I have two - actually, two-and-a-half - reasons for posting this update:

1) I can't believe that I haven't already put it up here,

2) I want to finish this story, but -

2b) - I have no idea if anyone out there cares or not.

Believe it or not, I have the rest of this completely mapped - yeah, three years later, I still have the outline, scrawled in longhand, in a box somewhere in my closet. It's moved with me twice, I've come across it again and again, and yet, I haven't had the time to finish it.

So I need people to tell me if it's worth putting in the effort. I have six reviews - as of July 2, 2008 - if I can get three more, I will get on the horse again. The story has crossed the 1000 hit mark (THANK YOU!), so there's interest, but now I need to know if people want more...

The fate of this one is in your hands, O Kind Readers...

POISONED

ZERO PLUS FIVE

There was a pause between the end of the thumping on the door, and Jack's next heartbeat, and for that instant, he wondered if time had suddenly ceased to exist. But then he felt the even tempo return in his ribcage, and knew that the clock hadn't stopped for him. His pulse pushed the dizzying flood of adrenaline coursing through his arteries and into his coiled muscles.

The chemical rush was making his hands shake, so he took deep, even breaths to keep the oxygen flowing. As he exhaled, Jack gently set the phone back in its cradle and picked up the letter opener that was lying on the short stack of bills. He flipped it over in his hand, concealing the blade behind his forearm, and moved past the openings of the curtains to avoid exposure.

He flattened his back against the door frame and gripped the knob. His survival instinct had to drive him – if he didn't know the person on the other side of the entryway, he would act decisively. Even if it meant that someone would die in broad daylight on his front porch. So quick and quiet was the rule.

"Wasn't it always?" Irina giggled inside his head.

Jack wanted to push the sound of her out of his head. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears – but she was inside them, so rooted to his brain that he'd have to die to lose her. And that wasn't going to happen today. So he gripped the letter opener tighter and began to mentally count his steps.

First. He would keep the assailant close to the door, or as close he could.

Second. He'd keep his front foot planted, and his body at an angle to make it more difficult for an attacker to hit a vulnerable spot.

Third. He would pull the body toward his so there wouldn't be much of anything for a curious neighbor or stray passerby to witness – he'd hook an arm around the assailant's shoulder, like a friendly embrace, while he was driving the blade into a stranger's heart.

"Jack, please – you're turning me on," she purred.

Jack flashed through his plan one last time as counted his heartbeats, set his jaw, and took one last breath, feeling the contoured handle of the letter opener in his palm. Then he squeezed it tighter, pulling the door open as he did. And then he saw the face, instantly recognizing it, and tried to loosen his muscle constriction, but didn't fully succeed. "Miss - uh - Jimenez?" he asked, the question coming out as a bark.

"Mr. Bristow?" she said, startled. Her eyes were wide with shock.

"I'm sorry, I thought – " Jack pretended to stammer as he slipped the letter opener up his sleeve. The adrenal rush aided his 'pretending'.

Pilar blinked, then stepped aside and revealed Sydney, standing just behind her. Her eyes were downcast.

"Sydney," Jack said, trying to hide his relief, and not doing very well. Then he felt the anger bubbling in his throat, and had to push that down as well. Finally, he said, "Up to your room, please," in a flat, featureless tone. He opened the door wider, and Sydney dashed through it, then up the stairs. Then he turned the woman at the door. "Thank you for bringing my daughter home," he added, in an off-hand way, then began to close the door again.

She pressed a palm against it. "Sydney asked if she could stay with us for the next few days," Pilar said. "She's working with my daughter on a final project for school, and wanted time with her. I told her that she had to ask you."

His eyes narrowed for an instant, then he nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, realizing an opening. If the situation was as serious as Al had made it sound, Sydney had to be kept at a safe distance until it was over. Pilar's offer made this a reality. He relaxed his posture. "Since I may be leaving town on business tomorrow, this is probably a happy coincidence," Jack said, a small smile forming. A calm had settled in him. This woman's presence was rather…soothing, he thought.

Her eyes narrowed a bit, like she was trying to see into him, then she nodded. "I'm guessing you won't be back until next week," she replied.

"Probably sooner, but I can't say for sure," Jack said.

Pilar's nod was measured. She gestured toward her car. "Tell her I'm waiting," she said, then she turned and walked down the steps.

"Sure," Jack replied, watching her for a moment, then he closed the door, and began to climb the stairs. He found himself thinking about her shape for an instant, and the way the tail of her denim shirt had floated up when she turned –

"Don't you dare," Irina hissed at him.

CIA REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR KENDRICK'S OFFICE



Kendrick returned to his office and a ringing phone. He glanced toward his secretary's desk – the empty chair seemed to mock him. He sighed, and pulled the receiver to his ear. "Paul Kendrick," he said flatly.

"It's Charlie," was the reply. It was cool. Detached. Like always.

The assistant director's face turned ashen. "What? What's going – ? "

"I'm back," the voice on the other end said.

"Why?" Kendrick's eyes scanned the caller ID readout. It was blank.

A single chuckle. "I'm not telling you."

"You're on a secure line," Kendrick said. "No one else is listening."

"I know that. I am calling from your house, after all."

Kendrick felt his stomach collapse from sudden fear. "Why?"

"I knew your phone wouldn't be tapped, you paranoid bastard," Charlie said.

Paul's knuckles whitened around the receiver. "Where's my – "

Charlie interrupted Kendrick's thought. "How are the wife and kids, by the way? They weren't around when I popped in. Everybody still healthy?"

Paul was at first relieved, and then his blood began to heat. "Is that a threat?"

"Okay, first off, I'd never threaten your family. I like them. Second, and you should know this by know, if I was threatening you, you wouldn't be asking me that question."

Anger was creeping into Paul's voice. "So why are you doing this, Charlie? Just trying to break a four-year old cover to fuck with me?"

"No," Charlie barked. Then, in a softer tone, "I'm chest-deep in something, and it's just started, and I can't stop it."

"What is it?" Paul asked, trying to cool his temper.

A long pause. "No," he said finally. "I'm not telling you."

Kendrick felt the frustration spiking in his chest. "Charlie, I'm the assistant director of the Los Angeles office now."

"Congratulations," Charlie said. "Desk jockey always suited you, jobwise."

"I'm saying that no matter what this thing is, I can help," Kendrick said. "And the worse it is, the more I can do."

"No, you can't," Charlie replied, rock-steady. "There's exactly one person on Earth that I can trust with this – and it sure as hell isn't you."

"Then who?"

"Al Maxwell," he replied.

BRITISH AIRWAYS
FLIGHT 434

In the dark of first class, his head resting against the window, Al Maxwell's body slept.

But his mind would not.

"Eddie?" Parker asked.

Al watched from a distance. He saw himself, active in the moment. Parker, too, just to his right. And Eddie, waiting by the elevator, a patient figure…

The Observing Al tried to say something from his different viewpoint, but his words were merely mumbles, and no one was listening anyway.

"What are you doing here?" Parker continued.

…Eddie's smile was inhuman from where Observing Al was standing, frozen as he was …

"You've got a job to do."

…doing no one any good as Eddie was casually blowing a hole through his boss's throat, splattering gobs of crimson and black grue against a parked car…

"I've got a job to do."

…then turning his gaze, and coming for Active Al, still peaceful, still smiling…

"We're professionals," Eddie called as Active Al ran. Observing Al watched him pass, watched Eddie pass. Watched Parker gasp and struggle against the torrent of gore and the panic of asphyxiation. Watched as the garage lights shifted and dipped and Parker's face melted and reformed into

...nonono...

Jack Bristow's. Still, there was the gasp and struggle. And neither Al could help. Could not stop him. Eddie, who was burying the muzzle in Jack's belly now, emptying the weapon's terrible weight into and through Jack until there was nothing but the click of the hammer against spent shells.

Observing Al saw Jack's eyes – haunting, glazing, full of pain. But he was limp, falling onto Eddie, and Eddie let him fall. Jack's corpse landed with a disturbing squish. The bullets had ripped him open and spilled him out. Active Al turned back, let out a cry, and threw himself into Eddie.

"You've got a job to do."

Observing Al heard it, even though Eddie's mouth did not move. He turned. Saw Active Al losing a fight. Eddie pummeling him. Hard punches to the face. Active Al, cut now, bloody now. Unable to escape. So wounded, so tired. Saw Eddie press a pistol into Active Al's ribcage –

And from the distance, Observing Al felt the ring of the muzzle poking between the ribs…the heat and smell of the gun oil…Eddie's pungent breath, smelling of death and decay, coffee and cigarettes, just like he was in Observing Al's face simultaneously…

He said a word or two that neither of the Als could hear, and he said them with a smirk, then:

BLAM! ripping into the left lung.

BLAM! piercing the right ventricle.

BLAM! shredding the aorta.

And Active Al lay retching, choking, dying...and Eddie stood over him, still smiling, still peaceful.

"Al Maxwell," he said. "I thought it was you."

Observing Al had felt everything. He tasted the blood in his mouth – rich and hot and thick. But he was still standing, still in one piece. And Eddie was paying him no mind.

"And why should I? You're paralytic. Useless," Eddie said. Eddie didn't even look at Observing Al while he spoke. "Besides, I've got more important things to do. Like watching him die." He pointed his pistol at the dying Active Al.

Observing Al tried to say something.

Eddie didn't look up from the dying one's blackening eyes. "No. No mercy for you, Al."

…that's his speed…

And that's when Observing Al felt his hands move. A rush of energy, like he was falling very fast. An electrical burst in his legs springing him forward. Then he dipped his shoulder and crashed into Eddie, toppling him, and knocking the pistol away.

Now Observing Al had an upper hand. He drove his knees into the other man's chest. Trying to crush him. To silence him. To erase him. Eddie kept smiling, and offered no resistance, even as Observing Al drove all his weight into the other man. "I don't know who you are," Al said emphatically, ultimately pressing a pistol muzzle against Eddie's temple.

"Liar…" Eddie sang.

BLAM! the bullet smashed through Eddie's skull…

…rewind!…

"Liar…" he sang.

BLAM! the bullet smashed through Eddie's skull…

…rewind!…

"Liar…" he sang.

BLAM! the bullet smashed through Eddie's skull…

…rewind!…

"I'll tell Ja-ack…" he sang.

BLAM!



Al's eyes snapped open. He felt the pounding in his head, and the image of the other man, blood and brain and bone splattered on the concrete, was still there, burned in – a ghost in his vision.

Still bewildered from the sudden waking, he took a few breaths, then hit the call button. His heart was skipping beats, and he tried to steady it. A sharp-featured attendant appeared in the aisle, leaning over the sleeping form in the seat between them. "Yes, sir," she said, frowning a bit when she noticed his expression – along with his cuts and bruises. "Are you all right?"

"My head – uh – could I get some aspirin or something, please?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you." Al settled back into his seat. "Oh, and how long until…"

"About ninety minutes," the woman replied before she disappeared down the aisle again.

Al turned his attention out the window. There was nothing to see yet - no city lights, no friendly landmarks, just miles of black ocean thirty thousand feet below.

He fought against his urge to fall asleep. Every time he blinked he saw Eddie's face – that last image from his dream. Al decided right then and there that f he had to duct tape his eyes open, so be it - he wasn't sleeping again until this was finished. He was only six hours from LA. Six hours from meeting up with Jack. And then, the answers would come. The plan would take shape. He found himself feeling calmer by the moment.

They started this, he thought. I'm ending it.

Kendrick leaned his body against his desk, pushing the phone tighter to his ear. "Why Maxwell? At least tell me that."

"I'm not telling you a damn thing," Charlie replied. "It's Al, or I vanish."

"Agent Maxwell's on assignment. He returns tonight."

"Perfect." A derisive chuckle. "You let him know I'm coming to see him."

Kendrick felt a rush of panic as he heard the rustle of the phone cord and the dead air on the other end. "Wait," he said.

"For what?" Charlie asked.

"Would you be willing to talk to his partner?" he asked.

A snort on the other end. "Partner, huh? Who's that, some geek just off the CIA truck?"

Kendrick saw a possible break. "No, he's a top senior officer. Name's Jack Bristow."

There was silence on the other end. It seemed agonizingly long to Kendrick. Finally, Charlie's voice returned, and rather curtly said, "For the last time, asshole. Al. Maxwell. No one else."

"Charlie. If you come in, I swear I'll do whatever – " Paul tried to reason with him, but the line was dead before he could finish the sentence. In a flash, he was dialing his phone, hands trembling. When there was an answer, he said, "Charlie's trying to surface. So what now?"

By the time Jack reached his daughter's room, he could hear her closet door sliding open, and the rattle of hangers. Then the dull thump of a suitcase landing on her bed. He stepped into the doorway, finding her poised over it. Sydney's attention was on her packing, not on anything else.

But she said, "I'm going to stay with Karen and her mom. Our project – "

Jack nodded. "It's fine with me," he said softly. "Mrs. Jimenez is waiting out front."

Sydney nodded a bit, but kept her eyes down, even as she moved back and forth from her closet or her dresser, retrieving clothes and other personal items, and then back to her bed, carefully packing them in an ordered space. Jack noticed a tremble in her hands. "We're way behind on it," she said, her voice cracking a bit, "and it's twenty-five percent of the grade of the class, and Karen and I, we just want to focus on getting it right, so that's why I'm going." She sniffed, then quickly ahemed to cover it.

But Jack knew. His only daughter was trying very hard not to cry in front of him. The shame he felt in his belly was beginning to spill through him, and he had to bite the inside of his lip to keep it from quivering.

She snapped the clasps shut on the lid of the suitcase and grasped the handle. "I better not keep her waiting."

He moved out of the doorway to let her pass. As she did, he reached out to touch her shoulder, and like she could sense his movement, she twisted out of his reach, then practically sprinted down the stairs and out the front door, which closed with a deceptive quietness.

Jack felt his weight begin to melt, and his back found the wall. Shame was now anguish and it was thickening in his gut and his chest. And he found himself staring at the pattern in the gray-green wallpaper, seeing how the gray and white and black twisted and gnarled and unbraided again and again.

"Poor Jack," he heard Irina whisper from somewhere very near. "Poor, sad, pathetic Jack."

At that moment, he couldn't disagree. But before he could lapse into catatonia, the phone rang again, and Jack pulled himself together so he could answer it. He walked into his daughter's empty room, and picked up her extension.

He barely had time to say his name before he heard Kendrick's clipped words. "Jack," he said. "We have a situation."

CIA REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS
TECH ANALYSIS AND RESEARCH DIVISION

Sarah inhaled the aroma of the coffee in her mug – sweet, a little nutty. She took a long sip, all the while eyeballing the trio of cryptographers who had elbowed their way into the already cramped space. They were shuffling and sorting through the printouts that Al had sent from London before he caught his flight home.

No, she corrected herself. Al hadn't sent anything. Al's source had sent the documents. Who that source was, he didn't say. He didn't say a lot of things.

But he did say he wanted to see her again.

She had to admit he'd been sort of a pipe dream for her. She'd see him in the hall, or sitting alone in the cafeteria, or walking into a conference room while she was walking out. She smiled to herself. It was kind of like, well, high school. She was the smart, gawky girl who ran the projector in Bio Lab, or was Vice President of Chess Club, and he was the star quarterback whose intellect and sensitivity only seemed to pop up during Study Hall. And then, one night, she got up the courage to take off her glasses and let her hair down…

…and it was a John Hughes movie, she thought.

Al Maxwell was the kind of man that it was easy to develop a schoolgirl crush on – good-looking, funny, and even a bit sweet, which was certainly not a common trait around here. The post-Christmas party fling had been exactly what she'd imagined at one time a fling was supposed to be – a sip of naughtiness; kind of illicit, kind of innocent – and she'd wanted to return to that professional relationship, really, truly – but he had stuck in her head. Some might have accused her of being a bit obsessed with him. To tell the truth, she would have been one of those people. But the aftermath was fairly quiet – he had been in and out of the office for the last several months, and was all business when they ended up in the same conference room, which wasn't that often. He'd barely string two words together toward her when they'd had any face-to-face meetings.

But now….

The chief cryptographer tapped her on the shoulder, and stole her reverie. "Excuse me," he said, with enough force to get the words out, but not much else. "I need those." He was gesturing toward the folder she was holding.

Sarah handed them over. "Any progress?" she asked, as she let Al exit her mind.

"Some, but the going's very slow," he replied, spreading out the pages. "Still trying to find the key to a big chunk of it." The chief began eyeballing each page. "But we have found something interesting," he said.

"What?" Sarah asked. She remembered the chief's name was Ernie, but hadn't the faintest clue as to how she knew. Maybe he just looked like an Ernie – brush-cut hair, hang-dog face, suspenders.

"Well, as you can guess, the digitized material is encrypted using state-of-the-art seven-key – " Ernie suddenly stopped, scanned Sarah's eyes, then continued, " – a super-complicated system, in other words. This material's going into our computers and we'll break it in there. But the handwritten material, that's all alpha-numeric."

Sarah nodded. The other crypto guys – one with thick, square eyeglasses, the other with the face of a bright eleven-year old – were nodding too. "Almost has to be," she said.

"Right. So it's also fairly recognizable." Ernie pointed at certain stacks of paper on the table. "These were written in 22 Moscow. This one is standard Right-to-Left 11. And these two are in Bottom-Top Verticle Y. All in all, nearly 200 pages of handwritten material that we can decode and read right now – everything from dashed-off notes to elaborate letters, and other documentation."

"So we have a handle on what they were doing," Sarah said.

"Well, we will," Ernie said. "There's an organizational theme to all of it – "

"Pieces of a puzzle," she replied.

"Pretty much. The analysts – you, for example – will fit them together and we'll nab some bad guys."

The crypto guy with the squared-off eyeglasses twitched. "But, uh, Ern - you forgot to mention the other thing."

Sarah blinked at Ernie. "Other thing?"

"Oh, yeah," Ernie said, biting a lip.

THE JIMENEZ RESIDENCE

Sydney sat on the Jimenez's well-worn sofa, staring at the blank television screen. Pilar poked her head into the living room. "Where's Karen?" she asked.

"In her room," Sydney replied.

"And you weren't invited?" Pilar asked.

"She said she had a surprise for me."

"Well, would you like some popcorn or something?" she asked. "While you wait?"

"No thanks," Sydney replied.

Pilar nodded. "So this project, it's a big deal for the two of you, huh?"

"Yeah," Sydney said. "I think Karen's concept is absolutely awesome, but going to San Francisco put us way behind."

"Well, I'm glad your dad was willing to let you stay with us so you two could finish up."

Sydney nodded absently as Karen appeared from around another corner, her hands behind her back.

"What's this?" Pilar asked.

Karen's arms came from behind her back, and in her hands was a cardboard cube, about eight inches tall. "Ta-daaah!" she proclaimed, then gave it to Sydney. She then took a step back, as if she needed a better view.

Sydney smiled, confused. She lifted the lid, peered inside, and then beamed. "No way," she said.

Karen smirked. "Yes way," she replied.



Sarah could see that Ernie was trying not to be squirrelly - and failing. "The page count on the handwritten is 214," he mumbled. "We have 190 – "

" – 192 – " Four-Square-Eyes interjected.

" - 192 pages sorted, organized, and ready," Ernie said.

Sarah looked at the separate pile. "So there's twenty – "

"Twenty-two." Ol' Four-Square-Eyes was at it again.

" – twenty-two that – what?"

Ernie squirmed a bit. "That we can't read."

Sarah felt herself take a breath. "Excuse me?"

"We know the writer or writers used alpha-numeric," Ernie said. "We know that they are similar in style and form to other, more commonly used codes. But when we try the similar coding, we get gibberish."

"So what's the next step?" Sarah asked.

Ernie hooked his thumbs in his pants pockets. "We'll run through every variant we can think of, then if need be, put it in front of our best people in Virginia. Hell, if we have to run it through the computer, we'll do that too."

Suddenly the eleven-year old found his voice. "Hey, are you guys seeing what I'm seeing?" He pointed to the top unreadable page. "Notice the handwriting itself."

"What about it?" Ernie asked.

"Our guys verified that all of the pages we can read were written by either Rikku, Donnelly, or Whitton, right?" the Wunderkind asked.

Sarah squinted a bit. "The scientists wrote their own coded messages?"

"To each other, and to unidentified persons. But that's not the thing."

"Then what is?" Sarah asked.

Ernie's face fell even further. "The twenty-two pages we can't read weren't written by any of them."

Sarah was stunned. "Someone else wrote the pages we can't decode?"

The Wunderkind seemed to be glowing from his discovery. "Logical, isn't it? I mean, since we can't verify that any of the scientists knew this code – "

" – since none of them were writing it – " Four-Square-Eyes added.

"It kinda stands to reason. Don'cha think?" The Wunderkind seemed quite pleased with himself.

Sarah suddenly realized she wasn't nearly the geek she'd imagined being. "Keep me posted on that, and start sending the decoded pages out. And speaking of keeping people posted," she said as she grabbed the telephone. "Get AD Kendrick for me," she said in her usual tone. Then her brow crinkled. "What do you mean, 'Kendrick's gone'?" she fairly shouted, startling the men.

The phone call had puzzled Jack. Kendrick had asked him to come to his house. Said it was important. To come right away.

Jack wasn't sure about this. Kendrick's most recent behavior had been beyond odd. And now this invitation, to an address he'd never visited before. Jack knew that Kendrick had been close to Grace Donnelly, and her family. The shock of her death had taken an obvious toll.

But this surveillance kick was bordering on a sickness.

"You know why he does it, Jack?" Irina asked. Then she answered, "He fears you. Envies you. Maybe even hates you a little."

"Why?" Jack replied.

"Because you are who you are. And he is who he is. But he will never be you." Then he felt something brush his cheek – like a fleeting kiss. Jack turned to face her, but she wasn't there.

She's never there, he thought. She seduced me, she cheated me, she abandoned me. It was the same song over and over –

He suddenly saw Sydney's sad face in his mind's eye. How she couldn't look at him while she packed her bag.

The words pinged through his brain:

Never there.

Cheated.

Abandoned.

As he turned down another strange street, feeling self-loathing eating his belly, he caught sight of the house. He leafed through his mental notes, and found the match. He'd managed to find it.

But he didn't have the strength to move. He could only sit in the car, and chew on the inside of his mouth.

Pilar shook her head. "What? What is it?"

Sydney lifted the prized item from the box and held it up like a trophy – it was brassy and wooden and polished and looked to Pilar like it was all one piece, until she noticed some of it shift.

"It's a puzzle," Karen said, for her mother's benefit.

"Yeah," Sydney said. "See all these lines and things on the sides – they fit together in a very specific way." She turned it once to indicate how it worked. "They can spell out words or make geometric shapes, depending on how you put the puzzle together."

Karen nodded. "And if you put it together absolutely right – "

"You win, like, a million dollars." Sydney giggled. "Or something. How did you get this?"

"I had money left over from the per diem," Karen replied.

"But how'd you get it without me knowing?"

"I bought it at the gift shop the last morning we were in San Francisco. You were meeting with that group from Japan, and I said I wasn't feeling good?"

"Very sneaky," Sydney replied. "And I bet you packed it with the UN stuff that went to our school – and that you were in charge of."

"Bingo," Karen said.

"Wow," Sydney said. "I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."

"Don't be silly. You're my best friend, and it's your birthday – "

"It's your birthday, Sydney?" Pilar asked.

Sydney's real smile was replaced by a false one. "Saturday," she replied. Her voice had softened to near-silence.

How could he do that to her? Again? Jack's vision blurred, and he felt the sting and heat in his eyes.

"And your dad let you stay with us?" Pilar asked, her voice tight.

"He's so busy nowadays," Sydney said.

It's for her, he thought. For her safety. You put her aside, and keep her at a safe distance, so she won't have to worry. So she won't get hurt.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," he heard someone say. He looked for Irina's ghost, then realized it was his own voice.

Sydney's spirits seemed to brighten as she changed the subject. "And our project needs to get done, birthday or not."

"Yeah," Karen said, then added, "But her dad's probably going to do something for her next week. Something really cool."

"Sure," Sydney said, with a stiff nod.

Jack debated with himself for a moment about this meeting. Kendrick's finally slipped, he thought. Dragged me out here to the middle of nowhere, probably wants to bust me for not staying home.

No, he decided. Kendrick might be a political animal in the office, but the man who had called him was not the same person. He was scared, almost panicked. Like he'd heard or seen something he knew he 

should never hear or see. Jack breathed in and out, then blew his breath through his teeth, and climbed out of his car. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then let his emotions dissipate, like vapor into the air.

"Well, then, girls," Pilar said. "I was looking for an excuse to find something fun to do tonight. Let's go grab some ice cream after dinner."

"And maybe a movie?" Karen asked hopefully.

Pilar smiled. "If Sydney wants to."

"Yeah," Sydney said. "That'd be all right."

"Hey, anything for the birthday girl," Pilar said.

As he walked up the front steps, he checked his shoulder holster again. His nine-millimeter was ready to draw. He'd snap the safety off with his thumb when he pulled it. Jack looked up and read the block numerals over the door. 12004. Yeah, he thought, this is it. He made a cursory glance over his shoulder. A deeper gaze into the dark house through the textured glass on the door.

And for a moment, he wished that Al were here, watching his back. He gritted his teeth.

Then he opened the door wide enough to step inside. Almost instantly, an awful, heavy smell caught in his nostrils, and nearly made him retch.

One of his hands shot to his mouth, and he turned his head back toward the outside for a breath of fresher air. He leaned a shoulder against the door frame, bowed his head and worked to catch his breath, like he had to expel the stink that had wormed into his lungs. Then Jack realized something truly dreadful, something that made the world seem to break into shards of glass right before his eyes.

He pushed the door shut after another deep breath, then forced himself to walk deeper into the house. With his right hand over his mouth, Jack buried his shoulder against the smooth wallpaper, held his weapon away from his body, and followed the bead down a seemingly interminable hallway.

It didn't take long for Jack to find Kendrick. Only a dozen steps or so. Jack had been counting them to time his next breath. He lost count when he saw the old oak desk that Kendrick was sitting behind.

Or what was left of him, anyway.


TO BE CONTINUED…