The boys bombarded Denise with questions that could pretty be put together all for one thing. Wife? What wife?

"That wasn't any regular hooker he killed, Richie, that was his wife. I went looking for her body, and I found it under the house."

"What?"

"There's no foundation to that house, there's a crawl space in the front covered by trellises, in the back there's a small basement. I figured if she was nowhere in the house, she had to be somewhere near the house, so I started digging up the crawl space under the front porch and the living room, and I found her. Just as you said, her throat slit open, black hair, bony as a skeleton, red dress and heels. On her left hand was a ring, a wedding ring, so I took it off, and don't think that was easy, and on the inside of the ring was an inscription with her name and their wedding date. So I went into the house and tore the place apart and found a wedding license, as well as a large life insurance policy taken out on her."

"Oh shit," Richie groaned.

"So there," she spat, "There's the precious proof for your warden, and the police."

"Well Denise," Jeremy said, "The power's out here, we can't get the police, what are we going to do?"

She looked at him and laughed sinisterly, "We, baby brother, are going to be ready for Mason when he comes home."

"What did you have in mind?" Richie asked.

An evil grin in her face, and a fire in her eyes, told the boys already that whatever it was Denise had in mind, it wasn't going to be pretty. Nothing she ever thought of was.

"The first thing we're going to do, is make sure that his Little Wife gets a proper wake," she told them.

By 5 that afternoon, the sky was pitch dark, the rain had quit earlier in the afternoon, now it was threatening to start again, and even if it didn't, the lightning and thunder was hell enough of a show to make up for it. It was at that time that Drew Mason returned home, he parked his truck in the driveway, and went up to his door without a care in the world. Once he stepped into the house, he saw something was wrong. The power was still out, but there was a glowing light coming from the dining room.

Not knowing what to expect, he inched himself along until he was at the doorway, and what he saw turned his stomach. There was his wife laying sprawled out on the kitchen table, surrounded by lit taper candles, like it was a wake. The candles he noticed were all blood red, not too much a difference from the color of her dress. Off in a corner of the room he heard someone snickering in a low, sinister tone. Amidst the glare from the candles, he saw Richie Ryan sitting in the corner, looking up at him, his face twisted into an unreadable emotion.

"Well Mason, you thought you won, but you were wrong, pal."

Before Mason could react, Richie got to his feet. "You sure had us all going for a while, you know that? A real fucking game of cat and mouse, well—" he chuckled, "It's all over now."

It was a game of Russian roulette and it was taking every ounce of nerve in Richie not to trip over himself and panic, but luck was clearly on his side. Mason hadn't been expecting this, he wasn't armed, but unfortunately neither was Richie, and he hoped he could alive long enough for Denise and Jeremy to get back with their uncle and the whole police force.

Mason still appeared to be in shock by the view of his wife laid out on the table, dozens of candles laid all around her. Richie decided to use it to his advantage.

"She's a pretty one, ain't she Mason?" he asked, "Or rather she was but," he laughed humorlessly, "They ain't so pleasant once they start to decay. And that big tear in her neck doesn't help her much either---what was it Mason? Hmm? She didn't make enough on the streets every night, so you just bumped her off and saved both of you the trouble?" Mason looked over at him at that, and Richie knew he was going to be fast to move, so he'd have to be even faster to stay alive.

He put a distance between them by circling the table slowly, he was on the opposite side and ready to jump either way in a heartbeat. "I can see it all perfectly—large insurance policy, better yet, a double indemnity, a million dollars if she turns up murdered—hide her body out for a while, dump it somewhere, she's found and buried, you collect and split it between you and your boys. Only they ain't around anymore, are they?" he laughed again, "The crime was perfect—it would've been, if we hadn't found out about it. But we did, and now it's over, either on your feet or on your back, it's over, before this night's over, you either go to jail, or the morgue."

What was over, was Mason's near-dormant state, before Richie could actually see it, Mason had jumped over to the other side of the table and had him by the throat. "You'll die first," he hissed as he slammed Richie against the wall. He moved to attack again, but when he got close enough, Richie kneed him in the crotch to buy him some time to make his next move. Mason doubled over in pain and Richie scrambled out of there and into the kitchen. Jeremy had left a hurricane lamp burning on the table so Richie could see in the kitchen and he got to the knife rack and took out a long Ginzu knife But by the time he actually got it out of its place on the rack, Mason came up behind him and got him in the ribs and Richie fell to the floor, loosened his hold and Mason instead grabbed the knife.

Richie didn't try to fight him for it, he started moving before he could get stabbed, and once there was about a couple of feet between them, Richie got to his feet and ran. The only problem was he didn't know where to run to, the dining room would be of no help, neither would the living room because he had no knowledge of what was in there when he couldn't see it. The only thing he could think of was to keep Mason chasing him until the cops came, so he darted for the hallway and got to the stairs and somehow managed to get up them without slipping in the dark. Mason was right on his tail. The upstairs was a maze so Richie figured maybe he could get lucky and slip him up once they got there, unfortunately he slipped and fell down a couple of stairs.

He got up and now was backing up because he was too afraid to turn and run, and Mason backed him into one room, he didn't know what it was though he guessed it a bedroom. Richie backed up to the window where at least some light from the street lamps were shining through. Mason jumped forth to stab him but Richie grabbed his hand and his wrist and tried to tighten his grip enough to make him drop the knife but it didn't work. He wrestled with Mason enough that he didn't even realize it until they both stopped and Richie saw Mason's arm turned, and the knife in his abdomen.

Mason didn't seem to be effected by the injury, only stunned, and that told Richie that he had to get the hell out of there and fast. Unfortunately there was no way to go now, but when Mason started pulling the knife out seeming to be without a care in the world, Richie jumped back, shattering the window and falling two stories, and then everything went black.

Out of nowhere, Richie returned to consciousness, he knew that because his head was throbbing, and his mouth felt like his teeth should've been knocked out. He heard some people talking around him, but he couldn't understand anything that anybody was saying. Another thing he slowly came to the realization of was that he was crying, and apparently had been for a while, and he realized that he couldn't stop himself either.

"It's over now, it has to be over, right?"

Jeremy, that was Jeremy he heard, it had to be—and he was so close, but Richie's eyes hurt too much to open and find out. Though he had an idea that he was close by, he also had an idea of where he was, as much as the realization made him cringe, he knew that wherever Jeremy was Denise was, and if Jeremy was the one beside him, then Denise had to be the one that was holding him.

"Of course it's over," she replied, "That bastard got everything that he deserved, he's dead, and the dead don't come back!"

Mason! They were talking about Mason. They had to be. Dead? He wasn't dead when Richie saw him, on the other hand, that wasn't to say he died soon after Richie fell and lost consciousness. And Richie realized that if Mason was dead, he killed him. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, it was supposed to be he held him off until the cops came, the cops would see the broad, see Mason trying to attack him, they'd tackle Mason and haul him off for the rest of his days, or until Krug and Jason got to him whichever came first. He wasn't supposed to die before the cops came, and he especially wasn't supposed to be killed by Richie.

It was all over. The police had it in for him enough as it was. Nobody would ever believe it was self defense where he was concerned. This was it, he was going to spend the rest of his days rotting in a prison cell—unless! Another unpleasant thought came to mind, unless Mason didn't stay dead. Connor never said whether or not he was Immortal, but with everyone else always around he wouldn't have any room to say it. Mason could be Immortal, and if that was the case, he would come back to life, and he'd come for Richie, and Denise, and Jeremy, and everyone who was involved. And if that were the case, would Connor be able to kill him? What if he wasn't good enough?

"What's going on?" he heard someone ask off in the distance.

That sounded like Mac, Richie realized, and if he was there, then that would have to mean—

"Richie! Oh my God!"

Tessa was with him too.

Now Richie was in a real panic, but he was too weak to fully wake up and ask Jeremy and Denise what was going on. Instead, he just got weaker—everything was already black, and now everything was going quiet again.

Everything seemed to have come to an end, everything was dark, and quiet, and Richie couldn't tell what had happened, or where he was, and he decided he didn't want to find out. Duncan and Tessa now knew that he had killed Mason, killed Duncan's friend. But they had only arrived after Mason was dead, they wouldn't have any reason to believe Richie, they wouldn't believe him about Mason, they wouldn't believe him about his wife. Tessa said she believed Richie, but that was before he killed a man, there would be no way she'd listen to him now.

Any way he looked at it, it was over and he was in for it, after what he'd done, Mac would probably have his head. It just figured, the first family that took him in and seemed to actually want him, and he ended it all by doing this. They could never forgive him for this, they'd never want to see him again, if he even came near them they'd probably sic the police on him, or Mac would take care of things himself. The weight of it all took its toll on Richie and he started crying—to be more exact he let out a gut wrenching sob, and that had two people rushing to him.

He heard voices, two people---they were talking to him, trying to calm him, he had to listen for a while, he had to think—Mac! Tess! He opened his eyes and saw them both standing over him. Well, not exactly standing, Tessa had dropped to her knees beside the couch and she was holding him, kissing him on the crown of his head, murmuring something in French, and Duncan was seated at the end of the couch looking over at him, and Richie was surprised to see that he didn't look angry.

"What happened?" Richie asked.

"It's good to see you coming around," Duncan said.

"We were so worried about you, petit, you've been asleep for the last two days," Tessa told him.

"Two days?" Richie repeated. "What's going on, what's happened?"

"Richie, I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, there aren't any words to tell you how bad I feel for what I did," Duncan said.

"You didn't kill the lady, Mac."

"No, but I didn't believe you when you told us what happened," he replied. "I should've known you wouldn't lie about Drew even if you hated him—I should've known there was a reason you hated him, but I didn't."

"That's okay, Mac," Richie said, "Nobody ever has reason to believe me."

"It's not allright, Richie, I shouldn't have treated you the way I did, there's no excuse for it."

"He was your friend, Mac—your friend, and I killed him."

"Richie, I didn't—wait, wait, what did you say?" Duncan asked.

"I killed him, Mac, he came at me with a butcher knife and I fought him, and I gutted him because of it," Richie cried.

"Richie calm down, calm down and tell us what happened," Tessa said as she smoothed his bangs back and stroked the back of his head.

Richie did his best to explain to them the plan they'd had since Denise found the body. They'd dug her up and carried her into the house, set her out to make it look like a wake, they had gone to the police while Richie stayed to corner Mason when he returned home. Denise had planned to be in Richie's place originally, but Richie decided since he was the one who started the whole mess, that he should stay while they went for help. So in a short time, Denise prepared Richie for what might happen, they had counted on the idea that Mason would be carrying a gun but he hadn't, so Richie was just supposed to keep a fight and a chase between them until the police arrived. It probably wasn't the best idea, but it was the only one they'd had. They hadn't figured that Mason would be able to get to another weapon providing Richie played his cards right, but it hadn't gone as planned at all. He told them about the fight over the knife, and turning it around and getting Mason in the gut with it, and then falling through the window, and waking up to hear Mason was dead.

He was sure by the time he finished telling the story, Tessa and Mac wouldn't be so sympathetic towards him, but he was wrong.

"Richie, you didn't kill him," Duncan told him, "He didn't die from the wound to the stomach—after you got knocked out, he heard the police coming and knew he couldn't get out of it, so he killed himself—stabbed himself in the heart with the same knife."

"Are you serious?" Richie asked.

"The coroner's report confirmed that that's what did him in—the police found him, if he jumped or if he just fell from the window, nobody knows, but he was on the ground beside you, face down, they turned him over and found the knife in his chest and his hand curled around the handle," Duncan explained.

"So I didn't kill him?" Richie couldn't believe it.

"No, he killed himself. You don't have anything to worry about."

"Well—if he's dead, what happens now?" Richie asked.

"He and his wife are at the morgue, the authorities are going to see if either have any relatives to contact, the house is going to be closed up and probably condemned—they found the insurance policy and they know all they need to know, they know who did it, how he did it, and why he did it," Tessa explained, "It's all over."

"How are you feeling, Richie?" Duncan asked.

"Awful."

"Richie, nothing was your fault," Tessa said, "You don't have anything to feel terrible about."

"I know, Tess, but I do—"

"Well that's to be expected, you were the sole witness to a murder, anybody would be knocked back by that," Duncan said.

"Even you?"

"Richie, it doesn't matter how old I am, or how many men I've killed, you never get used to seeing people die," he told him.

"Good to know it's not just me, then," he said, "Tess, can I go to my room now?"

"Sure, Richie."

"Good, I just want to rest in my own bed now that it's all over," he said, "It is really all over, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," Tessa said.

A storm had come up during the middle of the morning and the thunder and lightning did nothing to help Richie, who was trying to sleep but was bombarded with nightmares. The last one had him shoot up in bed yelling, and he yelled again when he saw a man standing over him.

"Hi Richie."

"Connor!" Richie fell back against the headboard and regretted it immediately. "What's going on, Connor?"

"Well," he said, "I'm here on vacation for a little while, and Duncan and Tessa had to run to the market to pick up some things so I told them I'd be more than happy to stay here and keep an eye on the little bundle of joy."

Richie cringed at those words and turned on his side to go back to sleep.

"Richie."

"What?"

"Jeremy asked me to give this to you, he said you could probably use it."

Richie turned around to see what it was, and regretted that also when he saw it was Jeremy's teddy bear, the one he called Henry. That was enough to make him wish he could crawl into a hole and disappear, but against his better judgment, he took it. Actually once he got a hold of it, he squeezed it against his chest like it was a lifeline or something. He closed his eyes and muttered, "Don't laugh."

"Hey if it helps you relax, I don't see what's to laugh about—from what I hear, you need all the rest you can get."

"Connor—where did you go the other night when Mac and Tessa came and got me?"

"I knew he was coming so I dashed out the back door when nobody was looking—a good thing to, I still had some unfinished business to tend to."

"What's that?" Richie asked.

"The bodies of Mason's thugs---since they weren't going anywhere, and nobody was to know about them anyway---they were cremated and I threw the ashes away."

"Aren't people going to wonder what happened to them?" Richie asked.

"No, I checked—they all lived alone, had no families, nobody, you won't find hardly anyone in the town who's even heard of them, let alone would miss them."

"So then there's nothing to worry about?" Richie asked.

"Nothing at all," Connor replied, "Everything's over now, so relax."

"It's hard to, Connor—I mean—I saw what he did—and even though I know that I didn't kill Mason, it still feels like I did."

"But it's impossible and you know it," Connor replied.

"I know—it takes some time, Richie, but it won't always feel this terrible."

"That's good to know, I think."

Both of their attention was grabbed when the room went dark, the electricity had gone out.

"The perfect end to a perfect week," Richie muttered.

"Ah don't worry about it—maybe the breaker was thrown," Connor said, "I'll go check the fuse box."

"I'll go with you," Richie said.

Richie followed close behind Connor and bumped into him a few times before they got to the fuse box.

"Everything seems fine here," he said, "Probably just the storm knocked out the power."

"At least that's all it can be, right?" Richie asked.

"You don't have to worry, Richie—nobody's going to come after you."

"You don't know that," Richie replied, "What about Mason? You never saw him, you wouldn't know, but what if he was Immortal? He could come back to life and he'll come after me."

"I know, Richie, both Duncan and I know that he wasn't," Connor said.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Duncan had known him for a few years—after we arrived and found him dead, I asked him if we should expect his friend to come back—he said you wouldn't have to worry, he was mortal."

"And—you're sure everyone that worked for him is dead?" Richie asked.

"Every last one of them—he kept a list of who was on his payroll, there isn't a single one of them still alive."

"You obviously were busy for a while," Richie said.

"Yeah—but that's over now—so you can relax, you want to be the only 17 year old in this place with an ulcer?"

"I just want to go back to bed," he said.

Connor took Richie back to his room and got him settled in bed, but even in the pitch dark, Connor could tell that Richie was far from being at ease. So he stroked the boy's head and tucked the teddy bear in with him and set it against the Richie's chest, and he assured him that the nightmare was finally over, and they could would be able to move on from there.

"It just feels like I'm still in the nightmare," Richie told him, "Like it's not over yet—you know what I mean?"

"Oh yes, believe me, after 400 and some odd years of killing men to stay alive—believe me, I know very well what you're trying to say."

"Does it ever go away?" Richie asked.

"Yes—the realization of everything needs time to settle into you, and once it does, you'll be fine," Connor told him.

"I hope it's soon because I honestly don't know how much longer I can last like this," Richie said.

Richie appeared to be on a slow road to recovery, almost every night he'd wake up screaming from his nightmares. It wasn't something you could set your clock by, but every night, Tessa and Duncan hoped they would all be able to get through the night, undisturbed, only to wake up some odd hours later, stumbling around in the dark while Connor was doing the 100 yard dash from his spot on the couch, to Richie's bedroom, and by the time they'd arrive, Connor was already there, holding Richie in his arms to calm him down and so he couldn't hurt himself, talking to him, trying to soothe him, it took a while every time, but it finally worked.

"Shh, Richie, calm down—it's over, Mason's dead, he can't hurt you now, it's all over, you know it is."

"Connor—"

"It's allright, Richie, I'm here."

"It was horrible, Connor."

"I know, I know---but it's over now, you're allright."

"Connor, don't leave me, I'm scared!"

"I won't, Richie, I promise, I'm going to stay with you tonight."

"Good."

Connor looked over at Tessa and Duncan and without saying a word, assured them there was nothing they could do, all that could be done was to wait for Richie to fall back asleep, and usually once he could do that, he'd sleep through the rest of the night. So they decided to give Richie and Connor some room, they went to the kitchen to wait. Once Richie had truly fallen asleep, Connor would put him back to bed and join them for coffee, their nerves were shot after waking up, and none of them would be going back to sleep.

"It's terrible," Tessa said, "I just can't imagine what Richie must be going through every time he has those nightmares."

"I know," Duncan said, "But what makes me feel worse is knowing there's nothing we can do for him. Connor won't even let us near him when he gets like that, truth be known Richie would probably only get worse if we did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tessa asked.

"It's very complicated for him---it takes Connor a good long while just to get Richie's attention to realize it's him and not Mason. Two more people—I don't want to think about what he'd think of us."

"Oh Duncan, you're exaggerating—Richie would know us—it's just when he gets worked up like that, he doesn't need more people crowding him."

"I'm glad you're so optimistic about it, but I really don't know," Duncan said.

"What do you mean?" Tessa asked.

"How many nights has this been going on?" Duncan asked.

"Well let's fight fair—how many times have you remembered killing your cousin, Robert? Or how about your first death, how often do you remember that? How many times were you haunted by what happened to you? Well Richie's going through the same thing—he's not Immortal like you and Connor, he can't just bounce back from this like you two do every time you kill somebody."

"We don't just bounce back, Tessa," Duncan said.

"Well you sure could fool me—now Richie is a 17 year old boy who's been a witness to one murder and still hasn't gotten over the fact that he didn't commit a second one."

"I still think he needs help, Tess."

"He has help, Connor's with him now, doing what he's done every night this week."

"I mean professional help, Tessa."

"Professional help, like what, the loony bin, a padded cell, electro shock therapy?"

"No, just a psychiatrist."

Tessa's eyes almost shot out of her head at the mention of that. "Duncan MacLeod, Richie is not going to a psychiatrist, there is NOTHING wrong with him!"

"Now look, Tessa, something's obviously wrong with him, something that we can't help him with, we—"

"Hey, will you two shut up please?" Connor asked as he entered the kitchen, "I just got the kid to sleep now you're going to wake him up again. Now what's going on?"

"Duncan thinks we need to take Richie to a head shrink," Tessa said.

"What for?" Connor asked, "He'll be fine—you can go in and look on him, he's sleeping like a baby, all that's missing is his thumb in his mouth and a mobile over his head."

"But Connor, I think he needs help."

"Oh give me a break, he doesn't need anything more than you two to lighten up. That boy is like a baby, and like a baby he can tell when you two are stressed out, so it rubs off on him. So he feels bad because you two do, but he doesn't know it because it all happens subconsciously—there, there's your psychology, ta-dah. Duncan, that boy doesn't need a psychiatrist."

"I think he does, Connor."

"People don't need psychiatrists, all they're there for is you to pay $150 an hour to tell them what you think when you already knew from the start what you think, only in the end for the shrink to blame it on the mother. Duncan, this is life, everybody has problems, that's life, you have a problem, you deal with it, Richie is dealing with his problem. He'll be fine, he just needs time for it all to hit him that the nightmare's over."

"I hope you're right, Connor," Duncan said.

"I am right—and what are you moping about for?"

"I am not."

"Yes you are, I've known you too long to think otherwise, Tessa," Connor said, "Learn this—you can tell when Duncan's bummed out about something because he looks like a puppy that's been smacked on the snout with a rolled up newspaper, look at him."

They both had a good laugh at Duncan's expense.

"Allright, Duncan, what's wrong?" Connor asked.

"I just feel bad for Richie—everything that he's been put through—and I certainly didn't help matters any."

"So you didn't believe him—half of the things he says are hard to credit."

"Connor it's not that, I hit him, I hit him because of what he said, and then I locked him up—I don't----what in the hell was I thinking?"

"I don't know, but while you climb down off your soapbox, I'm going back to make sure he hasn't woken up," Connor replied.

Sure enough, Richie was still asleep, Connor was thankful for that, Richie was hard enough to get to sleep once a night, they didn't need a repeat performance. Looking at the boy, Connor had to laugh, he could be cute when he was asleep. Curled up on his side, clutching the teddy bear to him, and he looked like he didn't have a care in the world. No, he wouldn't be going to see any psychiatrist, if that happened, not only would he never forgive himself, but Denise and Jeremy would kill Duncan, and they might full well try for Connor's head as well. They were very protective of Richie, but they weren't able to communicate with him since he just wanted to stay in bed for most of the day and he wouldn't talk to anyone other than he and Duncan and Tessa right now.

But in time, Connor knew Richie would get over this and be back to his old self, and when that happened, he and his two hell-raising friends would be back again, three brothers basically, Denise was too mean to be qualified as just a sister. In the meantime, he just pulled up a chair and sat by the bed and watched Richie while he slept.

"Why can't you be this pleasant when you're awake?" he asked.

After a few more days, Richie made surprising progress by not waking up screaming, and also within time, he quit having nightmares altogether. Then, he started going out in public again, and that opened up a few options of what to do with Connor there. One night they went to a fight, the next, a ball game, another, a motocross race.

"I still don't know why Mac never wants to come with us," Richie said one night.

"Oh Tessa keeps him plenty busy here, don't worry about him," Connor told him.

A few days later, Duncan started joining them when they went out to do something. A week after that, Connor was ready to head back to New York, but he didn't tell Duncan or Tessa that and instead waited until they had headed out on an errand to tell Richie. He'd packed his bags and left a note for them when they returned, but Richie was going to get an explanation in person.

"It's been a great past couple of weeks," he said.

"It sure has been," Richie said, "Connor."

"Yeah?"

"This isn't easy for me but---thanks for coming out here and doing everything you did."

"It was my pleasure, Richie—you ever have any trouble with somebody again, you call me, I'll be on the first plane over—nobody messes with my family and lives to tell about it."

"That's good to know," Richie said, "I'm also sorry about all the trouble I put you through after it all."

"Don't worry, Richie—the next time I come to town I'll have to tell you about when I found Duncan for the first time—the trouble he gave me you wouldn't believe. But in the meantime, I have a plane to catch—and Jeremy and Denise want to see you, so I'm going to take you over on my way to the airport."

"Okay."

"Well this is it," Connor said.

"I guess so."

"Don't look so down, you're starting to look like Duncan when he mopes—I swear when he does that he looks like a—never mind, another time." Connor surprised Richie and trapped him in a tight hug. "Goodbye, nephew," he laughed.

"Connor," Richie whined, "The neighbors are gonna see us."

"Let them look," he replied, "You're my family and I'm proud of you." He let Richie go and headed back around to the driver's side of the car. "I'll see you again soon, goodbye."

"Bye," Richie waved as he drove off and then headed up to the door.

As he headed up the sidewalk, the front door was jerked open and Jeremy jumped out the door and down the porch steps and ran into Richie halfway and he hugged Richie and picked him up and spun him around a couple of times, by the time he was put down, Richie was very dizzy.

"It's good to see you again, man, we were starting to get worried about you, come on, Denise wants to talk to you," Jeremy pulled Richie up to the front door without even waiting for a response. Richie got very much the same treatment from Denise who proved to be even stronger than her brother.

"It's good to have you back, frizz," she said, "How are you?"

"I'm doing allright."

"Good, I've got a surprise for you."

"What is it?"

"It's to do with Mason's death."

"Oh Denise I tell you, I felt horrible when I found out he was dead—I mean he deserved it, yeah, but I was dead certain that I had killed him."

"You didn't kill him, baby brother," Denise assured him. Her smile then turned a slight sinister as she added, "I did."

"What?" Richie was sure she was pulling his leg.

"I killed Mason—Jeremy went to get the police, and I went back to the house to help you, but you were already heading up stairs, so I went to the kitchen to get a knife to stab him with. I saw one was already missing, and found in the rack a Ginzu knife was missing, but there was a whole set of them so I grabbed another and started up after you. I stayed behind for a while, then I heard glass breaking, I went in and saw you'd fallen through the window, Mason turned around and I stabbed him in the chest. He dropped the knife he'd used, and grabbed at the one in his chest to try and get it out, but he too was too close to the window and he fell. I grabbed the first knife and got out of there, and the police showed up just in time to see me cuddling you."

It sounded like a joke, but the nonchalant way she spoke, she stayed so calm and relaxed, Richie knew that she wasn't going to be laughing anytime soon.

"Denise, this is a joke, right?" Richie asked.

"It's no joke, Richie—I can prove it, I still have the other knife."

She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned and Richie's last couple weeks of recovery went down the drain. In her hand was the knife, the exact Ginzu knife Mason had come at him with, the blood was dry and a rusted color now. He fell to the floor practically screaming, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Denise however didn't seem to notice, or rather care about what he was going through, she seemed to interpret it as excitement.

"It's in the exact condition it was the night it was used, would you like to have it?" she asked.

"No!" Richie cried, "Denise—" he found himself backing up though to what he didn't know, "Denise—how could—what on—ohhhh," he moaned, "I don't know where to begin."

She pulled Richie to his feet and moved him into the living room and set him down. "It's over, Richie, that's what's important. It's over, you're alive, and Mason isn't, everybody now knows what he did, so your credibility isn't anymore in the fire than it always has been. You have your life back now, and your warden knows that you were telling the truth, what more could you want?"

"Nothing I suppose," Richie said, "Denise, I've been in a shock of some kind for almost two weeks because of Mason's death alone, I don't know how long it's going to take me to come back from this."

"You, Richie," she said, "Are a one of a kind—of the three of us, you're the only one who got through foster care with a decent break—you never had to kill anyone to survive, so it's only natural you're not used to this."

The look of terror on Richie's face as he realized what she said was only further proof that no matter how bad he'd had it, it was a clean break compared to what Jeremy and his sister had had to endure.

"Get rid of that look," she warned him, "It doesn't matter what Jeremy and I have gone through, we've been through enough that there's very little that can surprise us anymore. We're used to it by now."

"That's for sure," Jeremy added, "Are you allright, Richie?"

Richie had gone a shade pale to their surprise.

"You told me that you saw your own warden kill somebody and that's why you're living with him," Denise said, "Why are you so surprised at what I did?"

"I don't know," Richie said.

"Well snap out of it before I smack you," she warned Richie, that was a threat they all knew too well she would carry out.

"Richie, she only did it because she knew that Mason would kill you if he got down to you before you could regain consciousness—it was in the best interest—she was protecting you."

Richie was getting a headache. He was still getting used to the concept of people killing other people to protect each other, including him.

"Are you allright, Rich?" Jeremy asked again.

"I hope so—I heard Mac saying something about therapy if I didn't get better," Richie said.

"What!??!?" Denise almost fell out of her chair at the mention of therapy. "That son of a bitch, I'm going to—"

Jeremy tackled her and pinned her to the floor. "Take it easy, sis! Take it easy! Richie's not going to any head shrink."

"That's for damn sure," Denise replied.

"I feel like Anthony Corleone," Richie said.

"You're going to be allright, Richie, it's all over now," Jeremy told him, "Ain't a thing left from this that can happen to you."

"I know, it's just going to take some time for me to get used to this," he said.

"We got time," Denise said, "I'll go call your warden and tell him you'll be home late."

"It'll be allright, Richie, you know that," Jeremy said.

"I know."

"But boy—what a time we had, huh?"

"Yeah—hey, whatever happened to Krug and Jason?"

"They went back to where they work," Jeremy said, "We haven't heard from them since Mason's funeral, but they're doing allright."

"Good."

"Krug was wondering how you were doing, he'll be glad to know you're allright."

"I'm sure he will."

"You know Denise had a thought the other night—she said that maybe one day, the three of us ought to go into the detective line of work. Can you imagine that?"

Richie laughed, "Oh sure, I can see that now, Richie Ryan, Private Eye at large."

"The real question would be if you two would be private eyes or private dicks," Denise said.

"Denise!"

"Don't you know you can't use that term anymore?" Jeremy asked, "The way people talk now, that's got a different meaning to it."

"That's exactly what I had in mind," Denise replied.

Richie demanded to see for himself what was left. Jeremy and Denise took him down to the cemetery and showed one tombstone for Cecelia Davenport Mason. And then on the other far side of the cemetery was Drew Mason, and there was a large difference in the two. Cecelia's tomb had bouquets of flowers laid up next to the stone, Drew's tombstone had been destroyed almost entirely, someone had used it for target practice. Pieces of it laid about for quite a few feet, they had to be put together to read the thing entirely, that was just his name, date of birth, and date of death.

It wasn't anything outrageous, but it was enough, it was proof enough for Richie that Mason was dead, and his worries were over. Connor had cremated every other man that worked for him, they wouldn't be missed, there was no investigation, no trial, this was the end of it all, and he truly felt happy now.

The shock of Denise's fatal deed still hadn't worn out of Richie, and he knew it would take a while before it finally all settled down, but he also knew that despite what it'd done to him when he found out, he was fine. He knew that he wouldn't ever be sent to a psychiatrist or a loony bin because he was allright, he had heard Connor say before that that was all a part of life, you have a problem, you deal with it. That's exactly what he'd done all his life and what he would continue to do, he was going to make sure of that. And he knew if he ever needed any help there, he had friends who would be more than willing to help.

The End

Author's note: And now to put all credit where credit is due, I cannot take full responsibility for this story and now will place credit to the ideas that were re-used in this story. A disclaimer holds for all of them, I don't own and have no part in any of them, so don't sue.

First of all, the original idea for this story was inspired by the basic plot of the 1996 movie Clubhouse Detectives (an odd idea for a story of this sort I know, but there it is)

The urticaria-rubella-alopecia line was originated in Mary Roberts Rinehart's 1926 novel "The Bat", which also became the 1926 silent picture by Roland West, and was used again in 1930 Roland West's "The Bat Whispers".

The idea of a metal comb with the teeth sharpened as a murder weapon was originally used in Bill Knox's 1967 book, Justice on the Rocks.

The horror movie, Revenge of the Living Dead Girls, that Richie and his friends are mentioned as watching in the first chapter is in fact a real movie, granted, not one very well known, nor very well liked for its extreme gore and sex (hmmmm---and to think that's what people can't get enough of in movies these days,)

That's all for now---I hope you have enjoyed this story though I apologize for taking so long to finally finish it, and I hope to come back again soon with another story for your reading pleasure.