..." Cecilia had been about to finally put her feelings into words, to say, I love you.
"Look," he interjected, before she could get the words out. "I'm really glad that we got to know one another. I've had a great time. But we both know this was just short term."
Cecilia felt sick. What was Jim saying? They had never spoken about where their relationship might head. Had never talked about the fact that initially she had come to Las Vegas only for a few months. She had believed that he had come to care for her as more than a fling, just as she had for him. She couldn't imagine her life now without him a part of it.
She reached for his hand, and when his fingers didn't curl around hers, she let it go.
"You're a wonderful woman," Jim said, and she thought she saw his eyes soften for a moment, before they hardened again. "The timing is just not right. I'm going to have to give my full concentration to this case. I'm sure you can understand that. There's a real danger here."
For a moment, Cecilia thought that Jim was worried about her. "I'm not afraid," she insisted.
"Listen," Jim said, and now his voice was tinged with anger. "I can't afford any distractions!"
Finally Cecilia accepted what Jim had been trying to tell her. Whatever had been between them was over. In Jim's mind it had only been temporary to begin with. There was a big case to work now, and a very real threat to his life. And an occasional roll in the hay with a woman whom he was counting on being gone soon anyhow, was not worth a risk to his personal safety. No matter what his motives, Jim was right, she conceded. Cecilia would rather deal with the pain of not seeing him again, than to have her prescence make him careless, and possibly be a catalyst for his death.
Tears filled Cecilia's eyes, blinding her as her fingers rooted through the bottom of her purse for Jim's key. How could she have been so totally wrong about him though? How could she have been so foolish as to think he had really cared? How had she let him wend so deeply into her soul? She had come to Las Vegas to do research for her novel, a confident, happy woman...and she would be leaving humiliated, her heart, and her dreams, shattered. Cecilia recognized the small, hard steel shape and extracted it, plunking it down on the hall console, along with the bag containing the breakfast she had brought for them.
"Take care," she whispered hoarsely, before fleeing the apartment.
The door closed, and Jim leaned against it, his head resting on his arm. He drew ragged breaths, waiting for his pulse to slow. Worrying, until he knew that Cecilia would be back in her car and driving away. Last night, sitting in the quiet, while he had been thinking up ways that someone might try to kill him, it had suddenly occured to him that Cecilia too was in danger. So far, only the detectives had been targeted. No one else around them had been killed. There had been no collateral damage. But what if that were to change? What if, not really caring whether anyone else was hurt or not, the killer made a move against Jim while Cecilia was with him?
His blood had run cold at the thought of anything happening to her. He was an anathema to her now. There was too much of a risk to her safety, if he continued to see Cecilia. The reality was that he was destined to lose her one day. She would be going back to Erie soon. It was better to break things off now, to make sure she would stay away from him until it was time for her to return home to Pennsylvania. Jim knew that it would have been painful enough when the time finally came to say their good byes. He had been thinking of approaching her with the idea of his relocating, if Cecilia didn't think Vegas was somewhere she could make a home. But even if she had rejected him, at least she would be alive, happy somewhere, even if she was not with him. That would be hard enough to deal with. But to lose her so irretrievably to death...that thought was more than Jim could bear.
He had had to be sure that she would stay away. And so he had let her think that it was his own life that concerned him. If he had let her know what truly troubled him, she might have insisted on taking the risk, she might have persisted, and Jim wasn't sure if he would have had the strength and the selflessness to turn her away then. This way was better. This way he could be sure she would not want anything further to do with him. He might have killed any affection Cecilia had had for him. But Jim would keep her safe. He would protect her.
When she had stood there in his front hallway, all that Jim had been able to think about, was the natural gas stove in his kitchen, just yards away. It would be easy enough for someone to tamper with it, to set off an explosion that would level the unit, and consume anyone unfortunate enough to be in the apartment. He had felt the sweat slick his palms, and dampen his torso, and it had been all that Jim could do to hold off from yelling at her to just run! to get away before it blew. He almost imagined he could smell the sulphurous burning of some timed heat source, before the first spark reached the gas line.
It hadn't happened of course. But it had brought home to Jim the desperate need for Cecilia to be nowhere near the apartment. To keep away from him. When she'd reached into her purse for his key, and her eyes had filled with tears, he had been tempted to tell her the truth. That it wasn't that he didn't care, but that he cared too much. If anything happened to her, especially because of him, Jim didn't think he could survive that.
Maybe they wouldn't have had forever, but the last few weeks that they could have had, had been stolen from him. Because some anonymous son-of-a-bitch had some inexplicable vendetta against him. Jim's arms ached with a sense of deprivation, knowing he would never be able to hold Cecilia again. Giving a strangled cry, his face contorted with loss and fury, Jim turned from the door. Grabbing the white bag from the table, he hurled it down the hall, while the agonized expletive echoed off the walls.