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Venom: Beautiful Killers. Part 30

"...the Terminator!"

[It's Thursday morning, 2:30 a.m., and I can't sleep. Suddenly, after hours of dreams, hallucinations, and figments, I cannot sleep. It's been three hours since I last woke up. My last dream had a cornucopia of anthropomorphic creatures in it and a couple of interesting developments. I'm writing everything down and an understandable plot is starting to take shape. If I could remember half of what was said in these dreams, this could be molded into a good story.]

[The three hours are the longest I've stayed awake since I was put under back on Monday for the transplant. I'm getting less tired everyday and the pain is lessening every day. My condition is clearly improving, so I could be going home soon. It makes me happy, sure, but I'm already too invested in my illusions that I have a lot of questions. None of them are any I dare ask out loud, but they are important to me.]

[The recurring dreams only started to make sense when I came to the hospital. If I went home, would the story end? Would the dreams stop altogether? Pamila is already starting to have a limited role. Would the rest of the characters fade away once I left the hospital? I need these questions answered. At the same time, I need to not ask them. My kidney's working. That's supposed to be good news.]

[The writings that I keep under my pillow have a story that is taking shape. A group of anthros work as mercenaries for former (human) police officers. It sounds like the summary of a bad action film, but the characters are compelling enough that I actually care what happens. I don't know if I have a favorite, but I wouldn't mind seeing the red panda again. Mieri has been absent a lot for some reason. I have also taken a liking to Mariana. I think Maltese are cute dogs, so she is nice to look at. I wonder if she'll make another appearance....]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Robert Crevecoeur is awake rather early today. The sun is rising in the Eastern sky, just covered by a couple of clouds. Since it is still summer, the time probably has not hit eight yet. Robert is strolling along a simple sidewalk, looking around him with some suspicion. He closes his eyes tightly and yawns; he has clearly been forced out of bed this morning. He struggles to put one foot in front of the other while he moves to his destination.

A speeding car on the nearby street blows past him, jolting his eyes open. Crevecoeur looks around him again, as if looking for someone. His eyes pace and his breath quickens. Seeing nobody, or at least nobody he is interested in, he continues walking. Minutes later, he crosses the street and enters a local park.

A group of joggers bounce towards him. They look spryer and easily fitter than the executive does. They pass him by without paying him much attention. They are all dressed in the same colored shorts and T-shirts, the colors of a nearby college. Two of them are Spaniels; they are leading the group of mostly human joggers. At the back of the group is a field mouse, whose tail strikes Crevecoeur's left kneecap as she passes by. He looks back at her angrily, but she barely noticed. He pauses to rub some relief into his knee, then continues his suspicious stroll.

He finds a nearby bench and sits down. The spot provides a good view of the hiking trail a few feet away. More joggers, some uniformed and some not, pass by. As the sun rises, there is more activity with bikers, hikers, and a stray skateboarder making appearances. Crevecoeur yawns again and leans back on the bench. He looks around once more, paying special attention to the park entrance. Again seeing no one, he sighs heavily and looks at his feet. About a minute later, he closes his eyes.

"Hey! You're not allowed to sleep in the park!"

Crevecoeur is startled awake and again looks around him. It does not take long for him to see the woman standing just inches away. He looks up to see a slender, red-haired, human female smiling down at him. She is tall, at least six feet in height, and has a face that makes her look middle aged. There are crow's feet at the corners of her eyes and signs of fine wrinkles on either side of her face. She looks overdressed for the outdoor conditions; she is wearing a red sweater and a multicolored scarf around her neck. A small, black purse hangs from her left shoulder. Her trousers look more suited for an office rather than the park. Nevertheless, she stands in front of Crevecoeur, silently judging him with her smile, which turns into a laugh when she sees him rub her eyes.

"That's not funny," he says. "I thought you were a cop."

"Well, I'm not, but you still can't sleep in the park." Her laugh fades and she looks around. "I don't like this place. That is to say...I don't like us meeting here when we could be at my house."

"I told you it's not safe there. That'll be one of the first places police would look. By the way, you're late. You're supposed to be here at eight."

"There was an incident on my way over here. Just out of nowhere, I came upon these three cop cars. They were blocking the road. I had to turn around and find another route. It was a pain in the ass. Luckily, it was my only obstacle. The roadblock is not too far from here either; it's just a couple of blocks away. You mind?" She sits next to him.

"Wait, what roadblock? What's going on?"

"Well...obviously a crime of some sort has been committed. So weird to see such a thing at a residential area." She shakes her head and leans in to the executive. "Listen, I passed by my house last night. I went inside and called my husband multiple times. There was no answer. I take it he's gone?"

Annoyed with the woman's toothy smile, Crevecoeur looks straight ahead. "As I told you over the phone on Saturday night, your husband's a memory, Mrs. McDaniels."

She smiles in response. "You people do good work. It's been three days since you called me with the news. Three days and there has been nothing on TV or the radio...or the internet. You people killed him and kept it quiet. I'm glad." She puts her purse on her lap and fishes inside.

Crevecoeur's face tightens in anger as the night of the hit comes back to him. He shakes his head vigorously, trying to forget. "So, as per our agreement, it's thirty thousand--"

"Bam!" Mrs. McDaniels slams a few stacks of green paper on the executive's lap. "Thirty thousand dollars. Well earned too. Take it in good health."

He is surprised, but not for long as he eagerly scoops the money in his hands and starts to inspect it.

"What are you doing? Don't you trust me? Are you really gonna count all that outdoors?"

He ignores her and gently leafs through the hundred dollar bills. Most of them are crisp and clean while there are a few on the bottom that have multiple folds in them. His eyes look at the money as if he's never seen money before. After a minute of admiring his catch, he places it back on his lap and tries to hide it with his hands. "Appreciate it...." He is interrupted by a stray piece of paper that falls from his lap to his feet.

"You dropped your check," the redhead says. She is not smiling anymore.

"A check?" He bends to pick it up and looks at it with great suspicion. "You kidding?"

She shrugs. "No, that's legitimate." She scoffs at Crevecoeur's reaction. "Please don't look at me like that. You know I've got the funds. I promise it won't bounce when you try to cash it."

"Five thousand dollars. What's this for?"

"I've got one more job for you to do." Mrs. McDaniels looks on as Crevecoeur goes from seemingly bored to eagerly interested. She sighs with some dread as she fishes into her purse once more. A serious business transaction is about to commence.

"Who is it this time?"

She hesitantly hands the hitman a small, wallet-sized picture. It is crumpled and smudged, but a good look at it reveals a young boy, either in his late teens or early twenties. He has red hair, freckles, and a small mole under his right eye. He is wearing a plaid shirt and blue jeans. The smile on his face seems innocent with a bit of mischievousness sprinkled in. His hands are folded in front of him, giving some dignity to his pose.

The woman leans into Crevecoeur once again, getting one more look at the picture. She lowers her head and nods, as if making up her mind for the last time. "Keith McDaniels."

His head suddenly turns to her, like his ears could not believe what they just heard. He looks at the picture again, then turns back to the woman's face. "Your...son?"

"A royal waste of space. He once accidentally...saw one of Arlo's illicit activities and...." She sighs heavily and closes her eyes. "Arlo's been bribing him to stay away from his affairs. In response, my son's been loving every minute of it, spending every dime he got his hands on. Once he was even paid with sex; Arlo found him a call girl for his eighteenth birthday. I haven't seen him since the start of the year, but he's been calling home a lot, asking for favors. Now that Arlo's gone, I'm afraid that he'll start extorting from me. He's just that ambitious."

"When do you want this done?"

"As soon as possible, but no rush. With Arlo gone, I'm free to move about the mansion. I'm gonna relax there while you finish the job. I'm paying you five thousand now, and you'll get the other five when the work's done. I figure Keith's only worth that much." She takes a couple of breaths and a slight sign of a smile start to develop. "I've been trying to make peace with this decision, and I think I finally have." She takes a look at Crevecoeur, who is still gawking at the picture. "You look unsure."

He puts the picture on the stack of money on his lap. His sigh of resignation makes the woman frown. "I'm not, Mrs. McDaniels, not really. I have, um...." He sits erect on the bench. "I've got the sources to do this. I'm just averse to offing kids."

"Oh, please! He's nineteen years old. He's ripe. Besides, it's not actually you doing the killing, is it? So what the hell's your problem?"

Crevecoeur shakes his head. "Just forget it."

"Look buddy, a killer with a heart of gold is still a killer, so just do this, all right?" She checks herself by clearing her throat; her voice was starting to get loud. "Look, just have your furry friends do to Keith what they did to Arlo, and relax." She fishes into her purse once again and digs out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She smiles as she lights up, then holds the small box in front of the man. "Cigarette?"

"I've quit."

"Big mistake." She laughs as she stands. "You have my number. Call me when you're clean. Don't let the joggers see that." She points to the money before starting to walk away. "Like I said, you people do good work. If I had known about you a couple of years ago, my husband would have been gone sooner, and there'd still be hope for Keith. "

Crevecoeur does not watch her leave. He is instead looking for places to hide the money. He puts some bills in his shirt pocket and tries to make some room in the pockets of his trousers. A couple of bikers slowly pass by, looking at him with suspicion. They stare at him, but continue on their way. The executive stands gingerly and makes his way back from where he came. His stride is less comfortable than before. He jams his hands in his pockets and walks as quickly as he can.

His gait is almost panicky, but he hardly gets any looks. He is out of the park in seconds and makes it to his minivan five minutes later. Before he drives away, he tosses the contents of all his pockets in the glove compartment. Now he is more comfortable and able to concentrate. As he drives away from the park, he crosses an intersection that is bustling with activity. As he nears a stop sign, he sees a group of people streaming towards him, then turn left. It is a large group of people, large enough to pique his interest. He turns his vehicle to follow the crowd. A few feet of slow driving leads him to another intersection, where the crowd he is following gets bigger.

Crevecoeur follows them all. He turns left but cannot drive much further. The crowd of people he had been following has run into another, bigger crowd. The normally unoccupied street is teeming with people, all stretching on their toes, trying to see what is in front of them. He honks his horn a few times before deciding to park on a curb by the right hand side. The crowd barely moves. After thinking about it for a minute, he decides to exit his car.

The crowd is eerily quiet; the people are either looking for or listening for something. Crevecoeur is in the back, trying to see what they see. Even though he is taller than most of them, he still has trouble making out anything in front of him. He angrily trots to his vehicle and reaches into the glove compartment. He pulls out an old, brown, leather wallet, closes the door, and runs back to the crowd. He flips open the wallet, yells "Police! Out of the way!" and goes through the people.

He bullies his way through the crowd using a combination of the badge and his right forearm. He is not a detective anymore, but nobody has any idea of that. Those who can hear him obey and step aside. In seconds, he is at the front. What he sees makes his eyes widen and his mouth drop.

In front of a house at the end of a cul de sac, a wooden dais has been set up. On top of it are microphones from at least ten different media outlets. The house behind the dais is surrounded by rolls of stretched out police tape. The door is open and there are signs of police officers inside. At the very front of the crowd are news reporters and camera men. The sight of them makes Crevecoeur quickly ditch his badge in his trousers. He nervously places his hands behind his back, clearly afraid of being pictured.

A voice near him asks, "What's going on?"

A female voice answers, "Apparently, someone died in there."

"What? Someone died?"

"Murdered," a third voice says. "I think yesterday."

"I live here. I didn't hear anything. If anyone was getting killed in there, someone would have heard something, right?"

Before the question can be answered, movement inside the house shushes the crowd. Four police officers make their way to the dais. Three of them are humans of high rank. The fourth one is a Doberman. He is the one actually going to the microphones.

Crevecoeur's mouth widens even more. "Cliff," he says.

The Doberman clears his throat and removes his hat. He has the look of a man who has not slept in days. He looks around him. There are two officers on either side of him and a throng of reporters and interested onlookers in front of him. He looks uncomfortable and weary as he starts to speak, introducing himself with a gruff and shaky voice. He clears his throat once again and forces himself to get down to business.

Crevecoeur nods, familiar with the speaker. "This'll be good."

"This morning, we are able to confirm...." Cliff clears his throat a third time. "...that the bodies of Simon Thompson and Pamela Agnes Daltrey have been recovered. Days of speculation and rumor can now be put to rest. It is really them. This means that Mrs. Daltrey had a paramour, and they were both found dead on the same bed. Mr. Daltrey has already been notified. He is not a suspect...and we do not have any suspects. The actual time of death has not yet been ascertained, but since the call of their discovery came on Sunday night, we believe they died either on late Sunday morning or the early afternoon." He closes his eyes slightly as cameras flash in front of him. "The cause of their deaths is multiple gunshot wounds from the same gun. They were both shot in the chest at least four times each...."

The executive closes his mouth tightly and nods once again. He immediately knows everything that has happened.

"There are no signs of forced entry and no signs of a struggle anywhere. That does not necessarily mean that the victims knew their attackers and does not, in any way, ease the horror of this crime. As it is, we have not been able to find many clues. The fingerprints we have found belong only to the victims. There seems to be nothing that the perpetrators have left over. The shooting seems professionally done...and we believe it was done by one individual."

As Cliff talks, he gains confidence and starts to enunciate more. He stands up straighter and looks more authoritative. As he wraps up his speech, he grips the dais with both hands, eliciting more flashes from the cameras. "Make no mistake," he says, "as the Los Angeles Police Department lives and breathes, there is no room for any acts of evil such as this. Whoever did this will be captured and tried to the fullest extent of the law." With that, the Doberman releases the podium and invites one of the officers next to him to speak.

Cliff's proclamations make Crevecoeur smile a bit. As the size of the crowd basically doubles, some stray uniformed officers approach the front to keep the people at bay. The executive tries to make himself hidden without looking suspicious. He tries to stand behind a couple of people, but catches the eyes of two officers. One looks at him and walks away. The other, another Doberman, does a double take. "Robert?!"

Crevecoeur tries to turn around and leave the scene, but a thick mass of humanity prevents his escape. The Doberman breaks protocol and moves forward toward the crowd. He gets a good look at the nervous human and shouts, "It is you! How are you doing?" A couple of people make way as he gets close; they are the same people Crevecoeur was trying to hide behind.

"Reynolds?"

"Yes!" The Doberman reaches forward and shakes hands with the surprised man. "How've you been?! I haven't seen you since I graduated from the Academy. You came to see each of the graduates individually. You talked to us and gave us tips. I was truly honored."

"You're not supposed to shake hands while on duty, but I'm glad to see you too." Crevecoeur relaxes. "What have you been up to?"

"They call me Beast now, because of my growth spurt. I've been partnering with Cliff over there. We've been working the bar scene...until we were called off."

"Yeah, I heard about that. So you guys have given up the search for the bomber?"

"Not really. We're still combing through the videotape evidence, but Cliff and I are on to bigger things."

"Cliff's been promoted I see."

"Yeah! He's working side-by-side with the lead detectives in this case."

"I see he got chosen to speak first. He's a little stiff."

Beast laughs. "He psyched himself out so much for that opportunity that he forgot what to say when he got up to the microphone." He laughs louder, drawing stares from some in the crowd.

"Listen, it was a wild goosechase anyway. Those bar raids were getting you guys nowhere. I'm glad you both are doing something different with your time."

"I don't know. Cliff thinks we were getting close to catching him. He paid close attention to a couple of bars in Downtown L.A. We visited The Shark Pit the most and he felt that whoever knows the bomber is based there, if not the bomber himself."

"Just forget about it. You'd be wasting your time and you're only making bar patrons everywhere mad at you guys. Pulling you off that case was the right decision."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. But then again, that's why you're a decorated detective, isn't it? The force misses you, sir."

Crevecoeur nods in contemplation. "And I miss the force."

Beast turns behind him to notice that a different speaker has taken the podium. "Look, I gotta go. I gotta maintain order."

"Don't let me stop you."

"Listen, can we talk sometime? I've got tons of questions to ask you."

"Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt. You could always call me at home since my number is still in my old office. Also, I've got a friend who is about to open a bar of his own. It doesn't have a name yet, but it's a bar for cops, both former and current. It opens this weekend. If you want to have a drink one day--"

"Sure, consider it done."

"It opens on Saturday. You'll know it when you see it."

The human and the Doberman get in a few more words before they are forced to separate. The conversation ends just in time; a couple of reporters had been looking at them and were starting to wonder. Beast and another officer force the crowd backwards; he gives Crevecoeur a slight wave as he does so. The executive decides to stay and watch, despite the dangers of being seen by someone else who might recognize him.

Five minutes later, Cliff returns to the dais to face the reporters once again. "I will now take any questions you might have. Please keep in mind that we cannot and will not answer any questions pertaining to our investigation methods." He points to someone in the crowd.

A heavy-set female sticks her microphone in front of her. After asking Cliff to spell his name, she asks, "Considering that, as you all say, there are no prints other than those of the victims, what's next to do in the house that'll help you find the killer?"

Cliff sighs calmly. "What did I just say a minute ago? We cannot comment on any methods we may or may not use. We do not want to give the perpetrator any ideas that will help him avoid us. Next question."

A man's voice asks, "If there is a lack of clues in the house, then what leads do you have?"

"First of all, we never said there was a lack of clues. We've said that there are no useful prints and no signs of forced entry. We believe that the victims knew their attacker and that the killer was anthropomorphic, meaning not human. We are confident in that even though there isn't much physical evidence to go on. Mrs. Daltrey herself knew and worked with quite a few anthropomorphs personally. That itself is a big clue. Next question."

A different woman shouts over her competition. "Where is Mrs. Daltrey's husband now? When was he notified? Does he know he was being cheated on?"

"He was notified this morning and is being questioned as we speak. As for marital infidelity and whether it was a motivator, well...that is something we are looking into." Cliff points to someone else.

Another reporter, a German Shepherd, introduces himself in a loud voice. "Officer Cliff, you being who you are, you have easily five times the sense of smell that your human colleagues have. Weren't you able to sense anything at all?"

"The killer knew what he was doing. I imagine he got in, did the job, and left very quickly afterwards. If you're fast enough, you can take your scent with you. Next question."

A male voice introduces itself and says, "I'd like to mention something that neither you nor your colleagues brought up. Mrs. Daltrey's husband works for Governor Benton Cartwright. Along with aides Lawrence Kaminski and Cam Morris, that now makes three people connected to the Governor who have died in the past month. Isn't there a connection among the three that needs to be explored, especially since he's up for reelection in November? Couldn't Mrs. Daltrey's death be seen as a way to get to her husband, or the Governor?"

Cliff chuckles. "Due respect, but I think everyone present here is a little too old for conspiracy theories, don't you agree? There is no connection between this crime and the deaths of the other people you mentioned. In fact, no connection between Kaminski and Morris has been established either...."

Crevecoeur decides to make his exit now. There is a slight smile to his face. In fact, the whole press conference had been amusing to him. He sets up the hits, so he knows what happened in that house. He knows that it would take a miracle for Cliff and the police department to piece together what really happened. As quickly as he can, he slinks his way through the crowd and heads for his minivan.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"The time is 9:05. This morning, we are continuously gathering more information on an apparent double homicide at a suburban, residential neighborhood. It has now been confirmed that the bodies are those of thirty-eight year old Simon Thompson and thirty year old Pamela Daltrey. She was the wife of Aaron Daltrey, the thirty-five year old former district attorney who is now Governor Benton Cartwright's cabinet secretary. The bodies were discovered at about 8:30 on Sunday night--"

Tivoli slams her right hand on the snooze button of the vintage, black clock radio. It was an instinctual action; it looked like her hand moved on its own. She slams it so hard that she startles herself awake. She lies prone on the bed, half-covered by the untidy quilted blanket on top of her. "What time is it?" she asks herself.

After five more minutes of tossing and turning, she rolls on her back. Her eyes slowly open to gently take in the sunlight shining on her face. The light brightens the whole room, making the bulbs on the roof unnecessary. Usually at this time, the ocelot is out of bed. She would stretch, take deep breaths, and maybe go out for some exercise. She would be active and alert. Her face would glow with anticipation. Her fur would have an energetic bounce to it. The morning is easily her favorite period of the day.

Today is apparently not such a day. Tivoli's face is surly. It looks like it has been in a fight. Her hair and her fur have loose strands fraying all over the place. She looks like she has no energy. Her head droops as she tries to sit up. After a loud yawn, she blinks a few times and rubs her eyes. The radio suddenly makes noise. The startled ocelot looks at it angrily and abruptly hits the snooze button once again. She looks at the time. The clock says 9:10. That is when she notices the shot glasses.

There are two shot glasses, one full and one empty, standing in front of the radio. In front of them, about ready to fall off the end table, is an empty bottle of scotch. It is completely empty; it has basically been sucked dry. Tivoli stares at the entire setup for more than a minute, with half-closed eyes and a still drooping head. Suddenly, her brow raises and her mouth opens. She gasps and quickly stands, throwing the blanket aside. Her fast hands grab the bottle and put it in front of her now open eyes. She looks at it carefully and her face slowly emotes the realization of whatever happened the night before.

"Oh, no." She lowers her hands, dropping the bottle on the carpeted floor. Then she picks up the two glasses and inspects them. Her nose gently sniffs the empty glass. She puts them down and raises her orange tank top to her nose. She inhales deeply and shakes her head with disappointment. Her clothes probably have the same smell as the drink. "Sorry, Karen. I didn't change my clothes last night. Now your guest bed smells like booze."

Tivoli covers her face in her hands and sighs with exasperation. She then decides to sniff her armpits. "Of course." She quickly takes off the tank top and throws it on the floor. Now half naked, she places the bottle back on the table. "What the hell?" She shrugs and empties the shot glass into her mouth.

All she is wearing now is a pair of black bicycle shorts, which means that she hardly bothered to change into her pajamas last night. She is about to slip those off when a knock on the door straightens her. The front door is on the floor below, but the knocking is loud and unmistakable. The ocelot's breathing quickens and she freezes in place. Every part of her body is erect, listening for the sound. Maybe she was not paying attention; for all she knows, it was probably Fluffy just making noise.

A minute later, the knocking returns. It sounds louder now because it was anticipated. Tivoli slowly creeps forward to the window beside the bed. It is high enough that she can see who is at the door and stay unnoticed. Whoever it is probably expects Karen, the homeowner. "Please go away," she whispers as she takes a peek through the glass. The unwanted stranger is wearing a sharp looking tuxedo, complete with cufflinks. Tivoli looks on suspiciously, pressing her forehead against the glass. Her breathing is making the only sound in the room, adding needless tension to the environment.

The stranger turns away from the door, causing the ocelot to squat as she tries to remain hidden. She can see the figure's entire body now, including a large, brown tail that sways in the wind. She quickly stands and presses her hands to the window, getting as perfect a look as possible. "Hoeness?" She squints and stares, trying to get a look at the face. When the stranger turns back towards the door, she smiles. A sigh of relief eases the tension. "Hoeness!" She knocks on the window and tries to open it. Once she gets his attention, she realizes that she is only half dressed.

Hoeness looks up just in time to see the ocelot pressed against the glass. The look only lasts a second. Tivoli screams and ducks low, covering her breasts with her hands. She bends so low that she lands on all fours. Her panicked breathing returns and she crawls to the bed. Her priority now is to cover herself up and look as presentable as possible. She picks up the tank top that is by her feet and puts it on. After sniffing it, she curses and pulls it off her body.

She covers her breasts again, even though there is no real reason to, and runs to the closet next to the door. She pulls out the first thing she sees, a red dress with white floral print. It is long enough to cover her knees and make the bike shorts mostly invisible. She throws it on and runs down the stairs. Fluffy flees from the couch as the ocelot stumbles through the living room. Once at the front door, she fixes her hair and clears her throat.

Hoeness looks confused at first. He hardly recognizes who he is looking at when the door opens. However, a second look reveals who he came to see. "There you are," he says with a smile.

"Hi." She stands at the doorway but does not step outside. Her left hand is on the door frame and the right one is on her hip. She is trying to look as sexy as possible, but her smile is so wide that it looks insincere. She giggles loudly, partially from embarrassment. "It's been a while."

His smile shortens a bit. "Yeah, it has. How've you been? Have...you been adjusting well?"

"Um...yeah! Adjusting!" She holds her hands behind her back, grabbing the base of her tail. Her big smile is trying desperately to hide her fidgety movements. "I'm doing great, but...you know you could have been seen."

"No way. I was told about your housemate. I parked across the street and waited until she was gone. Then I came over."

"You didn't have to knock. We got a doorbell."

"I pressed it five times."

"Oh. I must have slept through it all." As she lets out an uncomfortable laugh, she sees the German Shepherd walk slightly closer to her. She backs up until she is inside the house. "Sorry about that. I'm still getting used to waking up early."

The dog's smile disappears. "Are you all right?"

She nods emphatically. "Yeah! I'm great! Maybe a little tired, but that'll solve itself in no time."

"Have you been drinking?"

"What?! No! I haven't! I mean...maybe a little. I mean, Karen has some wine spritzers in the fridge."

"It smells mightily like scotch."

She shakes her head emphatically. "Nah. No way." She watches Hoeness frown and shakes her head some more. "You're mistaken. It was only--"

"You can't lie to a dog's nose." He looks at her sternly with eyes that apparently tell her to stop smiling, because she does. "Is...something wrong?"

Tivoli shakes her head, not answering "no," but giving up the pretense. She puts a hand to her forehead and leans her back against the nearest wall. "I think I got drunk last night. I say think because I've never done that before. I never drink to excess."

Hoeness enters and closes in on her with growing concern. "You look a little out of it."

"I...don't remember what happened last night. I woke up this morning in my jogging clothes. There was an empty bottle on the nightstand. I must have gone for a run and...I drank all her stuff when I got back. I guess I'm still a little drunk."

"Oh, well that's normal. Don't dwell too much on it. That's a nice dress."

She grins and leaves the wall. "Thanks. St. Croix bought this for me?"

"St. Croix did? When was that? You're hardly ever at the office."

"I'd...rather not talk about it. It was a long night and he was just trying to make me feel better."

Hoeness sniffs the air in front of her. He is obviously wary of something. "Are you sure you're all right?

Tivoli releases a fatigued sigh. "I've already told you, I'm fine. There's nothing wrong. You didn't have to come all this way just to check up on me."

She obviously wants him to leave and walks to the door hoping he will follow. Hoeness shrugs confusedly. "All right. I was just giving you a chance."

"Hmm? What chance?"

"A chance to tell me what's wrong with you before I do."

She holds the already open door. "Oh really? And what do you think is wrong with me?"

"I heard...no, actually I overheard Crevecoeur earlier this morning when he was talking to the other executives. They were having a quick meeting right before work started. They were discussing you...and whether or not to continue having you in their employ." He observes the shock on the ocelot's face and walks over to her, patting her on the shoulder and gently taking the door away from her.

"Are they thinking of firing me?"

"So, something went wrong on your apprentice hunt. Am I right?"

Tivoli closes her eyes and runs her hands through her hair. "It wasn't just 'something wrong.' It was an atrocity. Mr. McDaniels was there, playing to type, being a sleaze. I was the bait who was supposed to lead him into a false sense of security. Paraná was the assassin who would do the job once he had an opening. Everything was going according to plan...until McDaniels returned, alive. Paraná was gone and wasn't coming back any time soon." Her voice amplifies and bounces off the walls. "Before I knew it, he had me come into bed with him. He had his hands inside my clothes...and Paraná wasn't coming! So I had to do it myself." She chuckles mirthlessly and looks at her feet. "You know, it's funny. I almost didn't bring that knife."

"Wow." Hoeness shakes his head. He is not usually surprised by anything, but the ocelot's words have him staring at her with wonder. "That's heavy. Crevecoeur explained to Ted what he saw when got to that house. He said he had to kill the mark himself, but you laid him out well before that. I remember those photos of McDaniels from when I was fighting to hunt him. He's a big guy! But you obviously took care of him." His smile returns. "Simply impressive."

"But am I being fired?"

"That I did not hear."

Unexpectedly, the ocelot walks toward the dog. She is not returning his smile; in fact, her expression is quite serious. Her hands are clasped desperately in front of her. "Hoeness? I...don't think I can do this."

"What do you mean?"

"I...thought it would be simple. I took the knife and stabbed him in the chest. I stabbed him twice, really hard, and he suddenly turned into the Terminator! He put hands around my neck and he was...." She gasps and covers her eyes with her hands.

"Oh...this is serious. You got that...that post traumatic shit."

"I don't think I can do this."

"You've said that already, and it obviously isn't true. I mean...you took out McDaniels!"

"Is it supposed to be that hard?"

"Sometimes they're harder."

"I don't think I can take it, Hoeness." She leaves the door and heads to the couch. The dog is right at her heels. "I'm not handling this very well. I mean...when Paraná took me to my first hunt; he strangled that mark to death...and it looked simple. It was definitely quick. I tried to do the same thing with McDaniels and he almost killed me. It was so embarrassing. I was so scared, I couldn't walk. Mr. Crevecoeur basically had to carry me to his car...like I was one of his kids. I couldn't look at him the rest of the night." Her voice starts to break but she stands and starts to walk around. It seems to help. "That night, he took me to our workplace. St. Croix was there...I forgot why...and he helped me get situated. My clothes were blood-soaked, so he offered to get me something else to wear. He ended up buying this dress."

"You slept overnight at the office?"

"In the cafeteria. The next morning, Mr. Crevecoeur drove me back here and said he'd call to check up on me. But I didn't feel like doing anything. He called my cell phone a few times, but I couldn't talk to him. I haven't been at the office. I don't know who my next mark will be. I've been in here for the last three days, acting like a slacker."

"Are you afraid to go back to work? You really shouldn't be. A lot of us have been through what you're going through. We've come out all right."

"What exactly did you do when you felt this way?"

"Have you seen the shrink?"

Tivoli shakes her head immediately. "I'm scared."

"Miranda's not scary. You've seen her. She's gorgeous. She's also really good at what she does. She'll get you right back to work."

"I don't know how. I haven't even touched the knife since I last used it. It's been under my bed upstairs." She sniffs and returns to the couch.

"So what have you been doing here all this time?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Eating, sleeping, watching the TV, drinking...I guess I'm still a little drunk. When I'm not doing those things, I lie on the couch and think about...." She gasps and stands to look at Hoeness' eyes. "How's Paraná doing?"

The dog shakes his head. "The last I checked, he was undergoing a second surgery. I think he was having his spleen removed...or something. But he'll be all right--"

"Oh my God." Tivoli turns away and returns again to the couch. "I've forgotten all about him. I've been so wrapped up in myself that I forgot--"

"Relax. He's fine. Paraná's a tough bastard."

"Are you sure? Is he suffering? Is he in any pain? Do you know how long until he makes a full recovery?"

"I don't know all that for sure. I haven't been to the hospital myself. But I know Rory and Baua have. Paraná doesn't want any visitors. The guys at the office want to see him, but he doesn't want to see anybody. Of course, I don't blame him. He would only want us to see him as his usual, whole self." He notices the ocelot looking at the floor and sits next to her. "Hey, don't worry. I told you, he's tough. You don't come out of the slums in Brazil just to die on an American operating table, stabbed with a pussy little knife. He'll be back with us in no time."

The ocelot wipes her eyes and sniffs once again. Now, she looks angry. "I wanna go see him."

Hoeness smiles and stands. "Now, that sounds like someone with a mission. You gotta call his room first, though."

"No, I'm going right now...or as soon as the booze leaves my system. He'll want to see me. I'm not just any visitor. We like each other."

"Well, that's...oh shit! I forgot!"

"Forgot what?"

"I'll be right back." Hoeness runs to the front door and opens it. He leaves the house for a few seconds, then returns, pulling in a black, carryon case. "I brought you something. Well, Crevecoeur brought you something."

"What is that?" Tivoli walks over to the door and bends down to give the case a good look. "Tell him I already have luggage."

"It's not the container, though he says you can keep it if you want. Your gift is what's inside."

"What is it?"

"Your pay. He brought it in this morning from the client. It's all in there."

"My pay...already?" She kneels down in front of it and starts to fiddle with the zippers. "You brought my pay?"

"It's part of the job. We're supposed to come in the office if we want to get paid. That's usually how it works. But if one of us is incapacitated for more than two days, the bosses send someone over to that person's house to give him his money. They prefer that anyone who kills gets paid right away. I'm not fond of this part of the job, but I'm glad to see you're happy."

Tivoli is really happy. She continues to look for a way to open the container. "This is for McDaniels? But I sucked at killing him...and I didn't even kill him." She is astonished and wants to shout, but calms herself with a few soothing breaths. "Tell him thanks."

"You do it yourself when you get back. I'm gonna go home now."

"Thanks for trying to help."

"Come back soon."

She smiles at him and watches him leave, then goes back to the piece of luggage. After a few seconds of straining, the zippers open. She digs her arm inside and pulls out a couple of stacks of one hundred dollar bills. Even though she had already been told what was inside, she neglected to ask how much it was. A quiet laugh comes out from her surprised mouth.

She counts carefully; the two stacks she pulled out each have two thousand dollars in them. She reaches inside again and pulls out two more. Her quiet laugh turns into a big laugh. She looks around the living room to make sure she is alone, then she overturns the entire case. Stacks of money flow to the floor like thick, green raindrops. She chortles and places her hands on top of her head in disbelief.

After simply standing in place for a few minutes, she kneels among the stacks of paper, takes one, and counts again. She laughs with excited joy, drawing Fluffy's interest. The small cat sits and watches as his feline companion gathers the money together and collects them in a pile in front of her. She laughs heartily as the pile collapses. This moment is full of exuberance and exhilaration, something this house has lacked for as long as the ocelot has lived here. Her laugh echoes throughout the room, eventually scaring the cat into backing away.

Ten minutes pass and she is still looking at the money. She has stopped laughing and is counting everything. She is sitting on the floor, right in front of the television. Everything she counts is placed in a stack to her left. Everything not counted is lying in a mess on her right. So far, she has counted ten thousand dollars. She had been ecstatic at the beginning, but the more she counts, the less of a smile there is. Soon, her breathing ramps up and her hands start to shake. For some reason, by the time she counts to twenty thousand, she starts to break down.

Clutching a stack of money on one hand, she covers her eyes with her other hand. Her legs are crossed under her and her head is bowed, as if in defeat. She sobs gently and without humiliation; she is loud enough to be heard from anywhere in the house, but quiet enough to still hear the low hum of the refrigerator. She drops the money and wipes her face with both hands. Through her teary eyes, she sees Fluffy playing with the money on her right side. She picks him up and turns his face to meet hers. With fresh tears streaming down her face, she asks, "What am I supposed to do now?"