Chase Fleet: Origins

By William G Jennings

"The Sisters of Jezebel" Against the backdrop of struggling with how to integrate his new-found faith into his life, and the pain and confusion of a shattered romance, Detective Chase Fleet finds himself caught up in a radical feminist plot to fundamentally alter the religious make-up of the Universe. Fleet weaves together a series of seeming unrelated events: murder and arson at a museum, an innocent church member caught up in a smuggling ring, the mysterious death of every member of a small, all-male cult in Montana, to expose the plot of a group of radical feminists seeking to replace all other religions with one worshiping a 'Goddess Supreme'.

"The Eyes of Christ". A Church assignment to bring down an anti-religious media mogul puts Chase Fleet into a desperate race to recover a stolen Christian artifact. A high-stakes poker game launches Fleet into an adventure that tests his newly found religious faith as he encounters payroll hijackers in a daring air car chase over Texas, assassins, and a enemy determined to publicly destroy both Fleet and his faith. Along the way Fleet meets a beautiful poker playing actress, a woman with a mysterious tattoo, a rich Texas energy executive, a retired Jewish citrus farmer: all who might or might not be what they appear to be (plus a gorgeous Israeli hitwoman who is exactly what she appears to be), all culminating with a 'Most Dangerous Game' scenario where success requires relying on his new and tenuous faith for a miracle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William G Jennings
• Release date: Jun 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301476565

William G Jennings

William Jennings is an Army brat born in France who now lives and writes in Texas. His literary influences are Robert Heinlein and Ian Fleming.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Letting someone die is not the same as murdering them.

Ellen Mehl let that thought play around her mind as she stood in the den's doorway and watched, breathless and transfixed, at the macabre dance of death playing itself out before her eyes.

Dr. Charles Akin tore at his chest as if ripping through flesh and muscle would enable him to calm the piercing stutters of his sputtering heart. Growl-like gasps vomited from the depths of his throat. Spittle pooled at the corners of his rigid blue lips. His body arched, and finally the confusion and betrayal squeezing his pleading eyes swirled away to the sightlessness of fleeing consciousness.

How much longer? Ellen wondered almost clinically.

The elderly doctor's slippered foot lashed out, striking the portable laptop viewing stand that had dropped to the floor as the first really intense spasm of pain had launched him from his hefty leather chair. The adjustable arm holding the magnifying glass flexed out and slammed against the leg of the squat glass end table.

Ellen's startled shriek was cut off as she nipped her tongue hard between her teeth. She tasted blood and gulped hard against her rebelling stomach.

Letting someone die is not the same as murdering them.

The shudder of her own panting breaths helped drown out the dying professor's last labored wheezes. She focused her mind on The Plan.

Tell as much of the truth as possible. He was an old man with a bad heart. That will allay the police's initial suspicions. He was a colleague and a friend. You have no obvious motive to do him harm. Tell as much of the truth as possible. Display shock and confusion. The police will grow solicitous and comforting. Put a semblance of truth in every statement.

Being shocked would be no problem. Not after seeing the confusion in his eyes when she ignored the hand groping hopefully at her as he croaked for his medication. At the telltale discomfort of an approaching attack she had excused herself to prepare tea. Sometimes, when preoccupied with a scroll or tablet, Dr. Akin ignored that first stirring of pain until it grew too intolerable to ignore. Only then he would seek out his medication.

Her own harsh gasps steadied. She listened to the silence. Through the corners of her squinting eyes she saw the doctor's extended, claw-like hand. Slowly she took in the rest of the dull, brown, dimly-lit den. The doctor lay on his back, head lolled over. Wide, sightless eyes absently regarded her. His other hand clutched the crisp white shirt he wore under the aged smoking jacket with elbow patches. Proper prop for the kindly old professor, eh?, he remarked with a chuckle every time he slipped into it. The portable lap desk with the oversized magnifying glass, companion on so many expeditions, managed to land sprawled across one leg, like a faithful dog worrying over his distressed master.

Ellen moved to check the body, then stopped. Remember The Plan. She was supposed to be returning with a tray of tea to 'drop in surprise' at the sight of the body; a nice bit of theater for the simple-minded police. Drop the tray. Rush to the body. Too late. No pulse. She turned to return to the kitchen.

No, wait. The lap desk hitting the glass end table. Had it been loud enough to have been heard in the kitchen? Ellen couldn't be sure. She pondered it a moment before deciding it didn't matter. Heard a sound while I was in the kitchen. Not sure what. I called to Dr. Akin and when he didn't answer I came to check. Ellen nodded, confidence growing. That would work. Heard sound, called out, got no response, came to see. Checked body, no pulse, called 9-1-1. As much of the truth as possible, just as they had coached. When the time came, try to put a grain of truth into every statement.

She repeated to herself: Heard sound. Called out. No response. Found body. No pulse.

No pulse. Ellen took a deep breath to steady herself. She knelt beside the extended hand and felt the wrist. Still warm, but no pulse. She glanced at the wide eyes and, remembering the fleeting glare of confusion and betrayal, she turned away. No, Ellen, she told herself firmly. No time for sentiment. He was in the way. He was a doddering old fool who should have retired long ago. She took a deep breath to steady herself and calmly stepped over the body to use the phone on the desk.

*

* * *

*

As predicted the police and paramedics were courteous and solicitous. Ellen thought her wail of grief at 'finding' the doctor's medication in her purse just feet from the body was particularly effective. The Medical Examiner arrived and quickly determined L.A.P.D. Homicide would not have to be notified. Ellen provided her name, address and occupation. Then she allowed the police to encourage her to call a friend to come take her home.

She huddled in a hesitant drizzle on the rooftop parking zone, expecting at any moment to feel a tapping on her shoulder, followed by the dreaded, Just a few questions, if you don't mind, from an overly dedicated, somber-toned detective needing to clear up 'some things'. But the tap never came and after an eternity Charlotte Caffey's bright violet airhop settled in the landing square. Dim light spilled out as the bat wing door on the passenger side elevated.

Is it done? Charlotte asked even before Ellen had folded herself into the narrow passenger seat. If a fatal attack hadn't struck Dr. Akin within the week, Ellen knew Charlotte had orders to 'push' the matter forward.

It is, Ellen replied, fumbling with the safety belt. The shakes, she realized, feeling a sudden burst of disorientation.

Charlotte chuckled and reached across to help fasten the belt. Relax. Things are right on track. In a few days the College will ask you to become Director, and it'll be smooth sailing from then on.

I wish I had your confidence.

Piece of cake, Charlotte assured her. She adjusted her headphones to contact Air Traffic Control, notifying ATC of her assigned hopper flight number, location and destination, and requested clearance. Who better to replace the late, great Dr. Akin than his personally trained assistant?

The flight status light on the hopper's dashboard went from red to amber, then to green. Charlotte flipped the throttle switch with her thumb and both women were pressed into their seats as the hopper leaped upward in the drizzly night haze. Almost as quickly the pressure eased, and the hopper hovered and hesitated, executed a one-eighty, and whined forward.

Don't worry, Charlotte continued. Though under control of ATC, she rested a hand loosely on the steering yoke in the trillion-to-one chance of something going wrong with the car or traffic control. A lot of planning has gone into this ... enterprise. And should things go wrong …? Charlotte smiled broadly. It was the aggrieved smile of an eager, bitter young revolutionary. That's what I'm here for.

Only for as long as necessary, Ellen thought. They had just about worked out a more subtle, proactive means of removing their enemies (she wished that method had been available for implementation on Professor Akin, saving her overseeing his particularly gruesome death, but he was an agnostic and that method would not have worked on him), and the blunt instrument contributions provided by the youthful Charlotte's would soon be a thing of the past, too. She suspected the line between sanity and insanity was much thinner than normal for Charlotte. Not that she would ever suggest that to her. Conversely, the young woman made no attempt to hide her low opinion of Ellen. She had little use for the 'mousy little pencil pushing academic' types. No offense, she had added, but Ellen had taken offense.

Quietly. Still, now, she had a new found respect for the young woman. Ellen knew weeks, perhaps months, of struggles and nightmares would battle with her conscious over Dr. Akin's death. And she hadn't even laid a hand on the doctor. It was whispered among them that Charlotte relished the opportunities to handle 'obstacles' up close and personal, especially where it involved men. No one knew the genesis of the young woman's anger, and Ellen had a nagging suspicion that it was a personal, deep-seated kind of anger that could veer off uncontrolled in any direction. But she accepted that there were times a their cause needed followers of blind dedication and questionable sanity. Then, eventually, the Charlottes of the movement could be dispensed with along with the other 'useful fools'.

Yes, Charlotte continued, smiling broadly. A whole lot of planning. And this is just the first shot. We're not going to shake just the foundations of this planet, but every planet in the Thirty-Seven Systems.

Ellen decided it would be prudent not to correct Charlotte's mistake: counting the United Planets, those few non-members, and a couple Outlaw Worlds, there were forty-two Inhabited Systems now. She clucked disapprovingly to herself for what passed for a modern education these days.

She did agree on one thing, though, however many inhabited systems existed, their foundations were about to be shaken, if not toppled.

CHAPTER TWO

In his seven years with the L.A.P.D. no locked door gripped Chase Fleet with such cold apprehension as the one he now trembled before. Slow and measured, he tapped out his security code on the lockpad and pressed his left hand to the green ID scanner, not getting it right until the third try.

What if she changed the code?

Sour acid gushed into his gut at the thought of yet another altercation. And, yet, a fight was not even the worst of all alternatives.

Don't be surprised if I'm not here when you get back.

The lock beeped to confirm his identity and authority to enter and shushed open the door. Fleet shouldered his large carry on and hefted his two suitcases and stepped into the apartment.

Instantly he knew Shane was gone.

His honed police instincts gauged the apartment's emptiness even as the motion activated lights clicked on to reveal the sunken living room. No forgotten glass on the end table. No misplaced palm reader on the sofa. No abandoned blanket on the recliner. No remote control left tossed on the coffee table. No rain-soaked jacket casually draped over the back of a chair. The apartment reeked of ancient evacuation.

Don't jump to conclusions, Fleet warned himself. He set the suitcases down and let the shoulder carry on slide to the floor. Shane, like himself, was a L.A.P.D. homicide detective. Ninety nine percent of the time the reason for being out after midnight was a case. He glanced at the phone, thinking there might be a message there, and tottered against two numbing shocks.

The repetitive blink of the message light short, short, long, long told him the awaiting message was his own unanswered message, from earlier when he called in to report his return itinerary. That blinking pattern told him Shane had not been here to receive or retrieve that message. It was not in her nature to bypass a blinking message light.

The second shock was the darkness flooding out of the kitchen doorway. Shane always left the light on above the stove; another of her inexplicable quirks.

She's gone. Fleet's whisper echoed harsh in his ears. Saying it aloud didn't dispel the disbelief, nor did the sudden flashback of Shane's confused, tearful eyes. You're not Chase Fleet anyone. Bit by bit they've taken that man away. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I have. And the worst thing is you let them do it. You didn't even try to resist them. Fleet had tried to argue against her assessment, but Shane's mind had been set. Where he saw this emergence of his spiritual nature a critical improvement in his life, Shane saw it as something else, something almost ... sinister.

Try as he might to suppress it, the intensive, mind numbing training of the past three weeks hadn't been able to douse the memory that thundered up, the comment that Fleet had been trying unsuccessfully to downplay in the irreparable dismay it engendered; the near finality it may have brought to their relationship.

A God that would do this to you, to us, is a God I want no part of.

Fleet kept trying to convince himself it was Shane's pain talking, a lashing out at something she didn't quite understand. A few weeks apart, time to cool down, and then they could take a fresh look at things. The gulf she only sensed between them could be bridged with time, patience and understanding. They had been very much alike before his conversion. What became obvious to him would also become obvious to her, that the Creator of the Universe was the God of the Bible and that Jesus Christ was His Son sent to die for the sins of Man. The evidence that had helped convince him would convince her.

It’s not over yet, Fleet realized, finding a sudden burst of confidence. It was going to be a little harder than he planned. If he could be made to see it, anyone could. It was going to work out all right in the end, he knew. He had faith.

I have faith, Fleet insisted, with conviction, he hoped.

*

* * *

*

To avoid dwelling on the complete and total disappearance of everything of Shane's, Fleet settled into the routine of the Returning Traveler. He perched on the bed (My bed, he realized, Not our bed.) to make the usual post trip 'I'm back' calls. He called the Bishop's private number and left a voice message. He checked in with Security at the L.A. branch of the Church of Human Progression, telling Romy Swain to let Pete Mergens, head of church security, know he was back.

He briefly debated calling Tanya, his sister. It was almost two. In the end he decided to at least leave a message to avoid the lecture she would deliver if he didn't let her know 'as soon as you get back'. He barely identified himself to the answering machine before she picked up.

I'm here, Little Brother. How was U.P. investigator's school?

Tedious, he replied. It was more of a refresher course than anything particularly new. The Church had subsidized the three week course he needed to qualify as United Planet's sanctioned criminal investigator. Why, Fleet had no idea. He was happy with the L.A.P.D. and looking forward to a long, successful career. Those anti-religious groups baying for his resignation were a nuisance and a joke as far as he was concerned. Their insistence that belief in a Supreme Being in the nature of a Personal, involved God was a sign of mental illness that should disqualify Believers from activities involving public safety was easy to ignore. Believing in God would have no bearing on his ability to solve crimes, Fleet felt. Might enhance it, in fact. Not that he needed special help, having achieved the best case disposition rate on the Force's Detective Division four of the last five years.

Bishop Didier will be delighted, Tanya said. He likes the idea of you gallivanting around the Forty-whatever Planets, solving cases and bringing honor and publicity to the Church.

Fleet managed to refrain from snorting with derision. The Bishop tended to blot out the personal hopes of his parishioners with his own grandiose schemes for the Church of Human Progression. I didn't wake you, did I?

No. Been doing some heavy thinking.

Fleet didn't have to ask about what. It was a subject they had been discussing before his trip, another thing that had weighted heavy on his mind the past three weeks. The Church of Human Progression had instituted a surrogate mother program and was very interested in Tanya's participation. The Church strongly supported fetal genetic correction as a way to prevent birth defects. Their geneticists claimed the Fleet clan had a gene chart to drool over, and was eager to see more 'specimens'.

I've decided to enroll in the program, Tanya said.

Are you sure this is what you want? Fleet asked. He knew Tanya would be thinking about it, so he didn't bring up the sudden death of her husband, Tommy, and the miscarriage of what would have been her and Tommy's first child she suffered shortly thereafter.

I'm sure. It’s something Tommy and I were thinking about even before ....

Before they got pregnant, Fleet finished. Those dark days of anger and dismay were still hazy in Fleet's memory. Mostly anger that the Bishop would not let him be part of the investigation into the still unsolved terrorist bombing of the Bozeman church that killed Tommy and over fifty other church members. And would have killed Tanya, too, if an extreme bout of morning sickness had not made her cancel her trip. Fleet felt anger rise, and fought against it.

Anyway, Tanya continued, the Bishop said I'd be almost guaranteed acceptance if you were to agree to take the Influential Adult Male role.

That's a mighty long leap of faith for him to have for a confirmed bachelor fast approaching his late twenties. Fleet felt a sudden lump in his throat. There was a time, and not all that long ago, he thought seriously of changing that confirmed bachelor status. Don't get down on yourself yet, he warned. Not until you've given it your best shot.

It isn't an opinion he would form lightly, Tanya said of the Bishop. He takes very, very seriously every program that could advance the reputation of the Church. The fact that he has no doubts about you should tell you something.

I suppose.

Tanya, the prescient big sister, asked, Still having problems with Shane?

Fleet's first impulse was to downplay the matter, but it was hard to fool Tanya. Though he was almost fifteen when their mother left to track down their father, MIA in the Elggogian War, Tanya, seven years his elder, had assumed her role as guardian and still seemed unwilling to relinquish it over a decade later.

She's moved out, Fleet admitted. No note, no nothing. Gone like she was never here. Taking his last three available weeks of leave on Church business rather than spending them with her had apparently been the final, splitting wedge.

I'm sorry. I did like her.

Except for that weird attitude of jealousy toward the Church, like it was a rival for your affections instead of a place of comfort and spiritual solace, he pointed out. Tanya had seen long before Fleet the potential for trouble with Shane, who thought she should provide all the comfort he needed in the wake of Tommy's death, and then Tanya's miscarriage. What did he need to run off and get religion for, of all things? Wasn't she comfort enough?

Are you going to be okay? Tanya asked. Before he could answer she suggested, Maybe you ought to stay at the beach house for a while? The family, Tanya, their brother Rory, and Fleet jointly owned a beach house. With Rory, an archeologist, and his wife Judith, a martial arts instructor in the Space Marines, rarely on Earth, let alone in California, and Tanya a social creature who liked to be around people, the secluded complex near Santa Barbara was being stamped more and more with Fleet's own personality. Detached now from Shane, he could use it even more often.

I'll think about it, he replied, though it was already sounding like a good idea. Less chance of noticing missing things to remind him Shane was gone. Clear his mind more easily and plan his next line of attack. Of course, there would be those memories he had made there with Shane. Worry about that later, he told himself abruptly. I've got to go, he told Tanya. Got to let the Captain know I'm back.

You take it easy, little brother she insisted, as she always insisted.

I will. Bye.

Fleet called headquarters to announce his return. Gwen Novak put him on the 'in case of emergency only' list for the next thirty six hours. She said things were slow, the drizzle keeping things cooled down. On impulse he asked about Shane's schedule.

Oh, I figured you knew. Detective Clooney resigned.

The flip in Fleet's gut spread thunder to his ears. What?

About three weeks ago, Gwen went on. Came in and cleaned her desk out. Just like that. Didn't say a word to anyone. No one has any idea where she went. It’s like she fell off the face of the Earth.

That thunder rolled louder in Fleet's ears, then fell suddenly silent and transferred to a hollow emptiness threatening to collapse his chest and gut. His training enabled him to gather up the shock of the unexpected and render it manageable. He absently deactivated the phone and replaced it. Resigned? That was the fatal confirmation indicating her absence was not a separation, but an abandonment. She hadn't just moved out, she had moved away. Fleet rolled slowly back on the bed and stared at the plain white ceiling tiles for a long time.

Most thoughts careening through his mind were too disjointed to arrange themselves into something coherent, fragments of Shane's smiles, her passion, her tears. No one did righteous anger like Shane. Finally, one thought continued to burst forth loud, clear and unambiguous.

Leaving is what she wanted. There's nothing I can do about it now.

So ...?

So what?

So what do I do now?

You get on with your life.

Fleet sat up. I get on with my life, he said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. With more conviction he repeated, I get on with my life. He saw his drawn, nearly unrecognizable bewildered expression in the bureau's mirror and realized: Easy enough to say.

His eyes fell on the small Bible sitting centered and alone on what had been Shane's dresser. It had been a gift from him. He hoped she would at least try to begin to understand what had happened to him. Her leaving it behind spoke more clearly than any carefully crafted farewell note. Nothing else could have severed their relationship with greater clarity and certainty. Fleet glanced back up at his reflection and wondered when the stinging tears were going to erupt. But aside from a thickness in his throat and the emptiness in his chest, nothing seemed to be happening.

Maybe this won't be so bad after all? he thought, hoping against hope.

CHAPTER THREE

They must be expecting trouble, right? I mean, why else have they sent me here?

In response to her newly hired partner's questions, Ruth Gerrold twitched her wide shoulders. She was a tall, sturdy woman who strolled a building's corridors with the confident ease of an alpha tigress. Could be, she confessed to the young man. This was their second turn through the building's dim halls. On the first tour he listened carefully to her walking briefing and said nothing.

His name was Lloyd Keys. This was his first assignment out of the Bridgeman Security Training Academy, a fairly new outfit with a growing reputation. It looked like he was going to be a Questioner, which didn't bother Ruth. The Ramblers made her uneasy. They tended to be nervous; and that made her nervous. They tended to jump, and shoot, too easily. At shadows, mostly. The Antiquities and Humanities Research Complex of the Southern California College of Advanced Humanities lay in a secluded corner of the campus, making it a target of opportunity for frat hijinks, mainly a ancient skulls or skeletons 'borrowed' from the Anthropology Wing for a good scare for new pledges during Hell Week. The Tasers assigned to the security detachment weren't supposed to be lethal, but the heart couldn't differentiate between intent and luck when a jumpy guard scored a lucky direct hit from close range.

Ruth hoped that wouldn't be a problem. Tamblyn, Head of Security, had ordered tandem rounds. Stick together, he had ordered. Be joined at the hip. Open mikes at all times, even to the john. Constant contact.

How often do you have these special alerts? Keys asked as they stopped in the open doorway to the Ancient Manuscripts Display Room.

Not often, Ruth replied. She pressed her left thumb against the check-in box, then stepped back as Keys copied the move. Ruth noted the time flashing on the box and announced softly into her shoulder mike, Ancient Manuscripts, oh-three-forty-two. She flipped down the special infrared visor on the bill of her cap. Through it she saw the angled red beams crisscrossing the room, which consisted of a series of glass-covered display cases and stands protecting various scrolls and tablets. Across the room, four evenly spaced bulky vault doors led to sealed chambers. The lights above each door glowed red, signifying they were closed. Ruth verified this by sight before announcing into her mike, Sensors active, vaults closed.

Keys flipped down his own visor and said, Checked and verified.

They strolled down the dimly lit hall to check the room's second entrance. Locked and secured. They crossed the corridor and worked their way back up the hallway. There were three doors to check on this side, two belonging to a pair of offices for a cadre of assistant librarians and researchers, and the other belonging a director of some archeology institute. It belonged to Dr. Mehl now that Dr. Akin had passed away. Word of his death saddened Ruth, but did not surprise her. He tromped in and out at all hours, and on more than one occasion suffered a spell requiring an ambulance. His assistant, Dr. Mehl, wore a perpetual haughty, pinched expression and spoke rarely.

The building was laid out like the spokes of a half wagon wheel: five hallways extending out from a central hub. During the day the hub served as an information/reception desk. When the building closed down to the public at nine p.m. the hub became the security station as a bank of monitors rose out of the large half-moon desk. The five monitors showed crisp, clear black-and-white static views of the well-lit exit doors at the end of each corridor. A row of darkened lights told them the motion sensors outside each door had not been activated since their last check.

Typical egghead design, Ruth thought, as she always thought when she worked this building. Six entrances and exits; no thought to security. She usually worked the building alone. This was only the second or third time there had been reason to assign her a temporary partner.

Though the order varied, they checked each hallway at least once every hour. Each sweep took about ten minutes, giving them ten minutes out of every hour to linger at the central hub. Ruth glanced out the glass double doors of the main entry. She recognized the same half-dozen ground cars still resting several hundred feet away in the well-lit parking lot, and beyond it the irregular pattern of lit windows of the three-story music building. She settled in the receptionist's chair and drew out an energy bar from her tote bag under the desk.

Keys perched on the edge of the desk. What is this 'Glendale High Brow Triangle' Mr. Tamblyn was talking about? He seemed to think I'd put in for this place because it was supposed to be a cushy job. I put in for a lot of places and took the first job that came along, he insisted, and Ruth believed him.

Between bites Ruth explained, careful not to preface it all with her generally low opinion of Tamblyn. Well, if you take the triangle formed by the Golden State Freeway, State 134, and the Pasadena Freeway. You've got this campus, Occidental College and the Southwest Museum. The Highbrow Triangle. Mostly you're getting serious scholars who know what they want, not a bunch of mush-brained students who can be led around to protest every little cause by professors talented at turning gullible kids into zombie protestors. Quiet, serious students, not agitators

After a moment Keys asked, Was it me? Or did Mr. Tamblyn's instructions seem a little vague?

Typical, she replied, again biting back criticism. His theory is that the more in the dark we are, the more alert we'll be.

I guess, Keys allowed. But why couldn't he fill us in on the details of these 'certain events at similar institutes in Europe.' he's worried about? I mean, what events? How does that affect us here in Southern California?

Ruth shrugged and swallowed the last of her FastBreak bar. Better safe than sorry, I guess. We've got some of the same kind of early Christian and Jewish writings as those places that were hit in Europe. Anti-religious nuts aren't confined to there and the Middle East.

What's left of the Middle East, Keys corrected. After those zealots from Elggog nuked the place. He shrugged. Which I guess makes the stuff here all that more valuable.

I guess, Ruth replied, but she was already feeling the melancholy wistfulness of having just missed the retaliation against Elggog. Earth had just developed the kind of psychic, telekinetic technology to trigger the interest of the United Planets. They made themselves known to Earth, and offered membership. A bit of One True Religion fanaticism had infected the planet Elggog, prompting them to nearly destroy the Middle East, the birthplace of Earth's three major religions. She had been just two weeks into Basic Training when the glacier-like U.P. finally decided to launch a joint military effort against Elggog rather than have Earth and a few of her new U.P. allies go it alone. The strike had been quick and decisive, and the war against Elggog was over. That was thirteen years ago and much of the Middle East was still uninhabitable from the radiation of the especially dirty bomb the Elggogians used.

Think there could be something like that around here? Keys asked. I mean, some kind of terrorists or something?

Tamblyn does. Or thinks there might be.

Keys chuckled. I guess that's what really matters, as far as we're concerned. He shrugged. Still, I find it hard to believe something like that could happen around here.

Out of the shadows behind him came: Famous last words.

Ruth moved fast at the sound of the strange voice that came from the other side of Keys. She kicked her chair away from the hub to get her new partner out of her line of sight, and fire. Her Taser was clear of her hip even before her feet slammed down to brake the chair.

From the Ancient Manuscripts wing came the hush of a stun beam and an explosion of harsh light, like a thousand bulbs simultaneously exploding. Keys, managing only an astonished half turn from his perch on the desk, arched into the air like a hooked marlin as he took the stunner blast full to the chest. His rigid body crashed into Ruth, knocking her back into the swivel chair. He fell limp across her lap, pinning her, and her Taser arm.

Ruth looked up while trying to push Keys away and saw two dark shapes within the shadows. Light flared from the extended arm of the smaller shape. Ruth's gut went cold and tight. She had just enough time to wonder: Is this how it ends? before an explosion of light, followed by darkness.

*

* * *

*

Awareness wandered meekly back as a dark, wet, stiff pressure against Ruth Gerrold's face. She instinctively tried to claw away the stifling presence. Her heavy arms refused to respond.

Consciousness rocketed back into her brain, triggering an involuntary croak. Her eyes sprang open. A distorted shadow-shape hovered above her face, its color alternated between red and blue and yellow. Sounds suddenly assaulted her ears. Sirens. Hissing water hoses. The electronic cacophony of crisscrossing police and fire radio dispatchers. Voices to indistinct to understand, but with the barking cadence of commands being issued. The pressure against her face was an oxygen mask.

The floating face above her came into focus: male, thirtyish, concerned but confident. Ruth recognized the blue jacket and sleeve patch of a paramedic. Her sense of feeling sprang to work. She deciphered the bound sensation of being strapped to a stretcher. She had already been loaded into an ambulance. The memories of those last seconds of consciousness tumbled forward.

Keys!

A firm hand pressed against her shoulder, though it was the strap across her chest that kept her flat. Take it easy, the paramedic ordered.

Keys? she asked, her voice almost a squeak.

The paramedic shook his head, puzzled. What keys?

My partner, she grunted, her throat still tight from the nerve blast that had knocked her unconscious. She lifted her head and could just make out the parking lot past the paramedic's shoulder. A pair of pumper trucks dominated her view, but in a gap between them she could see, far across the lot, a line of firefighters wrestling with a hose as it poured water on the Humanities building. Flames rolled out from the front entrance and several of the windows.

One hand was loose enough for her to wiggle it out and the grab the loose shirt of the paramedic. She gave it a hard tug. My ... partner? she asked, keeping her voice low and deliberate.

The paramedic shook his head, puzzled. We found you in the parking lot. There wasn't anyone else. Just relax.

Something jabbed in Ruth's arm. The darkness returned.

*

* * *

*

Once upon a time hospitals had not bothered Chase Fleet. But after he joined the force they became a place where colleagues died. And where his job required hectoring ailing, shocked victims and witnesses for information many would rather not recall. He tried to suppress his sympathies for them, but he was a lousy patient himself. He hated being even slightly under the weather, and tended to lash out at those around him.

After the usual lecture from the attending physician about not tiring the patient, Fleet made his way to Room 307. Ruth Gerrold, the sole occupant of a generic, airy double room, sat propped up in bed, eyes still a bit glassy. She told her story with the dispassionate firmness of a trained observer, confessing to the few ambiguities while stressing hard the certainties. Though Fleet had activated his shoulder recorder, he scribbled accompanying notes. He would have preferred a partner do that, but the Lieutenant hadn't gotten around to assigning him a new partner during his week back on duty. The department was shorthanded from the usual spate of post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas vacations and 'illnesses'. Not to mention Shane's sudden resignation, which Fleet mentally snarled at himself for mentioning.

When the woman finished Fleet mentally replayed the high points; back at the squad room he could play the tape for clarification. The pause also gave the witness time to perform her own mental replay in case something was forgotten.

These intruders, Fleet asked, breaking the silence. You can't describe them?

Ruth Gerrold shook her head. Too fast.

But you are certain there were two?

Positive. Two distinct shapes. Tall and thin. Short and thin. The taller was, I'm sure, female. The little one was less distinct.

Fleet flipped back through his notes. They were already pretty certain a duo was involved. The building's entry log had been forwarded to Campus Security at the close of regular hours that evening. Every visitor and worker had logged out except 'Jessica Beall and guest'. Forgetting, or refusing, to sign out was not uncommon on the campus. Such discrepancies would be uncovered the next day during routine examinations of all logs. Violators would be e-mailed a reminder to follow standard security procedures by signing out of a building. Such a reminder would probably never reach 'Jessica Beall'. She had listed her residence as the fifth floor of a three-story sorority house.

Fleet flipped to a clean page of his notepad and said, I want to go back over how you exited the building.

That's the part I've been concentrating hardest, the woman replied. There is no doubt in my mind if I'd been strong enough to get myself out, I would have gotten Keys out, too. I am sure of that as I am of anything.

The students who called in the fire said they found only you, and out in the middle of the parking lot, away from the building.

That's what I mean. For the first time emotion tinged her tone. Genuine emotion, Fleet believed. If I could have gotten myself that far, I would have brought Keys with me. Her lower lip quivered, but her tone was firm and certain. There is only one explanation. They dragged me out, but left Keys behind to die.

Fleet had already surmised that. Only Keys' remains had been found inside the gutted building, beside the remains of the security hub. The fire was well developed when the three students emerged from the music building across the lot at the end of their late-night recording session. They saw no one except Gerrold laid out in the parking lot. The traces of accelerant found on the back heels of her boots suggested she had been dragged out after the arson path had been laid out. Either Keys had been left on purpose, or the fire had either been started too soon, or gotten out of hand faster than the intruders intended.

It just doesn't make sense, Ruth Gerrold said. Why would anyone do that to Keys? He was a nice, harmless kid. It just doesn't make any sense.

Fleet flipped his notepad shut. It makes sense to someone. And I aim to find out who.

CHAPTER FOUR

I was going to ask you to read the Nativity, Tanya said from the den's doorway. But with the mood you're in, maybe it should be Scrooge. Or the Grinch. She entered the den and stopped behind Fleet, resting her hands on his shoulders.

Chase Fleet focused back to the blinking cursor on the empty screen of his monitor and replied, a bit defensively, It's not a bad mood. Just a distracted one. He settled back and tried to roll a crick out of his neck. Down the hallway, over the muted wash of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing 'Carol of the Bells', came Judith's voice from the kitchen urging Steven to limit his fudge consumption to one piece at a time. The aroma of the beach house swirled with the mingled scents of cinnamon, pine and chocolate.

Tanya noticed the empty screen and asked, Work or personal?

It doesn't seem to matter which, Fleet sighed.

Well, I can't help you with the work part.

And you've already had your say about the personal part, Fleet thought. Shane made her choice. She decided to move on; to get on with her life. You need to do the same. It was a one-note samba he was hearing repeatedly from all quarters: from work, from Bishop Didier, from friends and family. Tanya had enlisted Rory, their brother, and his wife, Judith, into the 'Get On With Your Life' club. Even his three-year-old niece Nadia had proclaimed indignantly, You're not supposed to be sad during Christmas!

Tanya pointed to the icon in the lower right corner of the monitor. Know what that suggests to me? she asked. It was the active icon for notifying