Date: Sat, 23 Jan 1999 00:38:23 EST From: Stephen Lansing Subject: The Hands of Time (Part 01/??) To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU This story is the compilation of several ideas that I have had brewing in the back of my mind for some time now and is the beginning of a work that will ultimately be completed in the form of a trilogy of stories. The three and one half parts of this story represent the prologue to the series. I would like to thank my beta readers, Cindy Brewer and Wooby, for their time, interest and enthusiasm. I appreciate it very much! Once again, I would also like to thank my wife, Betty, for her willingness to give her husband up to the computer so often. Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations from the Forever Knight television series created by James Parriott, Barney Cohen and owned by Sony. No infringement is intended. All other characters as well as certain locations are, to my knowledge, original creations. Permission given to archive on Mel's fanfic site. All others, please ask. Unlike some of the characters in this story, I do *not* bite. Please direct all feedback to Phoenix348@aol.com. Your comments are greatly appreciated! Timeline: Dates related to events which occurred in FK canon are approximate and are based, for the most part, on airing dates for lack of much else to go on. The Hands of Time (Part 01/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** Washington D.C. February, 1996 She glided silently through their midst; all at once distinctively individual and yet conformed to the whole; carried swiftly along as the stray leaf that falls into a burbling stream is swept inexorably away by the current. Perhaps those that moved alongside of her took notice of the shadow that lay draped like a morbid shroud across her otherwise ivory-white countenance; that plunged the icy blue of her eyes into a still colder place. Even the cursory glance of an untrained eye would have recognized the dark, primal fear revealed in rapidly shifting eye movements, an evasive turning of the head, and the pale hands that struggled to keep both collar and hood in careful safeguard about the face although the front of the dark, leather coat remained unfastened, exposing the body of its wearer to the frigid February wind. Of course, the casual observer could not have been expected to realize that, to this particular individual, a winter wind was only the mildest of possible inconveniences. At any other time, the coat might only have been a formality, perhaps even a fashion statement in a lighter moment. On this particular winter evening; however, in a substantial gathering of those who walked Georgetown's streets in spite of the cold, she found the coat to be a desperate attempt to meld with those around her...to disappear...to hide. An utterly useless attempt. For those who sought her among the assembly of Washington's weekend wanderers, among the nightclub patrons and the nightowls, among the street players, the derelicts and the curious, would not be deceived. There would be no refuge for her in crowds, no haven in the congested streets. Those who sought her employed methods beyond mere physical senses, and mixing with the human masses, and dodging through crowded street- side shops would accomplish no more than to simply delay what she knew to be inevitable. As the winter wind, these mortal conventions were merely inconveniences, momentary hindrances to their purpose. If need be, they would wait. And they had time to wait. Perhaps her dread was obvious. Perhaps those who passed her on the busy streets recognized the apprehensive watchfulness of a cornered prey, of one who knows that she is caught but knows not from which direction the blow will fall. Perhaps they saw it all. It is more likely that they did not. For only in the darkest recesses of their unconscious minds could they have conceived of the shadowy events that transpired on the stage of their modern, enlightened world. The cast of this particular production could not have amazed them more than the events themselves had they known...had they known that their myriad advancements and technological contrivances and unremitting denials had not yet driven specters from the Earth. She felt a twinge, a sensation of something beyond the physical. She stopped short, ignoring the annoyed stares of those who were forced to detour around her. There was nothing more to do than to remain still, steadfastly staring at the sidewalk as she mentally followed the impression to its source. Lifting her head ever so slowly, she saw him. He was staring at her from across the street, his pale, cold features hideously illuminated by the purple and red neon lights of a nearby bar sign. Before this night, she had never personally encountered Enforcers, but she had been told that they traveled in pairs. The tales now seemed confirmed as the creature who so coldly regarded her was only the second that she had seen on the streets of Washington. This one was tall, with thick, black hair while the first had been somewhat shorter and completely bald. She maintained an apprehensive face-off with this second predator for several moments longer, her mind reeling with the knowledge that there was nowhere that she could go where they could not follow. Now that the second Enforcer had found her, the first would surely not be long in coming. Desperation and fear fought to control her, to send her fleeing through the streets. But as one who had been hunted before, albeit not by her own kind, she knew that of all things, panic was the first step in a downward spiral that ended in certain doom for the hunted. Reason must prevail over desperation at any cost. She turned sharply on her heel and began to move in the direction from which she had come, carefully analyzing her surroundings in an effort to find a clear route of escape. As she turned her back on the Enforcer, the invisible, tenuous link that had been established between the two foes suddenly reasserted itself with considerable force, causing her to wince and come to a stop. The effect of the mental touch was much the same as though someone had audibly shouted at her and she knew that the intent was certainly the same. The touch was also a shocking display of force. Such connections were ordinarily possible only to those who had immediate ties one to another; however, all of her Kind possessed the ability to instinctively sense the presence of one another. But to directly effect the mind of a stranger with such a clear, intense impression was unheard of in her experience. Turning back, she noticed that the Enforcer had moved forward, coming to stand at the edge of his side of the busy street, his stony glare reinforcing the mental impressions that she had just received. She was effectively being told to remain where she was, to surrender and be taken without a struggle. She turned once again to walk away and proceeded no more than five steps before coming to an abrupt halt. Among those who now approached her on the icy sidewalk, at a distance of perhaps only thirty yards, was the missing Enforcer. His rapid pace indicated that the distance between the two of them was a mere buffer zone that would last only a matter of seconds longer. A swift glance in the opposite direction revealed that the second Enforcer, still attempting to keep her off balance with his remarkable talent, was also in motion, hurriedly crossing the street in her direction. His tactic had succeeded in startling her into both immobility and indecision, robbing her of valuable seconds that could otherwise have been spent attempting to escape the net that was now being drawn upon her. Trapped, with both Enforcers nearly within arms' reach, she bolted into the street, naked fear driving her into the path of oncoming vehicles, many of which blared their horns as they braked and swerved to avoid hitting the suicidal woman that had run out in front of them. The soft luminescence of the street lamps, the glaring brilliance of vehicle headlights and the faces of those who turned to view the new spectacle all blurred into a solid mass of confusing colors as she reached the far side of the street and began desperately searching in all directions for some means of escape. The Enforcers momentarily ceased their pursuit, waiting for the passersby to reach the conclusion that nothing further was to happen with the strange woman who had suddenly run into the street, and to turn back to their own affairs. The immediate drama now passed, the human masses quickly became uninterested and did as was expected of them, leaving the Enforcers free to pursue their quarry once again, paralleling her course from the opposite side of the street. She knew that they would seek to take her in such a way as to minimize the possibility of outside observation or interference. It was, after all, their way. For the Enforcers existed to serve a single purpose...to protect the secret of their Kind's existence from discovery by the mortal world. They would do whatever was necessary to ensure that they succeeded in that goal, and their record of successes in the nearly three centuries since their inception was enviable. They knew their task and they did it well. She also knew that they would pursue her vigorously until there was nowhere left for her to go...until she was theirs. And then she would die. A sudden blaring of heavy metal rock music assaulted her sensitive hearing as the large wooden doors of a nearby nightclub parted to admit a young Asian man and his date. She stopped to consider the club for a moment as the door closed and the intense beat of the music was once again relegated to merely another background sound of the city at night. Out in the open streets, she would be easy prey; it would simply be a matter of wearing her down until she made a mistake that would deliver her into their hands. But in a club such as the one that she had just taken notice of, a blue neon sign proclaimed the establishment to be the "Aztec Club," there would be crowds, loud noise, plenty of distractions with which to momentarily confuse even the heightened senses of her pursuers. She knew that the crowd in the Aztec would not be able to save her any more than the crowds on the streets, but she was willing to gamble that the closer quarters might give her a chance to at least get further ahead of her pursuers. She also realized that the reduced maneuvering room would work against her, further limiting her already razor- thin margin of error. The decision was made quickly as alternatives were nonexistent. By the time that the two Enforcers reached their fugitive's last position, she was already on the other side of the Aztec's double doors, quickly dissolving into the rhythmical movements of the patrons who filled the dance floor. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 02/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** Rural Iowa Death had come quickly, without a struggle, as was often the case with the young ones. Feeling the muscles of the young one's arm slacken, Cain slowly relaxed his grip, allowing the corpse to first slump, and then finally fall to the wet ground. A flash of sheet lightning, dancing from one black storm cloud to the next high above briefly illuminated the pallid facial features of the body that now lay at his feet. Cain had thought that killing the young one, his name had been Scott, would have brought him immense satisfaction as the act was a successful conclusion to what had become a very personal vendetta; a mission of vengeance. Now that it was done, there was nothing of the expected euphoria. All of the hatred and blame that Cain and his fellow Enforcers had heaped upon the head of this one dead creature offered nothing save a physical form in which to manifest the forthcoming disaster, a demon with which to wrestle. But there could be no real victory in this one's death for events had moved far beyond the simple corrective measures that had once so effectively served to deter apocalypse for their Kind. This killing was surely a just reward for the crime committed, even a token bit of vengeance in the face of certain calamity, but it would prevent nothing. His efforts had merely yielded a body, and there would likely be many more of those before long. Cain could feel the eyes of the others on his back now, silently awaiting his approval. They had maintained a respectful distance while he dealt with the young one, and that event now predictably ended, they desired to serve. Two of the men stepped forward instantly as he turned. "Get rid of him," Cain ordered, not deigning to look back at the body to which he referred. He continued to stand with his back turned as the two Enforcers hurried about their task. Left where he lay, the young one would surely disintegrate within the hour, leaving behind only ash-filled clothing and the stake upon which he had been impaled, but that was not their way. No evidence of the executed vampire could be allowed to remain. There was silence as the body was removed and carried into the night sky. It was only then that Allison broke ranks with the others and hesitantly approached the master Enforcer. Cain answered her unspoken question with a curt nod of his head, permitting her to speak. "The mortals have told all that they know of the matter." Allison's demeanor was formal, her tone neutral. All the same, Cain could see more than night shadows reflected in her radiant green eyes. He turned to the three remaining Enforcers, one male and two females, who nodded silently at their master's look of dismissal and took to the air. They would be waiting nearby until they were needed again. Cain waited until the other vampires were gone before speaking. "They told you of all who know?" He moved closer to Allison, reaching out with one hand to stoke the coppery locks of hair that rested on her shoulders. "Yes," she replied, evenly, glancing across the snow-covered fields toward the large farmhouse from which she had just returned. "Although they no longer have the tape, it's been turned over to the authorities, they did tell us the names and locations of those whom they know have seen it." Cain's attention was momentarily diverted from Allison by a crash of thunder. He watched as the storm continued to intensify in the distance and moved across the plain in their direction. "And they have forgotten the experience," he asked, removing his hand from Allison's hair to place it gently on her left shoulder. "Yes." Allison averted her gaze as Cain's eyes shifted from the storm to regard her closely. He lifted her chin so that their eyes met again. "Then you have succeeded, and that cannot be what is troubling you." "We are exposed, Cain!" Outwardly, Allison remained still, although some inner part of her being trembled at the thought that her Kind's worst fears were realized. In light of such serious considerations, she was more than a little surprised at the appearance of a slight smile on the face of her master. "Dearest Allison," Cain said, thoughtfully. "We have been exposed for some time now." The truth of the matter was undeniable. It had been nearly two years since a cleverly perpetrated hoax had convinced most of humanity that massive Asteroid 6748 was destined to collide with the planet Earth and to extinguish all life in favor of a planetary hell that would last for some twenty to thirty years. The result had been a global panic in which thousands were to die as fear and desperation swept through the nations causing many to turn on each other or to take their own lives. And though many died in the human insanity that took hold of the world during the two days in which the hoax prevailed, still others were to meet an end that never came to light on the evening news. Vampires had also embraced the lie as surely as the mortal world, and believing that all were destined to perish in the end, many had cast off their cloak of secrecy and had begun killing at random. It was during that chaotic time that Scott Connors had been created. Drained and left for dead like so many others, Scott had joined the one in a thousand who survive the experience and cross over into the vampire world. He had been wild, irrational and driven to kill as instinctively as any animal would behave, and it was during that mad night that he had killed in the presence of mortals. In his wild state, Scott had never known that a camcorder had filmed the attack. Pure instinctual panic had caused him to flee immediately once discovered. The madness, although intense, had been short-lived and Scott was soon able to acclimate to his new condition. Without a master to guide him through those first days, lessons had come hard and, at first, Scott had never shared the story of how he had come across with any of the others that he encountered. He himself was not entirely certain as to which events were fantasy and which were reality during that first night. Finally, though, he had shared the story with another. The story had made its way through the Community and had eventually reached the ever-vigilant ears of the Enforcers. The vampires that passed the story along knew only that Scott had taken part in the madness that had threatened to expose their lot to the mortal world. To the Enforcers; however, it was simply another verification that such an exposure had already taken place. The bodies that had been left behind in the wake of the asteroid crisis had already done the bulk of that work, leaving the mortals with evidence that had been quickly whisked away. The Enforcers also knew that a vampire attack had been filmed and that it was in the hands of mortals, although they did not know where the tape was or what vampire it was that had been so careless as to be filmed until Scott's story had circulated through much of the mid-western Community. Along with the others who were known to have killed at random, Scott had been hunted relentlessly, but as a rogue, he traveled alone and had proven very difficult to locate. In time though, the Enforcers had succeeded in locating their fugitive. Cain, an ancient one, second in the Enforcer ranks and the one who had spearheaded the search, forced Connors to take him to the city where he had made that first clumsy kill. The location of the attack, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, was accurate with what information they had on the video- tape incident. Scott had then been assigned the blame and had paid the price for the results of his actions. But no matter how many were singled out and punished for what had happened, the results were unchanged. Mortals had finally rediscovered the vampire in their world. Allison was incredulous. "And this does not trouble you? The knowledge that we are exposed to the world?" Cain took little notice of her tone, one which he decidedly would not have tolerated from another. "I am not saying that exposure does not effect me. Of course it does." He took hold of her by both arms in order to emphasize his words. "What I *am* saying is that it has been nearly two years and the mortals are doing nothing." "Must we wait for them to act before acting ourselves?" "No," Cain said, decidedly. "We are acting even now, as you have seen tonight, in order to determine how far this knowledge has spread." He released his hold on Allison. "It is simply the fact that the mortals must act with caution as we must also do The asteroid crisis wrecked havoc world- wide and they dare not risk panicking their populations anew with more wild tales!" Cain could see that Allison was beginning to understand. Even among the Enforcers, the knowledge of how serious their situation had become was permitted to only a select few due to the fear that such a revelation might ignite yet another wave of random, public killings should vampires come to feel threatened en mass once again. Thus, in order to prevent word of the confirmed exposure from reaching the Community, the Enforcer leadership had determined that the matter must be concealed for the near future. Allison had become privy to the secret only since the last sunset and she had been understandably shaken by the knowledge. And although Cain had imparted this knowledge, he did not share with Allison what he himself knew would likely come in the event that their exposure triggered a confrontation with mortal world. Vastly outnumbered and hindered by sunlight, the vampire community would be faced with the very real threat of extinction, a threat for which the Enforcer leadership had prepared one ultimate response, the consequences of which frightened even one of Cain's stoical demeanor. This time it was Allison who reached out to touch him and Cain permitted the gesture, finally taking her hand in his and lightly kissing the cool flesh. Her eyes met his again, more softly than before. "Then what are we to do?" "Unfortunately," he answered, allowing her hand to slip from his. "That decision is not ours to make." Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 03/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** Washington D.C. Her greatest fear upon entering the Aztec had been that only one Enforcer would follow her into the club and that the other would wait outside in case she managed to make it out to the street again. She had been surprised to see that, in fact, both Enforcers had chosen to enter the club, and to her chagrin, they had immediately spotted her. There was no hiding from the very basic senses that her Kind held for one another. She had known that this when she first entered the club but desperation had moved her to tempt that axiom. Breaking free of the mass of bodies that moved across the polished ebony surface of the dance floor, she reached the Aztec's spacious bar. The male bartender's physical attempts to restrain her met with no more success than did his verbal warnings. He could only cry out, startled, as he was seized by one frail-looking hand and hurled unceremoniously to the floor. Straining to stand again, he made no attempt whatsoever to stop the two grim-faced men that suddenly appeared at the bar and pushed their way through the swinging doors where the woman had just disappeared. Instead, he reached for the telephone that was located under the bar's cash register, intent on calling upon the police to remove the intruders instead of facing another assault himself. He had only enough time to reach the handset of the phone before he heard the shrill tones of the emergency exit alarm sounding at the rear of the club. She had thrown the mortal man off with ease, pushed her way through the double doors and raced down the adjoining corridor, desperately looking for, and finding, a rear exit door. Bursting through the door, she found herself in an expansive but dimly-lit service alley, one side of which dead-ended at the emergency door where she now stood, the other side curving around to where it met with a side street. Fortunately, the alley was also empty save for a stray tabby that ran off the instant that she exited the building and disturbed his nap. Her sensitive hearing picked up the hurried sound of her pursuers entering the corridor through which she had just run and she immediately launched herself into the night air, intent on leaving the city and the Enforcers far behind. The ground quickly slipped away beneath her and she turned, preparing to alter her direction and rise still higher when she was painfully struck from behind and propelled off to one side at tremendous speed. She regained her senses quickly and began to struggle against her attacker, enraged at having been taken by surprise by a third, hidden Enforcer. The ensuing furious mid-air struggle between the two vampires prevented either of them from altering their common course, allowing sheer momentum to send them crashing through the boarded up windows of an abandoned apartment building. The rotted timbers of the building's bare wooden flooring groaned under the impact of the two tangled bodies that landed heavily on its unstable surface. In spite of the force of their impact, the Enforcer was able to maintain his grip on her. Swiftly rising to his feet, he attempted to lift her from the floor. All of the force of that effort momentarily concentrated in his knees, the Enforcer was ripe for the slashing attack that she was able to bestow with her free hand, sending the other vampire to the floor once again. Her success in knocking the Enforcer off balance did nothing to lessen his iron grip on her left arm; however, and he pulled her with him as he fell. She twisted to kick at her attacker, eliciting angered howls from the Enforcer as the heels of her boots repeatedly battered his ribcage. The Enforcer released her arm in order ward off the blows to his chest by seizing her legs. Now forced into an even more awkward position, she flung herself backward, clawing at the wooden flooring with determined fingers as she was pulled toward the Enforcer. But just before the final, savage jerk that would deposit the trunk of her body into Enforcer's grasp, she spotted an object a few feet away in the semi-darkness. The thin, jagged strip of pine was a scrap of debris from the boards that had once covered the window through which she and her attacker had so violently entered, and it was barely within arms' reach. Straining, she seized the broken board as the Enforcer rolled her onto her stomach, one of his arms sliding around her throat and forcefully jerking upward; his other arm closing around her waist. Having established a firm hold on his captive, the Enforcer lifted her into the air, pinning her back flat against his chest. As her feet left the floor under the Enforcer's powerful exertion, she savagely twisted to her left, exposing the Enforcer's mid-section into which she promptly drove the splintered wood. In his hasty attempt to subdue the struggling female, the Enforcer had never seen her snatch the board that she had so suddenly turned into a weapon against him and he shrieked in both intense pain and surprise as he released her. She whirled on her enemy, fear now purged by the raw power of unleashed rage. He was indeed hurt, but the wound was not fatal and, in her current state, he was still the stronger of the two of them. Immediate action was necessary if she were to escape. The Enforcer's red-rimmed eyes flashed at her in cold hatred as he made a feeble attempt to dislodge the board, his knees nearly buckling under the painful exertion. Moving forward with inhuman speed, she tore the wood from the Enforcer's body and then lunged as if to stab the him once more. Instead, she turned the flat end of the board toward the Enforcer, striking him solidly to the left temple, a blow that spun the vampire around and dropped him to the floor. He was struggling to rise as she quickly stepped over his body and raised the makeshift stake above her head, its bloodied point targeted squarely for the region of the Enforcer's back that was located over his heart. She bared her fangs, a sharp hissing sound accompanying the in-rush of air as she drew in a deep, full breath before plunging the stake down toward its target. The stake had reached only the middle point of its downward arc when there was a sudden furious flash of ivory fangs and crimson eyes. A horrific blow followed, lifting from her feet in an angry white flash of pain and hurling her into a nearby wall. She sagged to the floor, most of the impact with the wall having been to her head and leaving her momentarily stunned. She was vaguely aware of the sound of wood on wood as her makeshift stake clattered to the floor several feet away in the darkness. She had been so completely absorbed in her need to destroy the third Enforcer that she had neglected to watch for the others, and they had arrived in time to save their comrade from destruction. Cold hands gripped her arms painfully and lifted her from the corner into which she had fallen. She raised her head, several locks of tangled, raven-black hair falling like a curtain before her blue eyes as she found herself face-to-face with the first Enforcer that she had encountered that night. The image of his pale face and bald head were made a blur as she was quickly propelled into the waiting arms of the second Enforcer, who seized her by the throat with one hand while securing her arms with the other. Once again there was a mental touch from this one, the powerful, yet non-physical slap of an unseen hand, and she set her jaw as she stared hatefully into his eyes. The Enforcer's dark eyebrows drew closer together, shading angry golden eyes as he returned her stare, a low growl emanating from the depths of his throat. "If the Code did not already dictate your fate, you would suffer greatly for this." The words were spoken by the first Enforcer as he watched his wounded comrade slowly rise to his feet. He then extended a restraining hand as the vampire turned to lunge at their captive, his red eyes flashing with rage and pain. The Enforcer who held her slowly turned her around to face the others. Her fears fought to return to control as the first Enforcer approached, the sound of his footsteps echoing loudly in the empty expanse. The Enforcer stopped short of her, his golden eyes boring into her soul. "Indeed, you deserve to *burn* for this." She struggled with a sudden surge of panic at his words, for even more than the stake, her Kind instinctively feared burning. There was a gleam of satisfaction in the Enforcer's eyes as he saw the fear in hers. He reached into his coat, never removing his eyes from her, and produced a wooden stake. It was no mere scrap of broken timber such as she had used, but was instead long, slender, carefully sharpened to a razor's edge and obviously designed for its use; not an improvised weapon at all. Her eyes widened at the sight of it. "But you *are* an ancient," the vampire continued. "And for that, and *that* alone, there is respect." He held out the stake for the third Enforcer who greedily snatched it and held it at the ready, his low growls rising in volume. "He is young," the first Enforcer stated, "and must learn. You should be honored. You *are* his first." A scornful smile drew the tight ends of the Enforcer's lips upward as he moved aside to make room for his young protege. The second Enforcer maintained his tight grasp on her throat with his left hand but freed his right to run long fingers through her hair. When he spoke, his thickly accented voice was as a cold wind in her ear. "You do know *why* it is that we do this." It was a statement, not a question at all. Anger surged within her again and she stiffened, causing the second Enforcer to tighten his grip on her. Yes, she *did* know why it was that they had come for her, and the injustice of it burned in her heart like a live coal. Through hellish pain, she had come to possess the greatest of gifts, only to have that gift snatched from her in an instant of time. At least the running was now at an end. She had determined to remain strong, but that resolve failed her as the Enforcer that she had wounded now moved to plunge the stake into her heart. Her eyes involuntarily snapped shut as the vampire's inhuman speed caused the wood to seemingly flash through its arc. She awaited the searing pain of the stake's penetration... But the pain never came. There was instead an angry growl, joined instantly by two others as a wave of what her mind could only reconcile as *dread* washed over her on a level that was both physical and mental. She quickly opened her eyes to discover that, as with her's, the third Enforcer's stake had been halted just shy of its goal. His wrist was caught in the pale hand of a stranger, one whose ashen face and dark eyes exuded a threat that was unequaled in all of her immortal existence. The force that flowed from him was a near tangible thing, and had she not been so securely held by the second Enforcer, she would have fled the room out of pure, instinctual panic. It was obvious that none of the vampires in the room had sensed his presence until he was already upon them. In an instant, the stranger's dark eyes were gold, then brilliant red. His right hand clamped down further upon the third Enforcer's wrist as his left hand, in the form of a tightly clenched fist, shot up from the darkness to strike the third Enforcer squarely in the spine. The unmistakable sound of shattering bone resounded like exploding fireworks in the building's silence as the stranger followed through on the momentum of his blow. No sound escaped from the now limp form of the third Enforcer as the stranger hurled his broken body at the first Enforcer. Both crashed to the floor together. The dank floor of the building quickly rose to meet her as the second Enforcer tossed her aside and lunged at the stranger, hissing wildly. But the stranger's speed was astonishing. He quickly side-stepped the attacking Enforcer and dipped low, catching the Enforcer by both legs and flipping him into the air. The Enforcer landed hard on his back, growling with the impact and throwing his hands outward against the apartment floor. She watched, seemingly frozen, as the second Enforcer, who had boasted great mental powers, was dispatched with unbelievable speed. For even as he fell to the floor, the stranger had already moved to snatch the stake that the third Enforcer had dropped. The second Enforcer had only time enough to begin to cry out as his attempt to rise was greeted with the familiar brown flash of descending wood. The first Enforcer had regained his footing and flew at the stranger as the second Enforcer was staked. He collided with the stranger, both vampires rolling with the impact. The stranger did not immediately retaliate, but waited, fangs bared, for the remaining Enforcer to renew his attack. The now lone Enforcer, intent on avoiding the painful lessons of his fellows, hesitated, studying his opponent before deciding on a course of action. The stranger decided to provoke the contest, inching forward until he was within range of the Enforcer's left hand, which promptly lashed out as a fist. With another burst of speed, the stranger dodged the blow and leaped at the Enforcer, his pale hands seizing the opposing vampire by the head and twisting violently. The crack of snapping bone was heard once again as the Enforcer slumped against the stranger and then fell to the floor, his eyes staring vacantly at the building's filthy walls. The stranger watched as the Enforcer fell, as if to assure himself that his opponent was spent. He then turned to face her, the glow fading from his eyes. Although she had been frightened into immobility by this sudden, unexpected culmination of her wild flight from the Enforcers, she felt as though the dread that this new and powerful vampire inspired had vanished with the color of his eyes. Despite his demonstrated ferocity, there was something in those eyes that she desperately wanted to trust. Still, fear; the instinctual fear of the weaker, controlled the moment; for he had overcome three vampires, three *Enforcers* as simply and rapidly as vampires were capable of overcoming mortals. Despite the inexplicable instinct to trust him, she involuntarily tensed as he stepped forward and offered his hand, those dark, ancient eyes filling with an unexpected warmth. It was a stark contrast to the violence that he had displayed only a moment before. "I won't hurt you," he said, his voice low but not harsh or unkind. "I've come to help you...Janette." The unexpected sound of her name on the lips of the stranger earned him a temporary trust. Janette slipped her own pale hand into his, and stood to her feet with his gentle assistance. She stood speechless then, staring into the face that; with its blond hair and pale, youthful features, immediately reminded her of another that she had once trusted intimately. And yet, amid all that she somehow recognized in those dark, smiling eyes, she saw something completely unfamiliar...something of another time and place, beyond even her own immortal years. It was then that fate conspired to add even more unanswered questions to the unknown nature of the stranger that had so suddenly come to her rescue. They were walking toward the window through which Janette and her attacker had entered the building, when the stranger turned, his eyes coldly regarding the three fallen Enforcers. Then came the flames. White-hot, crackling and angry and fueled by a source no more apparent than the very atmosphere of the room, the flames greedily assaulted and consumed each of the three immobilized vampires, soon reducing their bodies, flesh and clothing, to blackened ashes. And touching nothing else. Their task thus rapidly accomplished, the flames dissipated, leaving only wisps of gray smoke and ashes as testimonials to their brief but intense existence. Mute in the wake of this final display of power, she could only turn once again to search the depths of the stranger's eyes, seeking to know what unknown world it was that had taken recognition of her, and what it might demand from her in return. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 04/??) By: Stephen Lansing *Note: The first section of this part is the end of the prologue and the main story picks up immediately thereafter. **** Iowa Cain ignored the angered growls that rose up from all around him as he contemplated the images that he had just seen in his mind. The others had now returned and were gathered where he and Allison had been talking alone only moments before. They too had experienced the sudden barrage of sensations and images, originated by others of their Kind, not merely vampires but *Enforcers.* Although the distance over which those thoughts had been transmitted could not be immediately determined, one thing was for certain: they were the sensations and images of death. Cain turned, rapidly scanning the faces of those who stood before him, noting the mixture of both understand and confusion that each displayed. "Quickly, Allison," he said to his favored, "what did you see?" Allison's brow was furrowed as she sought to voice her thoughts. "Enforcers have been killed," she responded confidently, angrily. "How many?" There was a brief pause before she answered. "I...cannot tell for certain. It would seem that two or more have died. The images are too confusing for me to tell more." Cain nodded. "Three, to be precise," he informed her. "The rapidity of the images, which is the cause of your confusion, bears witness that their deaths were swift, only seconds apart." Cain did not need to explain the images themselves, for each Enforcer knew the importance as well as the limits of the mental bonds that existed between the various members of their ranks. Even those Enforcers who had never physically met one another would receive the impressions caused the death of their comrades. This particular sensitivity, although it was rarely utilized, served as an excellent means of sounding the alarm in times of crisis. "And we *have* seen the face of their killer," Allison stated, looking to Cain for support of her conclusion about the one consistent image in the myriad of those that had touched their minds. Cain stared at the storm clouds that were now moving overhead and beginning to unburden themselves of their weight of rain. "Yes," he replied, distantly, remembering. A fresh chorus of growls emanated from the assembled Enforcers as each vampire sought to focus on the image of the killer, to remember it. Prompted by Cain's distance, Allison stepped forward and moved so as to meet the master Enforcer's gaze. "The image is of one unfamiliar to me," she said, "but not to you." There was no question there. For the first time in her experience with Cain, Allison saw the usual bold strength in his eyes replaced by something that bordered dangerously on fear, an emotion that she had never expected to see manifested on the countenance of this strong one. Cain quickly withdrew from his reverie, from the images of the face that he had hoped never to see again, in order to confront Allison and the others. He hoped that the authority of his presence would not be diminished by the gnawing of a new uncertainty that had unexpectedly come upon him in the face of the one from the images he had seen. "We must go!" The tone of Cain's voice, ringing true with the oft- practiced authority of the Enforcer's second highest ranking member quickly elicited the necessary respect from his underlings. "Where will we go? To avenge?" The questions were Allison's although it was evident that she spoke for all. "To our master," Cain replied before taking to the night sky with no further explanations. **** Toronto, Two Months Later "I won't leave you. Whatever happens...we'll be together." "Forever..." She had faith. In him. In them. In a future which had so far been denied them by the seemingly insurmountable gulf that separated light and darkness. And it was that faith that quelled the anxious beating of her heart, that gave victory over fear and certainty in the unknowable as they embraced. His gentle kiss brought the touch of fire to her lips, and in his eyes there was a softness, a willingness such as she had never known from him before. It was a willingness to give all that was his, to accept all that was hers, to mold two destinies together in one. Fear surfaced again as his hands worked to move the hair aside. Her breath became hurried at the brushing of his lips against her throat. Of all the forces that had conspired against them, she knew that fear was the strongest, and it was against fear's ravages that she clung to her hopes and dreams with renewed vigor, that she clung to the one she loved. Then came the pain, the sting of twin pricks at her throat. She gasped and clung to him all the more, straining against the vertigo that had sent the loft into a spin all around her. A dark vortex opened, drawing them down. And the world went away... Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 05/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** She opened her eyes in a world of which she had only heard tale...in a time long since passed...in a memory not her own. The world was awash in the colors, sights and sounds of another era. The faces that passed before her were all at once alien and intimate. Father, mother, sister... Sister. Fleur. Fleur? Ah, her name. Such eyes. The barrage of images accompanied varied emotions: joy, sorrow, pride, anger. All were alive with sensations of which she could only begin to taste, to sample. He had once told her of the experience, but his words had not done it justice. It was intoxicating. The lands around her mutated from castle to forest to village to fortress; a panorama of landscapes and human dwellings. She was now a knight. *She.* Yes, and yet, no. There was a sword clutched in hands that were not her own. And now, she was in another land. Not willingly. *Why?* She could feel the sands of Jerusalem on her face... Now she was traveling. Constantinople? Vienna? She had been wounded. A good place to rest just up ahead... And now, fear. A face of the past and yet of the future, already old but unchanged even in this time. Janette. She was beguiling. And then there was another; a dark-robed figure with such wild eyes. LaCroix. <"We're going to be very old friends..."> *No!* And yet, he offers eternity. But the Guide is warning her/him. <"Nicholas, you may come to us."> <"What have you to offer me?"> <"A choice."> Don't be a fool! Too late. Now, it's done. But something...something is wrong...don't know what it is... <"It's the guilt, Nicholas."> Darkness now. But one last thing to do... Fleur? <"This is what I have become..."> A touch of sorrow and loss. <"Are we agreed?!"> <"We are agreed."> The years accelerate into a blur now. Faces, places, names, feelings...all rushing by at a dizzying pace. Going from city to city...must move on. Hiding from the sun. She could still feel the burning in her hands. Running from the hunters. The centuries hurry by. Running now from LaCroix. Fangs, golden eyes, blood, death. So much death! <"I can't be this anymore."> Night passes into night. Friends grow old and die. Time is meaningless. So many have died at her/his hands now....to feed the undying thirst. The guilt is crushing! From the beginning, she had felt lost in this impossibly long life. It was as though the eyes through which she was seeing so much had somehow become her own; resulting in a melding of consciousness that made each thought and feeling seem to be her own unique experience. And yet, she retained the ability to think for herself as well. Words could not describe the confusion of it, the beauty... The images came faster and faster. There were more familiar names and places: Francesca, Chancellorsville, Shanghai, London, Titanic, the Czar. The twentieth century dawned with great innovation. Could science provide an answer at last? Such terrible wars. City to city again... Chicago...Toronto. And now, another face, staring at her with large, hazel eyes. <"What are you?"> Strange to see yourself from another's point of view...almost made her laugh. <"I am a vampire...I'm dead."> <"No...No, you're not."> Hope? After all this time? She despaired at the thought of more disappointments, and yet, she knew that she must try. The images began to slow. She saw more of herself and those around her through the confusion of two distinct sets of emotions: his, as she saw it, and hers, as she remembered it. LaCroix. She thought that she/he had destroyed him. And then, he returned and was never far, always conspiring to bring back the darkness and destroy hope. More confusing images. <"Driving and thinking about what?"> <"About nothing. About everything. About me. About you. About us."> <"I do not love this woman."> <"Then bring her over!"> No. Lie. <"Forget, Nat."> Better for her. LaCroix would have killed her/me? Such emotions. Such hope. Such loss! Foolish to have even tried. Almost lost her. A cure is the only hope. Their remaining years passed nearly as one before her new eyes. She was now vaguely becoming aware that her fascination with the seemingly endless life that passed so quickly before her eyes was somehow beginning to displace her own thoughts, memories and feelings. The snatches of time that she had viewed now sought to more completely expand and unfurl, to be more fully expressed. Some distant part of her consciousness suddenly became afraid that the tide of eight hundred years of such powerful emotions and experiences might completely overwhelm her own identity. She began to fight for control. <"Schanke..."> <"You can't blame yourself...you can't!"> <"You'll never know how much I really do care."> <"We made quite a good team, didn't we?"> Love and faith. Like undercurrents moving beneath the surface of the sea, love and faith had carried her through the sensations that she had experienced during the journey through Nicholas Knight's immense life. Repeatedly, she had turned eyes of love and faith against the killing, against the vampire's hunger, against the darkness, against all that she had seen, against the sordid past that he had never before allowed her to know; now laid bare in a sharing that she had never fully imagined possible. And she was astonished to realize that the love that she felt was not only what she was giving, but what she was receiving as well. For in a way never before possible, he was expressing his love, a love that had been long shackled by the fear that he could not embrace her without destroying her. Free at last to completely experience what had been so long withheld, startled by its power; she nearly ceased the struggle for identity in order to bask, if only for a moment of time, in the sweetness that flowed around her. And as the sensations and images of all that she had seen and felt merged into one overshadowing, chaotic mass against her lessened efforts, some distant part of Natalie Lambert's mind realized that she was dying. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 06/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** He had tasted the lives of many: the beautiful and detestable, the drunkard and the murderer, the rich and poor, vampires and mortals alike. Each was unique. Each surrendered its darkest secrets. Each was a drama set upon a stage of living characters who sensations defied the most talented fictional portrayals. His was the ability to experience the thoughts, dreams and emotions; the very essence, of other souls. Of all of the lures of his nature, Nick Knight found this singular ability the most difficult to surrender. But the life of the one that he now held in his arms drew him in as none other ever had. He had claimed the lives of countless mortals throughout the centuries; the vast majority taken in order to satisfy the never-ending hunger that drove the beast within him. Some he had killed in vengeance or even for sport. Still others had known of his nature and wanted to be like him. This life simply wanted to be *with* him. Here was one who knew his true nature, however incompletely she might understand it, and still, she accepted him; even loved him in spite of what he was. Love flowed from her, the unrestrained passion of a soul's embrace. And he wanted it...more and more of it. He had been trapped for centuries in the anguish of guilt, afraid to touch anything pure lest he defile it, abstaining from mortal love lest it discover his true nature and loathe him for it. Acceptance was glory. Tender unspoken thoughts, words long silenced by looming fears, love at last unbridled and acknowledged. All of these things and more he wished her to know, and with the sweet, he also released the bitter; laying the truth of who and what he was before her as he could never have verbally expressed. In the place of words, sensation and image would relay his story and his love in a manner few mortals were ever permitted to experience. It was his gift to her, and whether or not this sharing would result in the miracle that Janette and her Robert had accomplished, nothing could ever be the same between them again. Only centuries of experience allowed him to maintain the lines of demarcation between his own being and the life that now passed before his eyes. And each revelation merely fueled the hunger, the insatiable desire to probe further into the depths of Natalie's soul. He walked through the years of her childhood as though it had been his own, tasting each girlish memory, hope and dream that had ever been hers. Joy and sorrow melded with a sea of faces and places, each thought and emotion bringing near those whom he had never known and closing the distances that separated the past and present. He was there when daddy took the training wheels away, and when Richie was hit by the car. He shared in the laughter of her life, the bright, sunlit days with family and friends, the triumphs and accomplishments that mounted with each passing year as intelligence and maturity evidenced their claim on her at an early age. And he was there for the tears as well; a roadside accident that forever haunted her mind, the loss of her mother to cancer, her grandmother's abuses and her father's depression. He marveled at the combinations of light and shadow that had made Natalie Lambert the woman he had come to know, and yet had never really known at all. Perhaps the most surprising and revealing facts of all were the things that he learned about himself through her. For he had never known just how much he had changed her, how his appearance in her life had given hope in a world of increasing emptiness. <"You've got a life. And it isn't empty."> <"Not anymore."> Reliving their experiences again through her eyes, he was stung by the thoughtless words and deeds of which he had been continually guilty, for the first time feeling their impact as she had felt them. And then there were the times when the smallest of compliments or considerations had lifted her spirit in a way in which he had never envisioned. She was strong, stronger than him in many ways, and yet, her loneliness was profound and constantly worked to undermine her strength. His sudden entrance into her life had tugged at her curiosity and compassion as she sought to understand more about the wandering, guilt-ridden being that was Nick Knight. In time, she had grown to love him, and in spite of what he was, in spite of their failures and misunderstandings, he knew that he was as much the light in her darkness as she had come to be his. <"I'm not afraid of death. Or of an eternity in darkness as long as I can spend it with you."> He felt as though her lonely soul had somehow reached out and found what remained of his own, freeing him from his darkness long enough to enable him to hope and dream again. The last such power he had known had come nearly eight hundred years before when he had awakened with the surging of LaCroix's "gift" within his veins and Janette's arms around him; when he had embraced the darkness. Now, those centuries of the vampire's night seemed lifted from him in the strength of his bond with Natalie, the power he felt inspiring him to embrace the light instead of the darkness. He knew that it would welcome him now. And yet, something was wrong. The rich, full sensations that had so enveloped him seemed weakened, the thundering sound all around him was fading. He clung to her, refusing to surrender the world of light that seemed at last ready to receive its wayward son, even as his mind filled with the realization of what that fading sound must be. He had heard that sound before, a hundred, a thousand times before. It was the sound of life at the precipice of eternity. It was Natalie's heart. It was her dying heart. Struggling to extricate his senses from the swirling mists of Natalie's life and memories, Nick opened his eyes and shook his head to clear away the afterimages that filled his vision. He turned his gaze downward. Natalie lay on the floor of the loft, unmoving; her face the color of death. Nick stared down at Natalie in disbelief for seconds that seemed like an eternity, unable to move from where he knelt beside her, his hands still supporting her limp form. "Well, now..." LaCroix's whispery voice pierced the oppressive silence of the loft. "All that remains now, is to turn out the lights, and to lock the door on our way out. Unless of course, you have decided to add her to our entourage." Nick had never sensed his master's arrival, never heard the ancient vampire approach to take the position that he now occupied only a few feet away. But the sound of his voice shattered the spell that had seemingly stopped time and conspired to forever lock Nick's gaze upon the face of the one who had loved him enough to risk everything. The one he had murdered. LaCroix's ancient blue eyes were softened by a surge of grief, a non- verbal cry of anguish as powerful as any impression that he had ever received from his son. He could well imagine what had led to the scene that he now witnessed, what Dr. Lambert must have asked of Nicholas. And they had proceeded, oblivious to what the consequences of their folly must inevitably be. "Oh, Nicholas," he sighed, a truly regretful sound. "You have thought this through haven't you?" Of course, he had known the answer before asking the question. LaCroix's words were lost as shadows in the darkness, as the loft and all that it contained, as the universe itself faded from reality, leaving Nick trapped in the world of eternal despair from which final escape now seemed impossible. "I couldn't stop myself," he cried, as sorrow racked his body in wave after torturing wave. "I've taken too much!" Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 07/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** <"The cellular customer that you have contacted is not available or has left the service..."> The message was cut short as Captain Joe Reese stabbed at his speaker phone button with one irate finger, abruptly terminating his seventh attempt to reach Police Commissioner Richard Vetter. The glass paperweight that his daughter had given him for his last birthday rattled nervously as Reese's clenched fist came down hard on the right rear corner of his desk top. "Okay, Joe," Reese muttered to himself after striking the desk. "It's okay. Just try to take it easy." The words instantly reminded him of Denise and of how she always tried to help him control his fiery temper. He allowed himself the luxury of a slight smile as he remembered that Denise had once told him that if she had to apply a brand name to her husband's temper it would doubtless be "Eveready." Temper tantrums were useless anyway. So was pounding on desks. The former generally embarrassed you. The latter just made your hand hurt. Although Reese would gladly have pounded the desk into matchwood with his bare hands if doing so would bring Tracy Vetter back from the dead. "Tracy." The named escaped from Reese's lips in the form of a sigh as he eased back in his chair and attempted to rub away the dull pain in his right hand. It had been nearly a year since Commissioner Vetter had placed his daughter with the ninety-sixth precinct, giving Reese specific instructions that he should "look after" her. Reese had assigned her to Detective Nick Knight in what he had intended to be a temporary partnership while Knight's actual partner, Don Schanke, was out of town on police business. Reese himself had been temporarily sitting in for the ninety-sixth's actual captain, Amanda Cohen, who had accompanied Schanke on what had turned out to be an ill- fated plane trip to Edmonton, Alberta. When the plane was destroyed by a serial bomber, Reese had stayed on as captain, per the considerable influence of the aforementioned Commissioner Vetter, while Tracy had become Knight's permanent partner. The following months had been turbulent to say the least. Reese had found the challenge of molding the ninety-sixth precinct to his liking far less demanding than the task of attempting to force Knight and Vetter to behave more like partners and less like feuding siblings. Knight had a marked tendency to vanish at will, while Tracy demonstrated a talent for taking risks that threatened to make Reese's hair stand on end. However, as of late, the two had actually begun to work together; Knight developing respect for Vetter, who in turn had realized that she did not need to constantly imperil herself just to prove that she was a good cop. And after a time, Reese had come to believe that things were working out all right after all. Knight was a good, experienced detective who would eventually make a great detective if he would only drop some of that hot-shot attitude that had gained him such a reputation. Hot shot or not, he got results and Reese knew enough by now to let Knight go out a way before attempting to reel him in. On her end, Tracy had finally begun to shed the all-encompassing shadow of her father and had come to be recognized for her own abilities, although she lacked the Midas touch of experience. Reese took Tracy's badge between the thumb and index finger of his left hand, gently flipping the second flap of leather aside to reveal the detective's photo identification card. For a moment, he forced himself to look into the blue eyes that smiled up at him from beneath a few strands of light blonde hair. Although it was an accurate depiction of the young detective, the police ID photo could not do justice to her wide, bright smile, the timid display of which had often served to cool her captain's renowned temper. Reese was uncertain as to whether he had given her the occasional break because of her father's expectations or because she truly deserved it, nor was he likely to ever know the answer to that question. Cruel fate had used the insanity of Delbert Dawkins to ensure that no one would ever know the answers to a great many questions surrounding what Tracy Vetter might have become with time. Reese rose from his chair and walked to the window. The pain now faded from his right hand, Reese used it first to open the blinds and then to loosen his tie as he stared into Toronto's pre-dawn sky. Black night still dominated the city skyline, and Reese stared intently at the stars, as though by a simple act of will he could force them to break their ancient silence and tell what secrets they knew of the world over which they kept eternal vigil. But the stars were silent. There would be no answers tonight. His eyes fell from the zenith to rest instead upon the eastern sky where ghostly streaks of blue, advance scouts sent forth by the coming day, were only now becoming visible. With or without answers, the sun would rise again. Even the darkest night ruled by a fleeting domain. The words entered Reese's mind with renewed meaning as he watched the approaching sunrise. And the fingers that gripped Tracy Vetter's badge and photo slowly came together, closing the leather flaps with a finality that echoed the passing of a life snatched away before its time. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 08/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** "Life is a gift...I have never been able to understand the logic of willfully surrendering such a treasure." The words were his: the spoken reflections of a life which had cast its immortal shadow across the wrinkled face of time in defiance of the passing of some nineteen centuries. As a Roman general, he had waved the bloody sword of the emperor's decrees against the barbarians and trod the crimson dust of battlefields beneath his sandled feet. Later, he would stand stretched to the sky upon the highest of modern man's steel and concrete towers, far above the city streets and far away in time and space from the seven hills and the crumbling remains of eternal Rome. The emperors were gone, the colorful banners faded and turned to dust; yet he remained. Strength was both his servant and his task master. For to Lucien LaCroix, that fountain of youth pressed to his dying lips by a child long since lost to him was no eternal panacea but instead an eternal longing, refusing to die because it could never be satiated. To live forever, one must love life above all else. "And you do love it. I've seen you smell the sea; gaze at the stars at night." The love of life. How many had he destroyed for his eternal mistress? How many had he enslaved for her? Here was one now, the dearest to him of all he had made like himself: one whom he had chosen, protected, nurtured and loved as only a father can. "You are my closest friend." He cursed as he raised the staff, his muscles tightening under the anticipation of the downward thrust to come; the blow that would fulfill an ultimate trust, and yet take from him that one last possession that he held dear in the world. His breath caught in his throat as he moved to strike, hands that had once been shaken in defiance of the gods now shook with fear. His daughter's curse would at last be realized, a grim prophecy fulfilled by his own hand. He would be alone, with the blood of another child on his hands, and all of limitless eternity to mourn. The rounded point of the staff wobbled unsteadily as LaCroix's hands shook, fear now turning to anger as Divia's mockery resounded in his ears. Weakness, an enemy that LaCroix had always regarded as the deadliest of adversaries, loomed threateningly as he realized that a moment of surging emotion had caught him and made him a part of actions that flew in the face of his beliefs, of all that had made him strong enough to endure the centuries. This was more than the undoing of another; this was ultimately his own undoing. It was General Lucius of Pompeii, Roman conqueror, that withdrew the staff with a snarl, red eyes blazing. "No!" Nicholas turned from where he knelt beside Natalie's still form, the grief on his tear-streaked face melding with anxious confusion. "LaCroix, you must." His voice seemed near breaking as he whispered the words, pleading once again for an end to his suffering. "Nicholas, this is madness!" LaCroix's chest heaved with the ragged breath of one who has escaped near calamity. "I will not be a party to this exercise in self-pity!" Nick stood slowly, staring into his master's face as firelight framed the two vampires in an ethereal, orange glow. Desperation seemed etched into Nick's countenance as though it were a natural element of his facial features, suspended by the same forces that had preserved his physical being for eight hundred years. "LaCroix, please..." His voice trembled slightly. "Don't you see? I can't go on like this anymore." He stepped forward and placed one hand on the staff that LaCroix held so rigidly. "You must help me do this." LaCroix's pale features twisted angrily. "You have not heard me, Nicholas," he growled, pulling the staff from his son's grip. "I have said that I will *not*!" The vampire punctuated his last statement by savagely striking downward with the staff as he brought his right knee up. The staff snapped in two with a sharp *crack.* Nick stared in mute anguish as his master hurled the two halves of the wooden staff into the fireplace. He moved forward, intent on retrieving the staff despite the flames, and found his way blocked by LaCroix. The anguish and despair that had so dominated Nick's face now gave rise to a stony anger as he turned toward his master, his blue eyes rimmed with gold. "I *trusted* you." Prompted by the growing fury that he sensed in his son, LaCroix gripped Nick firmly by both shoulders, as though his physical actions could suppress the younger vampire's surging emotions. "Listen to me, Nicholas." LaCroix's voice was firm but even. "It is as I have told you. We have stayed past our time. All that has happened this year, this very night, surely must convince you of that!" Nick turned his head, averting his gaze from LaCroix, who would not be ignored so easily. He strengthened his grip on Nick's shoulders and continued, his voice becoming stronger. "We must leave this, all of this, behind; and we must do so tonight!" Nick whirled on LaCroix, nearly breaking free of his master's grasp. "That's it, isn't it," he accused, "that's what *you* want. It's always about what *you* want!" LaCroix released Nick's left shoulder to point at the fireplace where the flames had already accepted their latest wooden offering. "And *that* is what *you* want? All that you truly desire?" Quickly, he searched for some sign that his words had struck home. There was only the ever-present mask of guilt that he had grown so accustomed to seeing his son wear, now for the first time displayed in conjunction with a haunting madness. "You can lie to me, Nicholas," he continued. "You can even lie to yourself, but we both will know that it *is* a lie." Again, he pointed at the remains of the burning staff. "That is *not* what you want. It has never been what you have wanted!" The eyes that turned to meet him now were entirely golden. "Well, maybe *that* is all that I am permitted!" With a savage jerk, Nick broke LaCroix's hold and turned to face him fully, his breath ragged, his eyes afire with blame. "And what would you care about that?" he challenged. "All that you have ever cared about is yourself!" The icy blue of LaCroix's eyes now threatened to change as well in the wake of his son's acidic harangue. The creature that stood before him was not Nicholas deBrabant, but was instead a physical manifestation of guilt and self-torment that now existed for no other reason but to destroy itself. Inwardly, LaCroix began to consider the possibility that his son might indeed be lost to him forever despite any logic or reason he could proffer. "Strange words," he said, coldly, "strange words indeed concerning your 'closest friend.'" LaCroix stiffened under the anticipation of impending attack as Nick shook with the fury of centuries of fear, anger and guilt. But instead of launching himself at his master, Nick turned again to the fireplace, intent on retrieving a stake of the flaming wood. Even as he began to move, LaCroix seized him by the arm, employing strength that would have helplessly crippled a mortal man. "You will *not* do this," he commanded, the blue of his eyes now lost entirely to the vampire's emergence. "You can't stop me," Nick thundered as he once again moved toward the fireplace, only to find his progress hindered by LaCroix's stubborn hold. Furious, Nick lashed out at LaCroix and used his master's iron grip to jerk the ancient vampire off his feet. LaCroix released Nick's arm and flung both of his own arms out at his sides as he was hurled into the wood frame of the loft's fireplace. Nick was on him instantly. LaCroix's head was forced back against the fireplace mantel as Nick's hands closed around his throat with crushing force. With a snarl, the ancient vampire thrust both of his hands into the space between Nick's arms and broke the choke hold by violently snapping his arms outward against Nick's wrists. All of his force concentrated in the choke hold, Nick was thrown off balance as his arms were forced apart. He fell against LaCroix who took immediate advantage of Nick's instability by striking out with all his might against the younger vampire's chest. LaCroix readied himself for a renewed attack as Nick crashed to the floor and rolled. He inwardly rebuked himself for failing to anticipate his son's enhanced strength, remembering that Nicholas had ingested a large quantity of human blood only moments before. In his preparations to leave Toronto, LaCroix had fed very little that night and only on what had been available to him from the Raven's reduced stock. The strength of his great age had momentarily spared him, but he knew that he could not long stand against a vampire of Nick's age who had not only fed directly from a mortal, but was also roused into a near frenzied state by overwhelming emotions. Under such circumstances, Nick could ultimately subdue him. Nick rose to his feet snarling, fangs extended, but he did not attack. LaCroix took a cautious step forward, attempting to reassert his master's authority. "I say again, Nicholas. I will *not* permit it!" Nick stared back defiantly, and yet LaCroix could see evidence that some of the viciousness had left his son's features. Nevertheless, the voice that responded to him was little more than a growl. "And *I* say that you can't stop me!" Nick turned his attention to the loft's large windows where the blackness of night was slowly beginning to take on a deep, bluish hue. "The sun will be up soon," he said. "Try to stop me then and you'll die with me!" He looked up at the loft's skylight as though he would rise through it and rush to meet the coming dawn. And yet, he did not. LaCroix forced the gold from his eyes as he contemplated the matter. Nicholas was certainly correct in that LaCroix would be hard pressed indeed to stop him from walking into the sun. And even if he were to succeed this day, there would be other dawns, other opportunities in which he might be not be able to intervene. Nicholas was both brash and determined, and the force with which his guilt had now chosen to manifest itself might very well be sufficient to drive him to destruction in spite of all efforts to the contrary. There was a chance that Nicholas would eventually return to a sound state of mind, he had always done so in the past, but his episode was much more intense than any that had come before. LaCroix could not watch over his son every moment for the continuous days on end that might pass before Nicholas could be reconciled again. Moreover, LaCroix certainly knew that his attempts to restrain Nicholas in the past had been the very thing that had driven his son so far from him. Had it not been so with his own father? And in the darkness of the moment, LaCroix also knew that if Nicholas was to be saved it would have to be for reasons beyond, indeed, in spite of, his master's edicts. And as these thoughts burned in LaCroix's mind anew, his eyes crossed the loft and fell upon the still form of the one who had done so much to wrest Nicholas from his grasp, the one who had continually indulged his son's mortal fantasies. The one for whom Nicholas was willing to die...and perhaps the only one for whom he would be willing to live. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 09/??) By: Stephen Lansing **** LaCroix raised one eyebrow as he turned to Nick. "Nicholas, I know that anything that I might have to say would simply be lost on you at this point; however, before you hasten to your end, there is one last voice that you might care to listen to." "I cannot imagine what that might be," Nick shot back, his spirit somewhat boosted by the hollow tones of LaCroix's voice. His master was essentially admitting defeat. LaCroix stepped forward and fixed his gaze upon the restored blue of Nick's eyes. The simple fact that Nick had chosen to listen to him at all indicated that the battle might yet be won. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. "When one sets out to listen, Nicholas, one does just that." Nick stared at his master suspiciously, certain that he was being subjected to another of LaCroix's psychological games designed to undermine his will. The events of this night had formed the capstone of his determination to seek an end to his sufferings, to join his Natalie in the world that she had envisioned with such faith. Nick prepared to rise into the eastern sky and to await the sun's arrival, when, in the silence of the loft, he did hear a sound. Through all of the hushed tones that his enhanced hearing could detect in the city's predawn hour, there was one sound that was distinctly closer than the rest. It was weak and sluggish, fading, but undeniably there. And it was a sound that Nick had thought he would never hear again. LaCroix's eyes opened slowly as Nick hurried past him to kneel beside Dr. Lambert has he had done moments before. LaCroix's ancient lips parted in the slightest of smiles, and he permitted it to remain there for a moment before erasing the expression as he turned to face his troubled progeny. Nick placed Natalie's cool hand in his own as he gazed down at her. "I thought she was gone," he whispered, sorrow now returning to dominance and displacing the anger that had so consumed him at LaCroix's betrayal. "Not surprising considering the intensity of your own self-hatred," LaCroix said as he approached. "I have warned you many times concerning the power of guilt, Nicholas. It is the ultimate predator, for we ourselves empower it and turn our own throats to its ravages in the belief that we deserve to be torn by it. It lies in wait for us in the darkest recesses of our being and we willingly seek it out ." Nick closed his eyes as LaCroix's shadow came to rest over him, where it had truly always been. Natalie's heart seemed determine to beat on, struggling to live, and yet, it weakened steadily. "The combined force of your guilt and anguish succeeded in driving away all competing sensation, anything that might have given you a reason to hope and to live," LaCroix continued, slowly attempting to gain by emotion what he had never been able to take by force. He leaned closer to his child. "I told you that she lies at the brink, Nicholas. She lingers there still. And now the question is again, what will you do?" Nick reached out to stroke strands of hair from Natalie's ashen face. "I can't do it, LaCroix. Even to save her, I can't make her like me. I can only join her." "Nicholas, you are truly incorrigible," LaCroix sneered. "She is prepared to give all that she has for the chance to live with you, and *this* is what you will do for her in return. This end is what her love has merited?" Nick turned on LaCroix, anger creeping back into his features once again. "'Be done with her.' 'Time heals all.' How can you say those things and then expect me to believe that you care about what happens to her?" "Those words were said in the expectation that you would choose to live on, her life and memories a part of you, in effect, one with you; the only true togetherness that is permitted our Kind where mortals are concerned." LaCroix's expression grew dark and he quickly averted his gaze. "You would possess what I was never permitted to retain of your sister. You would be a wealthy man in my eyes." Nick's stare grew somewhat softer at LaCroix's mention of Fleur and the pain that he had endured since losing her to time's inevitable reckoning. His master banished the pain that had filled his eyes and faced Nick again. "But if you simply intend to destroy yourself, Nicholas," he said, pointing to where Natalie lay, "then you dishonor her and all that she tried to give you by making her a casualty of your own self-pity. I do not know the doctor well, but I do know that she would expect, that she deserves, more from you than this." "But the only way that I can save her..." "Again, Nicholas, you have blinded yourself to the obvious," LaCroix interrupted forcefully. "There is another alternative here. If you will not allow her to exist in our world, then permit her the dignity of remaining in her own, alive, not a human sacrifice to some fanciful delusion of what may or may not lie beyond the pale." LaCroix noted with carefully guarded satisfaction that a new hope had appeared in his son's eyes. Nick stooped to Natalie's side, indecisive. LaCroix gently placed one hand on his son's shoulder. "She lives still, Nicholas: and while there is life, there is yet hope." "But is there time?" Nick's hands trembled as he lifted Natalie from the floor and stood, gently holding her in his arms. He turned an anxious face to his master. "There will not be if you do not go now," LaCroix warned, knowing that Nick must also sense the coming dawn even as he did. With a last look at LaCroix, Nick rose swiftly through the air, brushing aside the skylight's opening and racing upward just ahead of the rising sun. LaCroix smiled again as he regarded the empty loft and the charred remains of the staff that he had thrown into the fire. He had once warned Nicholas that his guilt would someday return with staggering force, and so it had; with such force in fact, that it had proven infectious. LaCroix had come dangerously close to fulfilling Nicholas' wishes and destroying him. In the end; however, LaCroix had won the battle with his own emotions and had used Nicholas' own love of life in conjunction with his love for the mortal woman to save his favorite son. If mortal science could save Dr. Lambert's life, it might be possible that Nicholas' guilt could at last be swayed for his own good. Perhaps Nicholas would agree that he could no longer endanger her life with his presence. Perhaps he would leave her, leave Toronto altogether and travel again with his master. Given time, this night, this trial by fire might ultimately restore his son to him. When nightfall came there would be decisions to make, but for the moment, Lucien LaCroix seemed to be winning his little war. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 10/??) By: Stephen Lansing *Note: Pronunciation of the name "Kaylel:" The "a" is soft and the "y" is silent. **** The first rays of sunlight landed with a golden splash on Joe Reese's desk as he buttoned his coat and prepared to go home. He had been unsuccessful in reaching Richard Vetter, and even the commissioner's own secretary, Lorraine Bushman, had been unable to locate her boss. Vetter rarely strayed far from the office, but when he did leave town he tended to entirely detach himself from the outside world. Lorraine had informed Reese that the commissioner was indeed out of town and was not scheduled to return until sometime Sunday afternoon. She had also said that Vetter had most likely turned off both his cell phone and his pager, as he habitually did on road trips, but that she would try to reach him anyway. By comparison, Barbara Vetter had been much simpler to locate, and she had arrived at the hospital shortly before her daughter passed away. After returning from the hospital, Reese had spent the rest of the early morning hours putting the precinct back in one piece after Dawkins' rampage, fielding questions from Internal Affairs, organizing his report concerning Tracy's death, and trying to track down renegade detective Nicholas Knight. Knight had been one sorry piece of work at the hospital where Reese had last left him, sitting at Tracy's bedside, helplessly staring at the various machine readouts that testified to her weakening vital signs. But who could blame him? Two partners in one year; both lost under tragic circumstances. Aside from that, Knight had suffered a near-fatal gunshot wound two months previously and, for a period of time, had lost most of his long-term memories. He had rebounded from it all as ably as anyone that Reese had ever known, but like any other human being, Knight would have his breaking point. Reese had been amazed that the detective had lasted this long. It was certainly no secret that a lot of good cops had gone under from far less sensational provocation. At 4:30, Lorraine Bushman had called to tell Reese that she thought it futile to continue attempting to contact Richard Vetter. She had worked for the commissioner for ten years and had known that he would have cut himself off from all outside communications until such time as he chose to call in. She also knew Vetter well enough to know that even though he had made himself incommunicado, both she and Reese had better be able to tell Vetter that they had spent all night trying to reach him. Now that they had tried their best, there was nothing else to do. Reese had agreed and suggested that Barbara Vetter might have more luck finding her estranged husband. And Nick Knight would rue the day that Internal Affairs caught up with him. Wherever the detective was, he had managed to disappear as thoroughly as Vetter. Maybe Knight had snapped after all. Maybe the next call that came in would alert Reese that Knight had been found in that drafty warehouse apartment of his, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head: a second suicide striking close to home in less than twenty-four hours. Reese shook his head to clear away the absurd image of Knight committing suicide and decided that a few hours sleep was now his next order of business. Realistically, it would more likely be a few hours of tossing and turning, images of last night's pandemonium continually replaying in his tired mind, and a few precious moments of sleep squeezed in during intermissions. Reese closed his office door not-too-gently and made his way across the busy squad room, stopping to speak with Desk Sergeant Carl Finster. "Keep trying to locate Detective Knight," he told the officer. "Call me right away if you find him." "And you'll be where, sir?" "At home, probably in bed, hopefully asleep," Reese replied. He had descended to ground level by way of the narrow rear stairwell and was reaching out to push his way through the ninety-sixth precinct's parking lot access door when he was stopped by a shout. "Captain!" Reese turned to find the lanky form of Carl Finster quickly approaching. "What is it, Sergeant?" "I just got a call," Finster told Reese as he came to a stop on the last stair step. "Detective Knight showed up at the Mercy General E.R. with Dr. Lambert about twenty minutes ago." ************ San Fransisco, CA Cain stood alone beneath the Golden Gate, his dark shape partially obscured by the mists that crept inland from the frigid bay waters and swirled in serpentine patterns around his feet. Pale moonbeams descended from high above the city, parting in deference to the metal superstructure of the bridge and casting a ghostly shadow of that same mortal creation upon the landscape below. The city stretched out before him in all of its twinkling towers and Cain listened intently to the trace sounds of late-night traffic passing through the winding streets. City sights and sounds had changed dramatically in his lifetime, and automobiles now roared where there had once been only the heavy clapping of horse's hooves. Cain almost expected to hear the horses still. The technological revolutions that had brought about such drastic changes in the lifestyles of human beings consisted of ink still freshly pressed upon the newest pages of a very old and extensive volume. The twelve hundred years of Cain's existence had been the story of change, and yet, those centuries had been woven together with a comforting sameness, a thread that had since been lost in an age where even the atom had been harnessed to the whims of mankind's machines. His quiet reflection upon things both past and present was interrupted by a rippling in the atmosphere, the usual disturbance that heralded the arrival of another of his Kind. Cain did not need to avert his eyes from the San Fransisco skyline to know who it was that had come to him. Old, adept and powerful, Cain's perceptions were formidable, and yet, it was what he could *not* sense in his visitor that so clearly identified him. Cain almost refused to turn but immediately thought better of it. He did turn, and took the customary step backward, his pale blue-green eyes carefully shielding emotions that he dared not manifest. "Always thinking, Cain." From the aspect of a purely physical evaluation, the vampire could have been Cain's son, and he was in fact some six centuries younger. In this particular instance; however, the typical vampire ratios of age and strength fell by the wayside. Cain was among the most powerful of his Kind, but the Master of Enforcers, Kaylel, was a different matter entirely. "There is much to think on," Cain replied, curtly. He noticed that the Master's ever-present personal attendants, brutal and savagely loyal Enforcers, were located at a respectable distance but close enough to act immediately at a signal from their leader. "Quite so," the Master acknowledged. "And now there is more to think on than there has been for quite some while." His words were spoken with the same silken ease and contained the usual undercurrents of amusement and authority that Cain had come to expect. Kaylel was possessed of a monumental arrogance that caused him to view other persons as inferior and virtually insignificant, consequently, the manner in which he averted eye-contact with his subordinate was not a sign of insecurity but rather, indifference. As Master of Enforcers, Kaylel had expanded their secret society to unprecedented heights of power and brutality and could literally reach into any corner of the globe to destroy whomever he chose; mortal and immortal alike. The Enforcer oath to protect the secret of the immortals who walked the Earth, the very purpose for which they had been created had, in the hands of Kaylel, been relegated to a secondary task; a convenient shield behind which to advance a far more ambitious agenda. His was the seat of power, surrounded by the strongest of the strong, and yet, Cain knew that the Master Enforcer was not merely the manipulator of powers... He himself *was* power. Inexplicably, Kaylel possessed the gifts of the ancients. Cain had seen it with his own eyes; and that phenomenal strength, coupled with what was perhaps the most powerful concentration of immortal beings yet assembled made Kaylel seem indomitable. Cain fell into step beside the Master. He mentally forced aside the sounds of the city, choosing instead to listen to the sounds of water striking the shoreline and the crunching of pebbles beneath his feet as he walked. "Much has happened in recent months," he said. "Indeed." "Much that I would have discussed with you had I been permitted an audience." Kaylel walked on in silence, now staring straight ahead into the night, his hands folded behind his back. Cain struggled to prevent the frustration he felt from entering his voice. "I was told that my reports would be forwarded to you..." "And so they were." "But I have received no responses." The Master's eyes narrowed. "I'm responding to you now, am I not?" The statement was of little consolation. "Since we have not met," Cain responded, "I have chosen to continue the work of determining the extent of our exposure and dealing the mortals reversals where it has proven expedient to do so." Kaylel slowed to a halt and turned to face his Second. "Then all is at is should be." Cain stared back at the Master. When he spoke, his tone was challenging. "Hardly that," he said. "We are now certain that most of the major governments must be aware of our presence, although the extent of their knowledge as well as to what degree they might have exchanged information with one another is still unclear. The threat is now very real but still largely undefined." Cain experienced a small flush of anger at the smile that crept on to the lips of the Master Enforcer. "Fortunately, there has not yet been a backlash against our Community, or a credible leak of information to the general public. It appears that any private citizens who do know of us are not speaking out for fear of ridicule." Kaylel's smile broadened. "Understandably so." "But the governments *do* know although they have not yet acted in any manner that we can discern," Cain added. "Those of us operating within or near the mortal bureaucracies are finding precious little upon which to base a plan of action." The Second Master of Enforcers turned his gaze upon the fog- enshrouded hillsides. Whatever knowledge the mortals possessed concerning their Kind, Cain was certain that they could never imagine that vampires, Enforcers, had made their way into the most sensitive of human institutions, even if by only electronic means in most cases. Kaylel had orchestrated the beginning of this infiltration years before with the explanation that it would more effectively enable Enforcers to be certain that all knowledge of vampires was thoroughly suppressed. All Enforcers were aware of this, as most of them were actively involved in it to one degree or another; however, what was not so widely known was that Kaylel had also used their expanding inroads into the mortal world in order to carry out a subtle experimentation. No longer satisfied with merely monitoring mortals, the Master was now trying his hand at manipulating them, a practice that bespoke of bolder things yet to come in light of Kaylel's successes thus far. Armed with their abilities to alter mortal minds and to come and go virtually unnoticed and uninterrupted, vampires had proven to be the ultimate infiltrators. Kaylel himself had always been a study in controlled psychosis. He was wildly ambitious and aggressive, perhaps another side of his heightened powers, but he had always been quite patient and calculating as well. Of late, that state of affairs had been changing. Stories had begun circulating. It was said that the Master's renowned patience was vanishing. He had become more reclusive and brooding, as even Cain had not been able to obtain an audience in more than two months in spite of serious developments. Cain thought as he studied the Master's ghostly features. Perhaps it was because Kaylel believed that he was destined to lead vampires into an era of fundamental change, and that the hour of that change was nearly within his grasp. Cain had suspected that the Master would move in that direction soon, now that it seemed that there was no one who could oppose him, no one to warn of apocalypse or to extract the tentacles that had been wrapped so tightly around the vital organs of human society. Until the reappearance.... Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 11/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** "I am not concerned with human governments, Cain. They are fleeting things at best." Kaylel's gray eyes now fixed on Cain with an intensity that did little to dissuade the Second's thoughts of impending psychosis. "Rather, I am concerned with those things which do *not* change." "The High Ancient," Cain stated, noting with interest the flames that ignited in the Master's eyes at the mention of that title. "You saw it for yourself!" Cain understood that his master referred to the death cries of the three Enforcers who had been slaughtered so quickly over two months before, an unprecedented killing. "Bu why does he appear now, after a near century of silence?" "Why does he exist at all?" Kaylel growled, his eye color shifting to a golden hue. "To impede our race; to shackle us to a past, to an authority that is no longer! To deny us our rightful place of dominance in a world now controlled by the weak!" "It seems impossible that he can have survived." Cain spoke with unrestrained awe. "They were the greatest of our Kind, powerful beyond imagining; and yet only one remains. The others are dust." "As *he* should be," Kaylel spat. "And yet, he clings to this world and so we are hindered!" "But the questions remains: why now? And why would he suddenly attack and kill three Enforcers?" Cain awaited answers to his questions as the Master stared angrily into the night sky. "They had been sent to destroy an ancient," Kaylel said, without turning from his standoff with the heavens. "A woman who...had crossed over again." Cain's hardened features suddenly wrinkled with thought. "Then she is the first in centuries," he observed. "A rarity indeed." "And as great a danger to us," the Master added forcefully. "She had been made one of us again but dared to tell of her experiences. Her act warranted death." "But the High Ancient intervened," Cain interjected. "Why would he be concerned with such a matter?" "I do not proport to understand the workings of that infernal mind!" Kaylel faced his subordinate once again, rage now threatening to overwhelm him. "But the fool has chosen to show himself again and it will be his undoing." "Even if we could find him," Cain replied, "it would be no simple matter to destroy him. He can only have grown more powerful, and the Community may stand with him against us." "He is not a god," Kaylel countered, his body shaking with anger. "He *can* be destroyed and you will see that for yourself! As will the others!" "He *is* a legend among our people." The Master bared his fangs and Cain wondered if he might be struck. "He is a coward! He hides behind the myths of our race in an attempt to conceal his own weaknesses, his cowardice. His sudden appearances are meant to confuse and frighten our Kind into perpetuating the disastrous lies that have stagnated our culture and denied us what is truly ours; what we must now take hold of forcibly!" Cain listened to his Master's words in silence. There was nothing to be said in the face of his hatred, no reason that would penetrate the accumulated anger of the centuries. Instead, he asked another question, not really expecting an answer. "And what is to prevent him from simply vanishing again, as he has always done in the past?" It was then that Kaylel's anger gave way to a stony determination, a shadow of his old cunning emerging once again. "This time will be different. He has chosen to interfere in affairs in which there is more than one individual with which to be concerned. He cannot protect all involved, nevertheless, he will try, if for no other reason than to spite us." "You're certain of this?" "Completely." Kaylel drew himself up to his full height. "He will expect us to exact vengeance for the deaths of our agents against those who are tied to the woman, and so we shall. However, our efforts against them will merely be designed to draw him out where we may finally deal with him. *They* will be the means, while *he* will be the objective." "And who are *they?*" "All that are of her line, primarily her Maker and brother-by-blood." Kaylel stooped down to pick up a rounded stone and examined its surface as he spoke. "As for the woman, her name is Janette DuCharme, late of Toronto, Canada, where she had spent several decades, the last seven years or so of which she owned a nightclub called the Raven. Her establishment catered to vampires and mortals alike and, upon her departure nearly one year ago, she sold the club to her Maker, one Lucien LaCroix." "LaCroix." Cain repeated the name, momentarily absorbed in his memories of that particular renowned immortal. "The General has fallen upon difficult times of late." His remark was an understatement if the latest stories from Toronto were to be believed. "All the better for our purposes," the Master observed. "And you mentioned that she has a brother-by-blood as well." Kaylel smiled again, a sight that would have driven a mortal to flight. "His name is Nicholas deBrabant, although he currently calls himself 'Nicholas Knight.' I leave it to you to discover the rest, for his is an interesting tale, and one in which you will find quite a basis for taking action against the lot of them. But for his master, we should have been done with him long ago." Cain took a stab at the direction in which Kaylel seemed to be moving. "And it is your intention to use the actions of these immortals to implicate the High Ancient should he move to their defense. A cause by which to rally the Community against him on the pretense that he has grown complacent with age and could assist in exposing us?" "In time, Cain," the Master responded, discarding his stone to the roadside. "For now, you will observe, mortals and vampires alike, and be certain to conceal your presence. I do not want them to know that someone is watching them just yet. That should occupy your time until I arrive." "And the High Ancient?" "He, undoubtedly, will be watching you." Cain, the ancient and powerful immortal who had fought in and against some of the mightiest armies in all of European history, who had crushed mortal and immortal enemies with his own hands, seemed quite justified in the lack of fear that he displayed in the face of most dangers. But a cold anxiety gripped him in the face of this newest challenge. For the High Ancients were not mere immortals, but were the very forebearers of their Kind, a generation removed from even the next oldest living vampire by some two thousand years; and truly separated by far more than time. Theirs was the primal power. Theirs was the secret of the beginnings. But only one remained. How such an ancient and powerful band of immortals had withered away and vanished through the millennia was a true mystery. Perhaps, inevitably, time was the master of all. Even vampires. Would the Community turn against such a creature? Indeed, why should they? Cain knew very little concerning what causes fueled the savage hatred that drove Kaylel to seek the destruction of this last immortal patriarch, but he strongly suspected it to be some sort of overwhelming jealousy. No legitimate reason had yet been given and Cain knew better than to question the matter directly. Kaylel's obsession with his own abilities had blinded his reason before, but never so consistently, and Cain feared that this particular indiscretion could prove disastrous if the High Ancient should accept battle. For Kaylel, despite his extraordinary abilities, had lived but the span of a watch in the night compared to the one he sought to destroy. For now, Cain would watch as he had been bidden to do. There was far more at stake here than the pride of the Master Enforcer. If he must err, he would do so on the side of reason and caution. Kaylel was speaking again. Cain forced his attention back to the Master's words. "...but take no action against him." "And if he should come for us?" Cain's own question sounded strange in his ears. No one had ever hunted Enforcers before. Kaylel's answer was equally unique. "Then fall back," he commanded. "We would appear weak in the eyes of the Community," Cain protested. "Such a loss would be a mere temporary setback from which we would recover fully once we have won the day. Ultimately, the Community will acknowledge only the victor and it is, therefore, unnecessary to win each engagement as long as we are prepared to act when it is truly critical to do so." Cain was completely unprepared for this reasoned retort. Upon Kaylel's fiery outburst of only moments before, Cain had begun to believe that the rumors concerning the Master Enforcer's impending breakdown were true. Now he was certain that the situation was in fact worse than he had originally believed. He was convinced that Kaylel was a rational mind locked in the grip of an unspeakable hatred, an abhorrence so powerful that it could shatter the sturdiest reason and gain temporary control of the Master. It was the psychological makeup of a leader whose followers could both fear and despise their master while remaining fiercely loyal to him. It was the same anvil upon which some of history's most notorious disasters had been forged. And he saw the truth of that deduction behind the Master's dark eyes: an aura of some internal furnace, burning white-hot with rage. There was certainly more to Kaylel's hatred of the High Ancient than concerns for the future and well-being of the vampire community, if those were truly factors at all. Cain would have been suspicious of Kaylel's motivations even if the Master had not just contradicted himself a moment before when he first claimed that he did not know how the High Ancient's mind worked, and then later attempted to tell Cain exactly what to expect of him. Whatever the reasons, Kaylel's hatred was a powerful thing. For the moment; however, the Master's control remained. Cain glanced into the night sky, aware that the sun would rise in another three hours. Toronto would already be basking in its rays. "We will leave for Toronto tonight once preparations have been made," he told Kaylel. Whether or not his theory was correct, Cain could take no action at the present time save to do as he was told. The Master turned away again, his eyes penetrating the fog and settling on the rocky island where Alcatraz prison sat. "Take whomever you will," he whispered in the darkness. "I will join you in one week's time." Again, Cain took a respectful step backward, his eyes never leaving Kaylel's brooding form, his mind seeking to reconcile the seemingly impossible situation that had been thrust upon him. Kaylel had ended the conversation through his stance, effectively dismissing his subordinate. The stars swayed as Cain left the ground to hurry about his preparations, uncertain as to whether the enemy truly awaited him in far-off Toronto, or stood beneath him on the rocky shores of San Fransisco Bay. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 12/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** Nick was oblivious to the hospital personnel that passed by him in the hallway, some of whom turned to cast curious but discreet glances at the blonde-haired man who sat quietly on one of the beige waiting room chairs, his head resting in his hands. They could only frown at the sight of yet another suffering human being, a familiar specter that was ever with them in their work at the emergency care facility of Mercy General Hospital. They could only frown and move on to the sick and dying, the lacerations and abrasions, the reports and preparations, as well as the multitude of other full-time concerns that nip at the tired heels of an emergency room staff, each demanding their immediate and undivided attention. For Nick, there was only the guilt. LaCroix could be evaded, the hunger suppressed, lives abandoned and taken up again in an instant but the guilt remained, his only true and constant traveling companion through all of the dark centuries of his existence. And though the presence of guilt itself remained unchanged, its accusing face belonged to a state of constant flux in which it could take the form of a lost love, a victim's scream, a broken trust, a goal unattained, a hastily spoken word, or any of a thousand other manifestations, each a unique blade sharpened to a razor's edge by some past regret or betrayal; ready to strike for his heart. Now, guilt had a new face, one with full, smiling lips, welcoming hazel eyes and tumbles of chestnut hair. Guilt had a new voice as well; one that softly said, "I trust you." "Detective Knight?" Nick was startled from his reverie by the sound of a concerned voice and a light touch on his right shoulder. He looked up quickly to find Dr. Turner standing above him with much the same expression that she had worn three months earlier when *he* had been the patient that everyone was worried about. Apprehension drove him to his feet. "How is she, Doctor?" Leanna Turner briefly averted her eyes, carefully considering her response. "I won't lie to you, Detective; her situation is extremely serious. Frankly, I'm surprised that she made it to the hospital considering the amount of blood that she's lost." Nick turned away suddenly, running one shaking hand through his tangled hair, fiercely attempting to deny the events of the past twenty-four hours. "We've finished the transfusion and we're moving her now," Turner continued hesitantly. Despite the many rewards of her profession, dealing with the effects of tragedy on the lives of loved ones never seemed to get any simpler. "The real test will come within the next few hours when we'll see whether or not Dr. Lambert's body will accept the transfusion," she continued, "but we'll be keeping a close eye on her." There was a nervous silence as Nick shifted his gaze from the gray corridor walls to the glossy, polished surface of the floor tiles upon which he stood. He jabbed at the floor with the toe of one shoe, steadfastly avoiding Dr. Turner's gaze as he sought for the necessary courage to ask a question, the answer to which his mind demanded but his heart feared. His voice was thin and strained when he finally spoke. "In your opinion...what are her chances?" Turner sighed, the full weight of a hectic night finally catching up with her. "It's so difficult to tell right now," she explained. "I'd say that...considering the fact that Dr. Lambert has made it this far, and barring any ill effects from the transfusion, she stands a better chance at recovery than just about anyone that I've ever personally known to have suffered acute exsanguination." A new hope sprang into Nick Knight's eyes at those words. Turner felt a gnawing guilt for suppressing it so quickly. "We can be optimistic, but we must also be realistic, Detective. Dr. Lambert could easily survive the experience only to suffer from one or more side-effects that commonly result from cases of severe blood loss." "Brain damage," Nick whispered, reflecting upon times past when he had worked as a doctor himself and had seen the sordid effects of various forms of physical trauma. He winced under the sting of his own conscience's lash, mentally cursing himself for taking such chances with Natalie's life. There had been so many risks that they had never considered. Turner nodded. "Yes, that is a possibility. There is also the possibility of shock to major organs or even immunodeficiency complications; we just can't know at this stage." "I know." Nick thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and grasped roughly at the lining as he struggled to block a barrage of mental images in which Natalie suffered with mental languor or painful, debilitating physical conditions. <"This end is what her love has merited?"> Nick turned away swiftly and then back again as he fought the echo of LaCroix's accusation. "You said that she was being moved?" "Yes, she'll be in the ICU at least until she regains consciousness and we can assess her overall condition." "I need to see her." Turner smiled sympathetically but, in her opinion, what Knight actually needed to do was go home and rest. He was obviously very upset and fatigued. "I'd like to be able to arrange that, Detective, but I'm afraid that it wouldn't be a good idea for Dr. Lambert to have visitors at this point. But we'll be sure to call you the moment that there's any change in her condition." For the first time in their conversation, Nick was now facing her fully, and Dr. Turner anticipated the usual protests that family and friends offered when they were not permitted access to a patient. However, she was quite unprepared for the sudden sensation of weightlessness that gripped her entire body as Knight's gaze locked with her own. "Take me to her," he said, the words seemingly echoing from every corner of Leanna Turner's mind until the vampiric influence entirely displaced her professional objections to his request. "I'll take you to her." The words came instantly, slipping through her lips with the ease of breath as she found herself turning, and then nearly falling as the sensation of weightlessness transformed into vertigo. Nick caught her by the elbow. "Are you okay?" he asked. His words took a moment to register as Turner reestablished her balance and allowed the nausea in the pit of her stomach to pass. "I'm...I'm just tired, I think." She drew in a deep breath and smiled at Nick as embarrassment crept into her facial features. "I guess I've been working too late," she confessed. The detective smiled in return, slightly, and released her, but stood close by, studying her intently as though he knew something about her that she did not know. It had the effect of making her distinctly uncomfortable. "I'll take you to see Dr. Lambert now," she said. Nick cocked his head to one side, still scrutinizing her. "You're sure that it won't be a problem?" Turner nodded confidently. "I'm sure. I'll handle everything." She turned away then, for some unknown reason thankful that she no longer had to look into Nick Knight's eyes, although she could feel them on her back as she led the way through the hospital corridors. Arriving at the ICU nurses' station, Dr. Turner verified that Natalie Lambert had been taken to Room 312. She turned to relay the information to Nick, only to find empty air where the detective had stood but a moment before. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com In spite of my former announcement, The Hands of Time story parts should be released as normal for the week. I was supposed to be leaving town this afternoon but car trouble dictated otherwise. ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 13/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** Nick did not need Dr. Turner's confirmation to locate Natalie. From the moment that he and the doctor stepped into the hushed world of the Intensive Care Unit, Nick's vampire senses had taken hold of the tenuous impressions that now led him through the maze of rooms to the one that he sought. He rounded one last corner, waited somewhat impatiently as an elderly heart- attack victim was wheeled past, and stood silently a few feet away from the room in which Natalie lay; the latest in a seemingly endless number of lives that he had destroyed. <"She lives still, Nicholas. And while there is life, there is yet hope."> Natalie Lambert did indeed have the chance at life that had seemed so completely lost to her only a short time before, and Nick hesitated to enter the room lest his very presence prove sufficient to deny her that renewed chance. His intellect warred against his heart as Nick pondered the idea of turning away, of taking his cursed existence to some distant part of the globe where it could no longer torment and destroy those he cared for and those who dared to care for him. The contest still raged, undecided, as he realized that he was no longer alone. Leanna Turner had found him. She was clearly perplexed. "Well, however you found it, this is the right room," she said, pointing the metal clipboard that she held in the direction of Natalie's room. She then reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a small plastic card with a dull metal clip attached to its reverse. "You'll need this," she remarked, handing the ICU pass to Nick who glanced briefly at it before clipping the bit of plastic to his belt. "There'll be nurses in occasionally to check on Dr. Lambert," Turner said, slowly edging away from Nick. "If you need anything, you know where to find the nurses' station." "Thank you," Nick replied, noting that Turner seemed visibly uncomfortable with him and feeling a sudden stab of guilt for having manipulated her. Turner nodded curtly and moved off, troubled by the nagging feeling that there was something about Nick Knight that was simply unnerving although she could not quite put her finger on it. Alone once again, Nick slowly made his way to the door of Room 312, putting out his hand against the metal doorframe as he peered inside the room. Natalie lay at the center of the cramped room, pallid and unconscious, her facial features illuminated by a single fluorescent lamp that gave her white skin an ethereal glow. Nick stood in the doorway for a long moment, his eyes taking in the plastic and metal faces of the various medical instruments that crowded Natalie's beside like vigilant bodyguards; as though anything had the power to protect her from his darkness. Making his way quietly through the room, Nick approached Natalie's bedside as one might look in on a sleeping child, fearful that the slightest sound might somehow shatter the delicate balance that had thus far sustained her life. Nick's fingers came to rest upon the cool metal of the hospital bed's support railing as his thoughts drifted to the glaring ironies of the situation before him. It was Natalie who had so often stood beside him the hours of his greatest weakness; knowing, supporting and even loving him during the times when others had abandoned him or had feared to be near him or when he had given up on himself. It was he who had survived the centuries, he who had escaped death an inestimable number of times, he who had once boasted of power beyond imagining and he who had faced enemies both mortal and immortal. But it was Natalie who had taught him to face the truth. Nick lowered the bed's support railing and carefully sat down beside Natalie, taking her hand in his. Her flesh was warm to the touch again, free of the chill that had come upon her so quickly after his near-fatal kiss; and fresh pangs of guilt stabbed at him at the sight of the bandage that was pressed against her throat, concealing the wound that he had inflicted. A distant, rational part of Nick's mind succeeded in penetrating the thick clouds of guilt that permeated the atmosphere around him, reminding him that it would soon be necessary to explain that wound. He would be asked to explain about what had happened to Natalie...and Delbert Dawkins...and Tracy Vetter. It was very plausible that Nick Knight was about to come under the most intense scrutiny that he had faced since the accusations leveled against him during the Red purges of the 1950's, should the Metro Toronto Police Department decide to heap all of its corporate indignation upon one sacrificial lamb. Again, thoughts of leaving for his own good, for Natalie's good, for everyone's good crossed rapidly through his mind. <"It's always been easier that way in the past."> But the ill-spoken words failed him as he listened to the steady beating of Natalie's heart. Only a short while before, that rhythmic sound had brought him images, emotions and sensations of such as his heart had so often longed for: trust, acceptance, love; an indescribable combination which had stirred to new life the dying embers of his soul. They had shared the hidden mysteries of their innermost secrets, an entanglement of souls from which not even the most practiced of his Kind could emerge entirely unchanged. <"I won't leave you. Whatever happens...we'll be together."> He had spoken the words; now it was time for him to keep the promise. Nick reached out with one hand to gently stroke Natalie's hair and then her face. When he finally found his voice, it emerged as barely a whisper in the quiet room. "Nat," he called out softly. "Natalie, I'm so sorry." The words seemed so useless, even more so in light of the fact that Natalie probably could not even hear them, and yet, he had devalued the spoken word for far too long; a lesson that Natalie had taught him rather painfully nearly six months before. There had been so many times when she had been close, sometimes while in the precinct, sometimes on the couch beside him in his own home; so very many times when he would have touched her face as he did now, so many things that he wanted to say. Those were also the times in which he had faced another, far older urge, the desire to take her to fulfill the monstrous cravings of the beast that LaCroix had made within him. To deny the latter was also to forbid the former, and it had often soured their relationship, driving them apart. But Nick's practiced restraint had also saved Natalie Lambert's life on more nights than she had ever realized. Now that such intimacy had passed between them in the sharing of life, Nick felt as though something of the solid stone wall that had always existed between them in the past had suddenly been removed. "Natalie, I didn't mean for this to happen," he said, his eyes once again on the bandage at her throat. "But it was what I feared would happen, why I denied you for so long. It was what I tried to explain but could never make you understand." He raised Natalie's hand to his lips and quickly kissed it. "It was so hard to stop. You can't imagine *how* hard it was to stop, to stop taking in everything of you, to stop knowing you so fully." He had explained it to her once before: that the vampire's taking of blood was the way in which they felt life, the way in which they vicariously lived through others. She had been intrigued by the concept, so much so that it had frightened him at the time. Upon reflection he had come to believe that her interest was due more to the fact that he had finally decided to share something of his own nature with her, an act which flew in the face of his long-standing determination to protect Natalie from the consequences of getting too close to him. "By the time I stopped..." Nick hesitated, the familiar burning of tears welling up within his eyes again as he recalled the moment in which he realized what he had done. "I thought that I'd killed you; that I'd lost you." Nick took both of Natalie' hands in his own, sliding his fingers through hers. "I've lost so much in my life, Nat. I can't lose you too." He struggled with the words that had so long eluded his tongue, the words that he feared would certainly doom any mortal woman who ever heard them. He smiled, thinking that she would probably laugh at him if she could see him now; that is, if she did not hate him for nearly destroying her. "Nat, I've never been able to tell you this before, it's always been so dangerous but..." "Nick?" Startled by the familiar masculine voice, Nick turned to find Joe Reese standing in the doorway, his face a thousand times over the story of concern and fatigue. His eyes were on Natalie and a frown was on his lips. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 14/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** "It's okay," Nick said, waving Reese into the room reluctantly although he was careful to conceal that reluctance. He looked up at Reese as the captain came to stand beside him, and then back at Natalie again, squeezing her hand. "She's going to make it, Captain." The dark, looming clouds over Reese's eyes momentarily lifted. "Yeah, Dr. Turner says she has a real good chance." There was no hostility in Reese's words, no contradiction; nor was there any conviction. Nick involuntarily tensed. "She'll be fine, Captain," he said, curtly. "She'll pull through this." Concern once again dominated Joe Reese's features as he placed a hand on Nick's shoulder, certain that he had heard something in Knight's voice that he distinctly did not like; something unstable. "You okay, Nick?" "Yeah, Cap, I'm fine," Nick responded apologetically. "I'm just tired, I guess." It was really so much more than that pat answer could encompass. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you." Reese shrugged it off. "Hey, I understand." He pointed at the place where Nick sat on the side of Natalie's bed. "I've sat there once or twice myself, you know. You feel that you ought to be doing something but you know that there's nothing you can do." He shook his head slowly. "Being helpless like that has got to be the most sickening feeling in the world." Nick nodded his head slightly but continued to stare silently at Natalie. Reese shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I suppose that you've heard about Tracy," he said, quietly. Nick turned slightly, looking away from Natalie but still not at Reese. "I heard," was all that he said, his mind's eye returning to the sight of Tracy lying where Dawkins' bullets had struck her down. <"You could...have trusted me."> <"If she dies, it's my fault."> More guilt. "I don't know, Nick," Reese sighed, "seems like this town's been falling apart lately. First losing Schanke and Cohen to that Vudu nut who tried blowing up the city, then the likes of Gerald Manning on a book tour, Tracy getting shot by Dawkins and now Natalie to...to who knows what. Where's it all gonna end?" He looked curiously at the bandage on Natalie's throat. "How *did* this happen, Nick?" "I'm not sure," Nick lied. "She was attacked, by an animal, I think." "And you found her?" Nick was surprised by the relative speed with which he devised his story, no doubt the benefit of centuries' experience in lying to escape tight situations. "I found her at my apartment. I think she'd come to tell me about Tracy." He did look at Reese now. "I guess she was attacked and tried to make it to my phone to call for help." Reese gave no indication that he either believed or disbelieved the story. "They say she lost quite a bit of blood," he said. "She did," Nick confirmed. A bit of truth at last. It made him feel no better. "Strange," Reese mused aloud. "Are you sure she wasn't robbed or," he chose his next word carefully, out of regard for Nick, "abused?" "No," Nick responded immediately. "The wound looks like a bite mark and that's why I think it was an animal attack. There's a lot of big dogs that run loose down by the warehouses. Sometimes they run in packs. One of them could've jumped her in the dark." "Makes sense, I guess," Reese said. "If anything like this ever *can* make sense. At least you know that she's getting the best care possible." His tone was less melancholy now and more official, perhaps even fatherly, as he continued. "It's good that you're here for her, Nick, but don't ignore your own needs; like rest, for instance. You can't help Natalie if you're dead on your feet and the Good Lord knows you've been through a lot lately." Nick's response was cut short by the pulsing of Reese's cellular phone. The captain excused himself for a moment and walked out into the corridor to take the call. <"Don't ignore your own needs,"> Reese had said. Nick thought. Reese returned a moment later, the expression on his face one of sheer dread. "Let me guess," Nick said, grimly. "The Shooting Review Board?" "Worse," Reese sighed. "Commissioner Vetter's office." Nick cringed. In his turmoil of the last few hours, Nick had not stopped to think of Tracy's family or of how her father was likely to take the news of his daughter's death. The look on Reese's face suggested that the captain had thought of little else. "Look, Nick, I'd better get down there." Again, Reese placed a hand on Nick's shoulder. "But you're right about the Shooting Review Board. They're going to want to see you soon and I don't know how long I can put them off." He glanced at Natalie. "I might be able to explain about Natalie and buy you some time but don't count on it. Those guys aren't known for their compassion. Neither is Internal Affairs. I guess it's a luxury they feel they can't afford in their line of work." The dread of facing endless questions returned once again as Nick thought of the number of incidents in which Internal Affairs would be certain to have his name at the top of their Most Wanted list. Reese was making his way to the door, his footsteps unusually heavy. "Nick," he said, turning back for a moment. "I hope that Natalie comes through this okay." "She will," Nick replied immediately, but with more civility than before. Reese nodded. "We'll be praying for that. But right now, do me a favor, and yourself a favor, and Dr. Lambert a favor: get some rest. It's gonna get real ugly before this is all over with." A shadow of something crossed Nick's face, but he nodded in response to Reese. "I'll do that, Captain." "I'll hold you to that," Reese told him, turning to leave once more. "I'll see you later. Heck, I might even still be Captain." Nick stared after the departed Reese for a moment, realizing that the captain's last trite remark held a cold reality. Vetter was a difficult man; even in the eyes of the daughter who had loved him so much, and Nick could well imagine what retribution Joe Reese might be facing for failing to "protect" Tracy as he had once been instructed. Of course, that all depended on how Richard Vetter chose to view the circumstances that had led to his daughter's death; not that there was any real difficulty in predicting the outcome of that particular train of thought. It was with thoughts of future uncertainties that he turned his gaze back to the unconscious Natalie, and silently wondered what lay ahead for them in the days to come. *Them.* The word had seemed so impossible before, and so natural, so necessary now. If only he could discover that the faith that Natalie had, the faith that she had seen in him, was strong enough to span the gap that had so steadfastly resisted his every heartache over the centuries; the gap between humanity and *what* he was. If only it were enough to make the ultimate difference. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 15/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** It was Nick's voice. It alone stood out clearly against the backdrop of perpetually swirling colors, fluid sensations and echoing voices that blinded her vision, bound her hands and muted her tongue. There was all at once the contradictory sensations of movement and immobility, of comforting warmth and numbing cold in the void in which she lay; if any space so completely inundated with such wonders could rightly be called a "void." If she was breathing, she was not aware of it. If her heart was beating, it did so with utmost secrecy. She had a sense of the completeness of her own being and yet a oneness with all that surrounded her: the dancing myriad images of two lives blended together into one. At times there were images, sensations or sounds that separated themselves from the chaos and drew tantalizingly near, allowing her to struggle with reaching outward, seemingly with her mind as there was no physical movement; but her quarry proved to be continually elusive. Strangely enough, there was a feeling that all would be righted if she could but grab hold of any of the manifestations that undulated temptingly just out of her reach. Stranger still were the dreams. Dreams? Was she even asleep to begin with? Images of so many terrible and beautiful things that she was doing traveled through her brain seemingly at the speed of light. She wanted to understand each shadow, to fully grasp and wrest the secrets from them before they could escape and leave her jostled wildly in a cryptic wake of emotions. His voice came again, sounding as clear as a beacon above the crash of breakers in the chaotic ocean in which she was perpetually drowning. Again, she reached outward, desiring to seize that one reality and come to her senses again, to make right her world gone wrong. But the sound ebbed and vanished, slipping through her fingers as surely as if she had sought to capture the wind. ************ Constable Dennis Wilkinson, the undisputed voice of experience in the Metro Toronto Police Department's Internal Affairs division, paused as he reached Police Commissioner Richard Vetter's office door, his left hand taking hold of the brass doorknob while his right hand quickly drew its fingers through the graying hairs of his right temple. Amazingly enough, he was on time; no small feat for someone who had been awakened from a sound sleep on his morning off and ordered to report downtown by exactly eleven o'clock. It had been a difficult night, most of which he had spent wrapped up in the multitudinous procedures and mountains of paperwork that follow the death of a police officer. In this case, it had been the death of Metro Homicide Detective Tracy Vetter, Police Commissioner Richard Vetter's daughter, and undoubtedly the reason for which he had been summoned to appear before the commissioner himself. For as much as had been accomplished, much remained to be done, including the task of questioning Tracy Vetter's partner, Detective Knight, who had been incommunicado since the shooting. Only Captain Joe Reese's insistence had succeeded in preventing Wilkinson from putting out an all points bulletin for Knight. Wilkinson entered the reception area of Vetter's office and was immediately assaulted by the sharp tones of Richard Vetter's highly excited voice emanating from behind his closed office door only about a dozen feet away. Lorraine Bushman, Vetter's secretary, briefly turned her attention from her computer screen to wave Wilkinson to a row of empty chairs that were set against the wall opposite her desk. "Commissioner Vetter will be with you shortly, Constable," she said with a curt but polite nod of her head. Muted by the harsh sounds of Vetter's on-gong tirade, Wilkinson returned Lorraine Bushman's nod and settled himself into the chair that was farthest removed from the firestorm raging in Vetter's office. There was a small wooden table located beside Wilkinson that was complete with a decorative brass lamp and at least six months worth of "Police Special" newspapers. Wilkinson selected the March sixteenth edition of the "Special" at random, mentally acknowledging that he had already read the paper but desperately trying to give himself something to do that would at least make it appear as though he did not hear the conversation that was taking place in the next room. The "conversation" as it turned out, was rather one-sided from what spilled through into the outer office area, and continued as such for approximately ten minutes and half a "Police Special" later. It was then that Vetter's door opened and admitted the form of a very shaken and angry man. "Joe Reese," Wilkinson acknowledged the captain of the ninety-sixth precinct as he stepped into the room, jaw tensed, fists clenched at his sides. "Dennis." Reese returned the greeting with a rough-hewn voice that held none of its usual regard, his eyes focused on the office's exit rather than on Wilkinson. Lorraine Bushman did not turn her head away from her computer but followed Reese with her eyes, concern evident as the captain stopped short of leaving the office and turned to face Wilkinson. "So," he said gruffly, "I guess you're the next contestant?" Wilkinson's hand went to his tie, pretending to straighten it as Reese fixed him with a disconcerting stare. "Kinda looks that way, Joe," he replied. "Well, good luck," Reese said as he jerked the outer office door open roughly, and then, without turning added, "believe me, you'll need it." So saying, Reese disappeared into the corridor, leaving Wilkinson to stare at the closing office door and then at Vetter's door, considerably more agitated than before. Lorraine Bushman sighed, shot Wilkinson a significant look and reached for her phone, picked up the handset and pressed a key. There was a brief pause before Wilkinson heard her say, "Constable Wilkinson is here to see you, Commissioner." Another pause. "Certainly." Bushman hung up the phone and motioned to Wilkinson. "You can go in now, Constable." Wilkinson rose from his chair but hesitated a moment before entering Commissioner Vetter's private office. After fifteen years with the Metro Police, Wilkinson was more than acclimated to the comings and goings of the brass, his position with Internal Affairs even caused many of them to view him as one of them, and yet, Richard Vetter was a different sort of person entirely. Vetter was a hardened professional with over a quarter century in the public service; a man who had a clear impression of what needed to be done and was determined that his way was the proper way. All of this was not to say that Vetter could not be a fair man, only that he was a rigidly disciplined idealist with a notorious temper and a habit of applying the verbal "thumb screws" on wayward subordinates whenever it suited him. It was with these worrisome attributes and the graveside features of Joe Reese firmly in mind that Wilkinson opened the heavy oak door to Vetter's office and ushered himself into the unpredictable. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 16/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** Vetter's office was expansive, even for a member of the Police Commission in a city as large as Toronto, and the distance that one crossed to reach the leather interview chairs was guilty of as much intimidation as the man who sat behind the richly-stained executive style desk at the far end of the room. At the moment; however, Vetter was not seated in his high-backed, custom chair but rather stood at the office's single, expansive window, watching with hands clasped behind his back as the sun disappeared behind the oblong shape of the CN Tower's observation decks. Vetter turned as Wilkinson reached the corner of his desk, the fierce blue of his eyes, the sharp angles of his face and his silver hair imparting rather hawk-like overtones to the commissioner's overall appearance. His facial expressions were a virtual kaleidoscope of anger, sorrow and resentment as he turned, but mutated rapidly into a mere stoical demeanor as he locked his gaze with Wilkinson. "I regret having to call you out on such short notice and after such a long night, Dennis," Vetter said almost cordially, "but there are some matters which I believe require immediate attention." The commissioner moved from the window to his desk and motioned Wilkinson to the interview chair closest to where the constable stood. "I quite understand, sir," Wilkinson replied as he seated himself. He struggled for a moment with the decision to offer condolences and then decided that Vetter seemed calm enough to accept them despite his recent outburst in the presence of Joe Reese. "My condolences on your loss, sir. Detective Vetter was well-respected and will be sorely missed." He had been right. Vetter turned his gaze aside to a row of silver- framed photos that dominated one section of his desk as he sat down. He then turned his attention back to Wilkinson and drew himself up straight in his chair. "Thank you, Dennis." His voice was somewhat strained as he spoke, and now that he was closer, Wilkinson could see a slight red tint in the commissioner's eyes. Vetter's voice then grew stronger as he spoke again, sounding more like what Wilkinson was used to. Vetter idly waved one hand at the interview chair next to Wilkinson. "Where is Inspector Rogers these days?" Wilkinson relaxed a bit at this turn of conversation, having expressed what he considered the proper respects concerning the commissioner's late daughter. "Inspector Rogers has recently been accepted by the RCMP, sir. We hope to be working with him in the future; however, as he will most likely be a sort of liaison to the Metro Police force." "Excellent," Vetter deadpanned; his eyes, and obviously his thoughts as well, somewhere other than on Wilkinson. "An excellent career choice as well as a challenging one." "Yes, sir." Vetter's sharp blue eyes returned to stare into Wilkinson's brown ones. "As to the reason that I called you here..." The commissioner reached into his top desk drawer and removed a legal-sized manila envelope which he opened and placed on the desk top in front of him. "I've been reviewing the completed sections of your report on...the shooting. Captain Reese was here a moment ago and reported to me in person concerning the matter, and I would like to ask you a few questions as well." Wilkinson resisted the impulse to swallow at Vetter's mention of Reese and his "conversation" with Vetter. He was sitting extremely straight in his chair, hands clasped like vices on the arm rests. "Captain Reese and I went over his statement rather thoroughly." Vetter's expression became somewhat more severe at the second mention of Reese. "And I'm satisfied that a competency hearing will answer any issues that we did not resolve." The words "competency hearing" explained the haggard look on Reese's face. Wilkinson had been somewhat surprised by that look, certain that a man like Reese could survive a simple brow-beating, even from a man like Vetter. But a competency hearing meant that Vetter was looking for what would appear to be an unbiased means of having Reese either "retired" from the Metro Police, or displaced so far down the chain of command that he would be humiliated into resigning, most likely with the loss of his pension. Wilkinson thought. "For that reason, I'm more interested in discussing what's *not* in your report than what's in it now." Wilkinson allowed himself a small, cautious sigh of relief that he was careful to conceal from Vetter. Whatever had happened between the commissioner and Reese; Wilkinson wanted no more to do with it than was absolutely necessary. "We've had some difficulty with completing the rest of our report, Commissioner, namely we haven't interviewed Detective Vetter's partner yet." Vetter leaned forward across his desk, hands folded on top of Wilkinson's incomplete report. "It is, in fact, Detective Knight in specific that I wanted to discuss with you, Dennis." Wilkinson started to say something about being unable to locate Knight when Vetter cut him off. "I know that Reese told you to hold off on questioning Knight until later." "Yes, sir. Reese told me that he thought Knight was under too much stress at the moment due to losing two partners in one year in addition to his own hospitalization of some months previous." "And the fact that Knight has simply refused to respond to phone calls, pages and the precinct dispatcher," Vetter added. "Yes, sir," Wilkinson admitted somewhat sheepishly. "That *has* had something to do with our inability to interview the detective." Vetter leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you even know where Detective Knight is at the moment, Dennis?" Wilkinson shifted uneasily under Vetter's scrutiny. "I'm sorry, Commissioner, but I can't say that I do." "He's at the hospital," Vetter replied, his facial expressions unchanged despite Wilkinson's obviously increasing interest. "It seems that Dr. Natalie Lambert, the County Coroner; you are familiar with Dr. Lambert, I take it?" Vetter paused until receiving a nod from Wilkinson. "Well, it seems that Dr. Lambert was injured last night and taken to the emergency room of Mercy General Hospital in critical condition. Knight was the one who found her and took her to the ER." "Do we know how she was injured?" Wilkinson asked. "Not specifically, no," Vetter replied. "At this point, all that the hospital is saying is that she was apparently attacked and that she lost a considerable amount of blood, but we have no other particulars on the injuries that she sustained. Captain Reese had just come from Mercy General and said that Dr. Lambert seemed to be recovering rather well in spite of the negative comments that I received from the hospital staff over the phone." Vetter paused in his narrative long enough to study Wilkinson. "Dennis, I understand that Detective Knight was something of an interest of yours a few years ago. Until the case files were closed, that is." To say that Detective Knight had been "something of an interest" was to state matters in the most simplistic of terms; it had been much closer to an obsession. Nearly three years previously, Dennis Wilkinson and Paul Rogers had been assigned to investigate the supposed connections between a series of drug-related killings and possible police corruption. Nick Knight had been the target of their investigations until it was determined that he had in fact been framed for the murders. Once Knight had been exonerated of the charges, the case files had been ordered sealed to protect Knight's reputation as a homicide investigator. Sealing the files had been a normal part of police procedure in such matters and yet, Wilkinson had fought the decision all the way to Commissioner Tomkins' office. Too much had occurred during the investigation, too many disturbing things had been revealed concerning Detective Nicholas Knight for Wilkinson to be satisfied that the man was all that he said he was and nothing more. In the end, Commissioner Tomkins had overruled Wilkinson and the files had been sealed. Wilkinson had forced himself to live with the decision but promised to remain wary concerning anything in which Knight might be involved. If there was now even the remotest possibility that a new investigation might be warranted, that the files might be opened... "Yes, sir," he replied firmly. "I had certain questions concerning Detective Knight that were not answered to my satisfaction." "Apparently so," Vetter said. "You pursued the matter with Commissioner Tomkins for quite some while." Wilkinson silently nodded assent to what he knew to be the truth. Vetter's eyes narrowed. "Commissioner Tomkins is no longer with the city, I'm sure you're aware of that." "Yes, sir." Wilkinson barely restraining himself from asking the burning question that had so forcefully entered his mind the moment that Vetter had mentioned Detective Knight. As it turned out, Vetter asked it for him. "What would you say to the possibility of reopening your investigation of Detective Knight, incorporating of course, the newest situations concerning my daughter and Dr. Lambert?" Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 17/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** Wilkinson leaned forward in his chair, a new light in his eyes. "I would more than welcome an opportunity to resume that investigation, Commissioner," he said, then adding, "incorporating of course, the newest situations concerning your daughter and Dr. Lambert." The expression that crossed Vetter's face at Wilkinson's answer was the same mixture of anger, sorrow and resentment that the constable had seen upon his arrival. It was plain that Vetter was having difficulty maintaining his composure. Swallowing heavily, Vetter reached into the right inside pocket of his suit coat, removing two pamphlet-sized, folded documents which he offered to Wilkinson. "As you can see," Vetter remarked somewhat solemnly, "I've taken care of the first step toward reopening your previous investigation by getting you started on the new one. According to Reese, Dr. Lambert was found at Knight's apartment so you can start there with the usual crime scene crew which you should organize immediately. The second warrant is to search Dr. Lambert's apartment, belongings, etc." Wilkinson accepted the two search warrants in a state of near disbelief, scanning the warrants briefly before tucking them away as Vetter continued to speak. "Reese said that Knight has some sort of skin condition that prevents him from going out during the daylight," Vetter commented. "Is that true to your knowledge?" "Yes, sir, it is." That skin condition had been one of the matters that Wilkinson had wanted to investigate further. "Then you can interview Knight this evening," Vetter said. "If you have any problems with either him or Reese, let me know," he added with a distinct edge to his voice, after which he quickly dissolved into his usual austere demeanor once more. "As for Knight in particular, I'll be expecting weekly reports. You'll bring everything you uncover to me first and I'll make decisions as to how to pursue the matter. In fact, keep as much of your investigation as quiet as you can. Be extremely discreet. I think that you, of all people, would know how to do that quite well." "Yes, sir," Wilkinson replied, confidently. Vetter stood, unfurling his six foot two inch frame with both dignity and practiced authority. "I'll have the case files from your last investigation on Knight unsealed and in your office by tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure that you understand the bureaucratic process, Dennis; slow and inefficient, but a necessary evil nonetheless." Wilkinson stood, his previous trepidation now vanished, and was about to express his appreciation for the commissioner's decision when Vetter surprised him once more by extending his hand, which Wilkinson took in his own and shook vigorously. Vetter did not immediately release his grip, but instead fixed Wilkinson with a gaze that held both determination and barely restrained anger. "My daughter was very important to me, Dennis...more important than anything else that I've ever had in my entire life." Wilkinson's elation at Vetter's confidence in him quickly turned to concern as the commissioner continued his strange speech, still clutching Wilkinson's hand in a rather tight grip. "I'm sure that she was, sir," Wilkinson responded, hesitantly. "Now, I've given you something that you've desperately wanted today, Dennis. All I'm asking is that *you* give *me* something in return." Vetter leaned forward so that he was staring directly into Dennis Wilkinson's eyes, his own eyes beginning to moisten as his emotions built in intensity. Constable Wilkinson returned his superior's stare with a stoical expression that in no way communicated the reservations that he was beginning to experience. This display served to convince him that Richard Vetter cared more for satisfying his own considerable indignation upon the heads of those who worked with and probably cared for Tracy Vetter more than he cared for determining who was truly responsible for her death. But then there was the matter of Detective Knight who, with all of his mysteries and intricacies, was a possible threat to the oath which Wilkinson had zealously upheld during his time in law enforcement. For that reason, Wilkinson was determined to bring whatever secrets Nick Knight might be hiding into the light of day and, upon that duty he certainly could and did assure Richard Vetter that he would get to the truth. "I'll do my best, Commissioner," he said. "You have my word on that." he thought, the image of Joe Reese and the words "competency hearing" still fresh in his memory. Vetter nodded rapidly, silently, and released Wilkinson. He then seated himself once more, slowly reaching out to take one of his desk top photos in hand, his eyes steadfastly locked on some distant time and place as Wilkinson heeded the silent dismissal and made his way to the door. ************ It took a supreme effort of the will for Nick to avoid smashing the ICU nurses' station phone into a thousand bits of plastic and components. "Captain, I can't; not now. I can't leave Nat. There has to be another way!" "Nick, I know how you feel. I really do, but there's just too many unanswered questions about last night. IA's not going to back down." Joe Reese found a daunting task in preventing his own personal pressures from entering his voice as he informed Nick of Wilkinson's call. The constable had scheduled Nick Knight's debriefing for eight o'clock and had determined that he had better things to do than to inform Knight himself; leaving Reese with the task. "My hands are tied on this one, Nick," Reese added morosely. "But then again isn't that what you're supposed to do with the condemned man before execution; tie his hands? At least that's what they did in those old Eastwood movies." Nick had been pacing the length of the nurses' station and was restrained from venturing any further due only to the limited reach of the telephone cord. Even so, there was something in Reese's tone that momentarily diverted Nick's attention from his own mounting concerns, pausing his anxious footwork as well. "Let me guess," he said, remembering the call that had taken Reese out of the ICU. "Vetter?" "You got it," Reese answered. "He came down hard." "Hard..." Reese chuckled at Nick's choice of words. "I don't think I've ever seen him that angry before." Nick was pacing again. "I can understand him being upset about Tracy, but Dawkins killed her. You're not to blame for that." "Tell that to Vetter." "What about IA?" Nick asked before his attention was captured by the sight of a nurse moving quickly through an adjacent corridor, a bag of blood in one hand. Nick turned away quickly, fighting down the hunger that had suddenly flared up from within. The fact that Reese had begun speaking again took a moment to register. "...do any good," Reese was saying. "According to the IA preliminary report, currently incomplete due to the lack of testimony from a certain homicide detective, every officer in the precinct at the time of the shooting is willing to state for the record that there was nothing that could have been done that was not done." Reese sighed heavily. "The truth of the matter is that Tracy put herself in the line of fire and Vetter refuses to accept it." Nick placed one hand against a nearby wall to steady himself against the slight weakness that he felt in the wake of unsatisfied hunger. He had long since grown accustomed to holding the hunger at bay and did not normally experience such physical backlashes. <"Haven't you tired of this incessant guilt? Hasn't it swayed your back, and stooped your shoulders to the point of throwing it off?"> "Nick?" The sound of Joe Reese's questioning voice brought Nick out of his momentary lapse. "Yeah, Captain, I'm here." "Good," Reese replied with exaggerated relief. "We don't want you dropping off the face of the earth again." Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 18/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** Nick pushed away from the wall. "Captain, if everyone's backing you up and even IA's not harassing you, what can Vetter do?" "What can Vetter do? C'mon, Nick, Tracy must've told you something about her father, besides, the rest of it you can put together from department gossip, and if you still have any questions after that, I'll be only too happy to fill in the blanks." "Okay, so he's got a reputation," Nick shot back. "So he can be a bully, so what? I still don't see what he can do since there's nothing to point to you being responsible for Tracy's death." "Well then allow me to enlighten you," Reese said, pausing to draw a breath to say the words that he still could not bring himself to reconcile with his own particular reality. "Do the words 'competency hearing' suggest any options to you?" The look of utter incredulity that crossed Nick's pale features caught the attention of more than one passerby in the hospital corridor. "Competency hearing?" "That's right," Reese told him. "Yours truly has been invited to be the guest-of- honor at a coat-and-tie firing squad to be held at an as-of-yet unspecified time but most likely by mid-week." There was silence on the line after that remark as Nick was stunned and Joe Reese briefly turned away from the phone to be certain that his wife had not overheard his revelation. Satisfied that Denise was still taking her nap, Reese continued. "Vetter made it clear that he's really gonna push this hard, Nick. He wants my head real bad." "Captain, I don't know what to say." Nick turned his attention back to the nurses' station, silently scorning the unwanted stares he was receiving. "I'll tell IA everything that I can, surely that'll make the difference. I mean I was *there* after all; they'd listen to that, they'd have to!" "Don't count on it, Nick. Vetter's liable to downplay anything that you say." Reese took another deep breath before continuing, and Nick had the distinct feeling that he was not going to like what he heard. "I didn't tell you this yet, Nick, but Constable Wilkinson is the one on your back. He was sitting in line for the hot seat when I came out of Vetter's office. And then, I hardly had time to walk through my own front door before he was calling me and demanding that I tell you to be at the precinct tonight." Nick stiffened at the reference to Wilkinson, one of two Internal Affairs inspectors who had invaded his life nearly three years before, and whose scrutiny had nearly forced him to leave town. "I know Wilkinson," he said into the phone. "Yeah, well, from the way things are working out, I'd say that Vetter has made me his pet project, but he's pushing Wilkinson to go after you." Nick could easily visualize Reese shaking his head thoughtfully as he spoke. "Wilkinson didn't have anything to say about me or my statement. All he wanted to talk about was you, and he mentioned Natalie too, but even though it's his job to be pushy, I still think that Vetter's the one pushing the hardest. He's just using IA to go after you so he can fend off any charges of having a personal vendetta for trying to nail both of us. I don't have any doubt about that at all." "This is crazy," Nick said quietly. "I can understand his grieving about Tracy and wanting to get to the bottom of what happened to her, but even though I haven't made a statement yet, everyone else agrees that what happened wasn't your fault. Why can't he see that?" "You're dealing with more than just a grieving father here, Nick. You're dealing with Richard Vetter," Reese replied, as though that simple fact explained everything nicely. "No matter how it happened, Tracy is dead and *somebody* has to be blamed. Dawkins is dead, so it can't be him." "It can't be that simple," Nick protested. "Trust me, Nick," Reese answered. "I know the guy pretty well. It *is* that simple. Vetter's on a witch hunt and you and I are the ones wearing the pointy hats." Nick was silent for a moment, his mind slowly processing the inevitability of the situation. "Well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help with the hearing," he told Reese finally. "I'll be glad to do anything that I can to clear you." Reese's voice relayed his hidden smile. "Thanks, Nick, but you watch out for yourself right now. Wilkinson seems real anxious to get you into that interrogation room, and if they're willing to help smear a captain, I don't think they'd have any conscience when it comes to you either." "Yeah, well, we'll see about that," Nick replied, anger in his voice. "You just be there, Nick," Reese cautioned, sensing that familiar defiant spirit in his detective's voice. "Wilkinson made it clear that he'll put out a warrant on you if you're not there at exactly eight o'clock." "I'll be there, Cap'." "Good." Reese heaved a quiet sigh of relief that was not lost on Nick's sensitive hearing. There was an uneasy silence before the captain spoke again, the attempt to restore some nonchalance to his voice only too obvious. "How's Natalie? Any change?" "No, no change yet." "I'm sure she'll pull through, Nick. She's quite a lady." Reese was not sure about how to proceed, not quite certain as to what the relationship between Knight and Lambert really was. At times they seemed so close; at others, so distant. He finally decided on a course of action that revealed his good intentions while allowing himself the luxury of avoiding sticky relationship references. "You just be sure to take care of yourself, Nick. Natalie's going to need you." "Yeah, Cap,' I know and I will." Nick turned his head in the direction of Room 312, his eyes overshadowed with both the pain of the present and the uncertainty of the future. <"Then you'll just have to love me as much as I love you."> Reese's voice once again called Nick back from the surreal land of his thoughts. "I'll try to be there for Wilkinson's interview, Nick," the captain said. "That is, if I don't find out that I'm on suspension or something." Captain and detective exchanged a few final professional words before Nick hung up the phone and returned to Natalie's room, his already troubled mind now weighed down with still more concerns, more aftershocks of a night that refused to end. And the nurses that glanced up from their duties as Nick walked away would later remark regretfully to one another about the ways in which so young a man could look so very old. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 19/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** The tall metal door slid aside nosily in its track as Wilkinson and his team made their way into the loft. Wilkinson's heart beat rapidly with excitement but his tone was entirely professional. "All right, people, let's do this right," he said. Bright flashes of light accompanied the clicking and whirring sounds of cameras around Wilkinson as his crime scene investigation unit began the photographic documentation of the loft. Stepping through the golden streams of sunlight that crisscrossed the floor, Wilkinson observed that very little if anything in Knight's apartment had changed. He had gotten a good look around before, whenever Don Schanke had stayed out of the way, but he had not really developed much of an idea about what he was looking for at the time. Knight had been pretty much an enigma to everyone and they had been working mostly in the dark. Almost three years later, Knight was still an enigma but Wilkinson knew enough to determine where he should start. A thorough investigation, something denied him last time around, would take a great deal of time to complete but Wilkinson was determined that no stone should remained unturned. And Knight lived in a veritable rock garden of secrets. "Smell something burning?" The question came from Carl Rivera. Wilkinson turned to find the Hispanic forensic investigator at his side, curiously sniffing the air. "Yeah, I do," Wilkinson admitted, looking around for some visible source for the acrid smell in the air. There was a slight haze in the loft, as revealed by the streaming rays of sunlight from the windows, but Wilkinson was uncertain as to whether the effect might simply be from dust. "When in doubt, go for the obvious," he said to Rivera. "You check the fireplace; I'll check the stove." Rivera nodded and turned to the fireplace as Wilkinson set off for the kitchen area of the loft. Both men were stopped by the voice of Carol Lyndsey, another forensic investigator, who was already in the vicinity of the fireplace and kneeling on the floor, a sampling packet in her gloved hands. Wilkinson arrived as a photographer snapped a picture of what had caught Lyndsey's attention. A small, circular area of the carpeting had been stained a dull-reddish brown. "Dried blood," Lyndsey said, stating what was equally obvious to the veteran investigators gathered around her. Wilkinson watched as Lyndsey removed carpet fibers for the samples that she needed. he thought. Vic Peterson, substantially younger than the other officers at the scene, approached from Wilkinson's right, a leather purse in his hands. He clearly wanted the constable's attention but only stood still and silently watched him, obviously hesitant to speak. Wilkinson mentally cursed. As an Internal Affairs investigator, he had grown accustomed to being treated like live ammunition; it had its advantages, but it also got old very quickly. "Something on your mind, Peterson?" he asked, impatiently. The youngster started. "Uh, yes, sir." he replied nervously, holding up the purse like a trophy. "We found Dr. Lambert's purse; at least it has her wallet in it." Wilkinson nodded. "Fine," he told Peterson. "Give it to Forensics. Tell them to look through it, and anything else that you find that's of interest, and then tag it as evidence." "Yes, sir." Peterson turned to go. "And be careful with it," Wilkinson called from over his shoulder. "Yes, sir!" Wilkinson turned back to find their small group dissolving as Lyndsey stood with her samples. He watched as she tucked the blood-soaked carpet fibers into separate clear, plastic viles. Blood. Wilkinson thought back to the first time that he had heard that word spoken in the same place, almost three years earlier. <"Say, does anyone know why this guy would have blood in his refrigerator?"> <"Blood?"> <"Yeah, blood."> The memory prompted Wilkinson to turn his attention once again to the loft's kitchen; forgetting about the smell of smoke and focusing instead on the double-sided, black refrigerator. Finding blood in Knight's refrigerator had been one of the most bizarre discoveries of Wilkinson's career. Schanke had later said that Knight used it to thicken his oil paints. <"Just what kind of guy was Knight anyway? To dream up something like that?"> Wilkinson stopped just shy of the refrigerator and reached out for one of the door handles. He jerked the door open. "What have you got there?" Rivera appeared at Wilkinson's side as the constable reached into the refrigerator and removed a green, glass bottle, corked at the top and filled with a familiar crimson liquid. There were four others identical to it on the refrigerator's top shelf. "Looks like Knight's a red wine junkie," Rivera commented. "He shouldn't be refrigerating the stuff though." "Unless I miss my guess," Wilkinson began, removing the cork from the bottle and taking an experimental sniff of the contents, "it's blood." "Blood?" "Blood!" Wilkinson and Rivera turned to find Peterson standing with them, a grimace on his youthful features. "Why would anyone have blood in their refrigerator?" Rivera smirked and placed a hand on Peterson's left shoulder. "Where would *you* keep blood around the house, Vic?" Peterson's brown eyes widened. "I wouldn't have any blood in the house to start with," he protested, shrugging Rivera's hand away. "Oh, what's wrong with a little blood in the house?" "You've got a real sick sense of humor, Carlos," Peterson shot back as he swiftly exited the kitchen. "Hey, it's Carl," Rivera said, chuckling good naturedly. "It's 'Lieutenant' to you," Wilkinson said in the general direction of the fleeing Peterson. He placed the bottle back into the refrigerator, noting the complete absence of any types of food. The same thing had been true of Knight's refrigerator before. "That's right," Rivera was saying, "I remember hearing about this!" The forensics technician folded his arms as he shot a grin at Wilkinson. "Knight's partner kept going on about it being..." "Paint-thickener," Wilkinson said, cutting him off. "Cow blood at that!" "Better than human." Rivera laughed. "Well, I don't know. I mean, it might be kind of neat to be immortalized on canvas." Wilkinson turned from studying the refrigerator's contents, resisting the urge to smile at Rivera's comments. "I thought you were supposed to be checking out the fireplace." "Oh, I already did that," Rivera told him. "There's something like a big pole or a stick of some kind in there, broken into a couple of pieces and pretty well charred, still a little warm in fact. It was the only thing in there that had been burned." "The only thing, eh," Wilkinson mused, leaning heavily against the open refrigerator door. "Seems like a strange thing to throw into a fireplace by itself." Rivera nodded. "Yeah, especially since it's a gas fireplace." "Gas?" "Yeah, it's not like you'd need to burn anything in it. The 'wood' is that painted metal stuff, imitation." "Weird." Wilkinson said. "Better take it in." "They're bagging it up now." "Good." Wilkinson moved to shut the refrigerator door but stopped. He then reached out for the two lower compartments and heard Rivera's familiar chuckling behind him. "If this guy refrigerates blood, I'm not sure I want to see what he keeps in the 'crispy' section." Wilkinson pulled the drawers open and stood upright again, staring. Rivera let out a low whistle. "All right, Knight," Wilkinson said quietly as he stared into the refrigerator, "let's see you explain this one." Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 20/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** Nick awoke from a restless sleep as the stirrings of his vampire nature informed him that the sun had set. Untangling his limbs from the hard metal and plastic-coated chair in which he had passed most of the afternoon hours, Nick stood and stretched. Other than an occasional visit from one of the ICU nurses, the afternoon had passed uneventfully. Natalie had not stirred and her condition had neither worsened nor improved. Three short paces brought Nick to the foot of Natalie's hospital bed where he touched a hand to his right temple as if to banish the fog that had settled in his brain: a testimony to the fact that the emotional stresses, sporadic feedings and lack of restful sleep were taking a heavy toll on his otherwise resilient physique. <"I'm leaving; tonight."> <"Not without me..."> <"I'm leaving because of you. You don't want my love. It'll only destroy you."> And so it nearly had. The words returned with a haunting resonance as Nick watched Natalie's steady breathing and listened to the beeping and humming of medical equipment against the background noises of the Intensive Care Unit. His mind began to drift as he watched Natalie lying so still on the bed that he had made for her; thoughts of the previous night's misfortunes slowly parading before his consciousness, melding with the familiar beating of Natalie's heart and filling his mind, saturating his senses. The scent of her life, that invisible signature that each soul carries, married the reflections of those sensations and images that he had found in her life blood and shook Nick to his innermost being. The euphoria of the memory, the thundering of Natalie's heartbeat throughout his being also served to ignite yet another flame within Nick; the cold and ancient burning that enslaved his Kind night after dark night. Revulsion flooded Nick's thoughts as he struggled against the madness that threatened to possess him once again in his weakened state. Nick's eyes snapped open, he had been unaware that they had ever closed, and he could hear the groaning of the metal bedrailing beneath his fingers as his grip steadily tightened. Nick forced his eyes from Natalie, forced his thoughts from the fire in her veins, struggled with talons of the beast that tore at him from within. It was then, at the moment he thought the vampire subdued, that there came an unmistakable scent, putrid in comparison to the life that he had contemplated but more than sufficient to send the beast into a renewed rage. Nick's head snapped in the direction of the odor, the vampire's golden hue burning in his eyes. LaCroix was there; one pale hand clasping a green-tinted glass bottle, the uncorked top of which was raised to his lips. Another wave of the scent struck Nick full force as LaCroix pursed his lips and blew lightly across the top of the bottle. LaCroix's lips ceased their mischief as Nick abandoned his struggle against the vampire and snatched the bottle from his master. The ancient immortal merely looked on with approval as his son up-ended the bottle for a long draught, nearly gagging in the effort to quell his hunger. After a moment, Nick slowly eased the bottle away from his lips. He drew in a deep breath and leaned heavily on the hospital bed railing, the now half- drained bottle clasped tightly in his right hand. His breath came in gasps at first and then slowly evened out as the familiar sensations of calmed hunger and renewed strength flowed throughout his body. In spite of the reprieve, Nick was still weak and his voice was strained as he spoke. "What are you doing here, LaCroix." Nick's master cocked his head to one side, a smile upon his lips. "Why Nicholas, I simply came to inquire as to the good doctor's condition." A raised eyebrow now accompanied the grin. "I trust that visiting hours have not yet passed?" Nick took another long drink from the bottle as he regarded his master suspiciously. "I thought you were leaving; 'with or without' me," he said when finished. LaCroix stepped to one side of Natalie's bed, his long fingers slowly tracing the railing. "Permit me the luxury of being old enough to make up my own mind concerning when it is time to leave, Nicholas." "You're mind *was* made up," Nick reminded him. "The Raven was closed and you were packed." "Ah, so I was." LaCroix stopped momentarily to watch the readouts of various medical instruments before answering further. "Let us say that, events have necessitated certain alterations in my itinerary. At least for the moment." "If this is about me, LaCroix, you might as well go now because I'm not leaving." LaCroix turned, amusement once again in his eyes. "Oh, it's always about you, Nicholas, be assured of that. As for leaving, you must do that eventually. We all must move on." Nick shot his master a decidedly antagonistic look. "I'll leave when I decide to." He finished draining the bottle of the last of its contents. LaCroix accepted the rebuttal evenly. "So you say, Nicholas. So you say." He moved quickly and silently to stand by his son. "In the meantime, allow me to say that I am simply concerned for you, Nicholas. It is that very concern in fact, which prompted my visit here tonight, more so even than my concern for the esteemed Dr. Lambert." Nick faced his master, his stance still defiant although somewhat less hostile. "You're concern isn't needed," he told the elder vampire. "I can handle my own life." "Really?" LaCroix's voice trailed away in soft mockery. "You see, Nicholas, knowing you as I do, I realized that you would have neglected your needs. Therefore, since Dr. Lambert's presence in this facility is to expedite her recovery your indiscretions, I thought it necessary to bring you something to satisfy...the need." He waved one pale hand at the bottle that Nick held, and then at Natalie. "Lest she be saved from your indiscretions one night, merely to fall victim to them again the very next night." Nick stiffened at his master's thinly-veiled derision. "That's not going to happen again." "Of course not." LaCroix moved to stand behind Nick, leaning in close enough that Nick could feel his master's cold breath on his neck. "But you cannot tell me, Nicholas, that you do not feel as though some slumbering part of your being has awakened, that this tainted offering which you have just now given to quell your cravings can, in any fashion, compare to the rare and luscious vintage that you drank in last night." Nick scowled and turned away but LaCroix followed, undaunted. "You can't tell me that the taste of that forbidden fruit has not fanned to new flame the coldest embers within, or that this newly kindled desire can ever again be calmed by anything less than that same sweet wine." Nick turned sharply on his heel, scowling. "Save your dementia for your audience, LaCroix. I have no interest in it." LaCroix raised his right hand quickly, index finger extended. His eyes were laughing. "Be careful, Nicholas. Last I knew, you were still a rather faithful member of that particular audience. Besides, I'm not telling you anything that you don't already know to be true." Nick's eyes darted away from his master as he sought for some retort that would effectively deny LaCroix the advantage that he was seeking to exploit from his progeny's inner turmoil. "I can control it," he said, still not looking at LaCroix directly. "I wouldn't hurt Nat." LaCroix sighed and nodded in exaggerated sympathy. "Ah, then I suppose that we may therefore conclude that Miss Lambert has come to be where she is as a result of your good graces and exemplary self-restraint." The words struck Nick's wounded conscience like an adder's bite. "It was never my intention to hurt her," he shot back, his blue eyes rimmed with gold. LaCroix's face was devoid of emotion, but his eyebrows climbed ever so slightly at Nick's rebuke. "Of course. I'm certain that you had only the best of intentions." So saying, he moved away from Nick to stand at Natalie's bedside once again. He gazed down at her briefly before turning his attention back to Nick. "Then again, I trust that you know what they say about the road to a certain rather unpleasant location being veritably paved with such intentions." Nick opened his mouth to respond but LaCroix cut him off. "But why should we carry on so when there are clearly more important matters at hand, hmmm?" He looked to Nick expectantly as he waved his right hand across Natalie's still form, the ring at his finger gleaming in silver splendor despite the dim lighting. "And so, what is the prognosis?" Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 21/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** A mixture of conflicting emotions crossed Nick's face as he stared back at LaCroix. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other after a moment and finally answered his master's question. "Her life's not in danger anymore," Nick said, as though he were not quite certain of that statement. "She should come out of it anytime now." "Quite recovered then?" Towering at Natalie's bedside with his pallid features and midnight-black clothing, LaCroix resembled nothing less than the classic spectral image of the death angel. The fact that it was a hospital bed and an unconscious patient next to which LaCroix stood did nothing to dispel that illusion for Nick who moved to stand at Natalie's right, his shadow falling across her body as though it were a protective shroud. "Not just yet," Nick replied, a hint of a challenge in his inflection. "but we hope soon." Nick's blue eyes locked with LaCroix's, daring him to deny this one thing that Nick was so very determined should come to pass. LaCroix chose to ignore the dare, settling instead upon another tact. "Yes, quite recovered then," he said, his lips curling upward into his usual shadowy smile. He reached out and passed one hand gently to the left of Natalie's head, his fingers stirring strands of her hair. "But not quite the *same,* eh, Nicholas?" Nick's stone wall of defiance threatened to crumble as his eyes narrowed, his body stiffening. "What's *that* supposed to mean?" he demanded. "Oh, come now, Nicholas..." LaCroix withdrew his hand from Natalie. "Surely even your meager senses are not so completely withered that you cannot sense the change in her." There was absolute silence between the two immortals as LaCroix's statement hung heavily in the empty air between them. Nick fought the urge to look at Natalie. Instead, his eyes remained fastened with LaCroix's, as though the simple act of averting his gaze would forfeit some as-of-yet unsurrendered territory. "What are you saying?" LaCroix's eyes narrowed. "Don't toy with me, Nicholas. You know perfectly well what I mean." His master's probing stare finally forced Nick from the contest of wills. He looked down at Natalie in silence, unable to think of a way in which to refute LaCroix's unstated accusation. The truth was undeniable. Upon entering the ICU, Nick had found Natalie by following the link that had been established between them, something altogether uncommon between vampires and mortals. By the time that Nick looked up once again, LaCroix was at his side, his blue eyes as cold as the steel in his voice. "How much, Nicholas?" Nick stared back at him uneasily. "What do you mean?" "I said, *how much* did you give her?" LaCroix moved closer, cutting off any avenue of retreat. "How much did you *show* her?" Nick turned away, refusing to meet his master's gaze. LaCroix startled the younger vampire by seizing him by the arm. "How *much!*" Nick twisted away angrily. "*Everything;* everything that I could never tell her; everything that she deserved to know!" He stepped forward suddenly, face to face with LaCroix in defiance. "I showed her everything that I am." "Fool." LaCroix's features hardened further as his eyes burned into Nick's. "She *deserved* to know, LaCroix." "And does she *deserve* what will undoubtedly befall her now, Nicholas?" LaCroix paused as Nick's look of defiance slowly faded. "Oh, but you didn't think about *that,* did you?" Nick brushed LaCroix aside roughly and moved to stand at the far side of the room. He did not answer the elder vampire's challenge. LaCroix stared down at Natalie. "You know, Nicholas, the strength of the impression that I feel from her is nearly equivalent to that which I feel from you." He paused only long enough to allow the full impact of his words to register with Nick. "It is quite possible that if you had not gotten Dr. Lambert to mortal care when you did that she might have come across in spite of your intentions to the contrary." The sound of LaCroix's quiet chuckling turned Nick from his standoff with the wall. "She would have come across by now if that were true," he murmured, his eyes betraying the lack of confidence that he felt in the words that he had just spoken. His own senses told him that what LaCroix said was true. The anger had completely departed from LaCroix's features, replaced instead by a renewed sneer. "Oh, don't trouble yourself so, Nicholas. She may not have come across, but she may become a hunter." Nick shot his master a look of disgust. "And that would just thrill you, wouldn't it?" "While I believe that particular outcome would provide me with innumerable opportunities to needle you over the next century or so, I think that it would also prove to be...most inconvenient for both of us." Moving to stand beside Nick once again, LaCroix turned and gave Natalie a lengthy, appraising look. "One wonders," he said after a moment, "what it must be like for them." Nick did not turn but regarded LaCroix warily from the corner of one eye. "What do you mean," he asked, quietly. "We vampires are accustomed to experiencing the lives of others to the very fullest extent possible," LaCroix answered, his eyes still fixed on Natalie. "But mortals have no such adaptability, no means with which to accommodate the veritable flooding of their every pore with the fullness of expression that is another life." LaCroix turned to Nick and noted that the younger vampire was obviously troubled by his master's newest thoughts. He resisted a powerful urge to smile. "What is simply intoxicating to us might very well be torturous to them," he waved a hand at Natalie, "to her, that is. After all, can you imagine what it would be like to be so completely overwhelmed by the thoughts and feelings of another that your very identity as an individual is blurred and you are unable to extricate yourself, to find yourself again?" "That enough, LaCroix." Nick's master was undaunted by the warning tone in his son's voice. "If you truly showed her *everything,* Nicholas, then you have deluged this poor mortal female's already limited understanding with not merely one life, but with many lifetimes of experiences." Nick was gripping the bedframe again, his anger building. "You've made your point, LaCroix; now stop it." "Of course there are also the countless lives that you have taken and absorbed into your own over the years to consider as well." LaCroix let out a well-placed sigh. "It seems that Dr. Lambert will be quite fortunate to remember her own name after this incident, to say nothing of..." Nick whirled on LaCroix, eyes golden, and seized the ancient by both shoulders. "I said, *that's enough!*" The smile finally broke through. "Very well, Nicholas; if you insist. I won't trouble you any further with the truth." Nick pushed LaCroix away roughly. "You know nothing of the truth." "Really?" LaCroix's voice was hardly more than a whisper as he answered. "Well then, Nicholas, if there is a flaw in my logic, please do not hesitate to point it out so that I can correct it." Nick stared harshly back at his master. "I told you; I never meant for any of this to happen to Nat. I would never intentionally hurt her." "But the fact remains that you *did* hurt her," LaCroix replied, "due entirely to your own inability to govern passion with reason, which has been the point of this entire conversation, the truth which you refuse to accept: the fact that you are still accountable for the unintended consequences of your thoughtless actions, regardless of original intent." LaCroix glared demandingly at his son. "Please, do tell me if I am mistaken in any of the facts of the matter. My unfamiliarity with the truth *is* a considerable handicap at times, after all." Indignation burned in Nick's eyes as he coldly regarded the elder vampire. He was desperately in search of words with the power to remove the burden of LaCroix's blame from his already laden shoulders. Frustrated by his inability to respond, Nick finally turned his back on LaCroix. The ancient merely smiled in his triumph as he closed the distance between himself and Nick. "So much for the truth then, eh Nicholas?" There was a tremble in the air at LaCroix's departure and Nick finally did turn to stare at the empty space where his master had once stood, hurling accusations like barbs. In a little over two hours, there would be even more questions to answer; those of Internal Affairs. But those questions would be of the nature of times and names, places and procedures, Nick thought as he turned to look at Natalie. Not the gut-wrenching questions of the heart...and the incredible power of those closest to it. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part 01/??*** The Hands of Time (Part 22/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** "What *is* it with you people?" Carl Rivera entered the doorway of his cramped basement office, a bag of Doritos in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other, only to find Dennis Wilkinson perched atop his desk busily talking on the telephone. Rivera crossed the room to his desk chair, plopped down into a sitting position and began tearing into his vending machine snacks; all the while eyeing Wilkinson and talking rapidly. "You IA guys are a real piece of work, you know that?" Rivera said while crunching a mouthful of chips. "You order us around; you spy on us; you take over our offices; you talk on our phones..." "We tell you to shut-up," Wilkinson responded, somewhat impatiently, and then into the phone, "no, not you, Dr. Turner, I'm sorry; I was speaking with someone else." Rivera chuckled and Wilkinson shot him a warning look. "Yes, go ahead and send them to the address that I gave you before. Yes, it's 'Wilkinson'...with an 'I'..." "As in 'ignoramus,'" Rivera added from behind the protection of his Coke can. Wilkinson sighed and then grinned in spite of himself. Rivera was the only person he knew of who would talk to an Internal Affairs investigator like that, and Wilkinson was the only one that he knew of who would take it. The fact that the two men had been friends for nearly ten years had more than a little to do with it. Wilkinson said a few more 'thank you's' into the phone before hanging up. He turned to Rivera. "Anything yet?" Rivera chewed thoughtfully before responding. "Some. Not much though, really." "C'mon, Carl, you guys have had all day," Wilkinson protested as he reached into his suit pocket and retrieved a small notepad. "Hey, this is a quality operation we run down here, boss; that means that we take our time. Besides, we really don't know what we're looking for." Rivera tossed Wilkinson a file folder. "What we do have is right in there, though. It's as much as I could get together this afternoon. We should have more by tomorrow." Wilkinson put his notebook away and began thumbing through the pages of the Forensics preliminary report, most of which consisted of photocopied sampling charts and comparisons. "Anything that'll help me tonight?" he asked. "I'm interviewing Nick Knight in a little over an hour from now." "Well, the condensed version is pretty simple, really," Rivera replied as he dug for another handful of chips. "The blood that we found on the floor of Knight's apartment is AB-, the same as Natalie Lambert's although we can't establish that it is hers until the DNA tests come back and that usually takes a few days." "That's something significant," Wilkinson remarked as he stared at the paperwork. Rivera shrugged. "Not much for you though, after all, Knight admits that he found Dr. Lambert on the floor of his apartment to start with, right?" "That's what he told Reese, but you leave that to me," Wilkinson replied. "What else?" "Having eyes, can ye not read?" Rivera muttered. "We found fingerprints, mostly Knight's of course, but Dr. Lambert's too, and then some others that we couldn't identify. Nothing where it shouldn't be or couldn't be easily explained away though." "And the blood?" Wilkinson's jaw tensed as he asked the question. "The blood in the fridge is animal; entirely animal," Rivera leaned forward in order to emphasize the last part of his statement. "What about the two bags?" Rivera shook his head at the memory of the two bags of donated human blood that he and Wilkinson had discovered in the lower sections of Knight's refrigerator. "Just what it says it is," he replied. "As weird as that may sound. It's entirely human; types A and O." Wilkinson opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by Rivera. "And *before* you ask, yes, the samples that we got from the paintings in the Boris Karloff art gallery there *do* show trace amounts of blood." "And..." "Wild Kingdom again." Wilkinson snapped the folder shut, his face grim. "So, Knight was telling the truth about that after all." "Apparently so." Rivera leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Why does that seem to bother you so much?" "Why does *what* bother me," Wilkinson asked somewhat defensively. "The idea that Knight seems to be telling the truth," Rivera told him. "I mean, despite the reputation and all that, I thought you guys are supposed to be happy when cops are proven innocent." "We *are*...and Knight has *not* been proven innocent of anything yet," Wilkinson shot back. "Hang on a sec,' will ya," Rivera interjected. "He hasn't been charged with anything yet, either." Wilkinson left his perch atop Rivera's desk and walked to the nearest of three tall, gray filing cabinets. Leaning one arm against the closest cabinet, Wilkinson turned. "There's something about this guy, Carl. I can't really explain it, but everything about him seems to be...*wrong* somehow." "Didn't you go after him once before?" "I *investigated* him once before, yes," Wilkinson responded, "for a couple of murders about three years ago, but it turned out that he was framed for them." "So, then, you didn't find anything, or just couldn't prove anything." "We didn't have time to find anything substantive." Wilkinson's eyes focused on the reflection of fluorescent lights on Rivera's desk top as his mind focused on the previous Internal Affairs inquiry into the life of Detective Nick Knight. "We started to get a handle on some things in the files, mostly stuff in Knight's past, things that weren't making any sense, but by the time that we really got going on it, the case fell through and Knight was cleared." Rivera didn't understand. "So, if you thought you were onto something, why didn't you go forward with investigations along those lines instead of the murder charges?" Wilkinson scowled. "I tried but the case files were sealed under court order, which is standard procedure once an officer is cleared of charges of wrong-doing. Since everything that we had been working on was connected with that case, we were ordered to drop the matter entirely. Headquarters got pretty nasty about it too, so I didn't have much choice except to lay off of Knight." "And that's why you're so anxious to find something now? To convince the courts to reopen the case files and let you take another crack at Knight?" Wilkinson made a quick decision not to tell Rivera that Vetter was going to have the case files opened again. "That's part of it," he answered cautiously, "but I actually do think that there is something decidedly non- standard-issue about this guy and I intend to find out what it is eventually." "Knight's weird, I'll grant you that," Rivera said. He then finished off the last of his chips and threw the bag into a nearby trashcan. "But being weird doesn't make him a criminal, Dennis." "It's not just that, Carl, if being weird mandated investigation, you'd be a regular customer." Satisfied with his jab, Wilkinson spoke rapidly in order to stave-off a return wise-crack. "Everything around this guy seems to be in constant chaos: he loses two partners in less than a year, both violently..." "Schanke got blown up by a serial bomber," Rivera protested, "that's hardly Knight's fault; and your own preliminary report suggests that Tracy Vetter put herself in the line of fire." "The case isn't closed on Vetter just yet," Wilkinson emphasized, "besides there are a lot of other strange things, not the least of which is this situation with Natalie Lambert." "Hey, now I happen to know a little something about Dr. Lambert," Rivera told Wilkinson, "and she and Knight were pretty much an item as far as anybody ever knew; a weird item, granted, but more than just friends, that's for sure. I don't see why he'd hurt her." "And that's why police officers are called in how-many-times-a-night to break up domestic violence situations, married people slugging each other?" Rivera smiled and extended his hand. "Touche." Wilkinson shook the hand with a grin. "Some respect at last." "Yeah, well don't get used to it." "Anyway," Wilkinson sighed, "getting back to the matter at hand, when you came in I was talking to a Dr. Leanna Turner at Mercy General Hospital where Natalie Lambert is being treated. Dr. Turner was the Emergency Room Supervisor on duty when Lambert was brought in." Wilkinson paused to gather his thoughts before proceeding. "What she had to tell me about Lambert's injuries, is, to put it mildly, interesting." Carl Rivera leaned forward across his desk once again, arms outstretched before him. "And?" Wilkinson was about to speak and then abruptly changed his mind and snapped up the Forensics preliminary report from Rivera's desk. "Show up at the interview tonight and you'll find out." Rivera's head dropped. "What?! 'Come to the interview?'" "It'll be worth it. Trust me." "I hate interrogations," Rivera protested, "and you know that very well; besides, I've already put in enough overtime for you today as it is!" Wilkinson was almost out the door and, turning, put out a hand to stop Rivera from following. "I *promise* that it'll be worth it, Carl." "Wilkinson, I want to go home!" "Dinner afterwards," Wilkinson said, and then added, "my treat." Rivera had risen most of the way out of his chair, contemplating pursuit when Wilkinson's last words froze him. "*Your* treat?" Wilkinson smiled, knowing that there was little possibility that he could go wrong at this point. "My treat. See you at eight." And he was gone. Rivera paused before sitting. "Whatever's good enough to make Wilkinson pay for dinner ought to be at least worth a look," he mumbled under his breath. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part 01/??*** The Hands of Time (Part 23/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** The nurse spent very little time with Natalie; staying only long enough to find that there was no change in her condition and then noting as much on her chart. She was gone after that, her thoughts centered around the last three patients who stood between her and the tub of steaming-hot bathwater that called seductively to her tired joints and aching feet. As soon as the nurse departed, a patch of darkness moved form its place of concealment behind the room's heavy wooden door and took on human form as it stepped into the light that streamed in from the hallway. LaCroix smiled, his expression much the same as that of an eagle studying its prey from atop some lofty perch. Satisfied that he would not be disturbed for some time to come, LaCroix made his way to Natalie's bedside and sat beside the unconscious mortal, taking her hand in his and caressing the warm flesh with his own cold fingers. Amused, LaCroix surveyed the IV drip and the plastic tube that brought clear fluids into Natalie's veins through a needle implanted in the back of her hand. "So fragile." Turning his attention from the flimsy mortal contraption, LaCroix studied the sleeping features of the mortal who had come to mean so much to his son; so much that Nicholas had been willing to forfeit the promise of eternity in order to embrace the faith with which she had beguiled him. <"I have that faith, too."> Mortal folly, indeed. LaCroix knew that he had failed to anticipate the power that his once trite comment to Nicholas might have if it ever fell into the wrong hands at the right moment. And so it had. It was, after all, in Nicholas' foolish nature to worship at the shrine of all-things-mortal; to the point where he had tried to live and function as one of them in spite of the deleterious consequences that he had continually suffered. If Nicholas believed something to be uniquely mortal, he embraced it. If LaCroix warned him against something, he gravitated to it. In the heat of the previous night's distress, Nicholas had become convinced that there could be nothing more mortal than the act of having faith; Natalie Lambert had seen to that. And in his customary head-strong fashion, Nicholas had embraced that notion; willing to surrender even his life if it meant recapturing his lost faith and; therefore, his lost humanity. LaCroix had seldom underestimated a mortal, even when he himself was one. Now, as he sat beside her in the semi-darkness of the hospital room, LaCroix was forced to admit to himself that he had underestimated Natalie Lambert. He had known that she possessed a certain amount of boldness and determination, one had to in order to tolerate Nicholas for any length of time, but he had also thought that she was devoid of any true depth. He had been wrong; and for that he grudgingly accorded Natalie his respect, a luxury-item that few mortals had ever possessed. There was no honor lost in respecting one's adversary, in fact, there was often much to be gained by it. LaCroix mused silently on this bit of truth while he reached out with one hand, his fingers lightly cupping Natalie's face, and then slowly falling to her throat. One small twist, hardly enough to even be considered an exertion by one of his physical prowess, would have been sufficient to dispatch the mortal woman. And why not? After all, respecting one's adversary was not the same thing as relinquishing the right to strike that adversary a blow when presented with the opportunity. He allowed himself a smile at the thought but had no intention of actually going through with it, for LaCroix knew that the best of blows struck in wars of affection were seldom scored so directly. No, there was a better way. LaCroix withdrew his fingers. In ancient times, his own era, conquered peoples were often simply destroyed or subjugated; their conquerors having little patience or resources for anything else. But Lucius of Pompeii had seen another practice, one which yielded a hundred fold the benefits of war when it was possible to employ: the practice of embracing the conquered. The Romans had certainly done so, even granting citizenship to the children of many of the nations and tribes that they vanquished, so that within one or two generations, a conquered people were no longer held at bay by the sword of Rome but actively assisted in wielding that sword against others. Sometimes the best way to fully overcome an opponent was to embrace them as one of your own. It was a tested lesson of war and empire. It was equally a lesson of life's many conflicts. And conquest aside, there was Nicholas' current predicament to consider as well... "Dear, sweet, Natalie," LaCroix whispered to the unconscious mortal. "It would seem that you and I are alone once again...a situation that I find simply fraught with possibilities." Leaning in closer to Natalie, LaCroix twisted a curl of her hair around one of his fingers. "You have something that I want; something that I need; something that I have always called my own but have not truly possessed for quite some time. You have bewitched my Nicholas, seduced him with your mortal love and your talk of faith. And now see where your fancies have gotten you? "But there is no need for us to struggle so against one another for that which we both desire." LaCroix then moved forward again, this time coming so close to Natalie that his lips nearly brushed against her right ear. "There is...another way," he whispered. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part 01/??*** The Hands of Time (Part 24/??)*** By: Stephen Lansing *** Captain Joe Reese stood alone outside of the two-way glass window of Interrogation Room number two, his hands deep in his pockets and a glum expression on his dark features. Nick Knight had walked in looking disheveled and unshaven only five minutes ago, and Reese had allowed himself a sigh of relief in knowing that his unpredictably-tempered detective was now bending to the will of the system when it truly counted. Nick was now seated in the interrogation room directly across from Constable Dennis Wilkinson who was reviewing various items of paperwork and hastily jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad. The time was 7:59. Wilkinson had been in the interrogation room since 7:45, and had been so absorbed in his work that he had not even acknowledged Knight's presence as of yet. But Reese knew that this was simply Wilkinson's way. The Internal Affairs veteran was generally polite, even pleasant to those who knew him better, but when it came to departmental affairs he was entirely professional and always punctual. The interview was scheduled to take place at eight o'clock and Wilkinson would start at precisely eight o'clock. Reese turned at the sound of heavy footsteps quickly approaching from behind and was more than a little surprised to see forensic technician Carl Rivera walk up and stand beside him at the glass. "What are you doing here, Carl?" Reese asked. "I thought you hated interrogations." "Bribery." Reese was taken aback. "Come again?" "Not likely," Rivera answered. He appeared quite nervous to Reese, both arms folded tightly across his chest, one foot tapping the floor. Reese would have pressed him further but it was now eight o'clock and Wilkinson was on the move. ************ There was a sharp metallic click as Wilkinson engaged the 'record' action of the bulky reel-to-reel tape recorder that occupied the table top space between himself and his subject: Detective Nicholas Knight. "It was very good of you to take time to meet with us this evening, Detective Knight," Wilkinson said with an upraised eyebrow. "I hope that we aren't inconveniencing you too terribly with our cumbersome departmental procedures and all of that." Nick's eyes narrowed but he ignored the jab. "I won't deny that I've had a lot on my mind, and I apologize for putting the interview off, but I'm perfectly willing to aid your investigation in any way that I can, Constable." If Wilkinson was disappointed at not receiving a more harsh rebuttal, he did nothing to indicate it. He merely tapped the table with the tip of his ball-point pen and proceeded. "Very well, Detective Knight, I would like to get to the heart of the matter as quickly as possible this evening and I'm certain that you would be agreeable to that. I'll begin by taking your statement on the matter of the late Delbert Dawkins and your former partner, the late Miss Tracy Vetter. First, let's tend to the formalities. Please state your full name, badge number and date of birth for the record..." ************ "Your life is lost to you," LaCroix whispered to the unconscious Natalie. "Your conscious and unconscious worlds are awash in the storm of other lives; a thousand sights and sounds pound against your understanding and perceptions. You desperately want to come back, to return to yourself and the limitations of your own mind and life, but you are hindered." LaCroix thought that he noticed a slight tremor in Natalie's hand as he spoke. He pressed ahead. "You *can* come back," he said, smiling. "That is...if you come to me." ************ "There are some that would say that you may have used excessive force in subduing Mr. Dawkins, Detective Knight." Wilkinson was on his feet and leaning against one pale blue wall of the interrogation room, his arms crossed. "Would you say that this is an accurate assessment of the situation?" Nick straightened in his chair and folded his hands together on the table in front of him. "No," he said after a slight hesitation. "Mr. Dawkins was unstable; ask anyone who was there and witnessed his actions. I had arrested him once before and knew this already, so I initially tried to gain his trust..." "You tried to talk him down?" "At first, yes," Nick answered, remembering. "I thought that I had succeeded; I mean, he seemed ready to put the gun down...and then, the lights came back on. That's when he spotted Detective Vetter and raised his weapon again. I moved on Dawkins and he pointed the gun at me, firing off a couple of shots, all of which missed." Nick regretting his alteration of the truth regarding the shots that missed him but knew that it was unavoidable. "As I said, Dawkins was unstable and acting wildly, making it much more difficult than usual for me to get the gun from him and put him down without injury to either of us." Wilkinson retrieved his legal pad from the table. "And it was during, and due entirely to this struggle for the weapon that Mr. Dawkins sustained his fatal head wound?" "Yes." "He made no effort to cooperate or surrender his weapon?" "None. He was as determined to kill me as he had been to kill Detective Vetter. In his derangement, Dawkins seemed to believe that everyone was trying to kill him. There was no reasoning with him. I was fighting for my life and Detective Vetter's life as much as Dawkins believed that he was fighting for his." Nick paused. "What happened was...unfortunate, but I did nothing improper." "And in retrospect, could you, personally, have done anything differently that would not have resulted in the same outcome with respect to both Mr. Dawkins and Detective Vetter?" "Given the same circumstances...no. I know of nothing that could have been done differently." "I see." ************ *There* it was...what Natalie had so desperately desired to find: a voice, a tendril of external reality upon which to grab hold in the midst of the furious sights and sounds that surrounded her. But would it last...or would it be gone as suddenly as before? She reached for it... ************ "You will put aside your stubborn mortal notions if you want to live again," LaCroix commanded. "You will put them aside and you will come to me, thinking only of me and setting the chaos of your world aside. Blind yourself to that which has blinded your being and come to me. Take hold of that which I offer you, Natalie, of the one thing that can yet save you whole." LaCroix reached out with the force of his own mind as he spoke, employing the methods by which vampires had searched for and found one another through the centuries and across the continents. And he could feel the struggle within her as well as though she were one of his own fledglings, his Janette or his Nicholas, as they had once fretted in learning the basic lessons of their Kind. "Put aside all else," he whispered again, "and come to me. Come to the sound of my voice." ************ The interview had gone well so far and Reese felt that Nick had answered Wilkinson's questions more than adequately and with little or no hesitation. If all else went as well, this would be a simple matter and Nick could get on with his life. It was then that Reese heard whispered tones in the background and turned, annoyed, to find Sergeant Finster speaking with an unseen individual in the corridor that led to the squad room. Reese started to speak up and tell the sergeant to take his conversation elsewhere. But that was before Finster himself turned and began to approach the interrogation room door, allowing Joe Reese to see who it was that stood in the corridor. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part 01/??*** The Hands of Time (Part 25/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** "Moving on then to the matter of Natalie Lambert." Wilkinson had resumed his seat at the table and turned to a new page in his legal pad as he spoke. "How would you describe your relationship with Dr. Lambert, Detective Knight?" Wilkinson had asked the question without looking up for which Nick was grateful; for there was no way to tell what emotions had crossed his features and whether or not they accurately told the tale of his own inner turmoil. There was a very real possibility that the guilt of what had happened last night was etched into his very facial features; it was certainly etched into his soul...or what was left of it after eight hundred years of darkness. "Detective Knight?" Nick started and immediately, silently cursed his knee-jerk reaction. Wilkinson's eyebrows had climbed very slightly and Nick's own trained investigator's mind knew what the constable would make of that reaction, what he himself would make of it if their positions were reversed. It was a sign that an exposed nerve had been discovered. Now it would only be a matter of kicking at it until the one being interrogated decided that the discomfort was not worth the effort of attempting to cover the wound. Wilkinson moved to speak again, but Nick cut him off, now even more on the defensive than before. "I'm sorry...I was just trying to gather my thoughts.. the last twenty-four hours haven't been easy." Wilkinson straightened his posture a bit at Nick's remark, the shadow of a smile creeping onto his otherwise stern features. "I quite understand. It *has* been a difficult year for you, and certainly a very difficult night after all. Please take all the time that you need to phrase your answer." Nick knew that at least some of the anger he felt must have been evident in his eyes as he returned Wilkinson's stare. The constable's last statement had been another deliberate jab, insinuating that Nick was trying to figure out the best way in which to tell his lie; which, ironically, was not far from being accurate in that much of what Nick would say in the next few minutes would be an utter fabrication. But Nick had planned how he would respond to certain questions that he knew were inevitable. He opened his mouth to proceed with lie number one: how he and Dr. Lambert were just very good friends, when the door to the interrogation room opened, startling both Nick and Wilkinson. Interrupting an interview being conducted by Internal Affairs could be quite hazardous to one's career opportunities and few dared to do it. Sergeant Finster sheepishly entered the room and Wilkinson pounced immediately. "Sergeant," he began, professionalism nearly displaced by sheer annoyance, "I am trying to conduct an interrogation here and would suggest that you leave immediately." Finster nodded somewhat hesitantly but did not retreat. "I'm sorry to interrupt you Constable, but I have a message that I was instructed to give to you right away." Reaching across the interview table, Finster handed one small folded piece of paper to Wilkinson who snatched it angrily. "I think you'll realize why I couldn't put it off, sir." Nick watched as Wilkinson's face underwent a series of changes as he read the note that Finster had given him. Finally, the constable's expressions contented themselves with simple anger. Finster shifted uneasily and then started as Wilkinson suddenly stood to his feet, crumpling the note in his hand. "You'll have to excuse me, Detective Knight," Wilkinson said with barely restrained anger. "There's going to be a short delay before we can proceed with the interview." Finster was forced to step aside quickly in order to avoid a collision with Wilkinson as the angry Internal Affairs investigator stormed out of the interrogation room. ************ Natalie moaned softly and turned her head a bit to the right as LaCroix watched. He smiled as her fingers slowly tightened around his. If all went well, she would regain consciousness within a few minutes. And then they would see what damage had been done by Nicholas' foolery. ************ "Vetter...again?" Reese slowly reclined in his desk chair and loosened his tie a bit before responding to Nick's question. "You got it," he said finally, folding his arms across his chest and fixing Nick with a significant look. Both captain and detective had only just arrived at Reese's office after departing Interrogation Room number two. Inexplicably, Constable Wilkinson had returned to the interview room mere moments after his stormy exit, and then continued the interview by asking for only a brief sketch of the events surrounding Natalie Lambert's injury. Although the Internal Affairs investigator was obviously seething somewhere just beneath the surface, he did not challenge any part of Nick's forthcoming story and asked for only the most cursory of details. To everyone's continued surprise, Wilkinson then dismissed Knight with little more than a wave of his hand and an admonition to remain on administrative leave until the incident report was finalized. Reese had seen Vetter meet with Wilkinson in the hallway, and he had added that rendezvous, along with Wilkinson's sour disposition and the clipped interrogation, to a mounting stack of circumstantial evidence that suggested more than just one ulterior motive in Richard Vetter's recent behavior. Nick returned Reese's stare for a moment before seizing the nearest chair and dropping himself into it. "All right," he said, nodding his head vigorously, "all right, I give in...why?" Reese rolled his eyes. "Because he's flipped out over Tracy, because he's got some sort of master plan going, because he's got a sadistic streak deeper than the Marianas Trench or all of the above; how should I know, Nick?" "I'll admit that I could see Vetter leaning on Wilkinson to lean on me," Nick admitted, "although I hardly think it would be necessary under the circumstances. But it makes no sense at all for him to tell Wilkinson to go easy on me after all of this posturing." "You mean that it makes no sense to you," Reese pointed out. "And it *does* make sense to you?" Reese's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the question. "No...not entirely," he answered, "but I can give you some pretty good guesses." Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 26/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** "You know something?" Carl Rivera muttered soto voice as he glanced at the mustard yellow walls of the new precinct cafeteria. "You could've warned me that you had such a high-class joint in mind for dinner...I'd have at least worn a tie." Wilkinson, who had been sulking ever since their arrival, glared at him from across their small, round table. "Can it, Carl...I'm not in the mood for any abuse right now." "Okay," Rivera nodded slowly, "that much I can deal with, but I'm telling you, pal...there are laws against the kind of look you're giving me right now." Wilkinson continued to glare for a moment, then sighed deeply and looked away. "Sorry, Carl. It's not you." "Then pray, tell...who is it? Knight?" "Vetter," Wilkinson answered immediately, and with more than a little resentment in his tone of voice. Rivera nodded again. "Makes sense," he commented. "I've seen Vetter make people look that way before...but I thought he was backing you up on this." Wilkinson shifted in his uncomfortable metal chair. "He insists that he still is." There was a brief pause as a short, dark-haired waitress, a cafeteria luxury that would disappear as soon as the self-serve bars were installed, approached and placed two glasses of water on their table. The men had already labored through the single-page menu and placed their orders. "So, what's the problem?" Rivera asked before inserting his straw into the glass that had been set before him. "According to Vetter, there is no problem," Wilkinson replied. He had taken hold of his own straw between his index and middle fingers and was rapidly twitching it back and forth. "And?" "And," Wilkinson said with a huff, "he wanted me to go easy on Knight." Wilkinson stopped thrashing the straw back and forth long enough to point it at Rivera as though it were an extended finger. " 'Just get his statement, Dennis; don't ask any questions that might make him jumpy.' " Satisfied that he had successfully impersonated the commissioner, Wilkinson resumed twitching his straw. Rivera raised one eyebrow. "Okaaaay....aside from the accusations of excessive force; aside from the death of his partner...his second one this year, that is; aside from the fact that his friend/girlfriend/whatever is in the hospital after being mysteriously attacked and found at his place; and aside from the fact that you're ready to tar-and-feather him yet again; what does Vetter think could possibly rattle the guy any further?" Wilkinson had been slouching dejectedly in his chair since their arrival, but he quickly straightened at Rivera's question. "Oh, just one or two of the things that I told Vetter that we found," he said, pointing the straw at Rivera again,"...and one or two things that we didn't find." ************ The images and sensations no longer assaulted her mind, but their loss had made the world go dark and empty. A steady throbbing sensation now filled her body as each nerve and muscle rediscovered the ability to feel and move once again. She could feel her heart laboring in her chest, the expansion and contraction of her lungs, and even some of the sounds of the world around her began to register clearly. Strangely though, one of her hands was cold. And the familiar voice; the one evidence of external reality upon which she had so concentrated her efforts in order to escape her chaotic prison was suddenly silent. Consciousness was very close at hand, but she would have to take the final steps alone. ************ "I can live with Vetter being out to get me," Nick told Reese. "I've had enemies before." "But how many of them have been your superior officers," Reese asked, blissfully unaware that a leading contender for the understatement of the millennium award had just been spoken in his presence. "How many enemies have you had in your life that had any real power to influence the course of your life or to permanently disgrace you?" Nick mentally answered Reese. What he actually said was, "Vetter may just be stalling for time to invent something. I don't see him being the type to hold back anything if he thinks he's really got someone where he wants them." "Or he could just be waiting for a better time to drop the bomb," Reese pointed out. Nick frowned and shook his head. "I don't think so. For one thing, I can't imagine a better time to try going after me, if that's what he's really doing." "And we have no way of knowing just what he's really doing." Frustration momentarily getting the better of him, Reese waded up an old departmental memo and threw it into the trashcan that sat beneath his desk. "But I still don't see how much he can do," Nick protested. "After all, he's too close to this thing because of Tracy. If he tries going too far, it'll look like he's on a vendetta for sure. The Police Commission could come down on him for involving himself in a conflict of interest." Reese laughed out loud; the sound of it emerging with more a tone of bitterness than one of humor. "Fat chance, Nick. Do you really think that the Police Commission will shoot down one of its own and risk front page headlines if there's a couple sacrificial lambs just waiting to be slaughtered somewhere else?" Reese gestured at Nick and then back at himself. "Say, a lowly precinct captain and a homicide detective for instance...the loss of either of which wouldn't even make good back page news on a slow day?" Nick glared at Reese for a moment, his lips drawn into a thin, tight line. "You're probably right," he admitted after pausing to consider the captain's point. Nick thought. "You know I am," Reese said. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 27/??) By: Stephen Lansing *** So, you tell me, Carl, where did it all go? Carl Rivera, caught in the act of pouring ketchup on a pile of very greasy french fries, suddenly stopped pouring and set the glass ketchup bottle down with a hard clink. Do you absolutely have to go into detail about large amounts of blood while I m doing this? Wilkinson continued as though he hadn t heard. Leanna Turner, the doctor who treated Natalie Lambert at Mercy General, said that Lambert had lost around three pints of blood. We found blood at the scene... Wilkinson corrected his friend. We found a patch of blood stained carpet fibers about the size of a loonie. We re talking about three pints of blood here, Carl, and it just seems to have disappeared. Does that sound right to you? Rivera chose to endure Wilkinson s poor choice of dinner-time conversation and, plastic fork in hand, took a stab at his fries. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment and then said, Well, let s see...Knight said that he thought Dr. Lambert had been attacked outside of his apartment and then made her way in to call for help and passed out. If she was injured outside... Already thought that one over, Wilkinson interrupted, and it just doesn t seem to fit the details. Which ones? Wilkinson held up a finger. First of all, Dr. Turner and I are both convinced that, at least until Natalie Lambert wakes up and tells us what happened, the key to solving this whole thing is that missing blood. Three pints of blood doesn t just disappear and yet, other than that one small stain, we found nothing; nothing inside of the apartment, nothing outside of the apartment. Rivera interrupted while taking another stab at his fries. How do you even know that she was injured at Knight s apartment? We ve had cases where people have been found a long way from where they were actually attacked. Timing mostly, Wilkinson replied. Dr. Turner assures me that Lambert s wounds were inflicted not more than an hour before she was brought to the hospital. We know that because acute blood loss kills very quickly and Lambert was almost dead when Dr. Turner first started treating her, so we re dealing with a very limited timetable. If Knight found her as he claims that he did, then he came upon her almost immediately after her injury occurred. Makes sense, Rivera muttered through a mouthful of french fries. What else? As you saw at Knight's place, there's no evidence at all to suggest any involvement by an unknown party that might have transported Dr. Lambert to the scene, nor was there any blood in her own vehicle, Wilkinson continued. We should have found blood there if she had driven any distance after being injured but we found nothing. Even her clothes, with the exception of a slight stain on the collar of her shirt, were completely clean... Wait a minute, Rivera interrupted again, mildly irritated and waving his fork threateningly. You have her clothes and you didn t turn them over to us? Wilkinson waved him off. I picked them up on the way over here tonight. You ll have them in the morning. A likely story, Rivera teased. Just shut up and listen, Wilkinson told him. Knight s theory breaks down in two places here. First, we have no reason to believe that Natalie Lambert entered Knight s apartment after having been injured because we found no blood leading up to the apartment, in the elevator, or on the stairs and she couldn t have gotten in any other way. Rivera was chewing thoughtfully and Wilkinson could tell that his words were beginning to have an impact. Secondly, Knight said that he found Lambert lying by his fireplace where we found that small blood stain. If that is the case, then she couldn t have been trying to reach the phone because the phone is on the other side of the room, closer to the elevator and the stairs. Delirious from blood loss? Wilkinson rejected the suggestion immediately. I don t think so, because, third, Dr. Turner doesn t think that Lambert would have been walking at all, at least not very far. In her experience, most people who have suffered such massive blood loss also undergo severe physical trauma and are usually reduced to dragging themselves or staggering for short distances. But again, Dr. Lambert s clothes are in pristine condition. We can t see that she fell or dragged herself anywhere, certainly not across dirty pavement without leaving so much as a mark on her clothes. And then she had to have had the presence of mind to enter an alarm code and stay on her feet until she got all the way up to the apartment. I just don t see it. But if she was injured in Knight s apartment then you ve got the problem of the missing blood all over again, Rivera pointed out, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. Wilkinson conceded the point. That s true but I think that we stand a better chance of explaining the missing blood if she was in fact injured in the apartment itself. For that, we first go back to Lambert s clothes and her overall condition upon arrival at Mercy General. Dr. Turner tells me that, aside from the wound at her throat, which I ll get into shortly, there was no other sign of injury or abuse to any other part of Dr. Lambert s body. In addition, the condition of her clothing in no way suggests that she was even assaulted, or if she was, she doesn t seem to have put up a struggle. Making you think that she was attacked by someone she knew, Rivera ventured with a raised eyebrow. Exactly, Wilkinson nodded emphatically. But from the amount of blood that is missing, we also have to conclude that Dr. Lambert was attacked very quickly, methodically and for the specific purpose of drawing her blood but not killing her, as bizarre as that may sound. Rivera s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he pushed slightly back from the table, a devious smile rapidly spreading across his features. There s the signpost up ahead, you re next stop...the Twilight Zone! I m being serious, Carl, Wilkinson responded, somewhat annoyed at his friend s flippant remark. We have very good reasons for thinking this way. First, the attack had to be a quick one because we have no evidence of a struggle, either on Dr. Lambert s person or in Knight s apartment. Rivera was now attempting to draw the waitress attention to his empty glass. He turned back to Wilkinson long enough to say, But I thought that was because you thought that she knew her attacker? Or are you thinking chloroform maybe? Maybe, Wilkinson shrugged. In any case, I still think that it was mostly due to the fact that Dr. Lambert knew her attacker, but we still have to assume that she would resist an attack to at least some degree, and can therefore conclude that she was overcome quickly to prevent a struggle. Then we still have to factor in Dr. Turner s one hour time constraint. Additionally, there is the fact that a person who is injured generally tries to feel for the wound or to cover it up, either to see how bad it is or simply because it hurts. If that were the case, then Dr. Lambert should have had blood on one or both of her hands. The fact that she didn t seems to indicate that she either had no time to feel for the wound or was wounded after being rendered unconscious. All very promising, Rivera said while watching the waitress refill his glass. Press on. Wilkinson pressed on. Second, we believe that the attack was methodical due to the nature of the wound. Rivera s head turned at that. You ve been keeping that wound a big secret, boss. How exactly was she hurt? Wilkinson took a sip from his glass and used the time to consider his answer. I wasn t quite sure what to make of it myself, he said. I picked up pictures and x-rays of it when I stopped in to collect Dr. Lambert s clothes. Wilkinson paused after that, staring absently at the glass that he still held in his right hand. Rivera leaned slightly forward. Hey, Dennis, you still in there, man? Turning his attention back to Rivera, Wilkinson fixed his friend with a sour expression. This is one weird case, Carl. He sighed and then continued, lowering his voice due to the fact that the adjacent table was now occupied by three off-duty beat cops. Natalie Lambert has two shallow puncture marks on the left side of her throat, he said, illustrating the injury by tapping two fingers to the side of his own throat. Rivera was about to take another bite of his cheeseburger and stopped short to ask, Like with a knife? Wilkinson shook his head slowly, his expression dark. Like with teeth, he replied evenly. Dropping the cheeseburger back on his plate, Rivera stared at the Internal Affairs investigator that sat across from him. Teeth, he asked incredulously. Teeth, echoed Wilkinson. Rivera continued to stare for a moment before his eyes suddenly widened and he lightly tapped the side of his head, an embarrassed expression on his face in place of the former bewilderment. That s what Reese was talking about," he said. Knight s dog story! He thinks that Lambert was attacked by one of those stray mutts that scavenge for food down by the docks where he lives! Undoubtedly so, Wilkinson agreed, his expression turning harsh. Unfortunately I couldn t confirm it because that s one of the things that Vetter wouldn t let me ask him. Why not? Who knows! Wilkinson s near shout had drawn the unwanted attention of others in the cafeteria and the constable quickly resumed the use of his former whispering tones. Dr. Turner herself told me that she thought that the wound was an animal bite until she did a closer examination. It turns out to be very neat and clean, almost like a surgical incision and going straight to the vein. So your ruling out Cujo, then? Rivera asked, confused. Yes, for several reasons, Wilkinson said. The wound appears to have been inflicted in such a way as to minimize tissue damage to the area; not consistent with an animal bite at all. Also, there is no residue in the wound, no saliva or bacteria that you would expect to find with an animal bite. Seeing that understanding was beginning to dawn on Rivera, Wilkinson drove the point home. Think back to her clothes again, Carl. No scratches, no tears, no splotches, nothing at all to suggest a violent attack like you would expect from an animal. And dogs rarely go for a human throat first, they usually attack an arm or a leg or knock the person down. Dr. Lambert was not injured in any manner consistent with any of those things. And last of all, Dr. Turner explained to me that, as she put it, the saturation of the area and the condition of the vein, lead her to believe that the blood did not simply drain from the body but was forcibly removed. Rivera choked on his last bite of cheeseburger and, coughing furiously, downed half of his Coke in order to clear his throat. He stared at Wilkinson through watering eyes and, still coughing, asked, Forcibly...removed?! The reality of what Wilkinson was suggesting had finally dawned on Rivera. Wilkinson, his expression more grim than ever, handed his friend a napkin. That s what she said. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table top until Rivera had composed himself once again. So, Rivera said, his expression as serious as Wilkinson could ever remember, to summarize all of this, you think that Nick Knight attacked Natalie Lambert in his apartment, drained three pints of her blood for who-knows-what-reason, used who-knows-what to make the wound look like an animal bite, hid the blood who- knows-where and then drove her to the hospital in time to save her life so that she could live to tell the tale at his trial? Wilkinson s dark eyebrows drew closely together. I wouldn t have phrased it exactly like that, but, absent the sarcastic conclusion, yes, that is essentially the idea. Rivera stared at him, wide-eyed, his usual jovial manner now completely displaced. That s crazy, he said accusingly. That s helter-skelter revisited! Yeah, I can agree that Knight s weird all right, but he s also a darn good cop with a pretty impressive record and is generally well liked by everyone who knows him. He s no Manson! Wilkinson listened stoically to Rivera s outburst and waited until his friend had fallen silent before responding. Deny the logic of any argument that I ve made to you, he began evenly. Deny the medical facts of this situation. Deny the fact that an experienced medical professional believes that blood was forcibly removed from Dr. Lambert s body. Deny the fact that the blood is missing. Deny the fact that we are looking for missing blood in the home of a man who has an inexplicable habit of storing large amounts of animal and even human blood on his personal premises. Deny the fact that this same man has admitted to, and that your department has in fact confirmed, the use of animal blood for the rather unorthodox purpose of painting pictures. Deny the fact that we were unable to find any sign of forcible entry. Deny the razor-thin margin of time in which Lambert must have been injured and then found by Knight, who just happened to come home at the right time in order for her to be taken to the hospital in time to save her life. Wilkinson capped off his volley with a pointed finger and one last challenge. Deny all of this successfully and show me a more plausible suspect than the only one that I see here, and I ll buy you dinner every night for a whole year. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 28/36) By: Stephen Lansing *** The dazzling colors of the world of ghostly memory in which she had been trapped seemed dim in comparison to the blinding light that greeted Natalie when she finally found the strength to open her eyes. Instinctively, she closed her eyes again and winced at the sudden throbbing pain that flared up in her temples. Her arms felt as heavy as lead weights and the effort involved in merely raising her hands to message her aching head was thoroughly exhausting. For a full minute Natalie lay still, her hands covering her face while she labored to breath normally. Her physical senses now mostly restored although somewhat sluggish, Natalie tried to collect her thoughts. Where was she...where had she been before...before what? Before...before in the loft. She had been in the loft. <"Tracy Vetter passed away twenty minutes ago..."> A point of reference now formed, Natalie's memories were ushered back to her conscious mind with the force of a tidal wave. The shock of Laura's suicide, of Tracy's death at the hands of a mad gunman...the sorrow and depression that had so quickly beset and overwhelmed her...all now forced their way through the pain of her headache and moistened her eyes with tears. And then there was Nick...she had been talking to Nick in the morgue, and then in the loft. Suddenly, she could see him standing before her again...his eyes golden, the gleaming tips of his fangs barely visible beneath his upper lip. She could hear his voice again... <"I won't leave you. Whatever happens, we'll be together."> She could feel his breath on her neck, and then the pain. The image of Nick in his vampire state quickly began to shift, his overall appearance and manner of dress changing with the passing of centuries... and the cries of his victims. Natalie cringed with sudden fright and the feeling as though she were being drawn once again into the bottomless pit of time from which she had only just emerged. She struggled to hold on to her sanity, to anything at all tangible, and was drawn back from the edge of collapse by the pain of a thousand needle-sticks in her skull. Realizing that her panic had unconsciously caused her to fiercely take hold of her hair, Natalie relaxed her grip and felt her racing pulse begin to slow. The rush of adrenaline had somewhat abated her headache but it had also made her feel light-headed and nauseated. She kept her eyes tightly closed until the feeling passed and then, with her hands over her face once more in an effort to reduce the hard light that had virtually blinded her before, Natalie opened her eyes. Carefully removing her hands from her face, Natalie blinked her eyes rapidly and brought her surroundings into focus. ************ "The way I see it Nick," Reese was saying as he reached into his jacket pocket, "when the enemy's got you surrounded, you've got two choices: give up, or dig in and slug it out." With a grin, he handed Nick a business card. Nick read aloud from the card. "R. A. Franklin...Attorney at Law." He looked up at Reese, a grin of his own rapidly forming. "Looks like you're digging in." He handed the card back to Reese. "You got that right. Just a little superglue in case Vetter *does* start breaking careers into little bitty pieces," Reese said while placing the card back into his pocket. Although Joe Reese was definitely hot-headed and stubborn, Nick had to admit that he had come to like his captain in the past eight months that they had known each other, for Reese was also a man of passion and principle, who genuinely cared for those under his supervision. That concern was reflected in Reese's next statement, how he felt that Nick should also consult an attorney and prepare for the coming storm. "I think I'll probably hold off until the IA report comes in," Nick told Reese. Not one to sit still for very long, Nick was out of his chair and pacing in front of the captain's desk. Reese leaned forward and placed both hands on his desk, folding them together. Worry was evident in his features. "Don't be fooled by this thing with Wilkinson, Nick. I'm telling you, one way or the other, Vetter's working this situation to his advantage and that spells bad news for both of us." "But if IA clears me of wrong-doing..." Nick suddenly stopped his pacing and was still for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. He had felt a sudden, odd tingling sensation similar to what he felt only at the approach of another of his Kind. Making his way to the door, Nick moved the blinds aside and peered into the squad room. Reese, who was getting used to Knight's eccentricities and mood swings, shrugged this odd behavior off as paranoia. "Even if IA does clear you, Nick, Vetter's got a lot more options than just them and he's not exactly the kind of man to give up easily." Reese was out of his chair now too, and joined Nick, who was still fixed on looking out the window. "Interfering with that IA interrogation was a major breech of protocol, Nick, and Vetter's not the kind of man who goes around doing that sort of thing. That man lives his life by department policy. Now his having violated that policy makes me even more certain that he's up to something to do with more than just me. I mean, Wilkinson didn't exactly come out and say it but you could tell that Vetter called him off. He was looking awfully smug just before that little talk in the hallway." With one last glance around the squad room, Nick turned back to Reese. "I know, Cap," he began, his thoughts still not entirely on the conversation at hand. "But you getting an attorney at this point is understandable...Vetter's already told you that you're career is on the line. As for me, they haven't taken any kind of action against me yet, so I think that my getting an attorney would just look suspicious right now." Reese nodded. "Suit yourself, Nick. Makes sense, I guess. But I still don't think it'll do any harm to at least talk to an attorney and have a plan ready in case something does break." Satisfied that he had done his best to deliver some sage advice, Reese turned back to his desk and began gathering personnel files together. As much as he hated the idea, Reese knew that Tracy Vetter would not be reporting for duty any longer and that the time had come to arrange for a replacement, providing that he remained captain long enough to do so. Normally, he would have been busily planning a memorial service for the fallen officer before even considering replacements, but Richard Vetter's secretary had called and relieved Reese of that particular duty. Secretly, Reese had been elated by the news as he would not have to coordinate the planning with Commissioner Vetter. Under the circumstances, he was not even certain that it would be appropriate for him to attend the memorial service, and he turned to express as much to Nick. Nick never heard the question. The puzzling impression that he had felt earlier had returned with significantly greater strength and there was now no doubt as to what it was that he was feeling. He might have missed Reese's question the second time around as well had the captain not placed a hand on his shoulder. "Anybody home, Knight?" Nick started, his eyes wide and his expression one of near panic. "Sorry, Captain," Nick stammered. "I was...thinking." Reese was certainly accustomed to strange behavior from this particular detective, but he could not remember having seen Nick so highly agitated before. "You okay, Nick?" he asked. "You don't look so good right now." Nick was desperate for any excuse to leave and opportunity could not have knocked harder. "I don't think so, Captain," he responded, his eyes not meeting Reese's. "I think it's all starting to catch up with me...I should probably go home..." Reese nodded in agreement. "Good idea. Go home and go to bed for a couple of days, got it?" Nick was already headed for the door. "Thanks, Cap,' I'll do that." He got the office door only half open before Reese stopped him. "Uh, Nick...you are going straight home, right?" The captain's tone indicated that he was not really asking a question at all. Nick mentally groaned at the delay as he turned back to Reese. "I did have one stop in mind first," he said, and then, at Reese's disapproving look, "at the hospital, Captain. I have to at least check up on her." Reese's expression softened with understanding. " I guess a phone call just wouldn't do it, eh?" Nick smiled sheepishly. "I think I'd actually lose sleep if I didn't stop in for at least a minute." Joe Reese shook his head and broke into a grin. He dismissed Nick with a wave of his hand. "Go on, get outta here." Reese was amazed at just how quickly Nick obeyed that last command. No doubt he would have been even more amazed had he seen his detective take to the air behind the precinct less than a minute later. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in (Part 01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 29/36) By: Stephen Lansing *** Natalie was uncertain as to what she would find when the world before her eyes finally fell into focus. She had certainly not expected to see the pale, stern features of Lucien LaCroix hovering over her. Now, she once again lay with her hands clasped to the sides of her head, not in reaction to the headache that throbbed steadily in her temples but in a desperate effort to stave off the flood of images and sensations that assaulted her at the very sight of LaCroix. The sound of his voice had only heightened that distress. It seemed to Natalie that every memory or perception that Nick had ever experienced in regard to his vampire master had suddenly descended upon her, jumbled and rushed in much the same way in which she had experienced those memories while unconscious. At virtually any other time, the experiences that Natalie had just endured would have been of enormous clinical and personal interest to her, particularly after the enlightening conversation she had once had with Nick regarding blood exchanges. But the memories and impressions were fleeting, standing out with crystal clarity only long enough to frighten Natalie before being replaced by fresh specters. "Doctor Lambert...can you hear me?" Perhaps even more distressing than the visual assault was the endless stream of voices; the voice that she recognized as LaCroix's standing out clearly; all others displaced and garbled. "Doctor Lambert...." <"You do...love...Nicholas, do you not?"> "Listen to me...you must let it go..." <"Let go of your mortal bonds..."> "You must block it out..." <"I'm much too old and powerful for that..."> "Now!" Natalie was shocked to her senses by a booming voice and two strong, cold hands that griped her wrists painfully. She opened her eyes again to find that LaCroix was only inches away, staring her fiercely. For a moment Natalie held the vampire's icy gaze, finding no comfort in the ancient eyes that stared back at her, only a cold intensity that thoroughly terrified her and yet she could not look away. Her reaction was instinctual, almost child- like; the illogical conviction that the monster will not get you if you can stay absolutely still...if you just don't look away. Reason was somewhat slow in coming and Natalie embraced it as one would an old friend, but the return to terra firma did nothing to banish LaCroix from the room. He was quite real; not the figment of a childhood imagination at all. Finally freeing herself of the nightmarish visions and voices, but still without turning away, Natalie experimentally attempted to pull her wrists free of LaCroix's grasp. LaCroix stared back at her suspiciously for a second or two longer and finally released her when he seemed satisfied that she had regained control of herself. He drew away from her slowly, his features becoming much softer, almost congenial. "Forgive me, Natalie," LaCroix said smoothly, his voice almost comforting. "It was not my intention to frighten you. I have some small idea of what you have been through in the last twenty-four hours but I lacked the foresight to realize that my presence might prove disturbing to you as a result." LaCroix's change of demeanor allowed Natalie to relax somewhat, and she turned her gaze from him to take in her surroundings. The ancient waited with unusual patience as Natalie looked from one medical instrument to another, tugged a bit at the blue bed sheet that covered her and then probed the intravenous tube that connected with a hepron lock at the back of her hand. Attempting to take in everything at once and trying to understand what had happened, Natalie turned back to LaCroix. But why was LaCroix there at all? Where was Nick? Where was the man to whom she had been willing to entrust her life, her soul, her eternity? Where was the man who had promised that he would not leave her? Whatever the outcome of their last ditch effort for a cure might have been for Nick, Natalie knew only that she had just awakened in a hospital room, intensive care by the look of things, and that Nick was nowhere to be seen. The feelings of isolation and loneliness that had driven Natalie into Nick s arms in the first place now seized her again with chilling effect. Had Nick really left her as she had feared so many times down through the years that he would do? Worse, yet, had LaCroix killed him? Was that the reason why he was there now, to finish her as well? That was absurd, wasn t it? Natalie desperately fought back tears as she wrestled with those and a host of other questions; questions that were no doubt obvious in her eyes. But when she tried to speak, her dry, parched throat would allow no more than a scratchy, whispery sound to emerge. LaCroix stopped her with an upraised hand. Leaving her bedside, he made his way to the restroom and returned a moment later with a cup in his hand. "Forgive my thoughtlessness once again," he said as he sat on the edge of Natalie's bed and held the cup out to her. "You see, it has been some time since I have thought in terms of mortal needs." Natalie had to fight back a surge of frustration at the effort that it took to do something as simple as holding a small cup of water. She mentally reminded herself that her body had been through an ordeal, although for how long and to what extent she could not be certain, and that attempts to push herself at this point would most likely just get her wet. Priding herself on the accomplishment of getting the cup to her lips without spilling it all over herself, Natalie at first sipped at the cool liquid and then drank deeply. She stopped after drinking half of the water, and fingered the styrofoam cup for a moment, staring up at LaCroix as he too watched her. Although she was suspicious of his apparent good-naturedness, Natalie knew that any immediate answers to her questions would have to come from LaCroix. On that count, she would be forced to trust him...for now. Taking a breath, Natalie asked, "How long?" Her throat was still quite sore and her voice strained but at least the words were now intelligible. "Not even twenty hours yet." LaCroix's posture was rigid but his words emerged almost casually. He was regarding her with what appeared to the barest hint of a smile. Considering the gravity of your situation, I m certain that yours will be touted as a near-miraculous recovery. My congratulations, Natalie. You ve proven to be quite resilient...for a mortal. Natalie took another sip from her cup and waited a moment before asking the question that so consumed her thoughts, although she feared the answer with all of her being. Where... ...is Nicholas, LaCroix finished the thought for her. I wondered why it was not your first question. He arched one eyebrow as he continued. No matter. It was Nicholas who brought you here after...after the rather predictable outcome of your little experiment last night. Guilt-ridden as usual he even stayed the day with you, leaving only under the threat of arrest. Natalie s eyes widened at the word arrest, and LaCroix elaborated. It seems that Internal Affairs had a burning desire to interview Nicholas after the death of his partner and the rather mysterious circumstances in which you were...wounded. It would seem that he has some explaining to do. Natalie closed her eyes again as she digested LaCroix s information. On the one hand, she felt a sense of near-overwhelming relief. Obviously, if LaCroix's now haughty manner was any indication, they had failed in their attempt at Janette s cure, and as much as that thought saddened her, she was comforted by the fact that they had at least survived that terrible night. Nick was very much alive and had not left her until he had been forced to do so. The thought that he had watched over her was incredibly comforting, vindicating in fact, but on the other hand, LaCroix's revelations also held a familiar menace. Nick's very existence had always forced him to live with the specter of the eventual discovery of his vampire nature, and there had even been previous trouble with Internal Affairs, thanks to LaCroix. That investigation had soon cleared Nick, but his secret had been greatly endangered. Natalie s own mistakes had contributed to that near-disaster and, as she reached back to touch the bandage at her throat, Natalie could not help but see the irony that, no matter how much she cared for Nick and had attempted to help him, she might yet prove to be his undoing. By comparison, Tracy s death would be simple to explain and deal with, to everyone but Nick who would no doubt insist upon blaming himself although he was clearly not responsible. But if there was any one thing that Natalie had learned from Nick's life, it was his sense of guilt. Even the fog in her brain and the ache of her body could not suppress the shudder that came when she thought of Nick's centuries-old burden of guilt. And just the very thought of Nick seemed to bring about a renewed sense of that tenacious guilt, drawing those haunting images and voices to the edge of her conscious mind once again. It was deeply disturbing and perplexing to Natalie, who was beginning to fear a reunion with Nick as much or more than she desired it. How could she face him again after all but demanding that he go through with something which he was not prepared to do, the outcome of which had landed her in an intensive care ward and subjected Nick to another Internal Affairs investigation? If need be, he could leave his Toronto life behind and begin again somewhere else; he had done it many times before. But his guilt always followed him, mounting through time. How much guilt would he feel for what he had done to her? Natalie knew that she was tired, exhausted in fact, and needed time to think. She had to give herself that time, to sort it all out, to deal with her own guilt and confusion before she would be ready to face Nick again. But how could she delay that reunion, especially when her heart protested so vehemently at the very idea? I would not overly concern myself about Nicholas if I were you, LaCroix said, drawing Natalie back from her reverie. He has been in far worse situations and emerged unscathed." At this point LaCroix's characteristic cold voice and demeanor returned, his eyes sending a chill through Natalie as he all but glared at her. "You on the other hand, my dear, were very nearly killed last night...not that this is the first time that your special knowledge has endangered your life, but nevertheless, this incident in particular is a turning point, a moment of decision." Natalie resisted the very powerful urge to recoil under the ancient vampire's glare. There was something decidedly threatening in his posture despite the apparent good will that he had demonstrated up until this point. "What do you mean," she asked, hoping that the rough tones of her raw throat would cover the tremble in her voice. LaCroix's steely blue eyes narrowed as he answered her. "I should think that my meaning would be quite apparent, Dr. Lambert." Forsaking the use of Natalie's first name only made LaCroix seem more threatening as he leaned closer to her, loomed over her. This time Natalie did recoil as far as the narrow confines of her hospital bed would allow. The thought of LaCroix being there to kill her no longer seemed so ridiculous. "You have now experienced the results, first hand, of what happens when mortals and immortals attempt to overturn the balance of nature, when the lion lies down with the lamb." Natalie was immeasurably thankful that LaCroix chose that moment to increase the distance between them and nearly gasped with relief. His presence had been oppressive, and Natalie had briefly thought that her tired mind would allow her to faint. LaCroix may have backed off somewhat but his threatening manner was still readily apparent. "The choice that you must now make," he continued stoically, "is whether or not you wish to repeat this experience, whether you truly desire to tempt fate in such a bold fashion. If your answer is 'no,' then forget him and leave this place forever, for you are well-known among our Kind and your continued flirtations with our world cannot go on. Nicholas and his bungling aside, there are those among us who simply will not permit it, those whose sworn duty to protect the secret of our existence is jeopardized by mortals such as yourself. The longer you know of us without becoming one of us, the greater threat you become to all of us." Natalie could only stare at LaCroix as he issued his ultimatum, her stomach knotting painfully. LaCroix rose from her bedside, towering over her now more so than before. "Dr. Lambert, the choice is really quite simple, please do not complicate it unnecessarily; do not wrestle with it emotionally and, above all, do not think that you can ignore it and that it will simply go away. So saying, LaCroix reached out and picked up the nurse pager from where it lay by Natalie s bed. Natalie wondered for a brief, intense moment if LaCroix intended to strangle her with the cord. But he made no move to do so, only continued to stare down at her as though he fancied himself at some great height. Despite the arrogance of his stance, however, Natalie somehow knew that he was speaking with conviction. Dr. Lambert, LaCroix continued with a renewed smile, one that entirely lacked warmth. Natalie, if I may, rest assured that I would not go to such lengths for any mere mortal. As it stands, you are of great value to my Nicholas, and you have been of considerable assistance to the Community upon more than one occasion. For those reasons alone, I have returned you from the brink of madness this night, and for those reasons alone I warn you of the dangers to come. But I can do no more than to warn you; the ultimate decision must be yours. Either cling to Nicholas and thus forfeit your humanity or possibly perish at the hands of those who will not stop to acknowledge your contributions to the Community, or... At this point LaCroix offered Natalie the nurse pager. ...or reclaim your mortal life and think no more of us for as long as you live. I say again, the choice, for the moment, is yours. Natalie stared at LaCroix, dumbfounded and horrified by his words. She was muted by the implications of what he had told her, dangers that Nick had never explained to her. Of course she knew that knowledge of vampires was a dangerous thing, in more ways than just the obvious, but she had never before been told that the clock was ticking, that the Community would act against her if she did not either abandon Nick or become a vampire herself. Natalie took the pager from LaCroix and gripped it as tightly as her weakened body would allow. Her thoughts of a nightmare ending were dashed by new fears, ones in which she and Nick would not be the only ones who would decide their future. There would be others. Perhaps this was the reason why Nick had kept her at arm s length for so long, or perhaps LaCroix was lying. Maybe there was no danger from the Community as long as she kept their secret. She would truly believe it only when Nick told her it was so, and yet, LaCroix, despite his meddling games had seemed quite serious...and what did he mean by, < I have returned you from the brink of 'madness' this night... > What had he done to her? Natalie stared down at the pager in her trembling hand. It was evidently LaCroix s chosen symbol to represent her choice. When she looked up again, LaCroix was gone and the room was empty. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 30/36) By: Stephen Lansing **** The night was exhilarating. For over seven centuries, Nick had known the glory of soaring above moonlit landscapes, the wind whispering around him as it buoyed him high into the seemingly endless reaches of a star-encrusted sky. It was a sense of freedom for which there was no expression that a mortal mind could comprehend, to ride the night winds as though they were waves upon the sea. Whenever LaCroix's hand had grown especially heavy throughout the years, Nick had often fled to the sky in search of refuge. Absent storms, it had always welcomed him. Flying gave him a chance to find peace and a restored sense of equilibrium. But tonight, Nick thought very little of the splendid city view that rushed by beneath him. Flying had become a means to an end, but to what end he could not easily say. The impressions that he had felt at the precinct had been very weak at first, but had soon returned with a strength which left no doubt as to their origin. Nick knew that Natalie had regained consciousness. The sensation was not as strong as what he would have experienced had another vampire been involved; which had greatly relieved Nick for he knew only too well what the consequences would be if Natalie had indeed come across and then awakened, in a hospital of all places. With that maddening first hunger... The result would almost certainly have been a mortal blood-bath of the first order, but although Nick could certainly sense a very strong link with Natalie, she was still quite mortal and Nick knew that his greatest fear had been averted. Of course there were others waiting to take its place, and now that Nick did not have to worry about controlling Natalie, he would be forced to face her...after promising togetherness...after losing control...after nearly killing her. <"I have faith that there is a future for us..."> What would she think of him now, after what he had attempted to show her of himself and the monster that he had been? It had always kept them apart...that fear of his inner beast rising to the surface to kill again. There had been other things as well, fear of the Enforcers or other members of the vampire community acting against Natalie if they thought that she knew too much. For that reason he had always hesitated to tell her too much about vampires although he had also feared that Natalie would be lured to that unlife by the same things that had drawn him to LaCroix so long ago: timelessness and power. Last of all had been LaCroix himself. A foolish, selfish bargain hastily made in order to save his sister from LaCroix's eternal hell had bound Nick to surrender any mortal that he ever came to love to LaCroix's vengeance. And LaCroix had almost taken that vengeance once, when Nick had thought it safe at last to love a mortal, believing that the heat of LaCroix's anger would have ebbed over the centuries. That mistake had nearly cost Natalie Lambert her life. <"Tracy, Cohen, Schanke. How many others over the centuries...because of what I am?"> Sometimes, in dreams or silent meditations, Nick could still see the crosses, the representations of his victims that the Guide had shown him. <"Only the humanity that you desecrated can save you now..."> Could he ever repay the debt? Natalie seemed to think that he had already done so, but Natalie had no idea of everything that Nick was attempting to atone for. She could never possibly imagine the evil that he had once been guilty of. Or could she? Perhaps it had been a mistake after all to attempt to show Natalie through his blood what he had never been able to bring himself to tell her verbally. He had never thought of the dangers, of the psychological damage that such a mental invasion might cause her. He never should have agreed to it. And yet he had been so desperate to keep from running away again; to make a life for himself once more, to love again. He had taken the chance...and both he and Natalie had nearly paid the ultimate price. Perhaps they could go on, perhaps it was just better that he left her in peace. Such were the conflicting thoughts that filled Nick's mind as he made his way across the nighttime sky to the hospital room where Natalie, and a supreme moment of truth, awaited. ************ Constable Dennis Wilkinson clasped both of his hands together behind his head and leaned back in his chair with an air of complete confidence. Carl Rivera was still thinking. Finally, after nearly two minutes of total silence, Rivera imitated Wilkinson's relaxed position and nodded his head gravely. Staring intently at Wilkinson, he drew in a short breath and said, "I spit in your eye." Wilkinson suddenly lurched forward, causing his flimsy metal chair to utter a squeal of protest, and slapped his right hand smartly on the table top. "There," he said, triumphantly, "what did I tell you? It all makes perfect sense!" Rivera rolled his eyes. "But you've got no proof; you can't show any motive, you have no weapon, and you can't place Knight at the scene. All you've got is circumstantial evidence, and..." "I'm confident enough that concrete evidence will be forthcoming," Wilkinson interrupted. "And," Rivera continued, holding up one finger to his lips in a "shhhh" type gesture, "a jury is not going to put away one of Toronto's finest based on purely circumstantial evidence, especially when compiled by the investigator who tried so hard to nail Knight a few years ago and even hounded the courts about reopening the case long after it was sealed. They'll say it's a vendetta..." Wilkinson stiffened. "Oh, that is *such*..." "Oh, *that*, my friend, is exactly what any defense attorney who's worth half his salt is gonna argue and you know it!" Rivera had found his point and driven it home like a railroad spike. Despite his indignation at the possibility, the very real possibility, that someone would claim that his investigation of Knight amounted to no more than a personal vendetta, Wilkinson was otherwise unfazed by Rivera's argument. "Carl, we investigate cops," Wilkinson responded, choosing his words carefully, "people who investigate criminal activity themselves. For that reason, most of our cases leave us with very little to go on at the beginning, usually not even much circumstantial evidence. But with all of the circumstantial evidence that we've accumulated here, I don't need a boatload of hard evidence. All I need is one thing, just one shred of proof and all of that circumstantial evidence will fall down around Knight like a ton of bricks." Rivera's smile heralded an upcoming sarcastic remark, but the Forensic technician was pre-empted by the ringing of a cell phone. Wilkinson snatched the phone from an inside suit coat pocket and answered the call. A moment later he was on his feet. "Doctors only," he said hastily into the phone. "No one else goes in until I get there." "Let me guess, that was..." "Dr. Turner, from Mercy General," Wilkinson said, finishing for Rivera. "Natalie Lambert just regained consciousness." "Bingo!" Rivera exclaimed, standing with Wilkinson. Wilkinson grinned. "Yeah, that's just what I'm hoping." Rummaging through his coat pockets, Wilkinson produced a small portable tape recorder and verified that a microcassette tape was already in place. He then headed straight for the cafeteria door. It took Rivera three tries to get his attention. "Forget about something?" Rivera asked, and at Wilkinson's confused look pointed back to their table. Their waitress was standing there, a small slip of paper in her hand and an unamused look on her face Wilkinson started back to the table and then suddenly stopped, stamped his foot impatiently and turned to Rivera. "Get it for me, will you, Carl? I've gotta get to the hospital. Thanks!" "Whoa!" Rivera protested, making a grab for Wilkinson's trench coat sleeve and just missing. "What do I look like here, a bank? And what happened to 'my treat?'" Wilkinson did not turn but called back over his shoulder as he disappeared through the door, "Sorry, Carl. I'll pay you back...I promise!" Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 31/36) By: Stephen Lansing *** Following the directions that he had been given at the desk, Wilkinson found himself at the entrance of another long hallway. A sign on the wall proclaimed that this hallway led to ICU rooms 300 through 325. Wilkinson guessed that room 312, Natalie Lambert's room, was the one a little less than halfway down the hall where a rather large nurse stood surveying the hallway with suspicious eyes. She turned instantly at the sound of Wilkinson's footsteps. Wilkinson pulled his badge from his right coat pocket and addressed the nurse as he approached. "Metro police, ma'am; I'm here to interview Dr. Lambert as a potential witness in a criminal investigation." The nurse put out her hand. "Lemme see that badge," she demanded, snatching the leather from Wilkinson's hand. She briefly glanced at the photo ID and then back up at Wilkinson. She handed the badge back. "So you're Wilkinson," she said, a bit less gruffly than she had spoken before. Wilkinson nodded patiently. "Yes, ma'am. I'm with the Internal Affairs division of the Metro Police force. Dr. Turner has been expecting to me to come." "Nurse Thomas," the woman indicated by jerking a thumb at the ID badge that hung from her neck. "Yeah, Dr. Turner told us to expect cops to come by and want to see Dr. Lambert, but I had to check your ID on account we had one cop through here already and he wasn't even supposed to go in." "A cop?" Wilkinson asked, incredulous. Nurse Thomas nodded emphatically. "That's what he was all right. But Dr. Turner just told us to expect cops, so we let him go in. Then, after all that mess, Dr. Turner told us just to let Constable Wilkinson in, and that I was to stay here until you came." "Do you remember his name," Wilkinson asked, certain that he already knew who it had been. His question elicited another nod from Nurse Thomas. "Knight. Detective Knight. Turns out he's some kind of friend of Dr. Lambert's. Stayed the whole day with her after she was brought in, or so they tell me. I was out though, so I wouldn't know." "Yes, Knight is a friend of Dr. Lambert's," Wilkinson told her. He was just about to ask if he could go on in the room when Nurse Thomas cut him off. "If you say so, then I guess that's the way it is." Thomas was shaking her head with a befuddled expression. "But you sure couldn't tell they were friends on account of Dr. Lambert's reaction when she saw him." Wilkinson's ears perked up at that. "What do you mean? Did she seem frightened by him?" Nurse Thomas let out a low whistle from between her teeth. "That was probably a good part of it," she answered, thinking, "but it was just so weird. We thought she was having a seizure, you know, tensing up real quick and shivering like she was real cold or something. She wouldn't talk, just stared right straight at him like he was a ghost or something. Then she put her hands on her head like she had a real bad headache, you know, and passed out. That's when Dr. Turner came in and we found out that we were just supposed to let you in the room. Knight left right then. Didn't even say a word. Just stared at Dr. Lambert like somebody killed his best friend and then he left." Wilkinson felt something cold traveling up the length of his spine. If the prologue that Nurse Thomas had provided was any indication at all, Natalie Lambert would have a real story to tell...and Nick Knight was some kind of sick monster. Wilkinson pulled out a business card and handed it to Nurse Thomas. "Nurse, I'd appreciate it if you would write out the statement that you just made to me and send it to my attention at the address on that card. Please be sure to sign and date it when you do." Nurse Thomas gave Wilkinson her preliminary answering nod. "Be glad to," she said, then added, "I suppose you'd want to see Dr. Lambert now?" Nodding, Wilkinson prepared to enter the room but was stopped short by the outstretched hand of Nurse Thomas. "You'd better wait here and let me make sure everything's okay," she told Wilkinson. "That was quite a spell she took earlier and she may not be up to visitors." Wilkinson understood the nurse's concern but hoped to avoid any delays if possible. "Just tell her that it'll only take a couple of minutes." Nurses Thomas gave Wilkinson her customary nod and quietly slipped into Room 312. While waiting for the all-clear, Wilkinson reached for his portable tape recorder and pushed the "record" button. A slight mechanical clicking sound followed as the twin reels of the microcassette began to slowly rotate. Wilkinson held the device up to his lips to make a test recording, a habit that he had come into ever since the time that he had accidentally left the recorder on "pause" while attempting to record a conversation with an informant. He had nearly lost an important case involving organized crime due to that little oversight. Wilkinson had been ribbed about that experience for years thereafter and had no intention of repeating it. The "pause" button was definitely up, but Wilkinson was paranoid. He would test it anyway...just to make certain. "Testing...one, two..." "I only need a couple of minutes with her; I don't see what that will hurt!" "Detective Knight, I'm sorry, but as I've already told you, Metro Police Internal Affairs will not allow anyone to see Dr. Lambert before they can conduct an interview with her." Wilkinson turned toward the sound of an approaching argument, his recording momentarily forgotten. Leanna Turner and Detective Knight had entered the hallway. "But I'm the closest thing that Dr. Lambert has to family," Nick protested, just before both he and Dr. Turner noticed Wilkinson standing outside of Room 312. The relief on Turner's face was unmistakable. "Constable Wilkinson," she said, with a significant look at Nick, "I believe that Detective Knight has some questions about your policy on visitors." She waved a hand between the two men as though connecting them by some invisible cord and then quickly disappeared into Room 312 with a very curt, "now please excuse me." "What's the matter, Knight?" Wilkinson stepped forward, locking stares with Nick. "Didn't you make a big enough scene earlier? But you like that kind of thing don't you...making scenes, running against the grain, always shooting from the hip like some kind of cowboy? Is that it, Knight? You want to be an outlaw?" Wilkinson's expression was severe but his eyes flashed with anticipation. "Well you're in the wrong profession then," he continued, relishing the chance to unload on Nick. "Law enforcement officers are expected to respect rules. From your record, it's clear to me that you don't respect much of anything." Nick advanced on Wilkinson, his blue eyes blazing with hostility. "That's as far as you go." "Now he's giving orders," Wilkinson shot back. "Did you get promoted without me hearing about it, Knight?" "No, I haven't been promoted," Nick informed him coldly. "But I hear that you have. Congratulations. Maybe being Richard Vetter's personal stooge will finally get you a pension to match your ego." Wilkinson felt blood hotly rising in his face at the insult and struggled to reign in his temper. "That little remark will earn you a very prominent place in the next conduct report that I file, Knight; you can bet your badge on it!" Nick shivered theatrically. "Bureaucratic justice! Now I am scared." The tension between the two men loomed like a large, angry animal, threatening to lash out at any moment. On the outside, Nick appeared to be completely calm; only his eyes betrayed any hostility. Wilkinson, on the other hand, was red-faced with anger at the arrogance displayed by this renegade homicide detective; however, he realized that any obvious attempt to intimidate Knight would only get both of them reprimanded. For that reason, he chose to duck beneath the official protection of police rank and protocol where he was reasonably sure that Knight would not want to follow him. "Now you listen to me, Knight," Wilkinson began, mustering all available authority in his stature and pointing a finger at Nick, "I am going in that room *first,* where I will conduct an interview. *You* are going to..." "No. You listen to me," Nick interrupted, fixing Wilkinson with a look that froze the constable in mid-sentence, making him feel as though he had forgotten what he wanted to say, forgotten even that he was angry. Thus forgetting his own agenda, Wilkinson felt only the need to be quiet and still...and to listen very, very carefully... "I will visit Dr. Lambert first," Nick continued, his one man audience now completely silent and attentive. "You are going to wait until I am done, and then you will conduct your interview. But you will not wait here. You will go to the front desk and wait there. If anyone asks you why you have changed your mind, you will tell them that we talked and you agreed that I should see Dr. Lambert first, that it might even prove helpful." "...might prove helpful," Wilkinson echoed, monotone. Nick ended the hypnotic suggestion as Nurse Thomas emerged from Natalie's room. Avoiding eye contact with Nick, she turned to Wilkinson. "You can go in now, Constable, but...are you okay?" Wilkinson was staring at Nurse Thomas as though she were a complete stranger. "What?" he asked, both his facial expression and voice filled with confusion. Now it was Nurse Thomas' turn to be confused. "You wanted to ask Dr. Lambert some questions, right? Isn't that what we just talked about?" Dr. Turner joined the scene at that moment and gave Nurse Thomas a questioning look. Thomas just shrugged. Nick, slightly off to the side, was watching all three mortals with a carefully reserved expression. Wilkinson looked from Nurse Thomas to Dr. Turner, confusion still evident on his features as he shoved both hands into his pockets. He seemed to have forgotten. Then he remembered. "Actually," he began slowly, turning to look at Nick, "I think...that it might be a better idea if...Detective Knight sees Dr. Lambert first." This statement elicited stunned looks from both doctor and nurse as Wilkinson stumbled through his words, his manner closely resembling that of someone who has just awakened from a deep sleep and is desperately trying to recall a conversation from the day before. Turner exchanged another confused look with Nurse Thomas and then shifted her gaze back to Wilkinson. "Are you *sure* about this, Constable?" she asked, silently lobbying for Wilkinson to change his mind. "Yes," Wilkinson said after a moment, nodding his head slowly and squinting as though doubting his own words. "Yes, I think that...it might even prove helpful...for Dr. Lambert to talk with someone that she knows first." He turned and began to walk slowly down the hall then, looking back over his shoulder to add, "I'll be waiting at the front desk." Dr. Turner and Nurse Thomas continued to stare at Wilkinson as he walked away from them. Thomas shook her head. "Well, if that don't beat all..." Nick cleared his throat and stepped forward, looking expectantly at Dr. Turner. "Well, now that that's been settled..." He waved a hand toward Natalie's room. Dr. Turner watched Wilkinson disappear around a corner as though hopeful that he would change his mind. When that obviously was not going to happen, she turned to Nick. "I can't say that I understand it," she told Nick, hesitation evident in her voice, "and I definitely ought to argue with it based on Dr. Lambert's reaction to you before..." Gritting his teeth, Nick mentally reached out and caught the woman's gaze. "But I'm sure that was just a physical reaction due to the trauma that Dr. Lambert's been through. It could've happened at any time. That sounds reasonable to me." "...sounds reasonable," Dr. Turner said, nodding, not quite certain as to why, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, words were simply filling and then exiting her mouth for no apparent reason. Nurse Thomas stared at Turner, wide-eyed. "Say that again, Doctor?" Dr. Turner was staring at the floor, fidgeting with her hands. "I'm sure it was just...a physical reaction due to the trauma that Dr. Lambert's been through..." She looked up at Nick. "It could've happened at any time." Then, like Wilkinson, Dr. Turner began to walk off, one hand rubbing her face sleepily. "But Doctor..." Nurse Thomas' stared after the retreating night shift supervisor, her mouth hanging open. "They both lost their minds, just like that, right in front of me," she muttered. Finally, she turned a suspicious eye on Nick, who just smiled pleasantly back at her. "You're trouble," she informed Nick as she backed away cautiously, "trouble if I've ever seen it." She then exited the hallway herself, although somewhat faster than Wilkinson and Turner, and stopped only long to glance once over her shoulder as though she expected to be followed. "Trouble, plain and simple," Nick heard her say as she rounded the corner with a final look back. Nick sighed. "Don't I know it," he said, his smile still in place. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 32/36) By: Stephen Lansing *** Richard Vetter guided his white Chevy Suburban into the first port of his home's spacious two-car garage and switched the vehicle's engine off. Reaching up to the driver's side sun-visor, Vetter activated a control to close the garage door, and then sat still as the garage was plunged into darkness to the tune of scraping metal and whining machinery. Vetter reclined the driver's seat a bit and then closed his eyes and listened to the ticking sounds of the Suburban's cooling engine, his thoughts scrambling in a mad search for coherence. After redirecting Wilkinson's interrogation, Vetter had returned to his office and closed up, sending Lorraine Bushman home once he was satisfied that she had completed most of the preparations for Tracy's memorial service, and also because she had put in far too much weekend overtime. Barbara had come by while he was out but had not left a message. Even so, Richard was certain that he knew what she wanted to discuss: his failure to consult her on how Tracy's affairs and personal property should be handled. No matter. If she asked why he had done it then he would tell her the truth: preparations had to be undertaken as soon as possible and that left no time for Barbara Vetter to sober up. Vetter grimaced at the thought that his wife of thirty years was probably off in some cheap bungalow consoling herself from a bottle of fifty- proof brain-scrambler. How it had even gotten to that stage was more than Vetter could guess at, a series of warning signs that should have counted for something...should have gotten his attention long ago. But he had been consumed with his work, as always. Tracy had noticed though. She had even tried to talk to him about it once but Vetter had not been in a mood to listen to reason at that time. He had been more concerned with showing the proper discretion as to how he might keep his wife's alcoholism a secret from the Board of Commissioners and the mayor. He had turned a personal problem into a public image crisis, necessitating only that the matter be concealed, not dealt with. In her husband's eyes, Barbara Vetter's problem was less of an addiction for which she needed help and more of a personal betrayal...and one does not help betrayers, one merely despises them. Richard knew that Tracy had resented him for treating her mother in what she described as a 'cold-hearted' fashion but even Tracy could not make many excuses for Barbara Vetter's behavior. Fortunately Tracy did not seem to believe her mother's accusations of Richard's infidelity, but that one consolation did nothing to alleviate the matter. The whole sordid affair had grown steadily worse until Richard had drawn a line in the sand six months previously, told Barbara that she could either deal with her drinking or find somewhere else to do it. To his surprise, she had left. Divorce papers arrived in the mail two months thereafter. Vetter had wanted to make that move himself but had decided to wait, betting that Tracy's affections would ultimately be lost to the parent that took official steps to kill the marriage. He had been right. Barbara had acted first and her already shaky relationship with Tracy had completely fallen to pieces. There was no doubt that he had played that situation well, extracting the ultimate satisfaction while taking only a minimum of risks. But what Richard Vetter had not at all anticipated was the secret world into which his daughter had withdrawn... The terrible things that she may have done. He could still smell it; the noxious odor of decaying plant and animal matter from the mud and clay ground of the marshes down by the lake. In that lonely place where he had found the graves. The twin mounds of earth had been difficult to locate in the late afternoon twilight, and it had taken Vetter nearly an hour of stumbling around in semi-darkness to locate them. Tracy's descriptions had been detailed but not exact, and there had been a lot of ground to cover. True to the account, Vetter had discovered that one of the graves was obviously older than the other, with various forms of plant life already rooted in the dark, upturned soil. The other had been dug much more recently and was more shallow than the first, but despite those differences each had something in common. Each mound of earth secreted a single body. Vetter rubbed his shoes together absently-mindedly in the darkness. He had scraped most of the mud off before leaving the lake but some had stubbornly remained, as though refusing to allow him to forget where he had been, what he had seen. As though it were even possible for him to forget any of it at all. He had gone to Tracy's apartment immediately after his morning meeting with Wilkinson and had begun to box up her possessions for transferal back to her old home. Two hours later, Richard had found Tracy's diary at the back of her sock drawer. He had quickly succumbed to the temptation to share his daughter's thoughts about their family's last turbulent years and concerning himself in particular but was dismayed to find that the first entry was dated September 15, 1995. <"I've never used a diary before. I guess I always felt like writing your thoughts was kind of like talking to yourself...but I do that all the time anyway, so I guess there's no difference. It's just that I have to get this out somehow. I have to tell someone about what's been happening to me but there's no one I can talk to who wouldn't think I was crazy. Sometimes, I even wonder about myself."> Those were the last words that Richard Vetter could actively associate with the Tracy he had known. The further he read, the more alarmed he became. Pages turned as if blown by the wind as Tracy's incredible story grew more and more impossible with each entry, and finally climaxed in such a manner that Richard found himself shaking. He had fled from Tracy's apartment like a man possessed, determined to prove to himself that his daughter's words had been no more than some twisted work of fantasy. His first stop had been at the lake where hope had been utterly dashed by grisly reality. Heart-sick, Vetter had fled from the lake as well, making his second stop the condemned church that Tracy had described, and then the sewer access. The sewer access area had shown trace signs of habitation, but the church had been a veritable museum by comparison. <"I couldn't go back there. Not just yet, not after what happened. But everything has to be cleaned up soon. I can't just leave it there. I have to do it...for him."> Vetter had found a disorganized hodgepodge of artifacts clearly indicating that the building had been inhabited for quite some time...and he had also found two bottles of what was unmistakably blood. <"We found blood in his refrigerator, Commissioner...several bottles of animal blood and two bags of human blood..."> Interrupting and then attempting to influence Wilkinson's interrogation had been a serious violation of protocol and had caused Wilkinson more than little irritation, but Vetter was certain that he had done the right thing. After finding Tracy's diary, Richard had been of the opinion that his daughter had been either a homicidal maniac or else the victim of some kind of self- induced fantasy and he had set out to determine which. Finding the graves and the locations described in Tracy's diary had left Vetter with mind-numbing proof that at least part of Tracy's story was no fantasy. There were two corpses lying in shallow graves down by the lake and Tracy had claimed to have at least assisted in the demise of one of them...the one she had called Javier Vachon. In spite of the damning evidence mounting against Tracy, Richard could simply not fathom the notion that his daughter had been a cold-blooded killer who had either concocted the diary entries to support an insanity plea should she ever be caught or...that she truly had been insane. It had never occurred to Vetter to take Tracy's stories as factual...to make the rational leap that would place him into a world that could not possibly exist. Until that conversation with Wilkinson... <"What exactly is wrong with Natalie Lambert?"> <"Dr. Lambert is suffering from sever blood-loss apparently inflicted via two puncture marks on the left side of her throat. Dr. Turner is of the opinion that these marks, although they appear to be teeth marks upon first examination..."> <"Teeth marks!"> <"That's what the wounds look like, sir, but Dr. Turner is convinced that the wounds are inconsistent with an animal bite, and together with the fact that human teeth certainly can't make that kind of wound, she has chosen ruled out teeth altogether. The wound are very neat and pierce straight to the vein. The medical opinion, sir, not just my opinion, is that someone attacked Dr. Lambert for the specific purpose of draining approximately three pints of her blood and then tried to make it all look like an animal attack."> Wilkinson had gone on to explain the circumstantial evidence that he had gathered surrounding the attack on Dr. Lambert as well as some of the odd facts concerning Detective Knight. Tracy's written accounts about her partner had seemed remarkably similar to her description of the mysterious Javier Vachon, as though both men, despite their described personality differences, were actually more alike than different. Combining the information that he had gleaned from Wilkinson and that which he had absorbed from reading Tracy's diary, Vetter had begun to create a profile to which he could accurately apply the names of either Nicholas Knight or Javier Vachon: both were intolerant of sunlight, both had decidedly unorthodox uses for blood, both lived in virtual seclusion, both were evasive when questioned about their pasts, both had been described as dark and even somewhat aloof. And both men had obviously known one another. According to Tracy's bizarre account, Knight had met Vachon after the death of the serial killer Vudu, and Vachon had supposedly made him forget the truth of their encounter through supernatural influence. What stood out even more to Vetter here was Tracy's account of a later incident, one in which both Knight and Vachon had shown up at the same time to 'rescue' her...from a man that they suspected of believing himself to be a vampire. There was that word again: vampire. It sent a chill through Vetter, annoyed as he was by even the idea that anyone could seriously consider the existence of such creatures. There were no such things as vampires. <"There are no such things as vampires,> Tracy had written shortly after her initial meeting with Vachon, Vetter could feel his heart beat increasing as he thought of Tracy's words, and each anxious beat nudged the diary where it rested in Vetter's left shirt pocket, as though prodding him to reach for it again. He did. And when the diary was in his hands again, Vetter stared defiantly at it as though he could refute the insanity of the book's accusations by merely willing them to be gone. No matter what he might actually think about Tracy's writings, the matter had to be put to rest, it had to be investigated as quickly and thoroughly, and as privately, as possible. There were rational answers out there, of that he was certain; answers which did not involve the existence of vampires. Vetter was also convinced that Knight and Vachon had known each other better than Tracy had suspected; they were simply too much alike and too different from everyone else. Tracy had mentioned that Knight used to tease her about Vachon and that he had even gone so far as to warn her about him, although he had done so under the guise of imploring her not to get too close to 'snitches.' To her credit, Tracy had not been fooled by that. She had even told Vachon that his hypnotic suggestion must have been wearing off, that Knight seemed to suspect that there was something strange about Vachon just in the way that he acted whenever Tracy mentioned her 'snitch.' Knight seemed to know, or at least to be thinking, more than he was telling. For his part, Vachon had not seemed concerned about it and changed the subject whenever she brought it up. Had Tracy possessed the ability to momentarily step back from her own preconceived notions and experiences and to take in the situation at once, she might have seen what appeared so obvious to her father. Then again, she had not been privy to Wilkinson's information either. When morning came, Vetter would begin his investigation. He would attempt to locate any available information on Javier Vachon (and the alias under which Tracy had first discovered him: J.D. Valdez). He would also personally ensure that the case files from Wilkinson's previous investigation on Nicholas Knight would be on the constable's desk by no later than nine o'clock. While there was no immediate way in which to connect Knight and Vachon to one another other than by the similarities that he had noted, Vetter had already put faith in his gut instinct that the two men were indeed connected and that the explanation behind Tracy's incredible fantasy would be provided if and when that connection was established. Although he was still unwilling to admit that there could be any truth to the idea that vampires actually existed as Tracy had maintained, Richard Vetter knew that there were occult groups which favored vampire-style rituals and had even carried out vampire-like murders. Some of the individuals in those groups were truly demented enough to believe that they were actually vampires, and Vetter wondered if this Vachon might have been one of them. Individuals under the influence of such powerful delusions had a way of affecting others with their delusions, but Tracy? Vetter refused to believe that. Either Tracy had been a murderer or she had lost her mind, truly believing that vampires existed and that this Vachon had been one. But could of any of that supposition possibly explain Nick Knight's oddities? Could it explain what had happened to Dr. Lambert? <"Despite the fact that Dr. Turner claims that Natalie Lambert lost nearly three pints of blood, we couldn't find anything other than a small blood stain on the floor of Knight's apartment. This totally contradicts Knight's theory as to how Dr. Lambert was injured..."> <"By an animal attack, right?"> <"Yes. That amount of blood just doesn't disappear. Either someone cleaned it up or took it, as bizarre as that sounds. Either way, the evidence contradicts Knight and suggests the involvement of another individual but we found no signs of break-in or struggle. I just want Knight to explain all of that for me in a way that makes at least *some* sense."> By that point in their conversation, Vetter had known that Wilkinson had enough circumstantial evidence to hold Knight if he chose to do so, but that he would never be able to press any charges without solid proof or, at least an accusation from Natalie Lambert. In Vetter's mind, it was therefore easier to let Knight go on his way and remove the obvious threat of scrutiny by continuing with a quiet background investigation as Wilkinson had wanted to do years before. If Knight thought that there would be no further investigation, he might get careless. If he did not get careless there was always the chance that Wilkinson might get lucky, and find something to confirm his theory that Knight was not on the level. And the link with Javier Vachon, if that was even the man's real name, might just be a part of that something. If so, Richard might find himself closer to the truth behind his daughter's bizarre narration. Finding out the truth about what had happened to his only child was far more important to Vetter than Wilkinson's Internal Affairs agenda although the latter could certainly be useful in determining the former. For that reason, Wilkinson would have to save his confrontation with Knight for later, although he could investigate the good detective's background and personal traits to his heart's content. For now there were many, many questions and precious few answers; at least no answers that could simultaneously redeem Tracy Vetter in the eyes of her father and be rationally acceptable. And yet, something gnawed at Vetter as he thought back upon the discoveries that he had made that day. It was almost as though Tracy was there in the words that she had written, pleading to be believed... But if rationality was to be the ultimate measure, then Tracy's story could never be taken literally. The urge to believe what she had written was simply a father's need to exonerate his daughter as well as an attempt to deal with the dual traumas of Tracy's death and the insane account of her last eight months of life. No, in one fashion or another, Tracy Vetter had lost her mind. And in the quiet of the moment, Richard Vetter wondered if he was losing his own. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 33/36) By: Stephen Lansing **** The water was *cold.* Wilkinson cupped his hands together and held them under the frigid deluge, grimacing until he had collected enough of the chilly liquid to serve his purpose. Staring a countdown to zero from three, Wilkinson held his breath and shut his eyes tightly. And splashed that handful of freezing cold water directly into his face. The water hit home with razor-edged intensity that instantly closed every pore and made Wilkinson expel the breath he was holding along with a couple of words that would have greatly displeased his mother. Muttering under his breath, Wilkinson opened his eyes just enough to find the paper towel dispenser and promptly seized a handful of towels. When he had finished wiping away the last chilling beads of water, Wilkinson dropped his paper towels into the rectangular mouth of a wall- mounted trash can and then switched off the stream of cold water that was still gushing noisily into the sink. Wilkinson leaned forward and placed both of his hands, palms down, on the narrow counter top, carefully studying his reflection in the expansive mirror as though he were faced with a stranger that he had been warned not to trust. The cold water had helped to drive away some of the fog that had filled Wilkinson's brain, but it did nothing to alleviate the unnerving feeling that he had somehow been manipulated; steered completely off course by something that had also denied him any memory of the event. Staring fixedly at the reflection of his brown eyes in the mirror, willing them to serve as an anchor for his wandering thoughts, Wilkinson reconstructed the events that had transpired since his arrival at the hospital. Eventually his thoughts drifted back to the confrontation with Detective Knight. Still staring into the mirror, Wilkinson found that the eyes that stared back at him were no longer brown. They were blue. And there was a voice. Not his own. <"No. You listen to me."> Startled, Wilkinson drew back from the mirror with a gasp, his eyes wide. They were brown again. And the voice was gone. Wilkinson touched one hand to his forehead, feeling for a temperature. His skin was warm to the touch but a chill traveled the length of his spine like the caress of a cold, slender finger. "What's the matter with you?" Wilkinson demanded of his reflection, still maintaining his distance from the mirror as though frightened by the possibility of another manifestation. Dennis Wilkinson had never been given to drinking; had hardly touched the stuff since college and only socially even back then. He had never used drugs, had never even been seriously ill. He had no history of delusions of any kind, nor was he a believer in so-called paranormal phenomena. He was; however, a very definite believer in evidence, in reason, in rational explanations for even the great unexplained mysteries of the universe. Had anyone approached him suggesting an occurrence such as the one that he had just experienced, Wilkinson would no doubt have offered them any number of rational-sounding answers designed to bring their experience back to terra firma. Why then was it so very difficult to persuade himself to take the exact same rational approach? "It's been a long day," Wilkinson whispered to his reflection, trying to convince himself of the validity of his own argument. "You're exhausted and that's all there is to it." He was tired; on the home stretch of a very long, tense and aggravating day and he desperately needed a good night's sleep. The intensity of his thoughts concerning the case was obviously beginning to play tricks on his unconscious mind. After all, the voice he had heard had not been spectral, it had been quite earthly; it had been Knight's voice. The blue eyes? Very simple; Knight's eyes were blue. His tired mind had slurred the thoughts he was having about his confrontation with Detective Knight, actually causing him to believe, for an instant, that he was seeing and hearing Knight again. Wilkinson smiled to himself at the simplicity of the explanation for what he had seen. The smile quickly lost some of its smugness; however, when he began to question why it was that he could not remember what had happened after the confrontation with Knight or why he had ended up in a restroom, splashing cold water into his face when he should have been interviewing Natalie Lambert. Wilkinson thought, grimacing at his reflection. Knight would no doubt find all of this very amusing. Wilkinson's frown deepened as he thought of the way that Knight had openly, unashamedly insulted him in the corridor. Even so, and although it was difficult for him to admit, Wilkinson knew that most of his anger should be directed away from Knight and more toward himself. "Visiting hours are over, Knight." Wilkinson turned toward the restroom door, determined to at last conduct the interview that he had inexplicably abandoned and to banish Knight from Mercy General for the duration of Dr. Lambert's recovery. Gritting his teeth, Wilkinson pushed the door open with his left forearm and shoved his right hand down into his trench coat pocket where his fingers instantly came into contact with a familiar rectangular object. Startled by a sudden squealing sound emanating from his trench coat pocket, Wilkinson pulled his hand free and stared dumbfounded at the microcassette recorder that he had been using earlier but had forgotten about until that moment. The tape rollers were still slowly moving and the narrow "record" indicator light adjacent to the circular microphone still glowed a bright red. Wilkinson remembered that he had started to do a test recording just before arguing with Knight, but had no idea why he would had put the recorder into his pocket while it was still recording. It appeared that approximately one third of the tape had been used, roughly equivalent to twenty minutes of recording time. Wilkinson stabbed a finger at the "stop" button, annoyed with himself for managing yet another blunder and for needlessly running down his tape recorder's batteries. He moved the recorder's function selector bar up a notch to "review," and then started walking with determined footsteps in the direction of Room 312. The tape began to rewind. ************ Nick had waited in the hallway outside of Natalie's room for several minutes after dispatching Wilkinson and Turner and then effectively frightening off Nurse Thomas. He was anxious to make things right with Natalie, to seek her forgiveness for what he had done to her during the previous night's calamity and to make everything right between them again, and yet, he hesitated. For even if Natalie did forgive him, Nick was well aware that things would never be quite the same between them again. LaCroix had been right about that. Sharing himself with her in the fashion that vampires normally exchanged their thoughts and feelings with one another had fundamentally changed Natalie, although to what extent remained to be seen. Nick had heard rumors of vampires sharing with mortals in the past but he had never personally known any who had done it or what the end result had been for the mortal. For him, the decision had been made in an hour of desperation, at a time when he wanted nothing more in the world than for Natalie to understand him for who he was...all of who he was. Not since his travels with Erica had Nick so fully surrendered himself to another, and not since his first, and last, night with Allysa had mortal blood whispered such pure, sweet, intoxicating things to him. Maybe she would understand why it had been so hard for him to let her go, to take "just a little." Maybe she would not. However, no matter what the outcome would ultimately mean for either of them, Nick realized that he could not delay the confrontation any longer. Wilkinson had been temporarily deflected but Nick knew that his hypnotic suggestion would not keep the constable at bay indefinitely. In addition, the hospital staff would certainly be making regular rounds to check on their recently revived patient. Ready or not, he would have to act now if he was to have any time with Natalie at all. Nick turned toward the open door of Room 312 and closed his eyes as he concentrated on eliminating the background noises of the hospital to instead focus on a single individual sound. Natalie's heart rate was somewhat faster than what Nick had become accustomed to but not alarmingly so, and Nick attributed the deviation to any number of possible physical imbalances that Natalie might be experiencing. Satisfied as to Natalie's physical state of being for the moment, Nick reached out once again with his senses, tentatively at first, searching for any stirrings along the length of the connection that now existed between them. He was somewhat surprised to note that the strength of that connection seemed to have slightly weakened since he had first visited Natalie upon her return to consciousness. At that time, the mere sight of Nick had been enough to activate a torrent of confused emotions and sensations from Natalie, the strength of which had been sufficient to render her unconscious. Nick hoped that his second appearance would not elicit a reenactment of that first unfortunate result, and the weakened state of his link with Natalie aided in bolstering Nick's confidence that he would not cause her such distress again. Opening his eyes, Nick pulled his senses back from probing the link with Natalie and started forward, only to be halted again by a slight twinge, the sort of mental touch that he had felt in the past through the probing of other vampires to whom he had been connected. Startled, Nick cast long glances up and down the hallway, fearing that perhaps LaCroix had returned to taunt him at a most inopportune time; but he saw no one other than two orderlies wheeling a patient toward the nearest elevator. It took only a moment for Nick to determine that there were no other vampires present, but somewhat longer to realize that he had made a mistake in interpreting the "touch" that he had felt. Although he was not particularly adept at exercising the mental powers of his Kind, Nick well remembered the early days in which LaCroix had taught him the first lessons concerning those powers. He could vividly remember the disorientation he had experienced when first "touched" by LaCroix's invisible hand, as well as how he had found himself groping blindly for some way in which to respond, to seize that elusive thread and hold it steady. The clumsy contact that he had just experienced could not have been initiated by any vampire skilled enough to being playing cat-and-mouse with Nick, and he would have recognized the fact sooner had he not been so startled by the suddenness of the sensation. Yet, Nick's senses also told him that there were definitely no other vampires anywhere near his present location. There was; however, one particular mortal with which Nick did have a very unusual bond... Nick thought, his attention now wholly back on his link with Natalie. Then again, Nick realized that he was dealing with a circumstance which was completely unfamiliar to anything that he had experienced before. Vampires did sometimes utilize links with mortals, but no more than what was necessary to simply find a mobile prey, and this was done only rarely in that most vampire victims did not survive the first attack. Once again, Nick reminded himself that the rumors of vampires sustaining intimate links with mortals were precisely that; rumors. Even Janette, despite the remarkable relationship she had experienced with Robert McDonaugh, had never mentioned anything about attempting to share her thoughts or memories with the mortal. LaCroix was the only possible exception that Nick could think of. The master vampire had apparently known what Nick had done to Natalie and what that would mean, although whether LaCroix's knowledge was the result of prior experience or simply the ancient's powerful insight, Nick had no way of knowing. Nor did he have any intentions of going to LaCroix for help in any matter having to do with Natalie...for as long as he could possibly avoid it. Nick thought, That settled it for Nick; barring an emergency, he would avoid involving LaCroix. That decision was somewhat of a blow for independence, but it also served as a double-edged sword, effectively leaving Nick more isolated than he could ever remember feeling at any other time in his immortal existence. For Janette was gone as well, having fled Toronto in anger after Nick had ignored her pleas to let her die as a mortal, and there were no others of his Kind which he trusted and could turn to for help. It occurred to Nick, not without some irony, that the direction he had taken whenever he had been uncertain of himself or of the events around him in recent years was seemingly the only one left to travel now. He could only hope that he was still welcome there. Nick cautiously stepped through the doorway and into Natalie's room, hands diving deep into his coat pockets as he turned worried eyes to the place where Natalie lay. Nick abruptly tensed when he saw that Natalie was staring at him already, her hazel eyes clear but partially hooded by tired lids and underscored by dark rings. Most of her color had returned although she still seemed a bit pale, and her overall facial features exuded a worn appearance that Nick could not remember seeing in Natalie even during some of her most tiresome duty shifts. Nick thought that he could feel his heart grow colder and even more still within him as he took in Natalie's newly acquired frailty, and the blade of guilt that continually stabbed at Nick as his conscience whispered to him anew with each stroke: Natalie's heartbeat had quickened and Nick could clearly feel her growing anxiety although the panic that she had undergone during Nick's first visit was no longer evident. The force of whatever it was that had erupted from within Natalie now lay dormant, much to Nick's relief. But the question as to how Natalie would react to his presence was merely the first difficulty that he would encounter, and it passed abruptly into insignificance as Nick silently contemplated the next challenge. The eyes that now regarded Nick so questioningly had, only twenty-four hours before, gazed into his own with such hope and trust...with such faith. The situation then had not called for the inadequacies of words but rather the testimony of actions; actions of which Nick knew that he had fallen miserably short. But the tables had turned since the events of that night. There were actions that must now be explained, and the simplicity of words, deemed so very unnecessary then, proved to be so very important now. Perhaps never so important...certainly never so very elusive. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 34/36) By: Stephen Lansing **** Wilkinson had just rounded the ICU nurse's station, deftly moving aside to allow a crash cart to be wheeled past him, when his microcassette recorder let out a high-pitch squeal to notify him that his tape was now completely rewound. Slowing down long enough to select the "stop" and then "play" buttons, Wilkinson lifted the recorder up to his right ear and was on the move once again. He had started to do a test recording before being interrupted by the abrupt appearance of Dr. Turner and Detective Knight, and it was likely that at least some part of the ensuing conversation/argument might have been caught on tape. If that was the case, then Wilkinson would have the distinct pleasure of allowing Detective Knight to remind him of the exact words that should be included on a certain forthcoming conduct report. <"Testing...one...two..."> The microcassette recorder's single speaker crackled noisily and Wilkinson winced, removed the recorder from such close proximity to his ear and adjusted the volume to a more suitable level. Wilkinson could now hear the voices of Dr. Turner and Detective Knight rising in volume as they had been walking toward him at the time of the recording. Turner was commenting concerning Dr. Lambert: <"...Metro Police Internal Affairs will not allow anyone to see Dr. Lambert before they can conduct an interview with her."> Wilkinson fast-forwarded through Detective Knight's protest. Although he would not have admitted it to anyone, he was more than just mildly disturbed about his inability to remember what had taken place after his argument with Knight and exactly why he had wandered away in the end and left Knight to his own devices. Both the inability to remember simple conversations and backing down when involved in a hostile confrontation were completely out of character for the normally unflappable Wilkinson, and both would surely grate against him until he had discovered the reasons for such oddities. He hoped that a very simple answer to his dilemma might be found on the tape and that hope was a sufficient reason to further delay his interview with Natalie Lambert. When Wilkinson pressed "play" again, he found himself in the midst of arguing with Nick Knight. <"Did you get promoted without me hearing about it, Knight?"> <"No, I haven't been promoted, but I hear that you have. Congratulations. Maybe being Richard Vetter's personal stooge will finally get you a pension to match your ego."> Wilkinson's fingers tightened around the microcassette recorder as he experienced the sting of Knight's words for a second time. <"That little remark will earn you a very prominent place in the next conduct report that I file, Knight; you can bet your badge on it!"> <"Bureaucratic justice! Now I am scared."> <"Now you listen to me, Knight. I am going in that room *first,* where I will conduct an interview. *You* are going to..." <"No. You listen to me."> Fingers that had been wrapped tightly around the microcassette recorder inexplicably weakened as Wilkinson relived the moment now transpiring on the tape. Closing his eyes under the influence of a sudden wave of vertigo, it seemed to Wilkinson as though he was facing the restroom mirror once again, staring into those icy blue eyes. <"I will visit Dr. Lambert first; you are going to wait until I am done, and then you will conduct your interview. But you will not wait here. You will go to the front desk and wait there. If anyone asks you why you have changed your mind, you will tell them that we talked and you agreed that I should see Dr. Lambert first, that it might even prove helpful."> Wilkinson was stunned by his own apparent willingness to stand quietly by and let Knight issue him a directive that came complete with a furnished excuse for deviating from his former intentions. However, even this shock did nothing to prepare him for his own recorded response. <"...might prove helpful..."> Again, Wilkinson stared at the microcassette recorder in utter disbelief. His reply had come as repetitious, submissive and monotone as a robot might respond to human commands in a science fiction movie. Even now, Wilkinson was conscious of some inner mechanism that desired to comply with Knight's instructions and, as unbelievable as it was to have heard his own recorded response, Wilkinson realized that the exact same phrase had coursed through his thoughts even as Knight finished speaking on the tape. <...might prove helpful...> Wilkinson stopped the tape and raised his left hand to lightly message his aching temples and then leaned heavily against the wall to compensate for an abrupt instability in both of his legs. <"This is crazy! This is completely insane!",> Wilkinson thought as he labored to control a sudden increase in his breathing. The wall against which he had been leaning now seemed his only means of support and Wilkinson pocketed his tape recorder in order to use both of his hands in an effort to keep himself from falling. Several minutes later, the vertigo and uneasiness subsided and Wilkinson was breathing normally. He was about to push away from the wall in order to test the stability of his legs when a hand was placed on his right elbow, supporting him. "Take it easy, pal, I've got you." Wilkinson started at the sudden touch and turned to find himself looking into the dark eyes of a tall, middle-aged orderly. Grateful for the support, Wilkinson moved away from the wall and found that his legs would support him once again, although they still felt somewhat unstable. The orderly who had come to Wilkinson's rescue attracted the attention of several nurses who promptly had Wilkinson placed into a wheelchair and taken to an empty examining room. Feeling remarkably better, enough to be consciously embarrassed by the entire incident, Wilkinson was soon able to convince the nurses that he was not sick but just very tired and that he must have dozed off while leaning up against that wall. Wilkinson *did* look very tired and the nurses agreed that he was probably right although they did insist on taking his temperature, administering a blood-pressure test and having the constable take a few breaths from an oxygen mask. Once issued a clean bill of health, Wilkinson displayed his credentials, explained his reasons for coming to the ICU and was informed that he would be taken to see Natalie Lambert promptly, and that her current visitor would be excused. Wilkinson thanked the nurses for their help and agreed to remain in the examining room until someone came to tell him that he could talk to Natalie Lambert. When he was alone once again, Wilkinson fished the tape recorder out of his coat pocket. He glared it. Thus far, his attempt to find answers in the recording had merely disconcerted him even more so than before. There was no cut-and-dried, ready- made explanation for the things that he had heard on the tape. Anyone else who heard the tape, especially someone unfamiliar with the participants, would likely think that Wilkinson had backed down under some kind of severe intimidation and yet, Wilkinson knew that this could not be the answer. Knight could be very intimidating when he wished to be, his role as a homicide investigator sometimes called for precisely that ability, but he was certainly not the most intimidating individual that Wilkinson had ever encountered during his time in law enforcement. Wilkinson also rejected the intimidation aspect for other reasons, but above all he knew that there was something...else...at work in his situation. His reaction in the restroom, and then again while listening to the tape, had been first triggered on the psychological level, mentally picturing Knight, hearing his voice. The physical reaction had come later when Wilkinson had actually tried to analyze Knight's words and had resisted the inner "urge" to do what Knight wanted him to do, coupled with the realization that he was being manipulated somehow. <"No. You listen to me."> Psychological manipulation? Wilkinson believed in a very limited power of suggestion, would even go so far as to say that hypnotism was probably viable in some cases, but he outright bawked at the possibility that someone could completely manipulate another individual against that person's will by mere suggestion. Even hypnotism, as far as Wilkinson knew, required some sort of focusing device and a compliant subject. What exactly *had* Knight done to him? And why was he unable to remember any of it? Even now, after having listened to the tape, Wilkinson retained no actual memory of the event...only the subconscious feeling that he should do as he was told without question. Wilkinson had of course lied to the nurses when he said that he must have dozed off while out in the hallway. He had been wide awake at the time, and actively fighting something off on the psychological, and then physical, level. <"But how is that possible?"> Wilkinson thought. Resigning himself to anxious confusion for the moment, Wilkinson played the rest of the tape in the hope that some logical answer would reveal itself before he began to question his own sanity. The rest of the recording was somewhat muffled, Wilkinson had apparently placed the tape recorder in his coat pocket as though preparing to leave immediately after his "conversation" with Knight; however, the voices were clear enough to be understood. Instead of providing him with answers, the remainder of the recording served only to heighten his distress. Wilkinson would have played the whole recording through again had a nurse not arrived and informed him that he could speak with Natalie Lambert. He did play the tape again on the way home though, and then twice more before going to bed that night. Where he dreamt of struggling with an unseen force that pursued him through hospital corridors...trying to destroy his mind. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers posted in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 35/36) By: Stephen Lansing *** For hours the dark skies above Pearson International Airport teemed with activity as aircraft of nearly every design and purpose crisscrossed the night in their mission to carry both passengers and commercial goods to the farthest edges of the modern world. The busy airport traffic quickly peaked during the early evening hours and then gradually diminished as the night wore on and a relative quiet settled in where organized chaos had once reigned supreme. It was during this time of reduced activity that Pearson Tower first exchanged communications with an inbound Cessna Citation. The twin-engine jet aircraft finally appeared as a small, cross-shaped configuration of lights in the southwestern sky that gradually took on identifiable form and coasted to an uneventful landing at 11:35 PM. Once safely on the ground, the Cessna's pilot aimed his aircraft toward the hanger where Elite Charter Inc., currently housed and serviced its small collection of private passenger jets. It was in the shadow of this structure that a van waited, more specifically it was a dark blue, fifteen-passenger Ford Econoline with two passengers who silently watched as the Cessna drew closer to their location. The aircraft finally came to a stop just a few yards short of the Elite hanger's large bay doors and switched off its main approach lights. There was a stirring inside of the Econoline as those who had been waiting now exited the vehicle to greet their guests. At six foot three inches, the man who emerged from the van's driver's side was definitely the taller of the two. His hair was brown, cut short and simply arranged although thinning at the crown. He possessed fierce blue eyes that were set deep within their sockets and suitably framed by the prominent bones of his thin, tapering face. In contrast, his companion was several inches shorter and of a stocky build, with a much fuller face, sandy blonde hair pulled severely back on all sides and eyes of a coal-black color. Both men were dressed in double-breasted suits of excellent quality, the taller wearing a blue-gray combination while his companion wore black with a starkly contrasting red silk shirt buttoned to the throat. The men approached slowly, crossing in front of the Cessna's nose to the left side of the plane where they stood silently, expectantly. Six oval-shaped windows were set into the aircraft's fuselage, the sixth of which was mounted into the frame of the large, rectangular main exit door. The men arrived in time to watch silently as the main door separated slightly from the aircraft's fuselage and dropped down, revealing a short staircase which ran the length of the door and touched down lightly on the pavement. A man appeared in the doorway, framed by the aircraft's dim internal lighting. He was just over six feet tall, with short, white hair, a thin, aged face and eyes of a pale blue-green color. Dressed entirely in black, this gaunt figure exuded an aura of authority, wealth and refinement as well as great age although any casual observer who thought his thin exterior to be indicative of weaknss would have been greatly misled indeed. This individual joined the two men who awaited him, each of which initially took one step backward at his approach, and together the silent trio moved away from the Cessna until they had reached a distance safe enough to converse without being overheard. "More of Kaylel's foolishness, Cain?" The question was asked by the shorter of the two men who had been awaiting the Cessna's arrival, and was punctuated by a cursory wave in the direction of the parked aircraft. "No," the newest addition to the small group of vampires replied. "Actually, it was my idea, born of the need for efficiency, I'm afraid." Cain stole a glance back at the Cessna before continuing. "Unfortunately, those I bring with me are both young and weak. Forcing them to make the journey under their own strength would have lengthened the trip intolerably and exhausted them as well. If they are to be of any use to me at all then I must preserve what I can of their rather limited abilities. This flight was the most efficient manner in which to do so." "Another litter of pups for the slaughter then!" came the immediate, angry reply. This time it was the tall vampire who spoke, his voice laced with rebuke. "You must not say such things, Aaron! He is our master..." "He is an arrogant fool who murdered our true master!" "Enough!" Cain's stance was rigid and his eyes narrowed as he confronted Aaron. "Kaylel challenged Darin and defeated him five years ago. The Code is unchanged from then to now and Kaylel is Master of Enforcers. There is nothing left to do save to accept the matter and act according to what is expected of us." Seeing that the fire of resistance still burned brightly in Aaron's eyes, Cain added: "Unless of course, you have decided to act in accordance with the Code, to challenge Kaylel for his position?" Cain's words struck home instantly and Aaron averted his glance, his shoulders dropping although his jaw was still rigidly set. "I'm no fool," he said, gruffly. "Then I expect that you will drop the matter." There was a brief pause which was broken by the tall vampire speaking again, this time directing his comments to Cain. "Absent the disrespect, I believe that Aaron's concerns...are valid." Aaron's shoulders suddenly righted themselves. "Really, Thomas" Cain replied, his voice still carrying a tone of warning. "And how is that?" Thomas momentarily hesitated under Cain's icy glare but resolved to continue. "We control the Community only as long as the Community fears us. And the Community will fear us only as long as it perceives us to be both vastly stronger and more resourceful." "And so we are," Cain observed. "And so we have *been,*" Thomas responded, with emphasis. "For nearly five hundred years no vampire was made an Enforcer who was not old and adept in the ways of our Kind. And while I do not protest that Kaylel is our Master..." This was said with a sidelong glance at Aaron who merely glared. "...I *do* protest his decision to fill our ranks with those who are hardly more than fledglings, thus weakening us and endangering our task enormously at a time when we must be stronger than ever before." Cain took a moment to study his underlings before responding to the argument that had just been proffered. Thomas and Aaron were well known within the Enforcer ranks and had acted together since the early eighteenth century when they had been assigned the eastern settlements of what would eventually become Canada and the United States. Aaron's strident comments aside, both were fiercely loyal to the Enforcer Code and cause and both had rendered exemplary service. Even so, there were concerns which outweighed even such sterling records. Kaylel's ascension to mastery of the Enforcers had been turbulent. Before that time, no Enforcer had ever challenged for leadership, and when the challenge finally did arise, no one thought that the strong and ancient Darin could possibly be defeated by one of Kaylel's youth. However, Kaylel had quickly demonstrated that such thoughts concerning his strength were conceived in utter ignorance. He had easily defeated Darin, boasting a power which had shocked and frightened even those old ones like Cain who had served with Darin since the inception of the Enforcer order. Since that time, the secret order of immortals which had so long ruled the Community by fear was now itself ruled by fear. Gone were the days when the loyalty of the Enforcers one to another had engendered a brotherhood of immortals centralized around their one great task. They were now little more than a machine, and an increasingly more malevolent one under Kaylel's ambitious leadership. This decaying process in the once intimate Enforcer ranks had been greatly exacerbated by a hitherto unheard-of event: the execution of one of their number based on vague "charges" of disloyalty. Kaylel had announced the matter immediately prior to its occurrence, leaving no time for any protests to be heard. The unfortunate Enforcer had been seized by Kaylel's personal guard, also a very new creation, and the sentence of death had been carried out swiftly. Kaylel had informed Cain that it would be his job to explain the matter to the remaining Enforcers, a task which had represented no small challenge, for Cain immediately found himself working energetically to quell the fires of revolt. Although Cain had been as outraged as anyone else by Kaylel's actions, he nevertheless knew that overturning the Master Enforcer's position by coup would set yet another, perhaps even more dangerous precedent. Kaylel had always claimed that reports of the errant Enforcer's misdeeds had been brought to him by those he would describe only as "others." Even now, two years later, Cain had no information concerning the identity of those "others," and he secretly believed that Kaylel had acted alone. As sobering as that particular thought was, Cain was even more disturbed by another possibility: that Kaylel was telling the truth. If this were the case, then it appeared that Kaylel was secretly working with someone else inside of the Enforcer order, for in the days following the execution, Cain had spoken with every Enforcer member and each had denied any knowledge of Kaylel's claim to have had informants. If Kaylel did have one or more informants, they were determined to remain secretive, and whether they did so willingly or under threat of retaliation, it was all the same in Cain's eyes. He would be forced to act very cautiously. Such was the substance of Cain's thoughts as he carefully considered his answer to Thomas. He had no intention of coming to the same end as the unfortunate Enforcer that Kaylel had executed; consequently, there was no one, no matter how sterling their record or how long he known them, whom Cain was willing to trust fully. It was just possible that Thomas and Aaron could be luring him into saying something that could be reported to Kaylel as traitorous. Inwardly, Cain cursed the circumstances that had encouraged such paranoia and subsequently driven the devastating wedge of suspicion into their order. Outwardly, he kept his gaze steady, his voice firm as he answered Thomas. "Our Kind are scattered more widely across the face of the earth and in greater numbers than ever before in our history. At the time that our order was formed, as you know, only a handful were chosen, although, since that time, we have added others whenever suitable candidates were available." At this point, Cain nodded to Aaron, who had been once chosen in such a fashion, and then continued. "Once again, we are forced to expand, to incorporate others into our ranks in order to meet the challenges presented by the rapid growth and dispersion of our Kind." His reply had obviously been anticipated. "That's all well and good, Cain, but we have never before filled our ranks with children." "We are also more limited in our choices than in previous times," Cain replied. "Our Kind have long claimed to be immutable, Thomas, but this is not so. This modern world *has* changed us. We are no longer hunted by mortals, nor can we openly hunt them as we did for so many centuries. During those times, few of us were made because the risks for both fledgling and master were so very great, and those who were made were linked to their masters for their very lives. In mastering the powers of our Kind, those young ones were but learning to survive. They grew strong because the alternative was almost certain death." Cain took a few steps away from the others but moved only as far as he had to in order to catch a glimpse of the Toronto skyline. "Now, things are very different," he said, steadily gazing into the distance. "The vast majority of the modern world lives in absolute ignorance of us, believing our Kind to be the fictional heritage of their superstitious ancestors and so, until recently, we have been safe. But the conveniences of the mortal world have reached into our own Community and dulled our senses, made us complacent. Masters and fledglings are not bound by the same creeds that united them in bygone times. The young ones of today know virtually nothing of the threats that once surrounded our Kind. We Enforcers are their greatest fear. Even the old ones, like us, the ones who did live in very different times have come to feel at ease in this present day, and I fear that these times of quiet coexistence with mortals may soon be at an end." Cain turned back to his subordinates. "The decision was made that our Order's future acquisitions must not come from those who were at all tainted by this complacent age. Those brought into our Order now will have been brought across for the very reason of making them Enforcers from the beginning. They will have known no other purpose since being made immortal and thus, they will be that much more malleable for our purposes, and ultimately that much more effective." There was a lengthy and heavy silence after Cain finished speaking as Thomas and Aaron absorbed what they had just been told. Neither vampire had expected this new information. "We knew only that these new ones were young," Thomas remarked as he studied Cain with eyes that held both anger and suspicion. "We had no idea that they were being brought across directly into our Order!" "Now you know," Cain replied without turning. "The Code does not prescribe this!" Aaron growled, indignant. "Nor does it expressly forbid it." "And I suppose that we need not ask who it is that is that has taken it upon himself to bring these new vampires across?" Cain turned only his head in response to Aaron, and only far enough to regard the angry vampire out of the corner of one eye. "You have a talent for arriving at conclusions, Aaron, why don't you tell me? I should think the answer would be obvious." "Yes," Aaron hissed, fangs extended in his anger. "And despite what you might say to the contrary, Cain, the reason for it is equally obvious!" Thomas stepped in between Cain and Aaron before Aaron's angry responses could provoke his superior. The warning for restraint that glowed in his now golden eyes was meant for Aaron, but his next words were for Cain. "Nor do I suppose," he began, vigorously straining to check his own temper, "that we need ask for what purpose you have come and brought so many with you, why others are even now on their way here, and what recent event has so shaken Kaylel that he is gathering so much strength in this one city?" Cain swept the glow of Toronto's skyline one last time with his ancient eyes before turning to face his underlings. "Then I suggest that you prepare yourselves," he said, his tone grave although not hostile, much the same as one might warn of a coming storm. "Kaylel himself will join us once the others have arrived and then...it begins." Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com ***Disclaimers can be found in Part (01/??)*** The Hands of Time (Part 36/36) By: Stephen Lansing **** William Lane was an automobile and property damage appraiser in the employ of several insurance companies with exposures in the region of lower Ontario. For the record, Mr. Lane enjoyed his job. It presented constant opportunities to go to different places and meet various types of people, something he considered infinitely preferable to being tied down to a desk job in some cramped little office cubicle. Unfortunately for him though, an insurance appraiser's job sometimes demands that he be available, not to mention functional, at some extremely odd hours of the day and night. And Lane especially hated working at night. This time; however, there had been no way out. Great Lakes Insurance, Inc., had insisted they had one particular client who absolutely could not be contacted during the day but only at night, and only at a particularly late hour at that. Hence the reason Lane now found himself half a city away from his warm bed at five minutes to midnight. All because of a ridiculously simple property damage appraisal. At least he had the satisfaction of making double pay for this nocturnal assignment. Stifling both a frown and a yawn, Lane totaled his estimate and signed the form. He then gathered together all of the pictures that he had taken of the damage, snapped his pen back into its catch on the inside of his notebook/clipboard and went in search of the Raven's owner. And promptly dropped his hands to his sides with a frustrated sigh. Before Lane had turned his back to give the shattered broadcastbooth window a last look, Mr. Lucien LaCroix, owner of the Raven and certified creep, had been sitting at the bar quietly sipping red wine from a small, ornate glass. The glass was still there but LaCroix was gone. "This is just great," Lane mumbled as he turned to survey the remainder of the empty nightclub. Still no sign of LaCroix. Lane took a few impatient steps forward and called out loudly. "Mr. LaCroix...Sir, I finished the estimate..." Still nothing. Lane raised his voice a bit louder. "Mr. LaCroix..." "There's no need to shout, Mr. Lane." The words came on a cold breath that raised the hairs on the back of William Lane's neck as he started violently and whirled to find LaCroix standing only a few inches behind him. "I assure you that my hearing is quite keen." LaCroix's expression was stern but Lane could have sworn that he saw a hint of amusement in the man's cold blue eyes. He took a deep breath to steady himself and placed one hand to his chest where his heart was pounding like a locomotive. "Sorry about that," Lane said, rather unapologetically. He was quite angry at having been so startled. "I wanted you to know that I finished the estimate on repairing your broadcastbooth but I couldn't find you." How LaCroix had managed to get behind him so quickly and quietly was a more than just a bit strange. "So, I gathered." LaCroix replied calmly, his eyes still fixed on the increasingly uncomfortable Lane. He said nothing else, simply stood there, statue-like. "Yes, well, that's all there is to it," Lane told LaCroix. He was now anxious to be somewhere, anywhere else than under LaCroix's silent, almost threatening gaze. "I'll send this to Great Lakes right away and you'll receive a copy as well," Lane said, indicating the estimate in his clipboard. LaCroix said nothing. "You'll be expected to pay only your deductible, of course, the rest will be covered according to your policy limits..." The statue spoke. "That is, after all, why we pay premiums." Lane blinked. "Uh, yes, sir, it is." He fidgeted for a moment, embarrassed that this man's presence had made him lose his train of thought. "Then if there is nothing else..." LaCroix allowed his sentence to trail off as he indicated the door with a slight tilt of his head. Lane instantly pounced on the invitation to leave. "Yes, sir, that's everything. Any other questions you have can be answered by your adjuster. Good night." Tucking his clipboard under his left arm, Lane made for the door as rapidly as professionalism would allow. "I trust you can find your way out," LaCroix said once the Raven's heavy main door had slammed shut behind the retreating appraiser. The smile that had been tugging at the corners of his lips then manifested itself along with a slight chuckle. Making his way back to the bar, LaCroix retrieved his glass and finished draining the contents while he mused over recent events. Toying with the hapless appraiser had provided a moment of amusement, a needed distraction from the more mundane, logistical duties associated with reopening the Raven. His decision to remain in the city, at least temporarily after Nicholas' latest debacle, had necessitated reopening the club. LaCroix could not imagine life in Toronto without Janette's establishment; he secretly persisted in thinking of the Raven as hers even though he had been the legal owner for nearly a year, and the effort needed to get the club operational was really not that involved...merely a bit boring. The last item that needed his attendance was the broadcastbooth. The booth's large, tinted, soundproof window had been destroyed during Divia's visitation of two weeks previous, and it would be necessary to have that damage repaired before reopening. Fortunately, the equipment inside of the broadcastbooth had escaped Divia's wrath. He would be back on the air tonight. CERK had been only too happy to hear that they would once again have the services of Toronto's most popular, and certainly most controversial, late- night talk show host, even if LaCroix could not tell them how much longer he would be in the city. For his part, LaCroix would have sorely missed doing the show, and returning to the air, like reopening the Raven, was merely part and parcel of his remaining in town. And even if he had followed through on his plans to leave Toronto, LaCroix knew that he would have eventually taken to the airwaves again. The entertainment and personal satisfaction gained from tempting the masses with his vast assortment of philosophical baits was simply too valuable to be lost. Meanwhile, Toronto would simply have to make due with him once more. Leaving his lone vigil at the Raven's bar, LaCroix entered the dim recesses of his broadcastbooth and began activating equipment in preparation for the return of Nightwatch after an eventful twenty-four hour hiatus. The soundboard took a few minutes to warm up as a matter of routine, and LaCroix used the time to enter the Raven's wine cellar and retrieve a bottle of his preferred vintage. Glass and bottle in hand, LaCroix returned to the broadcast booth and poured himself a generous amount of the blood-wine mixture. Reclining in the swiveled chair from which he had entranced and frightened radio listeners since beginning his remote broadcasts from the Raven, LaCroix raised his glass, as though offering a toast to the broken window through which Divia had hurled him with such venom only a fortnight past. LaCroix manipulated the glass with his fingers, only enough to swirl its thick, red contents while he watched the play of light and shadow in the liquid. The blood-wine soon expended what little energy LaCroix had imparted to it and became still in the glass once more. LaCroix set the glass aside and reached for his microphone, drawing it close while activating the controls that would electronically disseminate his voice to all who might be listening. "My, my, what's this, gentle listeners? A familiar voice rings through the night bearing wisdom, compassion, experience...and above all...love...to those who wander aimlessly through life's slough of despair. "And tell me tonight, my friends...is there any truth to this rumor I hear? That you are feeling as though orphaned? Abandoned to face the dark night of the soul...alone? "There is certainly no greater fear...no greater torment...than that of being absolutely alone in this cold world. Let men do what they may: torture the body, bend the mind, enslave the creature. All are equally heinous. And yet, even in the midst of such abuses, there is one abiding consolation...it must end...eventually. "Not so with those who are left alone...such torment can truly stretch into eternity itself, and the one who realizes that he is to be left alone will spare no cost to avert his fate. I would dare say that he would go so far as to even deny those he loves most an end to their greatest sufferings if...by doing so, he may spare himself the pain of their absence...the pain of being alone. How perfectly selfish...and how simply...perfect." "I have had time to consider these things most thoroughly during our brief separation, my friends. I stared into that abyss...created for me by the pain of another...and yet...I denied it the victory. "And so, I offer myself to those of you who walk the valley this night, for I know very well the siren song it sings and the many forms it takes on to lure one to his doom. Bring me those things which cause your pain, your loneliness. Is it the treachery of a friend? The calamity of a dream cast down? Or perhaps it is merely time itself, and the passage of those inexorable hands 'round eternity's clock-face as they sweep away civilizations and creeds and those you hold most dear as though they were nothing more than leaves scattered by the autumn wind... "And what can you do in the face of such unbridled power? When driven into the shadows, where have you to go? I should think the answer an obvious one. And yet, you thought I had left you. Non, mes amis. Such a thing is not possible. I am always here...for you." LaCroix took his glass in hand once more as he spoke, a subtle smile in his eyes as well as upon his lips. "And so, rejoice, my friends, my children, all of those who have strayed from the fold and who wander the night in unending fear of what morbid scene the rising sun may reveal... "The Nightcrawler has returned." TO BE CONTINUED... *Note: As I mentioned in Part One, this story is the first of a trilogy. I realize that "The Hands of Time" loosens a lot more ends than it ties up, but I hope to resolve all of those various situations, hopefully to reader satisfaction, in the next two stories. Currently, those stories exist only in mental form but I hope to have them written very soon. As always, RL will be the ultimate obstacle to that task. In the meantime, thank you for reading "The Hands of Time." I apologize for ending at such a point, but I do hope that you have enjoyed reading it. Send all comments to: Stephen Lansing Phoenix348@aol.com