New York Tactical Operations Unit, Medical Bay
Two days (!) later
Apart from working on recovery, with the latest medical tech to help, the first thing I did was to deal with Candy. She looked very small as she sat next to the bed, her hands resting in her lap, maintaining proper posture as her mother had taught her. But the first thing that happened was that I apologised to her for using Directive Four.
"I'd forgotten about that," she sheepishly admitted. "But there's really nothing to forgive, sir. You were entirely within your rights as the Commander to use the Directive. You were just keeping me, keeping all of us, safe."
I shook my head. "Some things shouldn't be done. I should never have agreed to that thing in the first place, and as soon as I can I'm going to do away with it. I have faith in my people to keep their heads without needing such draconian measures to keep them in line. Next time I'll just knock you out." I grinned. "That, or spank you."
She giggled. "Ooh, you wish!" Saucily she stood, turned around and wiggled what I had to admit was a very pretty, perky, neat derrière. Very firm-looking and eminently spankable. No wonder Johnny Mullins had lusted after her; that was indeed one fine piece of ass. Those skin-tight stretch jeans really suited her...and, I couldn't help but notice before she resumed her seat, Johnny was right about her 'tiny panties', too.
Hmm. Jeans. Not uniform trousers. She was out of uniform because "I don't deserve to wear it, sir. I disobeyed a direct order."
Bless her, she meant it; she wasn't eschewing the uniform purely for show or for the look of the thing. I sighed. "How many more times do I have to explain? This is not a military setup. We are not at war. Ultimately a cop is a civilian, not a soldier, which is why we rarely carry lethal weaponry. We really should discard the terminology of 'orders'. Look, Candy, what you did was a lot of things:
"Reckless - I don't ever want to see you taking that kind of crazy risk ever again. A tenth of a second either way and you'd be dead now.
"Selfless, done for me, for the Unit, for the people of New York. Maybe I was wrong even to give the order, I don't know.
"Far and away the bravest thing I've seen since those guys went up the stairs. You knew what might happen.
"Plus it was actually useful and helpful - it distracted Young Blood, gave me a chance to catch my breath which, believe me, I badly needed," I ruefully admitted. Then I smiled gently. "I've never seen a greater gesture of personal loyalty and nobility in my entire life, sweetheart, and I don't believe Swift Kill had, either. It made a difference in dealing with him, I'm sure. I don't think I've ever been more proud of you. Thank you, Candy." Now I grinned. "So go sort yourself out before I charge you with being Out Of Uniform on Unit time!"
She laughed in amusement and heartfelt relief, and hugged me. "You're the best, sir!"
"Yeah, yeah, don't get all mushy on me," I mock-growled in my best (awful, I know!) Bronx accent. "G'wan, git outa here already."
Damned if the cute little thing didn't actually kiss me before she left (with another saucy wiggle as a parting shot)!
I was still enjoying the taste (cherry chapstick - the same preference as Julie, if I recalled rightly) when Ed came in. "Don't get up or salute," he quipped.
I snorted. "Wasn't gonna do either one." We laughed as the old friends and colleagues we were, coming up together in the NYPD before Ed showed superior talent - and interest - in admin rather than fieldwork.
After a while, Ed sighed. "This was a rough one, wasn't it? Remember you promised to bury me? That's the closest you've ever come to breaking that. Old cops -"
"Speak for yourself," I couldn't resist.
"- should fade away and die, not just die. God, Kelly, when the Unit brought you in...you looked like hell."
"Felt like it," I readily admitted. "I honestly wish I could have let Duane tackle him. Would've been more of an even match."
Ed shook his head. "Against that thing, I'd have given long odds on Joey DiMaggio, to be honest, even with a flamethrower. I really wish we could use the HD recording as Unit Academy training material."
I frowned. "What do you mean? That's exactly what I intend to do with it. That recording is ideal for the purpose, because it shows so many aspects of Unit work: combat, teamwork, intelligent use of tech, plus the higher things: courage, loyalty, nobility, even recognition of grey areas. The kind of things you just can't get from a bare description of the facts."
"All of which I pointed out," Ed sighed, "but she wouldn't budge."
"Who wouldn't?"
The door opened. "I wouldn't, Commander," a rich, melodious voice answered me. "Thank you, Commissioner, I'll take it from here." An amazingly attractive woman I would immediately describe - without any intention of flattering her - as being frankly impressive slinked, perhaps even sashayed, into the room. She was definitely the tallest woman I'd ever seen, had to be 6'6" at least (in flat heels, too). She had amazingly blonde, beautiful hair that reached down to her knees, and damn if that wasn't a long way to go on her. Hell, her hair was taller than Candy!
She was of a trim build, not an Amazon per se, but the way she moved told of considerable well-toned muscle and intense combat discipline. I was sure she could break Duane in two without raising a sweat. Aware of the keen scrutiny, she smiled, entirely unoffended. It was a charming smile. "You like?"
"Very much," I smiled back, taking a chance. Her laugh was genuine, musical.
She was happily married, I knew, one kid at most - hip movements, before you ask. Mothers don't walk in the same way as non-mothers; to a Unit officer trained in observation - as of course we all are - the difference, caused by the permanent widening of the pelvis brought on by childbirth, is unmistakable. Story of my life, I groused.
I'd seldom seen a covert operations director who was so easy on the eyes. Ah-ah, don't ask how I knew that; certain aspects of Command Training in the Unit are classified. Suffice to say I knew what she was...if not who.
"Not what you expected, am I?" she observed merrily.
"I doubt you're what anyone expects," I opined frankly. "But then...no-one expects the Spanish Inquisition!"
She laughed again. "Same principle; it's quite an edge in my line of work. Plus it's terrific to meet a fellow Python fan. And a fellow ex-Brit, I might add."
I'd already gotten that from her trace of accent - Hereford, I guessed. So she was what a girlfriend of mine, a little hefty and proud of it, had called a Hereford Heifer (she was, too). I'm a Lanky lad from Bolton myself, born and bred. When I first came to New York I spent nearly two years just getting over the culture shock. As for the weather - Christ, I'd thought Bolton was cold in winter, but Kirsty McColl had it right: "...but the wind goes right through you, it's no place for the old..." Ooh, truer words...
But now to business, I knew. "I did expect a visit at some point from the Federal government -"
She shook her head. "Higher than that. Exactly how high is...well, let's just say it goes above and beyond the States. While it's true these beings are not a threat to our species per se, for the very simple reason that they're clearly not bent on invasion, conquest, stripping our planet of her resources or any of the reasons for threat so beloved by classic and modern SF alike, they do present...issues...that need to be addressed, which is why I'm here."
"The UN doesn't do covert operations," I denied, "that's contrary to the intentions of its founders."
"Who were brave, noble and wise statesmen who meant well but had no real idea of what we as a species face in terms of existential threats," she sighed. "If people know about covert ops, that entirely defeats the object of the 'covert' concept, doesn't it? To be frank, we regard the CIA and the NSA as little more than an incredibly expensive and dangerous joke. The FBI isn't much better. Actually, it might surprise you to hear that your Unit is closer to what we want and need."
"We're just cops," I managed, startled.
The woman regarded me closely. "Of course you are. 'Just cops'. Who took on an incredibly dangerous alien creature whose kind have been coming here for, we believe, at least nine thousand fucking years, and beat it at its own game. And who gave the others sufficient pause for thought, we hope, that they may very well never come here again. I do not for one instant believe any arm of the Federal government, covert or not, could have accomplished that. Goddammit, if it were up to me, you and everyone in your Unit would receive a Medal of Valour.
"That little boy who was slaughtered? Him, too. I have a son three years younger who is the apple of my eye, and I pray to God he grows up as brave and noble as Billy Davies did. We're doing what we can for Violet.
"Civilian casualties? Twenty-seven, and," she gave me a gentle sympathetic smile, "there truly was no way you could have seen that attack coming, none at all...but in fact we got off lightly there." I couldn't stop the puzzled frown. "I doubt you know this, but it could've been the centre of New York. These things carry something like a tactical nuke they can prime and arm with a few taps of a claw; it would destroy about three hundred blocks' worth of city. They only use it, we think, in a no-win scenario." She grimaced. "Like Kirk, they don't like to lose."
Nine thousand years?!
The centre of New York?! Three hundred blocks?!
Fuck, I didn't know when I was well off!
"Had the Feds been handling this - as they wanted to from the moment Team Three filed their report and it was illegally grabbed - New York might now be missing most of Manhattan. I'm sentimental about Central Park," she confessed with a wry smile, "because my son was conceived there. Luckily the only New Yorker who saw my husband and I doing the deed at two in the morning, totally naked and blind drunk, was a cute little street cat, and I doubt she told anyone."
That got a snort of laughter from me, though I wasn't happy at all about learning the Feds had been hacking us. I had to wonder about the timing, though; why were they hacking us at that particular moment in time? Then I saw it: they must've hacked Space Command as well, knowing the Predators were about due for a visit/safari, guessed what the 'meteorite' was, and deduced where and when the Predator would make its appearance from the fact that at the time the Big Apple was sweltering in 110° or more even at night.
She nodded gravely. "Oh, yeah, heads are definitely gonna roll at Langley, I promise you. Not for hacking the Unit, though that was bad enough, but for hacking Space Command. POTUS is not happy. We shut 'em down before they ever even set off for New York, though. I had a feeling you guys could handle it." A merry smile this time. "I was right."
"I have to ask, if only for the look of the thing," I entreated her, "exactly who the fuck are you, and who or what do you work for that you can tell the FBI and the CIA what to do?"
"I would've been astonished if you hadn't asked," she nodded solemnly, "and I am truly sorry that I am not permitted under any circumstances to tell you, even off the record, a) because I honestly believe you deserve to know after all you've been through, b) because I am certain I can trust you, and c) because I would absolutely love to bring several, maybe all, of your officers into our organisation because you guys truly are a class act. You'd still be doing your duty as New York's finest, but working for - or rather with - us, as well." She sighed sadly. "I wish."
Call me hopelessly optimistic and naïve if you want - or dare - but I swear on the Badge she was sincere.
"In fact," she went on slowly, "purely as a gesture of professional and, I assure you, genuine respect, I will at least give you my real first name: Carol."
"Not Carol Danvers, perchance?" I couldn't resist.
Carol actually giggled. "Ooh, don't I wish! She's totally cool!" She grinned. "Plus Brie Larson has just the most amazing ass!"
I wasn't sure if she was utilising Unit-style psychological manipulation techniques - or better, if that were possible - on me, but I definitely liked her.
Couldn't help but agree about Ms. Larson, either...
After a while we both sobered. It was all too clear to me that none of this was going to go public, not that I wanted it to. The SWAT troops knew all about operational secrecy (most of them were Army or Marine veterans, one a former SEAL) and had been sworn to secrecy re the Predators. There had been no civilian spectators at the final battle because of course we'd evacuated them (except Marie, but I'm not sure she counts in that context). Carol asked me, "What chance do you think there is of them coming back?"
"In the next ten years, or at all?"
"At all. Do you think the possibility of our acquiring one or more pieces of their tech will be enough to put them off?" She shook her head. "I know it seems as if they come every ten years, but we have reason to believe that's a coincidence. They appear to know Earth's weather and the Sun's behaviour better than we do; they come when there's a heatwave and an armed conflict somewhere. The locals in Guatemala expect them in the hottest years; seems they've been there often enough to become a local legend or myth. 'El diablo que hace trofeos de los hombres', they say."
The Demon who makes trophies of Man, I readily translated. I recalled Mike mentioning Keyes telling him about that spec-ops team in '87 inserted into Guatemala, and their capture of a local woman who'd told them about these 'demons'.
"It's just pure chance that the last five incursions have occurred at ten-year intervals. We have reason to believe that they had some sort of facility in Antarctica of all places, and that they were there in 1904 and again in 2004. 4, not 7. They got that flintlock in 1715, two years out of step with the apparent pattern. Beautiful, isn't it?"
"You talked to Mike Harrigan," I readily surmised.
"Posing as someone from IA, several years ago," she nodded, "he never knew and never will. He's earned his retirement." She paused, then added tactfully: "So have you."
"Fuck that," was my almost by-reflex retort. "In a box or not at all. I can still show these young whippersnappers a thing or two."
Carol nodded respectfully. "No surprise there." She smiled and added sincerely, "I'm sure you can."
"So, what chance? I honestly don't know. I don't think Swift Kill or any of the Predators he Leads will come back, their own code of honour won't allow it. By their rules - the only rules which matter to them - I won my trophy fair and square, and that's the trophy I chose. But other Predators, from other groups? Who knows? And who knows what these 'Wise Elders' will decide? We can't know."
"We'll just have to keep our eyes open, then," she nodded. "I talked to your cute operator's FWB, and he's agreed to perform regular monthly sweeps, watching for any more...'meteors'. We and Space Command know what to look for now.
"Turned out that 'meteor' looped around the Moon and made re-entry through a small hole in our coverage over the Sahara Desert, while we weren't looking. Once they were in atmosphere they flew sub-orbital and landed in Central Park completely unseen." She looked grim. "If I weren't concerned about provoking retaliation of some sort, I'd be inclined to order Space Command to shoot down any of those HALO pods before they ever even re-enter, if we can only target them quickly enough with satellite-mounted lasers."
"Assuming they're even vulnerable to lasers," I had to point out.
Carol nodded. "Assuming that, of course. We could try, but we don't know anywhere near enough about their psychology to predict their response." She grinned. "Unless we just assume the worst and send our greatest warrior, proven in battle against them, once we know where they've landed."
I couldn't help laughing, as I knew she meant me. "Proven against one of them, and not the most experienced at that! I mean, how long would I have lasted against Swift Kill? One minute? Two?"
"Oh, two at least," she teased, chuckling.
"So what happens now?" I asked. "No, I can guess. A news conference, denying these crazy rumours about killer aliens dropping from the sky, slaughtering and eating people. There was a deal being struck between the Cartel and the Russian Mafia, but a mad tech genius, with a grudge against organised crime, intervened. He turned out to have a distinct anthropophagus tendency, which is why people were slaughtered as opposed to just being murdered. Our sting operative survived by sheer luck; she was knocked out cold and fortunately he missed her.
"Over the next few nights he went so far 'round the bend he was meeting himself coming back, and he saw all organised groups as a threat to him - street gangs, for example; hence his slaughter of the Bloods. He regarded the other commuters purely as targets of opportunity. Fancied himself as a high-tech hunter or something, made a ritual of killing.
"But before he could start on the Unit or the Blues as he intended, the Unit tracked him down with its unique mix of modern tech and old-style police work, isolated him in Central Park, and the brave Commander McAllister took him down in an epic one-on-one battle. Upon being defeated, he committed suicide by home-made Thermite, tried to take the officer with him and thankfully failed. His remains were so badly scorched by Thermite he could no longer be identified. At present, unfortunately, we have no leads as to his identity, and it no longer really matters since he's dead.
"There are no other suspects; all parties involved in the deal are in the Unit morgue, where they will remain until the District Coroner decides upon their final disposition. The drugs and diamonds serving as the sting bait were recovered and returned to their owners. Case closed. How's that?"
She actually applauded. "Beautiful. It's almost true, even. What about the Unit sting, though?"
"Oh," I shrugged, "I did mention he was a tech genius, didn't I? He detected our people via," an ironic grin, "the very same Siemens Mk. 5 MT scanner we were using, deduced logically who we were from the superb deployment pattern and ruined our op purely for the hell of it." A sigh. "We coulda pulled it off, Charley. We coulda had class. We coulda been somebody. We coulda been a contenda."
"Possibly the worst Brando impression I've ever heard, and a thoroughly mangled quote," she laughed, "but as a cover story it totally works."
It did.
Oh, there were the usual sceptics, of course, cries of government conspiracy, 'Aliens Are Among Us' and other such utter cobblers, but it all died down as these things do. A memorial to the Columbus Twenty-Seven was erected at Columbus Circle. Marie contributed tablet-drawn sketches of the dead, and she captured the Bloods - especially poor Billy - in heartbreaking detail and accuracy.
She also drew a breathtaking life portrait of Julie, converted it to a holo and somehow got it engraved into a large window overlooking the alley where Julie had been raped and killed herself. Gerhard Richter saw a photo on Facebook, paid a visit, admired it for fully three hours, and declared it and the caption together to be one of the most beautiful and tragic works of art he had ever seen. He suggested that it be coated in diamond to forever preserve it, as soon as it became technologically possible.
Luigi Bernalli declared it to be a city treasure and made it very clear in a rare NBC interview that anyone even thinking about vandalising it would be in...trouble. He did not specify what sort or how deep.
He didn't need to.
The building's owner didn't know whether to be reassured or worried that a Mafioso (alleged) was watching over her building, but oddly her insurance premiums were now lower...
"The most remarkable thing," Richter noted in an interview in Vogue, "is that the image, somehow, is nothing without the caption...and vice versa. Each is utterly essential to the composition. Each transforms the other from street art and graffiti into true art, which achieves the purpose of art: to move the viewer, even to tears. This masterpiece did. I would be honoured to meet the artist. She - and I somehow feel certain it is a woman - has created true beauty out of true tragedy, for I feel in my heart that the story told there is as true as it is tragic. Only a true artist could accomplish that."
He'd be astonished, I thought ruefully, if he knew who she was...
The long, heartbreakingly sad (and artistically necessary, though with all due respect to Marie she surely intended it to be just a tribute to Julie, not a work of art - though Richter was right, it really was) caption read:
In the alley below
Julie Lockwood, 15, was brutally raped
by Ron Mallory,
a vile, depraved monster.
No-one has yet made the words
to truly describe him
in this tongue, or any other.
I doubt anyone can.
Perhaps no-one should.
Lovecraft (and Metallica) said it best:
The Thing That Should Not Be.
True, he had no tentacles
and did not eat human flesh
(at least so far as I know,
though in truth even that
would not surprise me),
but that was the THING
which called itself 'Ron Mallory'.
(Not 'a beast', nor 'an animal',
as others might say,
for this would be unjust -
such creatures do NOT
commit such depraved acts.
They are nobler than we.)
She was virgin when he took her.
He knew this full well
and enjoyed the knowledge.
He savoured her pain and fear.
She bled, as he violated her, and cried.
This, too, gave him pleasure
for he was a foul pervert.
He was a filthy coward
who used her from behind,
so she could not fight him,
though she would have,
and she did not plead,
for she was proud.
Once he was spent,
his slime spattered inside her,
he committed a further act
of vile depravity:
HE LICKED HER BLOOD
from her intimate, violated area,
unspeakable PERVERT that he was,
solely to degrade her anew
and to desecrate her body -
as if he had not already!
He was long gone,
his depraved lust assuaged,
her virgin blood on his lips,
when we found her.
She was bruised, violated, bleeding.
She sobbed, she said nothing,
but when I saw her,
and I saw the blood,
I simply knew
as one woman to another
whence it came - and why.
I wept with her. All the Bloods wept.
Even the boys, for they knew,
as too many 'men' do not,
that it is not weak to cry;
it takes true strength.
The Bloods were truly strong.
For their strength and support,
which Julie needed then
as never before,
I honored each Blood
with a hug and a kiss,
as they had honored her
with their tears.
When finally she spoke his name,
to me and only to me,
I vowed he would pay.
This I swore to her
on my own blood.
Later...he did.
Julie was not the first victim
of his depraved thirstings,
nor, sadly, was she the last;
but take heart, Reader,
for there will be
NO MORE.
I made sure of this.
I did what was necessary
and what I thought was right.
I showed him no mercy.
His suffering was great,
but so was Julie's,
and thus it was just.
But I took no pleasure in it,
for that would have made me
worse than him.
You may make of this
what you will.
You cannot judge me,
the 'Law' be damned,
for where was the Law
WHEN JULIE NEEDED IT?
WHERE?!
You have NO right to judge,
for you were not there.
I was.
You did not cry with her,
mourning her lost purity.
I did.
You did not try your best,
offering what comfort you could,
whilst knowing it did not help
and could never be enough.
I did.
You could not see
the agony, the horror,
the shame,
in her china-blue eyes.
I could. I did.
(But you are very fortunate
to be spared that,
else your dreams
would now be nightmares,
just as Julie's became,
just as mine still are
and perhaps always will be.
You can no more know my pain
than you can Julie's.
Be grateful for that.)
She was so very beautiful,
as you see,
and I have tried my best
to show Julie as she was.
A long time ago,
McLean said it first:
'This world was never meant
for one as beautiful
as you'.
He sang of Vincent, 'tis true,
but he might equally well
have been singing
of Julie Lockwood.
No blooming flower
or vivid sunset
could ever be so lovely
as Julie was when
she smiled or laughed,
which was often, once,
before HIM,
before HE defiled her.
But you do not, cannot, see
her true beauty,
the beauty within.
That beauty I cannot capture
in artistic media.
But then, no-one ever could.
(Not even Gerhard Richter,
but he would do his best;
no-one would come closer.)
I saw it. I truly wish you could.
She fell pregnant.
She chose to have the baby,
despite everything,
since he was not to blame
for how he came to be.
His progenitor was vile
but her son would be good.
Julie knew this in her heart,
where many women would not.
I loved her for that, and more.
She was brave.
Braver than I would have been
had it been me.
She loved her baby,
and was eager to meet him,
but she lost him before he was born.
I held her hand as she suffered.
Six hours of utter TORTURE.
I felt her pain
as if it were my own.
I wanted it to be,
so she would be spared it.
I would have suffered it
in her place,
if only I could have.
But all I could do
was be there for her.
She begged them to save him
whatever the cost.
She was willing to die
if it meant he would live.
So brave. So very brave.
I do not believe,
I have no faith
in gods who do not help
when souls like Julie and her child
need them most,
yet still I prayed for them.
But I was right.
The gods, if they exist, did not help.
If they do exist, I CURSE THEM.
She screamed. We cried.
He died before he could live.
He could never know her love.
They tried their best. I know it.
They worked desperately,
trying everything they knew.
They did not stop,
and they did not quit,
until they knew it was hopeless.
I do not hate them
for their failure.
I cannot. It would be wrong.
For they cried, too,
when they knew he was gone.
We all cried together.
No-one could have saved him.
Her will to live died with him.
Here in this alley
on that last dark night,
as we wept together,
she told me his name, Tom,
honoring her grandfather,
whom she loved with all her heart,
for he was wise, and kind to her.
I kissed her goodbye,
then Julie ended her own life.
It was instant, for
her shot was true.
She died without pain,
and for that I am glad.
I hope she is at peace.
I know I am not,
though I am trying,
because Julie would want that.
She would want me to live.
She would want me to love,
not to live my life alone.
No-one should be alone.
For her and for myself,
I swear I WILL live,
and I WILL love.
Julie taught me to love,
where I knew nothing of it,
by loving me,
with all her huge heart.
I will not waste that gift.
I swear this on my own blood,
just as I swore vengeance,
and to this oath, too,
I will be true.
I will try my utmost
not to let her down
and be the best I can be
in the life to come.
This, too, I swear.
One thing only I ask of you
as you read these words
and, I hope, understand
at least a little of what we suffered:
Remember Julie Lockwood.
Remember her always.
She was a Blood.
To The End.
The owner of the homeless shelter, Pernilla Grant, had discovered the portrait and called the NYPD, though she was unsure as to how it should be reported: wilful damage, defacement of private property, vandalism, graffiti - she couldn't decide. "But to be honest," she admitted to the attending officer, "I wasn't sure it even should be reported, because...well, it's so beautiful. What a lovely girl she was, and she must've had such a talented friend, to create that portrait. And the caption...so lovely, and so sad, all at once..."
Sergeant Maggie Kay smiled sadly. "I was on duty the night Julie reported the rape. We tried so hard to persuade her to submit to a medical exam to obtain evidence, but all she wanted was to wash herself clean. I mean, I understand, any woman would, but..." She sighed. "Some nights being a cop really sucks."
Pernilla shook her head. "What a waste of a young life. Such a shame no-one could help her."
Maggie fought back tears as she remembered. "We all tried. Social Services did their best, they really did, but after she lost the baby...she just wanted to end it. She did, right here. .357 Magnum, unlicensed. The pathologist confirmed her death was instant. The caption's accurate, Ms. Grant." She paused. "So...do you want us to pursue this? Off the record, I have a pretty good idea of who drew it, but she was Julie's best friend, maybe even her lover, no-one knows for sure about that."
The older woman hesitated, looked again at the portrait and decided, "No...no, if that's true, then all she wanted was to pay tribute to her friend, and I'm not so heartless as to deny her that. And what harm does it do, really, to have a thing of beauty overlooking the alley? And it is truly beautiful, isn't it? No, let's leave it be," she finished. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, officer."
"No trouble at all, ma'am," Maggie assured her with a smile, touched. "Have a nice night."
The next night, Maggie and Pernilla were each puzzled - and greatly touched - by a note found in their mailbox. It was in the same elegant cursive penmanship as the portrait's caption, and read:
Thank you for not destroying my love's tribute.
Thank you for your kindness.
Thank you for appreciating her beauty
and for mourning the tragedy
of their too-short lives,
as I mourn them now.
I am forever grateful to you.
Only beautiful souls, like yours,
would recognise beauty
and understand pain,
which is why you chose
to do the right thing,
as I know you always will.
One day, I swear,
I will find a way,
just and fitting,
to reward your kindness.
When you receive it,
you might never know,
you might never understand,
whence it came,
or from whom,
or even why,
but it will not matter,
for I will know.
That, for me,
will be sufficient:
the simple knowledge
that that which was freely given
has been returned as freely
and as gladly,
as is only right and just.
I have seen friends die.
I was splashed with their blood.
Julie was only one of them.
The world is not a safe place.
I know this too well.
It should be.
There are those who try
to make it so.
The task is too great,
and they are too few,
but they try their best.
They do what they can.
They know they must.
They cannot stand by
and do nothing to help,
for they are kind souls.
You are among them,
and this is to your credit.
For your selfless service,
may you live as long as you wish
and love as long as you live.
You truly deserve it.
But the world is not safe.
Julie knew this.
You know this.
Please, please take care.
This world must not lose you.
It needs you too badly.
We all do.
Signed:
The Last of the Bloods
Remember her.
Remember us.
Neither note bore any DNA whatsoever...but strangely, each smelled of cherry chapstick.
Once I was discharged (to merry cheers from my team, plus kisses from Frankie, Candy and one or two others, even a young gay lad - hey, this is 2027, not 1927, you gotta move with the times!), I received a text message from, of all people, Luigi Bernalli. It said:
I'd like to talk to you about a few things, say around 2pm. I like lobster. :)
I knew where he meant, of course. Only the finest for alleged Mafioso.