EPILOGUE

Spring was in the air. Albert Calavicci knew that soon the desert would be blooming with its particular breeds of especially hardy flowers. The school year was winding down. It wouldn't be so long before Stevie would be spending his days with the old lady up the street, the one who lived next to the trailer Al was ninety-five percent sure housed a coke operation. Starbright was already settling into a summer routine as staff put in for holidays and took off for the weekends.

He approached the apartment building with trepidation, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket—recovered from the courthouse three days after he'd left it… as soon as he had sobered up enough to ride back into town.

Al stared at the building before him. He didn't want to go in there, but he had to. He'd wrestled with the decision for a long time, and finally decided that he had to. He couldn't go on like this. He needed some closure. He needed to say goodbye.

He sounded the buzzer, and her voice floated down. "Good morning, good morning! What can I do for you?" she trilled.

He depressed the intercom. "Sharon, it's Al. Can I please come up?"

He thought he heard a delighted giggle, but that had to be his imagination. She rang him in, and he moved through the inner door. The stairs seemed too long and his feet too heavy, but he somehow reached her floor. Penthouse level of a four-storey building. Typical Sharon pizzazz.

She was waiting for him, draped against the open door.

"Well, hello, there, sailor," she said. "Couldn't stay away, huh?"

He didn't want to hear it. "I came to say goodbye to Chester," he said, brushing past her and into the apartment. He blinded himself to the chaos of dirty clothes and used dishes and whistled crisply. "Chester! C'mere boy!" he called.

There was no response. No jingle of collar tags. No joyful yelp. Nothing.

Unable to fight the desolation that he knew was flooding into his eyes, he turned on Sharon. Where was he? What had she done with him? What the hell had she done with him?

She was smiling in amusement. Maybe she couldn't see his pain. He hoped she couldn't. "I gave him away," she said, answering his unspoken question.

Al couldn't believe it. He stood there, stunned. "You… who…" he croaked.

"Luke," Sharon said, closing the door. "Graduation present. He's going to Brown University in Rhode Island: wants to take summer session. Can you believe it? Summer session before his first year? And could he have picked a school any farther away? You'd think he wanted to get away from his folks or something!"

Sharon always had had a blind spot where her family was concerned. Al tried to process what she was saying. "You gave Chester… to Luke?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. Kid's in love with him. Thought he was going to kiss me when I told him."

"Oh…" Al felt a selfish pang of anger that she hadn't offered him first dibs on the dog. After all, Chester was his little guy…

Then he remembered Luke's desolation on the night he'd picked him up at the Christmas party. I just want a friend, he had said. The boy needed Chester. If anybody deserved a great dog like Chester, it was a kid like Luke. Certainly not a worthless nothing like Albert Calavicci.

They'd be happy together. They'd take good care of each other.

Al mustered a smile that was almost wholehearted. "I'm glad," he said. "That's great. What's he want to study?"

"Music," Sharon said. "Weird, huh?"

This from the woman with a degree in Visual Arts.

"Not that weird," Al said.

"Say…" Sharon shut the door and began to untuck her blouse. "As long as you're here…"

What the hell, Al reasoned. As long as he was here. After all, no hard feelings, right?

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Dan Penvenen smiled at Gina Loffler, his own little mole from Typesetting. A fine young woman. A genuine professional. From her information, he had come to an interesting conclusion. Calavicci, it seemed, was deep in the clutches of subclinical Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. So Congressman Davies was right. Interestingly enough, the good captain had managed to go undetected for years. It seemed things were coming to a head, though. Dan now had a sense of how much the man drank, and when. Alcoholism was a disease, and if it progressed as it should, it was only a matter of time before Calavicci made the cardinal error.

When he turned up drunk at work, Dan would have him. Right where he wanted him. All it ever took was time.

First, though, he should make it plain to Calavicci that he was on his side. It wouldn't do to raise suspicions.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Al sat at his desk. He should have been working, but instead he was thinking. He couldn't keep on like this, a different girl every night, a tenth of the female staff of the Project on a bizarre three-week rotation. It was ridiculous. It was also dangerous. Women were funny creatures. While they might be content with the occasional one-night stand for a little while, sooner or later they'd wax territorial, and there would be trouble.

After all, he thought with the conceit of a man whose faith in his sex appeal was the one aspect of his self-respect that wasn't wavering, there was only one Calavicci!

What he needed was Chester, but he couldn't have him. He glanced at the letter he'd received this morning from Rhode Island. Luke was happy. He was getting English out of the way in the summer term, and he and Chester had a little apartment just off of campus. Sharon's brother the accountant was footing the bills. The kid had even made a couple of friends, and was thinking of starting up a jazz group. At least that was one happy ending.

That didn't help Al out of his predicament. He needed someone or something to be a constant presence around the suite. The dreams were getting worse. He needed a guardian angel. Or a guardian goddess…

A rap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Come in," he said, straightening in his chair and trying to look busy.

The door opened and the impeccably dressed guy from Human Resources came in. The one Lester Davies had recommended. Al groped for the name. Parkridge… Pendragon…

"Penvenen! What can I do for you?" Al asked.

Penvenen smiled. "Actually, I'm hear about the holiday schedule," he said amicably. "There's a member of staff who's seriously overdue for a couple weeks' leave."

"Who?" Al asked.

"You," the man from H.R. said. "It's my recommendation that you take a fortnight and get away from the Project. Travel somewhere. See a bit of the world. As soon as possible."

Al laughed. "I can't do that! There's way too much work to do."

"Mr. Prysock can stand in for two weeks," Penvenen said dismissively. "He's very capable. Besides, I've already put in to Admiral Donohue on your behalf."

Al shook his head. "You can't do that," he said, not sure whether he was right or not.

"Of course I can! I'm Human Resources. It's been approved. All you need to do is book your ticket and go."

Al looked at the eager young face in front of him, and his heart melted. The kid wanted to do something nice for him. And he couldn't deny that he needed a break. "Well, thank you," he said. "When does this leave start?"

"The day after tomorrow," Penvenen said, his smile expanding. "Just enough time to pack."

"That's perfect," Al said. "I never would have done this on my own…"

"I know."

"Thanks, Penvenen."

"Dan," the younger man said, extending a hand. "Call me Dan."

Al shook hands cheerfully. "Dan. Call me Al."

"If you like," Dan said. "Enjoy your trip."

Then he left the room. Al sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Maybe the kid wasn't such a cold fish after all. Like Doctor Gushman—Gooshie—he had just needed a chance to expand into his environment. An opportunity to settle in.

Two weeks' leave? He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much time off. What the heck was he going to do with it?

Then his earlier train of thought overtook him again. He grinned as he picked up the outside line and dialed New Mexico.

The phone rang three times before she answered, in a seductive contralto. "Who is it?"

"Maxine? It's Al," he said. "Listen, Maxine, honey… you ever been to Vegas?"

FINIS