Firefly: A Novel of Suspense

By Michelle A. Cornelson

Someone is burning Baltimore. At night, sirens shriek through the air as red light blazes in the night sky. Businesses and houses are burning. Theres a madman on the loose, and its not just about the firehes getting pretty fond of killing, too. There arent any leads, but there is a terrible media frenzy that gives this monster the nickname Firefly.

Dr. McKayla MacDonald doesnt want to see her beautiful city burned to the ground, but she also doesnt want to get involved with the investigation. As a successful psychologist, shes happy to assist the county fire department as a counselor. She has no idea that her decision to be a Good Samaritan has brought her to the attention of the last person she wants knowing her name and address.

Firefly is on her tail, and McKayla suspects he may have been from the beginning. Using her extensive knowledge of the human psyche, the good doctor might be able to point authorities to their arsonist. Yet as the city burns, Firefly comes closer. Is he crazy enough to end up on McKaylas doorstep with fire in hand? She must solve the case before her family becomes his target.

Firefly is a riveting and intriguing novel that is aglow with sparks, suspense and mystique. Cornelson is an accomplished and gifted writer who keeps the reader captivated from the very first page.
Shirley Erickson, MS, Sixth-Year Certificate in Reading Education

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462054879

Michelle A. Cornelson

Michelle Cornelson is a nationally registered emergency medical technician and certified sports therapist. In 2008, her short story “The Moon Lighters” won first place in the Connecticut Authors and Publishers Association Contest. Firefly is her first novel. She lives in Connecticut with her husband of twenty-one years and their teenage son.

Book preview

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

Special Thanks

I have come to cast fire upon the earth; and how I wish it were already kindled!

—Luke 12:49

For Jim and Jesse

I love you guys

PROLOGUE

It felt so good to be back.

He pulled the latex gloves out of the faded red duffel bag and snapped them onto his beefy hands. He did not hurry. He delighted in the ritual he’d been practicing for years and savored each moment, each step of his carefully planned operation.

The small explosion from the wooden match head held his gaze for a few seconds before he bent down and touched the lit match to one of the six-hank braided trailings he’d set throughout the building.

Making the fuses had been time consuming, yet integral to his success. The cloth, an old bed sheet, had been cut in precise dimensions—one inch wide, forty-eight inches long. Of this he’d made sure. Then, he’d begun the braiding process. A few times, he’d stopped to regard his work with a critical eye, but found that the trailings matched his standard of perfection. Each was then stuffed in separate sandwich bags, the ones with the zippered closure, leaving exactly eight inches of cloth poking out of the plastic. Finally, he’d measured two cups of gasoline, pouring them over the braided fuses. The cotton fibers drank it in greedily.

Now, as he stood here in the abandoned old warehouse, watching the flame flicker down its intended route, he felt a slight sense of relief wash over him. He took great pleasure in knowing that his release would soon be complete.

Why was he back at this place in his mentality that forced him to strike the match? It had been years—too many to count—since he’d allowed himself the simple indulgence of lighting a cigarette for himself, much less set a building on fire. Yet like an alcoholic in need of a drink or a heroin addict in search of a fix, he’d lit it tonight, yearning for heat for his aching soul. He’d only wanted one little hit, a small taste of the wonder the spark provided. But seeing the flame, his taste for seeing and being responsible for a large, all-consuming conflagration turned a corner and had become insatiable, and he began looking for suitable trailing material to set more fires. Simultaneously, he cursed himself for being so weak and congratulated himself for being so smart.

And he thought about them . . . the ones who had died at his hands and the ones who had been left to grieve.

For a few minutes, he stood in wonder and watched as the blaze ate away at the timbers. He loved everything about his fires. The smell of acrid smoke that filled his nostrils and mouth, the sound of crackling wood as it became immersed in the blaze itself, the warmth it emitted to his exposed skin, watching while a myriad of colors fought playfully in mid-air with one another.

Yet his greatest joy was the power he wielded. With a single stroke of a match, he could cause normal, levelheaded men and women to drop whatever they’d been doing and recklessly careen down the streets in red trucks, with red lights swirling about and sirens blaring. Single-handedly, he could turn the calm of night into a carnival atmosphere.

Reluctantly, he knew he had to leave his fiery newborn baby, just as he’d left the many others to which he’d given birth. Getting to a place where authorities would not and could not find him was easy. He had an eye for finding the safest and best seat for the show.

His body ached for release as he shoved the remaining accoutrements of his work back into the bag. He made his way out of the building, never looking back. No one spotted him.

Once safely hidden, he watched as the flames licked the black night sky. With a full symphony of sirens wailing in the distance, he reached down and slowly, ceremoniously, unzipped his pants.

It felt good to be alive.

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The afterglow.

McKayla MacDonald sighed and contentedly snuggled in the crook of her husband’s muscular right arm. Michael Mac MacDonald hugged his wife close to him and lazily traced imaginary lines on her bare back. She, in turn, gently caressed his face, tracing the outline of his jaw, the curve of his ear, her fingers lingering on his lips and playing among the hairs of his auburn moustache.

This was, beyond a doubt, her favorite part of making love. She reveled in their nakedness, glued together by perspiration, limbs entwined. The scent of excitement, passion and sweat danced slowly in harmony, heavily perfuming the air. She felt drunk, tired and giddy all at once. And loved. Totally, wonderfully, forever loved.

It was long after Mac had gone to sleep, and she herself had dozed a bit, that McKayla heard sirens. Many, many sirens.

CHAPTER ONE

Three weeks later . . .

It was raining. She was running late. And it was a Tuesday.

Dr. McKayla MacDonald hated Tuesdays. She always had. Probably always would. In her lifetime, it seemed that if anything, small or large, was going to happen to negatively impact her life, it would be on that particular day. As a psychiatrist, she knew this was foolhardy, or at the least a self-fulfilling prophecy on her part, yet it remained a part of her psyche.

Watching the rain cascade in sheets against the glass doors of Covington Memorial Hospital, she chastised herself for leaving the house without an umbrella or a coat. During her early morning run, she’d noticed that the sky had been overcast with fluffy grayish-white clouds, but she’d thought the Indian Summer sun would burn it off quickly.

She’d been wrong.

She knew that the unforgiving rainstorm, being driven by a strong wind, would soak her to the core. The stream of sodden people flooding into the hospital proved it.

McKayla steeled herself against the sting of the offending rain she faced. The meeting she was to lead in her office two blocks away had been slated to start five minutes ago. She had to go. It was now or never.

Just as she was ready to push the door open and dash through the rainy streets, a tall, gray-haired man entered, dressed resplendently in a tan London Fog raincoat with matching plaid scarf and umbrella. Without looking, she knew he sported the latest fashion from Giorgio Armani on his lanky frame, with matching shirt and tie. Cameron Strom learned that, indeed, the clothes made the man—a lesson learned from his third ex-wife, when she’d found him with his female assistant and nothing but a sheet between them.

McKayla, my dear! How are you enjoying your teaching assignment? he asked. His smooth, velvety voice sent chills up her spine.

I really love it, Cameron, but—

Excellent! And from what I’ve heard, your students love your teaching techniques, as obscure as they sometimes are.

It was an effort not to roll her eyes at his comment, and she tightened her grip on the manila folder full of her students’ work. She knew exactly to what he was referring.

While others in her position chose to lecture their classes, spouting wise gems of medical history, mystery and lore like fountains of information, McKayla required her students to log at least six hours weekly on the psychiatric ward. They then chose two patients for whom they would write up case studies, complete with diagnosis, treatment plan, and a prognosis. Through those case studies, her students learned first-hand by studying, writing and presenting information that otherwise might be overlooked by students in a lecture class. It meant more work for her, and certainly for those in the class, but the only one who disliked her tactics was the Department Head himself. His antiquated philosophy was that med students should be seen—working hard to lighten the real Physicians’ workload—not heard. To Dr. Cameron Strom, med students were a necessary evil. As such, they’d damn well better be an asset rather than a liability. Now, McKayla had invited them and their unlearned thinking into the sacred psychiatric circle, and in Cameron’s mind, made liabilities of all who took her class.

We’ll be expecting you to teach next semester, then.

Yes… I mean, maybe. Look, Cameron, I need to run to my office right now, but I do need to talk with you about the teaching schedule…

Anytime, my dear! Just call Phyllis to make sure I’m free.

Oh, yes . . . Phyllis . . . your new flavor of the month. His assistant changed as often as the seasons.

McKayla nodded in compliance. She didn’t want to give him another opportunity to refer to her as my dear, nor did she want to debate the efficacy of her teaching plan in the foyer of the hospital. Clutching the folder, she headed through the hospital doors and invited the sweet rain to wash off the encounter with Cameron Strom.

Yep. Definitely a Tuesday, McKayla thought aloud as rivulets of rain made their way down her face.

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At age 63, Herbert Gruber knew his days as the blue-shirted security guard for the Covington Square Professional Building were numbered. Oh, not by the people he worked with, but by the rules of the city and county bureaucracy. On his next birthday, he’d have the required 30 years to retire at maximum pension.

Helen, his beloved wife of 41 years, had passed away two years earlier, after a long and arduous fight with breast cancer. Had it not been for his job and the kindness of the folks at CSPB, Helen’s cancer surely would’ve taken him as well.

The thought of what he would do with all those long days stretching out in front of him with no job and no Helen scared him more than Helen’s battle against the Big C. At least then he hadn’t been alone.

Herbert took one last glance at the security monitors mounted on the desktop, a highly polished white marble, before turning his attention to his usual morning feast. At this hour of the morning, there were few, if any, distractions. The doctors and other professionals had begun to arrive, greeting him as they walked by—some with words, others with a slight nod. They were used to seeing Herbert’s slender fingers carefully unwrap the breakfast sandwich, twist the lid of his large silver thermos containing steaming black coffee, and settle in to enjoy the tasty treats of both.

About to sink his dentures into the grease-laden delight, Herbert saw McKayla run through the door, soaked through from the rain, her bobbed red hair glued to her face. The drenched manila folder she’d ineffectively used as an umbrella hung limply from her right hand.

Aw, Doc! Yur gonna catch yur death from pneumonia, walkin’ ’round in the rain like that! You of all people should know betteh! My stahrs! he scolded in his deep southern accent.

Sorry, Herbert. It couldn’t be helped. Do me a favor and call Annie. Let her know I’m on my way up, she said, shaking the tendrils of wet hair away from her face.

I will not, he responded easily, taking a bite of sandwich.

You won’t? McKayla asked incredulously.

Nope. Not ’til you jus’ settle down and let the fizz rise to the top, he answered.

Do what?

If I’m not mistaken, ya got one o’ them CDIS thangs this mornin’, right?

CISD—Critical Incident Stress Debriefing—yes, McKayla corrected him, thinking briefly about making a run for the stairs. But annoying as this guessing game was, she knew Herbert had a good reason for denying her request. In the last few years, he’d become a wonderful father figure for her, and she respected him as such. Far more than the drunken man with whom she’d lived the first fourteen years of her own life.

An’ yur the ringmaster, right?

Right! And I’m late! And this little game of yours is making me later!

Herbert calmly took a drink of his homemade coffee before answering.

CISD. A stress debriefin’ ya say. Well, yur a real good pitcher o’ stress, Doc. Ya really think ya need visuals fer the meetin’?

Herbert took another bite of breakfast and a smile spread over McKayla’s face, her blue eyes sparkling.

She took her first real, deep breath since leaving the hospital. Thanks, Herbert. My life has gotten a little crazy lately. Trying to juggle the boys’ schedules, Mac’s schedule and my practice, plus teaching has me a titch overbooked, I guess.

Anytime, Doc. I reckon I’ll buzz Annie now an’ let ’er know yur headin’ on up.

I’m fizzed?

Yup… an’ yur late.

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Minutes later, McKayla opened the frosted glass door of her office still trying to tame her damp, curly locks that insisted on pasting themselves to her cheeks. The light linen pantsuit would help disguise the fact that her sage green silk shell, completely soaked through, had become one with her freckled skin. At least she hoped it would.

Hearing the door open, her secretary peered over her reading glasses to see her boss walk in.

"My word! You really did walk in this downpour! It looks good on you! But I could have sworn all the fashion gurus said the wet look was definitely out this season," Annie Meyers kidded.

Sitting behind her semi-circle desk in the open waiting room, McKayla thought her secretary resembled a queen holding court. In many ways, that is exactly what she did—organizing and scheduling confessions between patient and doctor, duels between doctor and doctor, or meetings with student and doctor—all this while keeping each party accountable. It was the opinion of all who knew the cheerful, bespectacled, heavy-set Miss Clairol blonde lady that the busy psychiatric office of Doctors MacDonald and Russell would definitely fall into chaos without her.

Trying to start a new fashion trend, Annie! This is what you end up looking like when you come to work and use a smile for your umbrella, McKayla laughed. Seeing the wet folder in her hand, Annie swooped into action, taking it from the water-logged woman and carefully placing the papers out to dry.

Messages? McKayla asked.

From your sister. Three times already. Oh, and Alexia Peterson called to cancel tomorrow’s appointment.

McKayla nodded. McKenzie had tried to page her a few times while she was teaching. Whatever her older sister thinks her problems are, they would have to wait for now.

What about Alexia? She give any reason for her cancellation?

Nope. And she didn’t want to reschedule, as much as I tried to persuade her.

McKayla sighed. It truly was becoming a Tuesday in every way, shape and form. Alexia was one of her clients that she considered High Risk right now, and her cancellation wasn’t a good sign. She also knew Annie’s power of persuasion. If Alex had resisted that, she could resist almost anything.

Do me a favor and call her back. Ask her to give me a call. I’ve got to know how she’s doing.

Consider it done.

McKayla looked over at her partner’s closed office door. Is Josh in yet?

Dr. Russell had a patient go psycho last night— McKayla stopped her with a sharp look.

Er… I mean one of his outpatients had a psychotic episode around two o’clock this morning and landed in the Emergency Department. Been over at the hospital ever since. He’s sleeping in the resident quarters for now. I didn’t have the heart to wake him up, she explained.

See if he can make it here by ten o’clock just in case this debriefing goes long, McKayla said, while trying in vain to fluff her wet hair again. Okay, lead me to the coffee.

Straight ahead in your office. I used the thirty-cup pot, made it jet-black with a tad of aviation fuel for good measure. And there’s three dozen doughnuts—probably slightly less by now, the secretary said, raising a half-eaten glazed to her mouth and taking a bite. You have about eight to ten guys in there waiting for you, including Battalion Chief Hansen and Chaplain Fisher, she managed around the sweet bread.

Thanks, Annie, McKayla said as she disappeared behind her office door.

As soon as the coast was clear, the secretary reached over and opened her top left desk drawer, revealing two more confections.

I do love this job… mmm… , she whispered as she helped herself to another doughnut.

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Good morning, gentlemen, McKayla greeted and shed her purse and briefcase behind her desk. I’m sorry I’m late.

Don’t lose any sleep over it, Doc. We enjoyed your hospitality anyway, Rick DiMatteo commented while lofting a custard-filled doughnut in the air and back to his eager mouth.

McKayla smiled and made her way over to the coffee. It was good to see that Rick was there to give some comic relief to the session. She felt it would probably be a long and exhausting one.

She took note of each member. Some had their heads down. One watched her every move, as if she could make the nightmare he saw and lived that day go away. A few veterans, like Rick, acted as if it was no big deal, but respected the process. Still others thought the CISD/CISM program a waste of time and money, and would readily have told her that to her face, but instead let her know through their indifferent body language.

With coffee in hand, she made her way over to her leather chair, which had been pulled around from in back of the cherry wood desk. Her tan shoes made a whooshing sound from the excess water she’d picked up from her wet trek from Covington Hospital. Once seated, she began the meeting.

"Before we begin with the Serenity Prayer I want to remind you of the CISD rules. The first one is simple: What you see here, what you hear here, must remain here when you leave here. The second, you aren’t here to assign guilt to anyone, so if you haven’t done so already, check your prejudice at the door. The CISD is designed to help you on the emotional level, not to blame. You all did your best at the time. No one could ask you to do more, nor are they saying you should have. Third, be respectful of others; if someone else is talking, you should be listening. Fourth, keep an open mind about what is being said. You all were there at the same incident. You all saw, heard and felt different things at that time. With an open mind you just might learn something. Is everyone in agreement of the rules?"

A low murmur of Yes, ma’am and Yes, Doc filled the air of her office.

"Chaplain Fisher, would you be so kind as to lead us in saying the Serenity Prayer?" McKayla asked.

Seconds later a chorus of baritone and bass voices recited:

God, grant me the

Serenity to accept the things

I cannot change,

Courage to

Change the things I can,

And the

Wisdom to know

The difference.

CHAPTER TWO

He lay in bed and smiled to himself.

The anticipation alone was both excruciatingly painful and exciting. It had been far too long since his last fire, and his body screamed at him for his neglect.

But these things took time to do! If you wanted to do them right, that is. People—not even his own person—understood his plight.

First, he had to choose the right building, preferably one that had already been condemned by city officials. That, in itself, took tremendous patience, as he had to find the perfect one without calling attention to himself. He drove endlessly through areas of condemnation, looked through the paper for buildings that the Mayor deemed past its prime, or sometimes, the structures were right in front of him.

This was the case for tonight’s cavalcade.

Tonight’s target was an old rattrap building, that had been used to house the city’s now defunct newspaper, The Daily Gazette. The rusty blue and white FOR SALE sign had been sitting beside the structure for so long that the bushes, trees and weeds had grown around, under and over it, making it virtually invisible to passersby. Thousands of these structures caught fire annually, but because of their status as dead buildings, the investigations into fires of such were often conducted quickly and thus, inefficiently.

A self-guided, midnight walk-through ensured no surprises on his Night of Delight. He’d made a vow to himself. Never did he want to kill or maim another person with his fire setting. At least not again. Getting a whiff of burned human flesh all those years ago had taught him to be vigilant and actively look for potential victims.

During his exhaustive inspection, he’d looked for any sign of urban squatters. Any cots, mattresses, blankets or other signs of long-term visitors instantly negated the building, and continued his search for a suitable one.

The homeless, he’d discovered, were resourceful in acquiring food and drink, often leaving a paper trail of wrappers from various fast food chains. Wine and beer bottles, along with cigarette butts, littered the floors, contributing to an unpleasant, musty odor.

Having found no red flags on his walk-though, he then mentally chose the material, size and position of each of his trailings. Not that it mattered all that much. Whatever he chose would burn. Wherever and however he positioned the fuses would ignite the old wood. But it was part of the process, the ritual, and he would not be denied.

A broad smile had overtaken his face as he’d surreptitiously left the building to scout out an advantageous observation point—one from where he could see all the action, yet not be discovered.

He stretched the entire length of his naked body under the sheets before he left the warmth of his bed. It would be a busy day. He had much work to do before tonight.

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Lieutenant Mac MacDonald of the Baltimore County Fire Department had just dropped off his blue pickup truck at Ed’s Auto Repair and Muffler Shop when the rain began. Innocent sprinkles had turned into a torrential downpour by the time Steve Parker arrived to pick him up and give him a ride to Station 212. The underbelly of a water-filled cloud had been sliced open by an unseen hand, its inner contents spilling out over the city.

Mac saw Steve’s immaculate souped-up white Mustang pull into the small parking lot and ran from under the protective red and white awning in front of Ed’s to the waiting car.

Partners for the last four years, Steve and Mac had become as tight as any blood brothers could hope to be, yet blood brothers they weren’t. That was instantly evident, as Steve’s skin was as black as shiny ebony, his jet black hair cropped close on an otherwise clean-shaven head. Mac, on the other hand, sported the fair skin of a Celt, complete with reddish-brown hair and an auburn moustache. Steve was shy a couple of inches of his partner’s height, and a little bit stockier, his chest and shoulder muscles rippling beneath his red polo shirt.

Thanks, man. I owe ya one, Mac commented while settling himself in the luxurious leather passenger seat, quite different from his broken down black plastic bench seat in the old pickup. After all these years, the foam padding on the seat was virtually non-existent, its hard metal springs were felt on every bump in the road. Steve heard the click of Mac’s seat belt and put the car in gear.

You owe me more than one, partner. But who’s counting, right? Steve swiftly pulled the Mustang, his pride and joy that he personally washed and waxed weekly, into Baltimore’s rush hour traffic.

Steve thought about the truck Mac loved so much. Within the past year alone, he knew Mac had to have more than two thousand dollars worth of work put into the beast. The vehicle was mostly blue, an ugly blue in Steve’s opinion, with a rusty left front fender. It was missing the tailgate completely, as well as the hubcaps on the old, worn-out wheels. The only thing Mac did do, for safety reasons, was to make sure the tires had a good tread on them. So, when are you gonna let that poor truck of yours die a natural death?

C’mon, Stevie! She’s my baby! I can’t abandon her just because she needs a few parts replaced every once in a while, Mac answered, a big smile plastered on his face. His mode of transportation had become the running joke at the station, especially because his mode often didn’t transport him at all. Like today, Mac often had to rely on others to get him to and from work.

A few? countered his friend. Man, you could’ve had a couple of brand new vehicles with all the money you’ve pumped into that hunk of junk!

Hey, she’s a classic 1975! How many people do you know can say they own a ’75?

"The question is, my man, how many people would admit to owning one?" Steve teased as he carefully negotiated his car through the wet streets of the city toward Station 212.

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Pete Rogers read the memo taped to his computer screen on his desk. He reread it, crumpled up the yellow paper, and tossed it toward the garbage can, making a perfect shot. He could always claim he never saw the message.

His old brown office chair squeaked in protest as he sat down. With coffee in hand, he began to organize his workday. Papers and folders of all colors and sizes littered his desk, yet he knew what each of them was for. It was his special filing system, color-coded by case, cross-referenced by how long each had been in his file.

Black and Blue files had become his forte: Black, an obvious color choice for a murder case; Blue because the trail was old and usually stone cold. Domestic violence cases, including child abuse, rated a Red. Disturbances and/or threats against another person were tagged Yellow. When the case was solved, the detective slapped a Green folder around the file and sent it downstairs via police messenger.

Pete glanced at the gray office garbage can where the crumpled message lay inside. Having a tête-à-tête with Chief Gary Mason was really the last thing he wanted to do today.

He got along with the Chief fairly well. He didn’t appreciate his political point of view on most issues, but as he saw things, everyone had a right to his opinion, no matter how wrong it was. Unlike others who’d held the office and were long since gone, Mason left him alone to do his work however he saw fit.

Grudgingly, he admitted it. It wasn’t so much the meeting that he dreaded, it was the fact that the Chief’s office was on the fourth floor and he was on the first. In between the detective and his boss were three flights of nasty, black marble stairs, and a long hallway to negotiate. Exercise of that magnitude had not been scheduled for today.

Deet sat back, stared at his desktop for a minute, then decided to get it over with.

Muttering an expletive under his breath, and another squeak of the chair, Detective Rogers pushed himself up and began the ascent.

Pete The Deet Rogers had a head as bald and shiny on top as the proverbial cue ball. The hair he’d managed to keep was a simple salt-and-pepper fringe surrounding his scalp, and it, too, he’d noticed lately, was quickly fading. He stood at a modest 5’6", and carried a rotund 270 pounds on his frame.

Despite being recklessly out of shape, Deet knew his job and did it well. His intuition was staggering. The contacts he’d made while working on the streets for the past 32 years made him an invaluable asset to the department. For these reasons, no matter what, no matter whose palm had to be substantially greased, Pete Rogers always passed the department’s annual physical exam with flying colors. Always. A couple of years ago, he hadn’t even bothered to show up. The police physician had passed him anyway.

After each physical, Deet promised himself to lose the extra pounds by eating healthier and checking out the gym once in a while. This last time, he’d even gone shopping for special, healthful items like apples, bananas and orange juice. But like most good intentioned resolutions, the promise got lost in day-to-day living, and the apples reverted to a buttery apple crisp, the bananas an important ingredient of a banana split, and the orange juice became an additive to his nightly shot of vodka. Now he was paying the heavy price for his deeds.

On the third floor landing, he stopped to pat his brow free of sweat, allowing his heart, pounding in protest, to rest before attacking the rest of the seemingly endless marble. Blue uniformed men and women hurried past him—some actually running up the stairs—without so much as looking at him. Silently cursing for not making good on his promise to himself, he forced his stubby legs to move, negotiating the final flight of steps and the long hallway. Winded, he found himself outside the Chief’s door.

Again he stopped, adjusting his sport coat to make sure the pools of sweat under his armpits were well hidden. Deet knocked quickly on the door, already ajar.

Chief? he managed through labored breaths.

"Rogers, there you are! You’re a tough man to track down! Come