The Custodian

By Tony Arthur

Tony Arthur, author of the provocative,supernatural thriller, The Chosen, is at it once again. His second novel, The Custodian is as riveting as it is thought provoking.

Earth is in a state of decay. Since the advent of the industrial revolution, pollution across the breadth of her lands has reached an alarming proportion. In her seas and oceans, what it doesn't decimate, indiscriminate and excessive harvesting have wiped out entire species. Many others are on the brink. And the earth continues to endure brutal rape at the hands of industry, in search of oil, other energy sources, and precious metals. Depletion of the ozone layer has led to global warming. With the resulting climate change the polar caps are melting, ocean levels are rising. Many coastal areas are disappearing. And to top it all off, is an exploding global population consuming the earth's resources at an unsustainable rate.

How long can Earth endure such ravages?

Enter the Custodian, a supernatural being whose mission is to rescue Earth, and to restore balance. The Custodian brings a new order to achieve its goal. In this new order the preservation of Earth is paramount. And it will be achieved by any means necessary. The human population(s) of the planet will learn the meaning of expendable when man becomes the hunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Arthur
• Release date: Jun 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476080598

Tony Arthur

Tony Arthur is an American author, and a Navy veteran. His debut novel is 'The Chosen.' A long time Maryland resident, Mr. Arthur now resides in the West Valley of Arizona.

Book preview

The Custodian

By Tony Arthur

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 05/30/2012 by Tony Arthur

Chapter One

The usual happy hour crowd gathered in the cozy interior of the Rain Dancer. Inside the restaurant and club, the patrons were mostly comprised of pretentious yuppies looking to impress aging corporate types, while a number of the latter tried to score among the former. They mostly crowded around, or congregated near the bar. Voices floated and often collided. Above the din, discussions, opinions, and latest analyzes of Wall Street activity flowed in a steady stream. In time, the conversations would inevitably shift to the political climate of both in the nation’s capital, just thirty five minutes away. In some circles, the latest intrigue going on in whatever office, or company, was the topic of discussion. Near the back of the restaurant, away from this hub of activity sat a guy. He was conspicuous by his inattention to any of this. Conforming to neither stereotype, he was all but invisible to the other patrons.

Alone, he hunched over a dinner of chicken fettuccine, complemented by a stein of Killians draft. Every now and then, he glanced at the television screen mounted on the wall across from his table. The volume was turned down low, so much of its sound was drowned out by the conversations flowing like the drinks up front. But every now and then, he was able to catch some tidbits of the news. The traffic report was the same as always. The usual traffic gridlock on the Beltway, don’t hold dinner if you are starving routine. Tomorrow was forecasted to be a scorcher. A sweltering code red meant trouble for anyone with respiratory issues. Added to it there was an eighty-percent chance of severe thunderstorms. In the world of politics, another congressman was under investigation for the alleged improper acceptance of gifts and money, the source of which was questionable at best. Plus, there was a pungent whiff that hinted at the taint of a serious conflict of interest. Police reported that they had another badly mutilated body believed to be that of judge Wayne Haynes of the D.C. circuit court. Until the coroner was finished with the autopsy, no other information was being made public at the present time. The anchor reported that this latest body now brought the number to three found murdered in a similar fashion. The first had been D.C. police district commander Anderson Crick. The other, district attorney David Francis. Police and F.B.I. agents were said to be working around the clock to see if there was a connection in the deaths of the three high profile murders.

Another crazy summer, the guy mused. He returned his full attention to his dinner which was already getting cold. The stream of conversation emanating from the front suddenly faltered, becoming muted. The change prompted the guy to raise his eyes from his plate. He was just in time to see the woman that entered. She all but killed the meaningless chatter as she made her way through the bar area, slicing her way neatly through those lounging there. But what held his attention was the way the crowd parted as she moved toward her destination. It did not look as though their behavior was one of politeness, but rather like an uncomfortable, and grudging retreat. The furtive looks, and nervous whispers from the crowd thrown at her back, all but confirmed that suspicion. The woman finally selected a table, and seated herself some distance from his.

While trying to avoid appearing overt, or impolite, with his gaze, the guy closely studied the woman. She was of medium build, maybe in her mid thirty’s. While she was walking to the table, he had estimated that she was around five feet-six, or seven inches tall. She had nice curves; nicely accentuated with the faded denim jeans she wore. Above the jeans she sported a white, long sleeve, cotton top that hugged a modest cleavage. Its upturned collar caressed an elegant neck. Shoulder length hair, so white it could been bleached, framed an equally colorless face. A face very much out place among the deeply tanned yuppie set, but it was also a face endowed with an enviable bone structure. Her white hair made for a severe contrast with her otherwise youthful appearance. But he couldn’t quite make out her eyes. A waiter soon arrived at her table obstructing his view, and the man once again turned his attention back to his dinner.

The woman casually browsed the menu while sipping water from a glass the waiter brought. From the many hand or head gestures, some subtle others not, along with the persistent whisperings in her direction, it was clearly evident that she was the subject of conversation among the bar set. If she was aware of it, the woman was totally indifferent. When the waiter returned she pointed to the menu. A short dialogue ensued before the waiter left to get her order. Meanwhile, the guy continued to study her discretely over his beer stein. She, on the other hand, never looked once in his direction.

Quite by surprise the guy found himself thinking of inviting her to his table. She seemed so alone there. That thought, punctuated by the manner of the patrons’ reaction made him want to reach out to her. He continued to watch her, deliberating whether he should give into his impulse.

Some time later her meal arrived and was set before her. The waiter asked something. She responded with a slight shake of her head, whereupon he departed leaving her to dine. The thought of inviting her over flared once again. After a few minutes of giving himself all the reasons why he shouldn’t, the guy left his seat. He approached her table almost diffidently. The woman paused in her meal to watch him curiously. Suddenly, overcome by a case of nerves he berated himself for what was in all likelihood a very stupid idea. Clearing his throat he addressed her.

Pardon me, miss, I don’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I just wondered if you might like to share my table. What I mean is, I’d like very much if you would join me, he said.

The woman watched him with eyes of mystery. In the dim lighting of the room they seemed particularly probing.

Do we know each other? she asked in a rich cultured voice.

No, I don’t believe so. I would remember you if we’d met before. I just thought, maybe, you’d welcome a little company, that’s all. It’s not much fun dining alone, is it? At least, I don’t find so. I don’t mean to sound presumptuous. If I’ve overstep my bounds, I am sorry to trouble you, he replied. He all but ready to turn on his heels to leave.

You are no bother, so there is no reason to be sorry. It is a nice gesture. Would you consider joining me? the woman replied.

The man watched her, and their eyes held for a time.

Here at your table? Sure, I’d like that, are you sure, you really don’t mind? he replied.

I don’t mind at all, she assured.

The guy returned to his table to move his dinner over to hers. He was quite aware that he now under the scrutiny of the crowd, and the subject of murmurings from up front.

By the way my name is Hollings, Hollings Worth. I am pleased to meet you—miss? he offered upon taking a seat.

Miss Dia, Blica Dia, she replied.

Blica Dia, he said, trying it out. A rather unique name, and a pretty one too. I’m pleased to meet you Blica.

The woman’s eyes lingered on him before resuming her meal. Not wanting to interrupt her Hollings waited. It afforded him the opportunity to observe her up close. Ms. Dia was not what the fashion world would consider beautiful, but she had an interesting look. A look that Hollings found very attractive on a way that utterly compelling. There was something about her. Something not exactly tangible, yet somehow forbidding. It was there, and it thrust her apart from her mundane surroundings.

Blica took a sip of wine and spoke.

May I ask you a question? Hollings nodded. Why did you ask me into your company? she asked. She eyed him with interest.

Aside from the fact that I find you incredibly attractive? Perhaps, it was because of the way the crowd there acted when you walked in. I thought that was, well, rude, Hollings said, truthfully.

Would I be correct then in saying that you feel sorry for me? Blica replied.

I think I would put it another way. Maybe, I know a little something about being out of step with the herd, he replied.

Blica studied him over her wineglass. Do you live in the area? she asked.

Yeah, in Wheaton, he answered. How about you? he asked.

I am here on business, Blica said.

Hollings nodded. The Washington area was notoriously transient. So, how long will you be in town? he asked.

Until my business is concluded, she replied.

I see. That’s not like tomorrow or the next day, is it? he asked wistfully.

Not likely, Blica replied.

Well, that’s good news. Then there is hope that I may have the opportunity to see you again, Hollings stated.

Their conversation turned to current events, then to literature, and to history. Hollings found that Blica was a profound reservoir of knowledge, and obviously very well educated. When she asked about his life she listened attentively to his responses. But of herself, she gave little away about her own life. Hollings was in the midst of telling her about an initiation rite aboard the ship he’d been stationed, after it crossed the equator. He regaled her with all the messy details of a Shellback initiation. Crinkles formed at the corners of Blica’s eyes, and her lips tilted into the faintest of smiles.

Is that a smile I see there? Hollings remarked with a grin. You are even more radiant when you smile, he added. Blica gestured to waiter for the check.

I’m sorry, did I say something out of turn? Hollings asked puzzled.

You didn’t, but I have to be going, Blica replied.

Do I dare hold out any hope of seeing you again? a disappointed Hollings asked.

After settling her bill Blica said. My work does not leave much in the way of time for leisure activity. She read the poignant disappointment in his face. I want to thank you, Hollings, for your company, and your conversation. I did enjoy both. You are deserving of good things. Goodbye, Hollings, she said.

A blanket of melancholy descended over Hollings. Thank you for allowing me to share your company, if only briefly. I enjoyed meeting you, Blica. If we do not see each other again, you be good. I hope that your business here is a success.

Blica’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she left the table for the exit. Moments later Hollings followed her out. He paid no attention to the stares thrown at him. There was no trace of her in the parking lot. He stood there quietly in a sea of cars for several minutes. It was a disquieting feeling, the sudden sense of loss that he felt. The feeling only increased in magnitude, until in an effort to quell it Hollings walked toward his truck. He drove out of the lot on to Rockville Pike. On the drive home, Blica’s face loomed in his thoughts.

Later that night in bed, sleep when it finally came was fitful and broken. Hollings tossed and turned before giving up completely. He got out of bed and went downstairs. After ambling around aimlessly he ended up in front of the wine rack. He poured a generous glass of white Zinfandel and sat on the couch sipping it. As they had since their chance meeting, his thoughts were filled with images of Blica. She was fascinating, an enigma. Reflecting on their discourse, Hollings felt that she very much alone. Perhaps, he was wrong about the rest of it, but he was felt fairly certain about that. What he wasn’t certain of was why he should be so emotionally caught up with someone he just met. That was so uncharacteristic. He sat there on the couch until dawn, and it was time to get ready for work.

While Hollings lounged on his couch, Congressman Nate Moses died a brutal death in his swank Washington D.C. apartment. His corpse was ravaged in the manner of other recent high profile killings. Also among the night’s other macabre discoveries was the body a police sergeant. The sergeant was struck down as he walked from the precinct to his car at the end of his shift. Fellow officers coming upon his mutilated body were both unnerved and outraged. The brazen killer had the audacity to kill one of their own practically in their faces, right on their doorstep.

The city was in a frenetic state. Law enforcement officers of all stripes labored around the clock to get a handle on whatever was going on. In addition, tremendous pressure was being exerted from on high for the murderer to be found before another victim, maybe, they themselves should fall prey. Most vexing for authorities was they had no viable leads, not even a suspect. No common thread could be established to link the victims either. But what they all felt was the virtual certainty was that the killings would continue. Who would be next? It could be anyone.

When four-thirty came, Hollings was grateful that the workday was finally over. It had been unproductive, because he couldn’t maintain his focus on anything long enough to be productive. As he left the office he got into his truck, and made the decision to stop off at the Rain Dancer. It wasn’t because the food was really that good either, although it usually was. He chided himself for being silly, but the decision to go there was the hope that Blica might come by. After arriving at the restaurant, just before six o’clock, he went to his accustomed area. In the back, away from the crowd, he ordered dinner. He nursed a couple of beers while he waited, and hoped.

Around 10:15 p.m, and somewhat deflated, Hollings paid the tab and left for home. The very next day he repeated his actions, as well. But Hollings was met with the same result as the previous day. Undeterred, the following day Hollings was back again, staying this time until close to 2:00 a.m when establishment closed. Again his hopes were dashed. Feeling disheartened, Hollings resolved that if Blica did not come by on the fourth day he would give up the wild goose chase. That fourth day was also filled with tremendous disappointment. Blica did not come then either.

On Saturday morning Hollings awoke feeling particularly low. He busied himself with mowing the grass, and trimming the hedges of his front and back yard. When those chores were completed he made himself breakfast of a cheese omelet with sausage links. He sat looking out the window in the breakfast nook while he ate, thinking of Blica. Try as he might he could not get her out of his head. Annoyed with himself, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Absently he popped the top and took a gulp.

Hollings then drifted from the kitchen into the living room, and turned on the television. Five more police officers were killed overnight in the district. The beer can froze at his lips. ‘The body of F.B.I. director, Patrick Prescott was discovered on the jogging trail that he frequented on his daily exercise runs. His death is being ruled as a homicide,’ the news anchor said. She added that it was breaking news, and that more details of the director’s untimely death would be forthcoming. Hollings slid on to the arm of the couch. Man! What in the hell is going on down there? he said out loud.

After the news ended, he got out the car washing stuff and gave his truck a much needed wash. That took a little over two hours. By then the heat was out with full force. Hollings took a long shower, and spent the remainder of the afternoon doing some work on the computer.

Evening came, and Hollings decided he would stay in, and watch a couple of movies. To that end, he ordered a pizza from Armand’s. After it arrived, he sat back watching one of his favorite movies, Black Rain. When it ended he poured over the video library in search of what to watch next. With a sudden change of heart he snapped the entertainment center’s doors shut, and headed upstairs to change.

In the foyer, he slipped on his loafers, and armed with his keys Hollings headed out to the truck. He recognized that his actions could be construed as not only irrational, but also asinine in the bargain. But that did not deter him from steering the vehicle towards Viers Mill Road, and down to the Rain Dancer. He sat in the truck for several minutes debating with himself the merits of going inside. In the end he got out locking the door behind him.

He crossed the parking lot and entered the main entrance. The club was jam-packed. It always was on Saturday nights. He threaded his way through the bar area, and into the dining room. It was pretty much at capacity too. Only one, or two, of the smaller tables for two were still open. Looking around Hollings didn’t see her at first. Blica sat alone, all the way in the back against the wall, where the light was dimmest. When he did see her Hollings’ heart either leapt, or skipped a beat in his chest. He couldn’t be sure which. The previous confidence that led him to that moment now deserted him.

Standing there, looking into that corner Hollings called himself two kinds of fool for being there. The woman had made it very clear that she had no interest beyond their last meeting. What was he doing? All that he was likely to do was succeed in making an ass of himself. He was about leave when Blica slid from her chair. She moved into the light just off her table. Her eyes probed as though trying to ascertain that it was really him. With a mixture of elation and anxiety Hollings started in her direction. He gave her his best smile upon reaching her.

Blica watched him with a cool, but steady gaze. I was beginning to think you might not come, she said.

Actually, I came every day this week hoping to see you again. But I almost didn’t tonight. I thought maybe you were gone for good, he replied.

She gestured to the table and they both sat watching each other.

I am glad I talked myself into coming down now. I can’t believe that you are really here. Why did you—come back, I mean? Hollings replied.

Perhaps, I wanted to hear your rite of passage initiation story again, she replied. Can I get you something to eat, perhaps a drink? she asked.

No, thanks, I just had some pizza before leaving home. I had planned to spend the evening at home, so I ordered in. But you go ahead and order something for you, Hollings said.

I am not really hungry either, Blica replied.

Why don’t we get out of here? We could go somewhere quieter, away from this noise. My home isn’t far from here. But if that makes you uncomfortable we can go wherever you like, he said.

Blica watched him at length without speaking.

I assure you my thoughts and motive are entirely honorable, Scout’s honor. I just want for us to be able to sit and talk without having to compete to be heard, Hollings assured.

Okay, your home. Blica dropped some money on the table for the beer and tip.

They made their way through the crowded interior for the exit. Again Hollings noticed how the people parted for her when she approached. It was a curious thing. He soon forgot about it as they exited to the parking lot.

This is me, he said, pointing to his truck. You want to follow me? he asked.

I have no car, she replied.

Well, then in that case this way, Hollings said.

He unlocked the passenger door for her. Blica slid into the seat and Hollings closed the door then came around to the driver’s side. She leaned over and pressed the lock release on the arm of the door for him. Hollings got in and started the truck. Rockville Pike was a river of traffic as it was always, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. He made his way to Rollins Avenue, to Park Lawn Drive, and then to Viers Mill road. Normally less than a twenty minute drive most other times, tonight it was closer to forty-five.

In front of the house, he pulled up, parked and switched off the ignition. He made his way to the passenger side and opened the door for her. Blica got out, and gave a casual survey of the surroundings. Hollings locked the truck and they went up the walk to the door. Once in the foyer Hollings turned on the light.

Welcome to my humble abode, he said.

Blica looked around appreciatively. It is nice. Very tastefully decorated, she complimented.

Thank you, Hollings replied.

Did it yourself? Blica asked.

Yeah, got few ideas from a couple of magazines, he said.

After removing their shoes in the foyer Hollings led her into the living room. He opened the door to his video collection.

How about a movie? Pick out one you’d like to see. I’ll heat up a slice of pizza for you. Is a beer alright, or would you prefer something stronger? he asked.

Blica turned around from the video library. A beer would be fine, thanks, she replied.

You got it.

He was back in a couple minutes with a beer in hand, along with two slices of pizza on a plate. In her hand Blica held the movie, Dances With Wolves.

Good movie, Hollings agreed.

His enthusiasm was rewarded with crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Remembering what happened when he did last time, he did not comment on it this time. He slipped the disc in the player and dimmed the lights.

Make yourself comfortable, sit anywhere you like, Hollings said.

As was his habit when watching movies he settled himself on a woolen throw, spread out on the carpeted floor. He was pleasantly surprised when Blica joined him there. She sat close enough without touching, and began to delicately munch on the pizza. Now and then she took a sip of beer. The movie started, and there was no more conversation between them while it went on.

When it finished three hours later, she remarked. I really liked that.

Hollings nodded. That is one of Costner’s better ones, he agreed. Another brew? he asked.

If you don’t mind, Blica replied.

Can I get you anything else while I am in the kitchen? he asked.

Just the beer will do, Blica answered.

Hollings gave her the beer and settled back on the couch. Blica got off the floor to join him there.

You live alone, she said by way of observation.

Yes, he replied.

No family? she queried.

Not one of my own, if I understand your question correctly, he replied. How about you, do you have a family? Hollings asked.

No, she answered.

Hollings noted that was she was not one for giving details, nor was she long winded.

You said before that you were here on business. Where from? he asked.

Blica looked over the rim of the beer can at him. Nowhere, and everywhere, she answered, enigmatically.

Hollings touched her arm, he found it cool to the touch. What does that mean? Everywhere and nowhere—sounds pretty cryptic. Is everything alright, Blica? he said.

She looked directly at him. Nothing has been right for a long time, Hollings, she said. But I am working to change that, she finished.

It was a simple statement and in the context totally benign. Yet it sent a chill through Hollings. His body broke out in goose flesh. A period of silence followed.

Well, it’s, uh, getting kind of late. Would you like for me to drop you somewhere? Or, you are more than welcome to stay the night; I have a guestroom, Hollings said. Are you sure about me staying? I wouldn’t want to impose, Blica replied.

You’re not, come, let me take you upstairs and show you where everything is, he replied.

Leading the way upstairs Hollings first took her to the guestroom, and then he showed her the linen closet where the towels, and such were kept. Finally, pointed to the bathroom.

My room is just down the hall there. If there is anything more that you need, just let me know, okay? Hollings said.

Thank you, Blica replied.

He left her and went to his own room to get ready for bed. A short time later he heard the water in the shower running. After the shower was turned off, it was replaced with the sound of padding footsteps going to the guestroom.

Hollings called through his open bedroom door. Is everything to your liking, are you finding everything okay? he queried.

It is, and I am, Blica replied.

Good, well then I’ll say goodnight, Hollings said switching off the lamp on the nightstand.

Goodnight, Blica answered.

Hollings drifted off to sleep soon thereafter; and in his sleep a dream unfolded. In it he walked along a dark street, when suddenly there came a terrifying scream. It swelled in crescendo, a sound that was unnerving in its fathomless terror. The scream froze Hollings dead in his tracks. He was unable to move, paralyzed by dread certainty that whatever evoked that scream was aware of his presence too. Even more frightening, he intuited that it was already moving on him. It scared Hollings awake. He jolted upright in bed, trembling with fright. His feet kicked the comforter aside, and as his eyes acclimated to the darkness he saw a shadow standing over him. For one dreadful moment he thought that whatever haunted his dream, had found its way into the real world after him.

A strangled cry escaped him. Hollings’ arm snaked out for the lamp, and switched it on. The light obliterated the dark with abrupt suddenness. And there was Blica looking down at him. Hollings recoiled with his heart hammering a base rhythm in his chest.

Blica! You scared the shit out of me! he said. Is something wrong? he asked. His voice was strained, and edged with fright.

Blica watched him with concern. Not with me, but I heard you cry out. I didn’t mean to scare you. I am sorry if I did. Were you dreaming? she replied.

She sat on the edge of bed beside him so that their arms touched. Where her bare flesh made contact with his skin it was icy cold. Hollings drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them.

Your body is freezing—so cold. Are you feeling okay? he said.

That is how it is with me. My skin is always cold to the touch, she replied.

Really? Come closer, and I’ll try to warm you he said.

Blica looked into his eyes. Several silent moments passed before she moved closer to him. Hollings then rubbed her arms to massage warmth into them. After some time it appeared to make little difference. Hollings held her close with her back to his chest, and he pulled up the comforter up to tuck it around her. Little by little Blica relaxed and settled onto the bed. It was so that they stayed, with the heat from his body warming her until late Sunday morning.

In the district of Columbia, chief of police Calinder Jones burned the midnight oil feeling the pressure. That pressure came from the mayor, the city council and now the federal government, namely the congress and the white house. Everyone wanted answers, and they wanted results in the recent spate of killings, none of which he could yet provide. He was feeling frayed and more than a little irate. Jones canceled all leave for his officers, putting them on twelve hour shifts. The order was given to turn the city inside out, every lead would be followed up. They needed to come up with something, anything to crack this bizarre case.

The D.C. police and detectives were being aided by a heavy contingent from the F.B.I. and the capital park police. The various branches of law enforcement labored long, and arduous hours. So far today there were no new deaths reported, nothing since Friday. It was now early Sunday. The team around him speculated on whether the killer was through, or was it just a lull in his murderous rampage. The profilers were in common agreement that it was a man that they sought. A very powerful man. This killer did not use a gun, or stealth weapons, but confronted his victims up close and personal with some sort of blade. It required tremendous arm strength to inflict the types of wounds the victims sustained.

Just what the hell are we dealing with here? the chief asked. His question was aimed at everyone gathered in his headquarters office. How can this murderer kill in a manner as violent as is his pattern, both in private and public places then disappears before anyone sees shit? Nor has anyone claimed to have heard shit. How the fuck is that possible? The method he uses suggests he would be covered in his victims’ blood. Even if no one saw him commit the crime, how could he go unnoticed during his escape from each crime scene, every single time? He finished allowing his baleful gaze to wander across their faces.

There were equally perplexed expressions, and somber looks on the faces regarding the chief. No one offered any thoughts beyond what they already explored.

We don’t have the answers to those questions yet, Chief. What we do see, so far, is that the killer doesn’t appear to be targeting civilians. All of the victims were government employees, or affiliated either directly, or indirectly, with law enforcement. The possible exception being the congressman. His death sort of throws a red herring into this thing. But we know that he was being investigated for possible wrong doing. I am checking to find if there is a connection that he may have had with any of the others, personal or otherwise, deputy chief John Bell replied.

Okay, let’s look at everything again to see if we overlooked something. Do a check of all cases, past and present that those officers were working. And see what if any may have come before judge Haynes, or that involved Francis as prosecutor. I’ll go over commander Crick’s files to see what I turn up. Let me know if you find something of interest, chief Jones said.

...

Hollings shrugged of the last vestiges of sleep as the sun bathed the bedroom with light through the heavy window drapes. Glancing at the clock he saw it was minutes to eleven. He lifted his head and looked at the still sleeping face of Blica. She snored softly, and her hair was fanned out around her face. She looked simply angelic. Since moving to his room, her sleep was unbroken. Not wanting to wake her Hollings eased himself out of bed. He got into his robe and went downstairs. He used the downstairs bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth before going into the kitchen.

Fifteen or so minutes later the aroma of a cheese omelet with greens peppers and onions wafted through the house. He then put some brown ‘n serve sausage links into the frying pan. He turned at the rustling sound behind him to see Blica. She was standing in the breakfast nook watching him.

Good morning! How are we doing? he greeted.

I am good, she replied.

I hope you are hungry, breakfast will be ready in a couple, Hollings declared. Just sit yourself on one of those stools there, I’ll bring it to you, he added.

Blica did as directed. Wrapped in a sheet borrowed from the guestroom, which she used like a kimono, she moved gracefully to her destination. From her seat on the stool she continued to watch him with luminous eyes. She was given a plate consisting of an omelet and four sausages.

"What would you like to drink? Hollings asked.

What are you having? she asked.

Me? Breakfast of champions, of course. I usually have a beer with my breakfast. Whoever said milk does the body good, obviously overlooked some important facts, like barley and hops, the healthy ingredients of beer, he replied with a grin.

Blica eyes crinkled with amusement. I see. I’ll have the same, keeping with tradition, she replied.

A woman after my own heart! Hollings exclaimed. He got two beers from the refrigerator then settled on to the stool opposite her.

How is it? Hollings asked after she ate a few bites.

Well, you do have a talent. I will say that, she replied.

That’s nice of you to say, given my limitations, he replied.

It was nice of you to invite me into your home, Blica said surprising him.

It’s good for me too, that you’re here, that is, he stated.

They ate for a while in silence then Hollings asked.

Do you have plans for today?

Closing her eyes a moment Blica said, Not really.

Hollings watched her unable to get enough of seeing her.

Anything in particular you want to do, someplace you’d like to go?

Blica put her fork down. Whatever you want to do is okay with me, she replied.

Careful now! You don’t want to give me that kind of latitude, Hollings said smiling.

I shan’t do anything to which I’m not agreeable, don’t worry, she replied.

Hollings watched her, entranced. "You are unlike anyone I’ve known, Blica. Since I saw you walk in the door of the Rain Dancer, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. The feeling that came over me, you would think that I knew you all my life. The idea that I might not see you again, affected me strangely, he said.

I like you too, Hollings. What you feel, I hope you do not come to regret, Blica replied.

Regret? Why do you say that? Is there something I should know? he asked.

You know nothing about me, and there’s so little I can tell, she answered.

Does it have to be that way? Are you working for one of those secret government agencies, or something? he asked.

I can’t discuss it. And since I have no wish to deceive you because of your curiosity, or your need for answers, can you allow me that latitude? Blica said.

He watched her with some ambivalence that tinged a good dose of euphoria. Unsure he was of what to say in response, and uncertain he was of what he might be getting himself into.

Wow! That’s a lot to ask on a first date he said, in an attempt at levity.

Blica watched him with a steady gaze, not saying anything.

I don’t know what it is about you. I mean, the moment I laid eyes on you I was drawn to you, Blica. The worse part of it is, I can’t seem to help myself in that regard, Hollings remarked.

He stared out the window as he combed through his thoughts.

If you can’t, or won’t tell me about yourself, I will try to respect that. But I just need to know this, is our friendship going to make me public enemy number one? he finished.

No, of that you can be certain, Blica said. She finished the rest of her meal.

Another period of silence ensued, during which they both finished breakfast.

Hollings placed their empty plates in the sink, and went into the living room. He selected a CD and placed in the player. The voice of Joseph Niles drifted through the house as he sang about wearing golden slippers. Still seated on the stool in the breakfast nook Blica’s eyes followed him as he moved about. Hollings felt them and turned to face her. Something electric passed between them as their eyes held each other. Neither spoke, but Blica slid off the stool, and she came to stand in front of him.

I fear I’ve made you nervous. I should be going, she said.

Hollings weighed her words, reasoning that it was the simplest solution. But his overriding fear was that if he let her walk out the door, he would never see her again. He knew that as sure as he knew the next day was Monday.

Maybe I am a little nervous, but I don’t want you to go, Blica, he answered.

Her eyes searched his, and wandered across his face. Her forehead furrowed with rows of lines as though she exerted great effort. Then she lifted her hands, the motion bringing them to the level of his face where they stopped. Hollings brought his own hands to that place taking both of hers, feeling their coolness. He placed one of them against his cheek, savoring its feel on the contours of his face. They looked into each other’s eyes and then Hollings leaned in slightly to kiss her. They held each other, with Hollings cradling her back. Blica caressed cheek with one hand, while the other cradled the back of his head. Joseph Niles sang two more songs, and was now berating those for scandalizing his name.

I’d like to go out, Blica said.

Where to? he asked.

No place particular, just out. she answered.

Okay, get ready, he said. Blica kissed his cheek before going upstairs.

Hollings went into the kitchen, cleaned the dishes in the sink and placed them in the dish drainer. After that he sat in the living room giving Blica time get herself together. When he got upstairs she was dressing. He went to the bathroom and showered. Together they left the house for the truck, and were soon winding their way to Connecticut Avenue. A short distance away was the beltway.

Pretty nice day out, not as hot and humid as yesterday, he remarked.

Yes, nice, Blica replied.

They got on to 495 south and made their way up to 270 north. Hollings exited off 270 in Germantown and headed down to Gunner’s Lake. After parking at the curb, they walked down the grassy knoll. It spilled them on to the bike and jogging trail which encircled the lake. Blica’s eyes were alive as she took in a flotilla of Canadian geese now speeding across the lake in their direction. They waddled out of the water and raced toward them.

They think we brought food, Hollings said. Blica knelt as they surrounded her, gently touching them. The geese pushed among themselves to reach her. Hollings stood back watching the spectacle. A pair of mallards, and a white crane joined the procession.

Nice to see you too. I’m afraid I brought no food with me today. I promise I will come again, but next time I won’t be empty handed, Blica said to the waterfowl. Off you go, back into your lovely lake, she added. Amazingly, the fowl returned to the water, and glided away to center of the lake.

Now that was amazing! How did you do that? You have been here before, haven’t you? They seem to know you. They even responded to what you said, Hollings remarked.

Beautiful, aren’t they? And quite clever, she replied.

Geese flock to you, but the Rain Dancer crowd shrink from you. What’s that about? he said.

Blica turn her gaze away from the geese to watch him. Her eyes crinkled at their corners. They are perceptive, she said.

Who? The geese, or the people? he asked.

Blica responded by taking his hand. They began to walk again, threading their way among the many joggers and Sunday strollers. Many of them were accompanied by their four legged companions.

This is one of my favorite places. I don’t get up here as often as I used to. But the best time to come is either earlier in the morning when it isn’t crowed with people. You can watch the sunrise over the water. Or better still, in the evening, the sunsets here can be spectacular, he said.

It is lovely here, Blica agreed.

They soon came upon a small jetty that went out about thirty or yards into the water. It was primarily used for fishing, but at moment it was empty. Hollings steered her toward it, and they walked all the way out. From there both sides of the lake could be seen, as well as a clear view of the little island, located just about mid-way in the lake. Various waterfowl nested there year round. Blica looked up at the sky, and the clouds that chased each other across it. Watching her, Hollings succumbed to the notion that she was somehow, ethereal. He put his arms around her feeling the perpetual coolness of her skin. Blica moved her own hands, bringing them to rest on his encircling her waist.

I just needed to be sure that you are real, Hollings said. Blica turned in his arms and touched his face.

I am real, but do not hold me too tight. The time will come when I must leave.

A ripple of sorrow sliced through him with those words. Whether she felt it, or saw it in his eyes he couldn’t say.

But she said, Treasure the moments that we have, as if it were the last, because it could be.

Hollings hugged her closer. Why do you have to go? You can always stay with me, he said.

I must go where my work takes me, she answered.

I can already see if you leave my world, it, I, will not be the same again, ever, Hollings said.

When I am gone there will be a part of me that stays with you, here, Blica replied touching his head.

They left the pier, hand in hand, and walked around the entire lake. Finally they came upon an open bench and settled onto it. Together they watched the steady parade of the lake traffic.

Ready to return home? Blica asked getting up from the bench.

She took Hollings hand, they climbed the knoll to the truck. A while later they were on the way back to Wheaton. After they arrived back at the house they went into the living room, and sat on the couch watching each. Hollings kissed her deeply, and Blica responded to him sliding to the floor and bringing him with her. They slowly undressed each other and began to make love. The act kindled flames of passion, fueled by mutual loneliness that consumed them both. Their love making ebbed and flowed, lasting many hours. Until physically exhausted, Hollings fell asleep in Blica’s arms. While he slept, she listened to sounds of life outside the house.

...

At his Washington residence, attorney general Hadley Crofton was deeply troubled. There were three disturbing reasons for his disposition. First was the demise of the director of the F.B.I, a close friend he’d known since college. Patrick’s death had a chilling effect on him, and it sent shock waves throughout all levels of government. The inference drawn from his brutal slaying was that no one was impervious to, or safe from the reach of the killer. Secondly, none of the investigating bodies had thus unearthed anything to point them in direction of who was behind the slayings. And third, but not least, and particularly disconcerting to the attorney general, was the feeling of foreboding that plagued him the past two days.

He asked for and got a significant increase in the security, assigned around the clock to protect him and his family. They comprised uniformed police officers and agents of the secret service. The attorney general’s home was a virtual a fortress, bristling with uniformed police patrolling the grounds and perimeter, and secret service agents inside the residence. Crofton should’ve felt bolstered and secure, but he’d didn’t. He was scared and his fear grew with each passing hour. At frequent intervals he was in communication with chief Jones to see what if any breaks may have occurred. That despite the chief‘ s assurance to call him the moment they had something of note.

...

Hollings awoke noting the absence of the sun was just a faint glimmer of light under the drapes of the sliding glass door. He glanced at his watch to see it already after seven. He looked down at Blica. Her arms still enveloped him. Her eyes peered luminously at him in the fading light.

Um, I can’t believe that I was out for so long, he remarked.

Blica moved one of her hands to his face and ran along his temple. You must’ve been exhausted, she replied.

I guess, he said. He cuddled closer to her. Will you stay tonight? he asked.

If you want me to, she answered.

Hollings tightened his arms around her. They lay holding each other a while longer.

Are you hungry? What do you want for dinner? he asked.

Your warmth and companionship are all I need, Blica replied.

Really? Funny, how I was just thinking that about you. I am glad you will be staying. He kissed her again before going to the kitchen.

How about some reheated pizza from last night, are you game? he said.

Sounds good, Blica answered.

He fixed them each a plate of two slices and a beer, that they ate while in each other’s arms. Hollings reflected on their time together. He concluded that with Blica he felt things he’d never known before. He came to believe himself a ship of sorts, adrift on some dark storm tossed sea. But with her felt he had at long last found a sheltering cove. As if reading his mind Blica turned his head so that she could see his face. Her expression with the furrowed brow manifested before she kissed him. Another bout of love making proceeded, as tender as it was passionate. In the aftermath Hollings breathed in her fragrance.

Later that night, he turned on the television to catch the ten o’clock news. He was more interested in the weather forecast for the next day. The anchor reported that a house in Laurel caught on fire, and burnt almost to the ground before the fire crews arrived. It was suspected that coals from a barbeque the owner hosted earlier that day, somehow ignited the structure. But if there was a bright side to the story there was no loss of life because of the fire. Three people were killed when the SUV in which they traveled, apparently went out of control. It flipped over on the inner loop of the Beltway earlier that afternoon.

The anchor then gave a synopsis on the developments in the recent spate of murders in the district. Video of chief Jones aired as he delivered an appeal for calm to the city’s residents. He assured the viewers that law enforcement was working around the clock to find the perpetrator(s) and bring closure to the case, for the victims and their families. The segment ended with the forecast projected to be another scorcher for the upcoming work week, with temperature