Prologue

 

            Beneath the sand lay whole other worlds.  Many of these worlds were thousands of years old, existing before Jesus Christ ever drew his first breath.  By sifting through the sands, one could go back in time to a world without cell phones, computers, and automobiles.  In some cases it might even be a world without the wheel.

            Uncovering these worlds was Dan Dreyfus's job.  He had been in Egypt for the last three years, braving the heat in search of an ancient civilization.  Up to this point he had been only moderately successful, turning up a few bits of pottery and simple tools.  He was getting closer, though, he knew it.  It wouldn't be long until he made a major discovery.

            He told himself this every morning when he woke up and reminded himself again every night before he fell asleep.  This answered those other pesky questions, such as why he was out in the desert, living in a tent, alone.  He couldn't remember the last time he had seen a woman showing more than her hands.  Others on the dig used copies of Playboy or Hustler to fill this void despite the rules against it, but Dan stuck it out the old-fashioned way with willpower.  There would be plenty of time for that later.

            Of course it might not be much longer before he was back in the States even if he didn't make a discovery.  The Plaine Museum, which had funded his work these last three years, was growing impatient.  The last time he checked his Email, he had found a note from the director politely informing him that due to budget cuts, the museum couldn't afford to fund his research for more than another three months.  The director subtly added that the situation might change if he produced something that might convince more donor support.

            Dan ran a hand over the beard he had grown in the last two weeks.  Three months wasn't much time in archaeology, not with the amount of ground they had to cover.  He might spend another three years out here and not find more than a few bits of pottery and simple tools.  Some scientists had spent their lives out here without finding anything.

            He supposed he had spoiled the Plaine Museum by finding Karlak II's tomb five years ago.  That exhibition had gone on to be one of the museum's most popular, running for a year in Rampart City before going on the road across the world.  It was no surprise the director thought more would be forthcoming soon after.

            There was no point in trying to explain these things to the director.  She was a politician, not a scientist.  At one time she had been a biologist, but this was a long time ago, when Dan was still a child.  Years of galas and photo opportunities had dulled her memory about the difficulty of working in the field.  It was really like spinning a roulette wheel; you could only put your money down and hope the ball landed on your number.

            Dan found his assistant, Tim Wells, already at work on their latest site.  There was no need to ask the younger man if he had found anything yet.  "Get any sleep?" Dan asked instead.

            "A little," Wells said.  "How about you?"

            "Some," Dan said.  In fact Dan had not gotten more than five hours a sleep any night in Egypt.  Whenever he went to bed, he found himself haunted by strange nightmares.  They usually involved a black monster with claws for hands and a redheaded woman.  The woman was familiar to him, a fellow scientist at the Plaine Museum.  Emma, that was her name.  Emma Earl.  They had met briefly before Dan left for Egypt. 

            He had long since given up on trying to figure out what the dreams meant.  Considering the lack of women around the site, he supposed it was only natural to dream about a woman, even if she was a stranger.  "They say we might get a sandstorm today," Dan said.

            "You want me to cover up the equipment?"

            "Probably a good idea."  The sandstorms came up with little warning, often covering everything in a thick layer of sand.  The last one had popped up so quickly, Dan and Wells had time only to dive into the nearest tent.  They had spent two days trying to find their own simple tools. 

            While Wells set about packing up the heavier equipment to move to safety, Dan began digging about ten feet from where Wells had been working.  The work was slow and tedious, as he had to sift through each shovelful to make sure there was nothing of interest.  Most people would have gone insane after a day of it, but Dan had always enjoyed it.  Not so much the work as the hope of making a new discovery, of finding something no one had seen in millennia.

            No sandstorms had come through by one o'clock, when Dan and Wells retreated to a tent for their lunch.  As usual they ate cans of beans and soup; canned food worked best since they didn't have a reliable generator and were fifty miles from the nearest market.  As he ate, Wells entertained himself by trying to get the satellite link to work, so they could access the Internet.  But the satellite hookup had proven less reliable than the generator; Wells soon gave up with a sigh.  "No news today."

            "You know what they say:  no news is good news," Dan said.  At this point he didn't really want to be able to contact the outside world for fear the director might have decided three months was too long to wait for results.

            He had gone through a shovelful of sand when he saw the sky on the horizon turning dark brown.  "Here it comes!" he said.

            With most of their equipment already in storage, they didn't need long to get everything under cover.  Dan spread a tarp over his digging site, not that it would be any easier to find after two inches of sand covered it.  Wells did likewise and then they ducked into Dan's tent to wait.

            The wind howled outside as if a pack of wild dogs were outside the tent.  Dan and Wells could do nothing more than sit silently and wait for it to stop.  It was too dark to read and Dan didn't want to waste his batteries on the flashlight.  Besides, he had been through enough of these to know how to survive them.

            The winds began to die down, indicating the storm had nearly blown over.  "Looks like we survived another one," Wells said.  "That's an even dozen by my count."

            "I thought it was at least twenty by now."  Dan opened the tent and then crawled outside to take a look around.  As expected, the storm had rewritten the landscape around them, creating dunes that rose higher than the tents.

            In another spot, though, the storm had scoured sand away.  This was at the exact point where Dan had been digging.  The fierce winds had torn the tarp away and then scraped away a good six inches of sand, almost as if a tornado had been centered directly on his worksite.  "That's very odd," Dan said to himself.  But he had seen many strange things out in the desert.

            Peering down into the deeper hole, he reeled back when he found a face looking up at him.  It was a woman's face, rendered in some kind of black stone—onyx, obsidian, or jet he couldn't be sure.  The detail on the woman's face was amazing; the artist had rendered everything down to the tiny wrinkles around the arms.  It was far more detail than any ancient artist had ever achieved.

            "Tim, give me a hand with this."  Dan began furiously scraping around the woman's face to reveal a head with lifelike hair the same color black as the face.  Wells joined Dan in the digging to uncover slender shoulders, a narrow waist, and coltish legs.  The woman wore no clothes, but had spread hands over her breasts to preserve some of her modesty.

            Revealing all of this detail took the rest of the day, into the night.  When they reached her large, bare feet, Dan and Wells took a step back to admire the statue.  "How old do you think it is?" Wells asked.

            Dan shook his head.  The level of detail was far too much to be a primitive artist.  Yet, if it was modern, how had it gotten out here?  "I'm not sure.  We'll have to take some samples."

            One thing he did know:  the Plaine Museum had its discovery.

#

            The results on the initial tests came back two weeks later.  These tests indicated the statue was thirty-five hundred years old.  Fifteen hundred years before Christ had walked the Earth.  It was as good as Dan had hoped.  He couldn't resist letting out a much overdue whoop at this.

            "What do we do now?" Wells asked.

            "We celebrate," Dan said.  They took the jeep into the nearest town.  Since it was a Muslim community, there was no alcohol served, forcing them to celebrate with coffee and pastries.  Even this felt like luxury after weeks spent in the field.  "Here's to new discoveries."  Dan clinked his mug against Wells's. 

            "What do you think the director is going to say?"

            "She's going to tell us to keep digging.  One statue isn't enough for an exhibit.  But it's a start.  It's definitely a start."

            They were on their third mugs of strong coffee when the woman entered.  Dan nearly dropped his mug at the sight of her.  Unlike the other women in the village she did not adhere to the strict rules about modesty; she wore only the flimsiest of white gowns.  It wasn't so much a gown as lingerie. 

            The other patrons sucked in a collective breath.  Wells had turned so pale Dan thought the young man might fain away.  Dan looked around the room to see if anyone was going to challenge the woman, to scream at her to leave.  No one did.

            To Dan's shock, the woman glided across the room towards his table.  The air was still in the café and yet the woman's black hair streamed behind her as if it had its own fan.  The light played off her bronze skin to give her an angelic glow as she walked.  What stood out the most, though, were her eyes—they were black.  At first Dan thought they were a shade of green, blue, or brown so dark he couldn't distinguish it from far away, but as she stopped at his table, he could see her irises were the same black as her pupils, if not darker.

            The woman's eyes focused on him, a smile coming to her face.  She didn't say anything for a full thirty seconds, continuing to stare at Dan.  "Can I help you?" he asked.

            "You are an American?" she asked, her voice light and soft as a breeze with an accent he hadn't heard before.

            "Yes, I am.  We both are."

            The woman didn't take her eyes away from Dan.  "I have always wanted to meet an American."

            Dan smiled, trying to conceal his confusion.  "Well, here we are.  Would you like to sit down?"

            "Thank you."  The woman sat down next to Dan, close enough that his knee brushed against hers.  Even through the stiff fabric of his pants he could tell her skin was far softer than it had any right to be in this arid climate.

            She said nothing, staring at him.  He finally cleared his throat to ask, "Would you like something to drink?"

            "What are you having?"

            "Coffee."

            "That will be fine."  For the first time the woman took notice of Wells.  Her voice turned harsh as she snapped, "You, fetch it."

            To Dan's surprise, Wells practically leapt from his chair to do as the woman bid.  "You must not be from around here," Dan said, trying to make conversation.

            "You could say that."

            "Where are you from?"

            "Somewhere very far away."

            Dan considered this, wondering if she meant Europe, South America, or even Asia.  "So, what brings you to Egypt?  Doing some sightseeing?"

            "Yes, sightseeing."  The way she said this made Dan wonder if English were her first language even though she seemed to speak it well enough.  Wells returned with a mug of coffee and containers for cream and sugar.  "None of that," she said, motioning to the cream and sugar.

            "Of course."  Wells scuttled away to return these to the counter.

            The woman took a sip from the coffee mug.  There was something sensual in the way her lips pulled the liquid out of the mug.  Dan couldn't help staring as she drank.  "I had forgotten what this tasted like," she said.

            "They don't have coffee where you come from?"

            "They don't have many things there."

            "I see."  Part of Dan wanted to get up and run away, but a much larger part—everything from the neck down—yearned to stay put and learn more about this strange woman.  He settled the dispute by sticking out his hand for her to shake.  "My name is Dr. Dan Dreyfus.  I work for the Plaine Museum in Rampart City.  That's in America."

            The woman nodded at this.  Her hand slid under the table to stroke his thigh.  An electric shock ran through Dan's body.  The woman leaned over, her lips brushing against his ear.  She whispered, "You can call me Isis."

Chapter 1

 

            The door to the old house opened and immediately Emma Earl found herself smothered by a hug.  The old woman delivering the hug pulled back to give Emma a grandmotherly smile.  "Congratulations, dear.  We just heard the wonderful news."

            "Oh, thanks," Emma said.  She was about to ask how Mrs. Chiostro had found out, but then she saw the spectral form of a bearded man with a pointed hat floating in a corner.  Emma did her best to glare at the ghost.  "Blabbermouth," she chided.

            "Knowing your modesty, I didn't think you'd get around to mentioning it," Marlin said.

            "Now, you two, don't argue," Mrs. Chiostro said.  She led Emma through the foyer, into a parlor converted into a dress shop with patterns tacked to the wall, material stacked on the floor, and a mannequin standing before a window.  The old woman patted Emma's shoulder.  "You should be very proud, dear."

            "I am."  Only an hour ago she had been called into the director's office, where she was offered the position of assistant director for the Plaine Museum.  It was a promotion unheard-of for a twenty-five-year-old, one Emma herself had not expected.  There were any number of people at the museum with far more experience than her, especially in the administrative side of things, though she had been managing the geology department for nearly the last five years.

            "I'm sure it's very exciting."

            "It is," Emma said, though at the moment she didn't feel excited.  Terrified was more the word for it.  Assistant director for the entire museum—not only the actual museum building but also the various research stations around the world—was far more responsibility than a single department.  She didn't know if she could handle it.

            "Don't worry, dear, everything will work out fine."

            "I hope so."

            The old woman's body stiffened for a moment.  "Rebecca is coming up the front steps.  Why don't you go let her in?"

            "Sure thing."  Emma hurried back through the foyer to open the front door an instant before Becky's knuckle could rap on the wood.

            "I wish she wouldn't do that," Becky grumbled, shaking her head.  A moment later her chubby face brightened with a smile.  "I heard about your good news.  Congratulations, kid."

            "Thanks," Emma said, wondering if there was anyone Marlin hadn't told yet.  The former wizard's apprentice could be a real busybody sometimes.

            "How much more do you get for this?"

            "I'm not really sure yet."  Emma did know, but she didn't want to talk about it yet.  Considering how much more it was than what Becky made as assistant to Councilwoman Napier, Emma didn't want any jealousy to spoil what was Becky's day.  Clearing her throat, Emma said, "Did you and Steve find anything?"

            "Oh, sure, there's a nice old house in the historical district.  Needs a little work, but not too much.  A lot more solid than one of those McCondos in the suburbs."

            "That's a nice area," Emma said.  The historical district was the one neighborhood visited infrequently by the Scarlet Knight.  For that reason, Emma had encouraged her friend—who was dead set against living in the suburbs—to look for something there.  Since it was such a nice neighborhood, anything Becky and Steve could afford would be in need of some repair.

            They reached the parlor, where Mrs. Chiostro waited with two dresses.  The one on the right was lavender with ruffles along the shoulders and the base of the long skirt.  This dress Mrs. Chiostro handed to Emma.  Pressing it against her body, Emma could already tell it was tailored perfectly for her.

            As for the other dress, it was white with puffed sleeves and a flowing lace skirt.  It was a wedding dress.  Mrs. Chiostro tried to give this to Becky, but the younger woman was too in shock to take it.  Tears spontaneously bubbled up in her eyes, fingers going to her lips.  Emma knew what her best friend was thinking.  In all her life, Becky had never expected to be a bride.  Ever since they were little girls, it was assumed that slender, pretty Emma would be the one to marry a handsome prince while fat, plain Becky would be the bridesmaid.  In just a week, the opposite would happen.

            Becky finally snapped out of her shock to take the dress.  As if in a trance, she shambled behind an antique screen to change.  This process resulted in several minutes of grunting and muffled curses.  "Would you like some help, dear?" Mrs. Chiostro asked.

            "I've got it," Becky said.  She stepped out from behind the screen a minute later in full bridal regalia.  "What do you think?"

            "You look beautiful," Emma said, meaning it.  Mrs. Chiostro had done a masterful job of tailoring the dress to hide the stubborn bulge in Becky's midsection.  Everything from the waist to the sleeves had been done to make Becky appear slimmer.  When she raised the veil, even Becky's face seemed thinner; Emma wondered if perhaps Mrs. Chiostro had used a little magic to achieve this effect, though the old woman used her magic sparingly.

            "You really think so?"

            "See for yourself."

            More tears came to Becky's eyes when she looked at herself in the mirror.  "Oh my God," she breathed.  "It's unreal."

            Mrs. Chiostro put a hand on Becky's shoulder.  "I assure you, dear, it's very real."

            "Thank you." 

            In spite of herself, Emma joined in Becky's tears.  She had never seen her friend look so happy as she did at that moment.  She gave Becky a hug for support.  "Steve is going to love it."

            "You think so?"

            "I know so."

            "If he doesn't, I'll marry you," Marlin said, returning to the room after disappearing while Becky changed.  "If I could, of course."

            "There wouldn't be much of a honeymoon," Becky said.  They all laughed at this much harder than it warranted, lost in the joy of the moment.

#

            As Emma expected, her dress fit perfectly.  This was in large part because Mrs. Chiostro had tailored a half-dozen dresses for Emma over the last five years.  She wasn't sold on the lavender color, but Becky had insisted on it.  Purple had always been Becky's favorite color but she obviously couldn't wear it to her own wedding, so her bridesmaids would be her proxy.  It could be worse.  She could have picked teal.

            Emma stepped out from behind the screen for Becky's inspection.  Her friend smiled and then clapped her hands.  "It's perfect," Becky said.

            "You think so?"

            "Just like how I imagined."

            "It is nice," Emma said, looking at herself in the mirror.  As she continued to study the way the dress fit, the opening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony rumbled out of her purse.  She knew what this meant even before she scooped the Blackberry out of her purse.  The ominous meant the Scarlet Knight had received a message.

            "Trouble?" Becky asked.

            Emma nodded.  Only one person had the anonymous Email address for the Scarlet Knight: Lieutenant Lottie Donovan of the Rampart City police force.  The Email address was Donovan's link to the Scarlet Knight; Emma had programmed the ominous ring tone so she would instantly know when her alter ego had mail.

            "Urgent!  Meet me at usual place as soon as you get this.  LD," the message read.  Below that was an address for one of the many abandoned warehouses along the waterfront.   As the Scarlet Knight, Emma rarely went around in the daylight.  There was little more conspicuous even on the streets of Rampart City than a woman in red plate armor.

            "I've got to go," she said.  "Something's wrong."

            "Now?" Becky said.

            "I'm sorry.  It's important."

            Becky sighed.  "I know.  At least change out of the dress first.  I don't want my maid of honor showing up in rags."

            Emma hurried back behind the screen.  After taking off the dress, she said, "Mekka lekka weep ninnebaum."  An instant later, a red case appeared beside her.  There were no handles on the case, but it yawned open at her touch.  Inside was a set of dark red plate mail that gave the Scarlet Knight her name.  After five years of practice, Emma could strap on the leg and arm pieces and breastplate in less than a minute.

            As always, she saved the helmet for last.  With a deep breath, she settled it on her head, becoming the Scarlet Knight.  Stepping out from behind the screen, she saw Becky looking down at the floor.  "I'm sorry," Emma said again.  She lifted the visor enough to give her friend a peck on the cheek.

            "Give 'em hell," Becky said, trying to sound cheerful.

            Emma's red motorcycle waited outside where she had left it.  Had anyone been foolish enough to try and steal it, she had wired the seat with 50,000 volts, enough to disable any would-be thief.  She deactivated the security system and then kicked the bike to life.  Though never a gearhead, Emma had studied engineering enough to make some refinements to the engine over the last five years.  This meant the bike wasn't street legal, but it also meant she could get from one side of Rampart City to the other in less than ten minutes—so long as she didn't obey traffic laws. 

            Emma didn't get to the waterfront that quickly, as the heavy concentration of vehicles on the road and pedestrians on the sidewalk made things more difficult than at night.  Though she knew the helmet concealed her face, she couldn't help feeling conspicuous in the red armor, the golden cape flapping behind her.  Her face turned warm beneath the visor as a pair of boys in a minivan waved at her.

            She skidded to a stop in front of the warehouse.  Like many of the buildings along the waterfront, this one had fallen into disrepair, becoming a nest for transients and criminals.  If it were up to Emma the buildings would all be torn down, but most of them were owned by holding corporations that through a complex series of transactions belonged to Don Vendetta, the head of organized crime in the city.  The don in turn used the buildings as meeting places for dealing drugs, weapons, and other illegal goods.

            Emma pulled the golden cape around herself as she approached the front of the warehouse.  She and Lieutenant Donovan usually met at the band shelter in Robinson Park, but that would be occupied in the daytime.  Still, there was a small chance someone else might have figured out the Email and sent a fake message to trap the Scarlet Knight.  There was no sense in being unprepared.

            "There's no one else inside," Marlin whispered in her ear.

            "Did you look at the screen?" she asked him.

            "Of course."

            "That could have been private."

            "Oh yes, it could have been from one of your countless admirers."

            "Shut up," she snapped more out of habit than anger.  One of the great hypocrisies in Emma's life was the ghost would taunt her about not having a boyfriend but then condemn her for neglecting her duty if she didn't spend every night battling crime on the streets.

            As Marlin had reported, there was no one else in the warehouse.  Lieutenant Donovan sat on a pile of rotting crates, an ever-present cigarette in her lips.  A promotion two years ago had done little to change her; she still wore the same black leather jacket, white T-shirt, and jeans as she had as a sergeant.  "You made it," she said, tossing the cigarette away.  Emma knew it wouldn't be long until she pulled another one out of her jacket.

            "What's the emergency?"

            "Sorry, were you polishing your breastplate or something?"  Despite five years of working together, the lieutenant and Scarlet Knight still did not have a cordial relationship.  Lieutenant Donovan frequently lamented needing the help of a "goddamned vigilante" to help contain crime in the city.  Emma understood this enough not to take offense.

            "What's going on?"

            As expected, the lieutenant reached into her jacket for another cigarette.  "Tonight's the night.  We're going to nail that bitch this time."

            "Don Vendetta?"

            "That's right.  I've got it from my sources that she's going to be receiving a shipment of computers.  Real high-end ones.  We think she's going to try getting into the information business.  These babies are top-of-the-line with the best encryption.  God help us if she turns them over to Al-qaeda or someone worse."  She went on to describe the place where the meet would go down, a similar warehouse no more than a half-mile away.

            "And you want me to stay away?"  The last time the police had been closing in on Don Vendetta three-and-a-half years ago, Lieutenant Donovan had asked Emma to stay away.  The deal had turned out to be a ruse.  Since then, the lieutenant had been working slowly, carefully for another chance.

             Lieutenant Donovan shook her head.  "Not this time.  This time I want your help."

            Someone else might have protested this or made a big deal of Lieutenant Donovan wanting the Scarlet Knight's help now, but Emma didn't.  Some things were far more important than petty grudges.  "What do you need me to do?"

            "Nothing much.  When she tries to run, make sure she doesn't get far.  That's all.  Just let us make the arrest."

            "I understand."

            "The less she sees of you the better.  Give her lawyers less to work with."

            "I'll do what I can."

            "Thank you."  Lieutenant Donovan tossed her latest cigarette away.  "This is going to be it.  I can feel it."

            "Let's hope so."  With that, Emma wrapped the cape around herself and disappeared.

#

            Emma would have preferred to go back to Mrs. Chiostro's house to check on Becky; they still had a lot of plans to finalize before the wedding.  Instead, she sat atop a silo used for shipping cement.  With the amplified vision of her visor, she could see the warehouse where Don Vendetta would be meeting, despite it being a half-mile away.

            She wasn't the only one watching, of course.  The police were already setting up their trap.  Boats cruised the harbor, officers using high-powered binoculars to watch the warehouse.  Others disguised as dockworkers milled around the area, ready to rush in as soon as Lieutenant Donovan gave the word.

            If Emma could spot these, she wondered if Don Vendetta would as well.  The don had proved to be a slippery foe in the last five years, always eluding both the police and the Scarlet Knight.  Much of this was because the don had moles within the department who fed her information about any possible raids.  Lieutenant Donovan and internal affairs had rooted out some of these, but there were certainly more they hadn't discovered.  Would one of these notify Don Vendetta of the trap?

            Though she was usually an optimist, Emma couldn't help but feel trepidation about all of this.  Five years of fighting crime in Rampart City had taught her not to get her hopes up, especially when it came to Don Vendetta.  She wouldn't believe it until she saw the don in a jail cell with her own eyes.

            Emma shook her head.  She was starting to sound like Marlin.  She supposed the ghost's cynical worldview had started to rub off on her.  As if sensing her thoughts, Marlin appeared at her shoulder.  "Becky is fine.  She's going home to meet her beau."

            "I wish you wouldn't talk about them like that."

            "Like what?"

            "Sarcastically.  Becky and Steve deserve to be happy."  Especially Becky, who had endured years of physical and mental abuse from her mother.   That Becky had turned out even remotely normal was nearly a miracle in itself.  That she could find someone kind and caring like Steve Scherr was even more so.

            "I didn't say anything."

            "You implied it."

            The ghost grunted at this.  Having been a spirit for four thousand years, his perspective on relationships was warped.  He frequently told Emma about romance in his day, which consisted of knocking your beloved over the head with a heavy stick and then ravishing her behind some bushes.  "I don't know why it took them so long."

            "Steve was finishing his doctorate."

            "There's a good excuse."

            "They weren't ready to settle down until he found a job."  That job was at the Plaine Museum, where he would come to work in the botany department.  Despite what Becky thought, Emma had not pulled any strings at the museum to get him the job; he was brilliant enough on his own to get the job.

            "Likely story."

            Emma decided to ignore the ghost, concentrating on the warehouse.  It was turning dark outside, but the visor turned the darkness as bright as daytime.  With a tap, she could cycle it to infrared mode to scan for heat signatures inside.  At the moment there wasn't anything inside the warehouse.  Was this another trick?

            She spent another five hours huddled atop the silo.  At last she saw a pair of heavy-duty trucks rumble into the warehouse.  The visor couldn't see into the vehicles, but at least she could tell whatever was inside wasn't giving off any heat.  That meant the don or her seller wasn't trying to smuggle an army of goons inside.

            Two men emerged from the trucks to mill around inside the warehouse.  These were probably the merchants selling the computers.  Or they might be puppets meant to confuse the police—and the Scarlet Knight—while the real transaction occurred somewhere else.

            Another hour went by before Emma saw the limousine pulling into the warehouse.  She couldn't be sure the multi-colored blob getting out of the vehicle was Don Vendetta, though the blob did appear to be female.  The half-dozen blobs around it were without a doubt the hired muscle the don employed.  Emma had tangled with these brutes over the years.  No matter how many she put in jail, more always remained.  Despite the risk of jail time, the rewards were still too good for those with a lot of brawn but little brain to pass up.

            Through the infrared, she watched as the smaller blob walked towards one of those by the trucks.  They shook hands and then began talking.  Emma tapped out of the infrared mode to study the outside of the warehouse.  The police were moving in, the dockworkers suddenly shirking their responsibilities and boats pulling into port.

            Then came the SWAT team van, followed by a line of police cruisers.  These approached without lights of any kind, proceeding slowly so no one inside would hear them.  Emma's body tensed, a part of her wishing she could be in the middle of the action.  But she had promised Lieutenant Donovan to be as inconspicuous as possible, which meant she couldn't go dropping into the fray and dropping the don's henchmen.

            She could only watch as police emerged from the SWAT vehicle and cruisers.  The undercover officers closed in as well to form a perimeter around the building.  With any luck, Emma would get to sit this one out and be home in time to see Becky before she went to bed.

            Tapping the infrared back on, she watched as the blobs inside the warehouse scattered as they realized what was happening.  The smaller blob ran not to the limousine but to one of the heavy trucks.  Oh no.  Emma was already jumping from the silo before the truck even started towards the front doors.

            As she plunged towards the ground, the golden cape billowed up, becoming like a parachute.  With a snap she was jerked upwards for a moment before coasting down.  The don's escape played out through her visor as she made her descent. 

            One thing Lieutenant Donovan hadn't counted on was trying to stop a two-ton military-issue truck, especially one with a head of steam.  Not even the SWAT machine-guns could do much against the truck.  While Emma watched, the don crashed through the police barricade in front of the doors.  The don stepped on the gas, pushing the truck even harder in an attempt to put as much distance between her and the police as possible.

            There wasn't going to be time for a pretty landing.  Emma reached up to bring down the cape, sending her plunging towards the ground.  She curled her legs up before she impacted hard enough to crack the pavement.  A normal person would have shattered both legs, but the red armor protected Emma from injury. 

            She rolled to her feet and took off running after the truck.  The armor augmented her speed, but not enough for her to catch the vehicle.  Her motorcycle was too far away to reach; by the time she got it, the don would have escaped.

            Instead, she bounced slightly on her boots.  The rubber soles of the boots propelled her forward through the air.  She continued this pattern until she could see the truck.  While she continued to run, she reached down to the belt on her hip.  From this she produced a golden sword—the Sword of Justice.  The blade glowed in the night air as she hurled it towards the truck. 

            The sword sliced through the air, guided towards its target by Emma's mind.  Five years on the job as the Scarlet Knight had given her enough control that she could guide the blade and continue the pursuit at the same time.  With another jump, she came closer to the vehicle, enough to read the license plate through the visor.

            Being a military-issue truck, the vehicle's tires were bulletproof and could even survive a mine hit.  What they couldn't survive was the Sword of Justice, which could cut through any material on Earth.  The golden blade cut through the rear tire on the driver's side as if it were butter and then continued forward to do the same to the front tire.

            Emma called the blade back to her hand.  It caught up with her in midair as she made the final leap onto the top of the truck.  She came down on the rear of the vehicle as the truck still managed to grind along, despite the lack of two tires.

            With a short hop not assisted by her boots, Emma landed on the front of the truck.  She had the satisfaction of seeing the don's eyes go wide.  Then Emma plunged the Sword of Justice into the engine of the truck.  It might have been able to plow along without two tires, but it couldn't survive without a working engine.  The truck lurched to a halt, nearly throwing Emma in the process.

            For a moment she stared at Don Vendetta.  She badly wanted to tear the don out of the vehicle, maybe even make a quip appropriate for the occasion.  But she remembered what Lieutenant Donovan had said; she had probably made herself too conspicuous already.  Tossing the don a mock salute, the Scarlet Knight bounded away into the night.

            From atop an old army-navy surplus store, Emma watched Lieutenant Donovan approach the truck.  For a moment Emma wondered if Don Vendetta might try going down with guns blazing or perhaps even commit suicide.  She didn't.  She put up her hands as Lieutenant Donovan approached and then stepped out of the vehicle.  Emma wondered what the lieutenant said, probably the kind of quip Emma had wanted to deliver.

            Emma was certain Lieutenant Donovan took great pleasure in being able to shove Don Vendetta against the hood of the vehicle and then cuff her.  Years of hard work and dedication had finally paid off—the city's most notorious criminal was in custody.

Chapter 2

 

            Emma didn't return to the apartment until four in the morning.  Once word of the don's capture hit the streets, numerous petty thugs decided to seize the opportunity for a little freelancing.  Emma had put down six robberies, three carjackings, and a street battle between two rival gangs.  By the time she made it up the fire escape, she could do little more than take off the armor and then collapse on her bed.

            The alarm went off three hours later.  Emma had grown used to these late nights with little sleep, though she still didn't like them.  She rolled out of bed to set about her routine of getting ready for work as if it were an ordinary day.

            Becky sat at the kitchen counter, surrounded by boxes.  Most of the kitchen appliances and utensils would go with her, except for the blender Emma used for her morning protein shake.  A mug of steaming coffee already sat waiting for her to gulp down while she put the shake together.  Becky nodded towards the television in the living room.  "Your handiwork?"

            On the screen, a grim-faced reporter stood in front of police headquarters.  The headline at the bottom of the screen read, "Don Vendetta Arrested."  Footage played showing a middle-aged blonde woman being led up the steps of the station by Lieutenant Donovan.  "Not really," Emma said.  "I just kept her from escaping."

            As if on cue, the reporter said, "When asked about the involvement of the Scarlet Knight in Don Vendetta's capture, Lieutenant Lottie Donovan said, 'The police department does not cooperate with vigilantes.'"

            "Ingrates," Becky said, shaking her head.  "They can't give you a little credit?"

            "It's not important," Emma said.  "She's behind bars—that's what counts."

            "What happens now?  You going to retire?"

            Emma shrugged.  "Now there will probably be a war to see who comes out on top."

            "So things are going to be even busier for you?"

            "Probably."  Emma didn't have a lot of experience with mob wars, but she assumed Don Vendetta's empire was like any other and that with their leader gone, the lieutenants would battle each other for control.  In a way it was almost better to have the don around to maintain order.

            Emma finished making her shake, taking it to the couch, which at the moment was wrapped in plastic.  Most of the furniture would also go with Becky to the house she would share with Steve after their wedding.  Emma had willingly given this to Becky, since she didn't have much need for furniture or kitchen supplies.  Most of her time in the apartment she spent unconscious on her bed.

            The items Emma would really miss—other than Becky herself—were the picture albums and other mementoes.  The photos in the albums dated back to when Emma and Becky were little girls, right up through to when they moved into their second apartment.  These could not be replaced and copies were a flimsy substitute.  Along with the pictures were old toys, books, and souvenirs from a trip to Disney World when they were in first grade.  Becky had offered to divide these, but Emma thought they would be better off in Becky's house.  In the empty apartment they would only emphasize the loneliness sure to hang over the place.

            The idea of getting another roommate had occurred to Emma, but that would be difficult considering her secret life.  The fewer people who knew about the Scarlet Knight's identity the better.  It would be almost impossible to find someone Emma trusted as much as Becky to keep such a secret.

            The news went to commercial and Becky cleared her throat.  "I don't suppose you've done any planning yet for my bachelorette party what with capturing mob bosses and all?"

            "I've been working on it," Emma said.  In fact she had given the task to her secretary, which was a breach of museum rules, but Emma simply didn't have the time for such things with her new duties as assistant director and as the Scarlet Knight. 

            "I just hope it's not anything too wild."  The sarcasm was evident in Becky's voice.  Emma had given her secretary the vague instruction to book something tasteful, not one of the many strip clubs, most of which were fronts for Don Vendetta and other, smaller operators.

            "Maybe one of your sisters—"

            "Come on, kid, I'm just teasing.  You know I'm not into that stuff."

            "Right."

            "Don't worry about it.  Steve's not even having a bachelor party."

            "So he says," Emma said, cracking a mischievous smile.

            Becky tapped her lightly on the head.  "You're spending too much time with that ghost.  He's a bad influence on you."

            "I'm sorry."

            "You'd better hurry up.  Don't want to be late on your first day, Madame Assistant Director."

            Emma gave her friend a quick hug.  "I'll see you later.  I hope."

            "Take good care of him for me."

            "I will."

            "Don't bust his chops too much.  Or whatever you nerdy scientists do for hazing."  With a wink, Becky was out the door and Emma was alone.  It was something she would have to learn to accept.

#

            One benefit to her new position was a parking space on the ground floor of the garage.  Emma left her motorcycle in this spot and then started towards the entrance to the building.  Some of her coworkers found it odd she rode a motorcycle; she answered these concerns by claiming she was trying to conserve gas usage.  Before reaching the front door she took off the helmet and then shook out her hair.  She usually stopped in the bathroom on her way in to pull her hair back to project something like a professional appearance.

            Today she didn't get far before she saw Steve Scherr sitting on a bench with a briefcase on his lap.  People who met Emma and Steve often confused them for brother and sister—often as twins—since they had the same red hair and blue eyes and looked younger than their age.  Apparently they shared the same sense of punctuality as well.

            "You're early," Emma said.  "Did you have any trouble finding a parking space?"

            "No, there was plenty of room."

            "As long as you're early.  By eight it starts to get crowded."

            "I'll try to be early then."  Steve rose from his chair to shake Emma's hand as if they hadn't met before.  Emma supposed this was to appear as if he didn't get his job through cronyism.  "Do you want me to wait here or—"

            "No, I can show you up to where you'll be working."  Emma motioned for him to follow her past the ticket counter, into the main gallery.  The signature piece of this gallery was Alex the mastodon.  The elephant-like creature's skeleton had glared down at generations of visitors to the Plaine Museum.

            They passed Alex to the elevator.  Once inside, Emma pushed the button for the third floor.  "The second floor is devoted to our static exhibits, though we do change them from time to time.  The third floor is where you'll be spending most of your time.  That's for the research departments.  You'll be working in the botany department with Dr. Bancroft.  He's a nice man, lots of field experience."

            Steve nodded at this.  "You work on the fourth floor now?"

            "That's right.  In the administrative offices.  Of course if you ever need anything, you can just pick up the phone and call."

            "Thanks."  Steve cleared his throat.  "Did you see Becky this morning?"

            "Yes, just before I left."

            "Does she seem all right to you?"

            "Just fine.  Why?  Has she said something?"

            "No.  It's just that she seems a little nervous.  I'm starting to wonder if she might be getting cold feet."

            "Oh, I doubt that.  Becky loves you."

            "I know.  It's just that getting married is a big step.  Maybe too big of one for her."

            "I'm sure Becky will go through with it."  The elevator doors opened onto the third floor.  "I can talk with her if you'd like."

            "That would be great."  Emma led Steve along the hallway to the botany department.  This path took her past the geology department, which she had managed for nearly five years.  The frosted glass on the door prevented anyone from seeing her as she passed by.  A part of her yearned to remain there, where she could continue her research on meteor fragments and the search for life from other planets.  The assistant director was far removed from hands-on work, the kind of work she enjoyed.

            Emma opened the door to the botany department.  Dr. Bancroft was already there, a large, jovial man who played Santa Claus at a homeless shelter during the holidays.  He crushed Steve's hand in a handshake hard enough to make the younger man wince.  "You're our new man.  Good to meet you."  Bancroft turned to Emma then.  "And you've met our illustrious new assistant director.  I hope she didn't give you too hard of a time."

            "No, sir," Steve said.

            "There's still plenty of time for that.  Before long she'll be raining down memos about conserving paper clips and rubber bands."  From someone else this might have seemed mean-spirited, but the twinkle in Bancroft's eye clearly indicated this was a joke.

            "I'll just leave you two to get acquainted," Emma said.  She beat a hasty retreat before Bancroft tried to shake her hand, which could make even the Scarlet Knight wince.  She took a last look back at Steve, who nodded slightly to indicate everything was fine—at least for now.

#

            Her new office on the fourth floor was twice the size of her old one with a better view of the city.  She could see Executive Plaza and the Robinson Tower, two of the city's world famous landmarks along with Robinson Park.  From her slightly higher vantage the people below looked smaller, reminding her of a maze she had once built for mice to run through.  How many of these mice were really rats, gnawing away at the city?  That was something she often contemplated when scrambling along the rooftops as the Scarlet Knight.

            A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.  Emma's secretary stuck her head through the doorway.  "Dr. Earl, the director would like to see you."

            "Oh, yes, thank you, Leslie."  Despite nearly five years as an administrator, Emma had never really gotten used to having a secretary.  The thought of someone at her beck and call made her cringe.  "I'll be right there."

            Leslie nodded.  She slipped into the office then and closed the door.  "On that other matter, I've made the preliminary arrangements.  I think you'll find them acceptable."

            "I'm sure I will," Emma said.  Leslie's work was nothing if not outstanding.  This stemmed from her long history as a secretary at the Plaine Museum and the Louvre before that.  Emma considered herself fortunate to have someone so capable in her employ.  "I hope you don't mind.  I'd never do something like that usually—"

            "I understand.  I'm happy to do my part."

            "Thank you."  Emma took a folder of papers from Leslie, inside which were reservations at a trendy restaurant, the kind of place an assistant director could afford.  There was also a menu for the tearoom at the Rampart Arms Hotel, one of the oldest in the city.  "That should be great."  Emma put the folder on her desk and then felt her cheeks turn red as she asked, "Did you get your invitation to the wedding yet?"

            "Yes, ma'am."

            "Good.  If you'd like to come to the bachelorette party—"

            "That won't be necessary."  The secretary smiled.  "I'm a little old for such things."

            "Oh.  Well, consider it an open invitation."

            "I will."  Leslie cleared her throat.  "Begging my pardon, Doctor, but the director is waiting for you."

            "Yes, of course.  Thank you."  Emma grabbed her briefcase and then hurried next door to meet her new supervisor.

            The director had an even larger window with a better view that included the harbor.  Seeing the water reminded her of the excitement last night in capturing Don Vendetta.  She wondered just how bad things would get tonight.  So wrapped up in this thought, she didn't realize the director had said something until she said, "Have a seat, Doctor."

            "Yes ma'am," Emma said like a scolded child.  She focused on the director, whose brown eyes never betrayed anything.

            "I know it's short notice, but with Dr. Armstrong's sudden departure it's become necessary to give you a baptism of fire, so to speak."

            "What can I do to help?"

            "We're holding a fundraiser gala Thursday night.  I'd like you to attend and be our point woman.  Unless you already have plans."

            "Me?  No, ma'am."  Emma knew part of her job as assistant director would be to attend such events and glad hand donors—and prospective donors.  She just hadn't thought it would happen so soon.  She would have to get a new dress from Mrs. Chiostro, maybe see the witch's sister Sylvia about her hair—

            "We have some very important people coming to this event.  With their help we'll be able to fund the satellite museum in Westfield."  Building a smaller museum in the suburbs had become an obsession of the director's in the last three years.  The project had yet to break ground due to a lack of funding.  "I shouldn't have to tell someone as intelligent as you, Dr. Earl, that the new museum will need a director."

            "I understand, ma'am."

            "Good.  The event starts at eight o'clock.  I will of course be attending as well, but I'd like you to personally make some of our more important guests comfortable."

            "Yes, ma'am."

            "Very good."  The director shifted some papers on her desk, indicating the meeting was over.  Emma started towards the door when the director called out, "One more thing."

            "Yes?"

            "We have a prodigal son returning today with some important news.  Can you make sure Dr. Dreyfus finds his way to my office?"

            Emma stared blankly at the director for a moment.  Time had frozen around her as she summoned Dan's face to her mind.  He was back?  For how long?  She would have to find out.

#

            Though it was probably not fitting for an assistant director, Emma couldn't stop herself from running down the hallway, to the elevator.  Once the doors closed, she studied her reflection in the metal of the doors.  She did what she could to tidy up her hair and smooth out any wrinkles in her suit.  The last thing she wanted was for Dan to think she was a slob.

            How could he be back?  She hadn't heard anything from him in weeks.  Over a year ago she had heard about him finding an ancient statue in the desert.  The last she had heard, he was still in Egypt, excavating what appeared to be a temple from the same area.  She had assumed this work would take years, by which time she might be able to settle her feelings for him.

            Not a day went by in the last five years when she didn't think of Dan and the brief romance they had shared.  That romance ended with her knocking him out and then injecting him with a potion from Mrs. Chiostro that wiped Dan's memory of his time with Emma.  She had also planted the suggestion that Dan go far away, which had taken him back to Egypt.

            The guilt she felt for this continued to haunt her.  She hadn't wanted to do it, but after he confessed his love, she didn't feel she had a choice.  As the Scarlet Knight, it was too dangerous for anyone to fall in love with her.  She had so many enemies, any of whom would kill for the chance to find an opening to get to her.  But there was always the nagging voice in her mind telling her that she had acted selfishly, sending Dan away because she didn't want to take responsibility for him on top of everything else.

            She should have known this day would come, when he would return to the Plaine Museum.  What would she do now?  She could use another potion on him—Mrs. Chiostro might have one that would make him go away forever—but that didn't seem fair to him.  It wasn't her place to manipulate his life, to micromanage his affairs.

            The doors opened to the ground floor.  A few early visitors were already in the main gallery, some staring up at Alex.  Emma hurried past them, wondering if perhaps she were too late.  Dan might already have gone up to the anthropology department to check in.  She chided herself for hoping this was true so she wouldn't have to meet him yet.  She already had five years to prepare for his return, what difference would another day or two make?

            She wasn't all that surprised to find Dan waiting on the same bench as Steve had earlier.  The years in the Egyptian desert had given him a movie star tan and there were perhaps a few wrinkles around the eyes that hadn't been there before, but those eyes were still the same ones she had fallen in love with five years earlier.

            "Dr. Dreyfus," she said, her voice as tiny as a little girl's.

            He smiled, that smile unchanged as well by those years in Egypt.  "You must be Dr. Earl," he said.

            "Yes."

            "I don't suppose you'd remember me.  We met briefly about five years ago."

            "Oh, yes.  I remember."  She looked down at her feet, wishing she could force herself to stop blushing like a teenager.  "The director wanted me to show you upstairs."

            "Great.  I haven't talked with her in person in a while."  They started towards the elevator, Emma not narrating as she'd done with Steve; Dan might have forgotten her, but he shouldn't have forgotten the museum.

            In the elevator, she tried to organize her thoughts.  She took him by surprise by asking, "Are you still in the geology department?"

            "Actually I was just made assistant director."

            "Really?  That's quite a coup at your age."

            "Yes, I suppose it is."  Emma wanted to hit the stop button to freeze the elevator between floors and then wrap her arms around Dan.  She wanted to shower him with kisses until she made up for all the years that had passed between them.  She didn't.  She couldn't.  Instead, she worked up her courage to ask, "What brings you back here?"

            "We're wrapping up our work in the desert and getting ready to transport everything back here for an exhibition.  I'm here to lay the groundwork for that."

            "Then you'll be going back?"

            Dan laughed at this.  "No, I don't think so.  I'd like to, but my wife wants us to settle down.  Start a family—maybe."

            Emma's legs wobbled; she stumbled back against the rear of the elevator.  "Your wife?"

            He held up his left hand to reveal a gold wedding band.  "We've been married for a year now.  It's been kind of rough living in a tent like Bedouins." 

            "I guess it would be."

            "We're in a hotel right now but I'm hoping to find something soon.  I don't suppose you have any hot tips?"

            Emma thought about the apartment that would be so empty once Becky moved out.  She wanted more than anything to share it with Dan, but she couldn't.  Not with his wife.  "Not really.  My friend and her husband are moving into the historical district.  There are some nice houses there."

            "Well, that might be worth looking into.  Thank you."  The doors mercifully opened so that Emma could lead Dan to the director's office.  She left him there with a handshake.  When her eyes met Dan's, she no longer saw the love in them for her.  She had been replaced in his heart by another.

#

            For ten years Lieutenant Lottie Donovan had imagined what she would do when she finally got Don Vendetta into custody.  Many of these scenarios involved using a variety of primitive instruments to inflict the kind of pain on the don as she had ordered inflicted on countless citizens of Rampart City.  The old saying of "an eye for an eye" didn't seem to go nearly far enough in this case.

            Opening the door to the holding cells, Lieutenant Donovan steeled herself for her moment of triumph.  In the other cells were the usual assortment of drunks, junkies, and homeless, not to mention a few petty dope dealers, thieves, and wife beaters.  These made the usual whistles and catcalls as she strode down the corridor.

            It wasn't standard practice to put a perp into her own cell, but in this case Lieutenant Donovan wasn't taking any chances.  Don Vendetta had plenty of enemies, but she had even more allies within the criminal underworld.  Any of the dope dealers, thieves, or wife beaters might be willing to help her escape just to have some credit to barter later with the don.  Or those far more shortsighted might try to become a legend by stabbing the don with a homemade knife.  In either case, Lieutenant Donovan wasn't about to risk not getting Don Vendetta to her arraignment hearing.

            A guard opened the door to the solitary cell so that Lieutenant Donovan could enter.  She found the don of organized crime in Rampart City lying on the bed, calmly staring up at the ceiling.  "How have they been treating you?" Lieutenant Donovan asked.

            "The Rampart Arms has nothing to fear from your accommodations.  Or your cooking."  The don motioned to an untouched tray in the corner.

            Lieutenant Donovan wished she could take a cigarette from her pocket, but there was no smoking anywhere in the station.  She had to settle for a piece of chewing gum, which was no replacement for nicotine when it came to soothing her nerves.  "You want a stick?"

            "No.  Why don't you just get to your point, Detective?"

            "If that's what you want.  I came to give you some advice.  Things would go a lot smoother for all of us if you confessed now.  The DA is willing to make you a good deal, especially if you turn over the names of the rest of your crew."

            "You want me to rat out those in my employ?"

            Lieutenant Donovan shrugged.  "We'll catch up to them eventually.  It's just a matter of time.  You could save a lot of that with your cooperation."

            "I will have to consider that.  Thank you, Detective, for bringing that to my attention."

            "You still think you're going to wriggle out of this.  Trust me, you're not.  We have you dead to rights this time.  You made it even easier by stealing that truck."

            "You shouldn't be so overconfident, Lieutenant."  The don finally sat up to meet Lieutenant Donovan's glare.  "I wouldn't be here at all if not for your little red friend."

            "I don't know what you're talking about."

            "Of course you don't.  I suppose if internal affairs searches your computer they won't find any messages from you to an anonymous Email account."

            Lieutenant Donovan spit the gum to the floor.  "Is that a threat?"

            "I don't make threats, Lieutenant."  The don smiled, chilling Lieutenant Donovan to the bone.  "There may still be time to delete those messages if you hurry."

            "You don't have anything.  If you did, you'd already have done something."

            "Maybe.  But then some predators enjoy toying with the prey before they strike."

            Lieutenant Donovan stepped back to knock on the door for the guard to let her out.  "See you at the arraignment, Don."

            She didn't get more than a step out of the cell when she ran into Captain Mitch Kramer.  The captain's nasally voice cracked like a boy's as he asked, "What were you doing in there?  If you were working her over—"

            "I was trying to persuade her to cooperate."

            "I'll have your badge if you touched her—"

            "I didn't lay a hand on her.  We just talked.  Like two rational grownups."

            Captain Kramer stuck a finger out to poke Lieutenant Donovan's chest.  "The next time you want to go shake down a prisoner, you had better get my permission first.  Is that clear?"

            "Perfectly, sir."

            "I'm tired of you flouting the rules, Lieutenant.  You either start being a team player or you'll be on the bench.  Understood?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Good."  Captain Kramer spun on his heel and then strode away with the precision of a good martinet.  Lieutenant Donovan shook her head as she watched him go.  There was no such thing as a good team player on the Rampart City force, considering much of the team was on Don Vendetta's payroll.  It was only by turning one of these corrupt cops that Lieutenant Donovan had been able to finally bring in the don.

            And with the Scarlet Knight's help.  Lieutenant Donovan wondered if the don really knew about the Email messages to the masked vigilante.  In any case, the lieutenant wasn't dumb enough to send these from her computer at the department.  She used her personal phone and laptop for those communications.  Internal affairs would need more than the don's insinuation to get a hold of those. 

            Even if they did manage to search those, the messages would do little to implicate Lieutenant Donovan.  She never specifically mentioned the Scarlet Knight by name, leaving only the meet places and times.  And the Scarlet Knight never responded, only showing up in person.  For all anyone reading the messages knew, Lieutenant Donovan might be meeting with her mother.

            The don was just trying to rattle her cage.  It would take a lot more than that to shake up a veteran cop like the lieutenant.  You'll have plenty of time to think of something better.

Chapter 3

 

            For the rest of the morning Emma sat in her office, getting acquainted with her new duties as assistant director.  This kind of administrative work didn't tax her mind much, leaving her with plenty of brainpower to spare to think about Dan Dreyfus.  Married.  That word kept appearing in her mind over and over again.  Married to someone else.

            As a logical person, she knew it wasn't so absurd to think Dan could fall in love with someone else, especially when he didn't know he had once loved Emma.  She should have known it was possible.  She had just never really forced herself to contemplate that reality.  Now it was here to confront her full in the face.

            She kept wondering what his wife looked like.  She was probably beautiful, far more so than Emma.  She would have to be smart too, knowing Dan's taste in women.  He wasn't the type to fall in love with a bimbo, no matter how beautiful she looked.  He had to be able to respect the woman he was with.

            She finished the last of her paperwork by one o'clock.  With a sigh she pushed away from her desk.  On her way out of the office, she told Leslie she was going to lunch.  The food in the cafeteria was nothing special, but a cup of tea might at least calm her nerves. 

            When she saw Steve in the cafeteria, sitting by himself in a corner, she thought back to high school.  Unlike high school, the other staff at the museum probably weren't alienating him on purpose, just as they didn't alienate Emma on purpose.  That's at least what she kept telling herself.  She took her cup of tea and dreadful tuna sandwich over to his table.

            "How are things going?" she asked.

            "Fine," Steve said.

            "Too easy for you?"

            "A little."

            "We'll have to find something a little more challenging for you," Emma said with a wink.  She sat down across from him at the table, hoping he didn't mind. 

            "How about you?  How's it feel being assistant director?"

            "It's a little boring, truth be told."

            Steve nodded at this.  "A mind like yours should be in a lab, not doing paperwork."

            "My mind's not that special."

            "Becky says you're up to a dozen languages now."

            "Not fluently."  Emma's cheeks turned red as they always did whenever the topic turned to her brilliance.  She had been hearing such things from teachers, students, and coworkers in one form or another since she was two years old. 

            "Any lab in the country would be lucky to have you."

            "I don't know about that."

            "Didn't you ever want to work in a real lab?"

            "No.  I wanted to work here."

            "You're not just saying that because you're the assistant director, are you?"

            "No, I mean it."  She told him the story about her parents taking her to the Plaine Museum when she was three years old.  An old janitor named Percival Graves had moved aside a velvet rope so little Emma could touch Alex the mastodon's tusk.  From that moment on she had dreamed of working at the Plaine Museum.

            "I'm sorry," Steve said.  "I didn't realize—"

            "It's all right.  I haven't told many people that story."  She had told that story to Dan, not that he remembered it anymore.  "What about you?"

            "Promise you won't get mad?"  Steve asked.  Emma nodded.  "I got offers from some research labs in California and Japan.  More money and better benefits than this one—no offense.  I didn't tell Becky because she'd never leave the city."

            "Why not?"

            Steve motioned to Emma with his head.  "She doesn't want to leave you.  Sometimes I think she thinks you're her daughter."

            "I get that feeling sometimes too."  Emma chewed on her tasteless sandwich, feeling another surge of guilt.  She didn't want to think she was holding Becky and Steve back.  She didn't want anyone to sacrifice anything for her.

            Guilt personified came to the table in the form of Dan Dreyfus.  "Dr. Earl," he said.  "Would you mind if I join you two?"

            Emma deferred to Steve since it had been his table first.  She hoped he would make some excuse, but he didn't.  "Go ahead," he said.  Dan sat down next to Emma with a grilled chicken sandwich and chips.  The two men introduced themselves and then shook hands.

            "It's good to finally get some real food.  Even this stuff isn't bad compared to the canned stuff we had to eat in the field," Dan said.

            "Didn't you like your trip to Egypt?" Emma asked.

            "Sure, just the food was lousy.  Except when we went into the village.  They made the best kabobs in this one café."

            "Is that where you met your wife?" Emma asked, the venom in her voice enough to cause Steve to push his chair back a couple of inches.

            "Sort of.  My assistant and I were getting some coffee and she just appeared out of the blue.  I'd never believed in love at first sight but then there she was."

            "How nice."

            "She's a really great gal.  The smartest and most beautiful girl I've met."

            Steve traded a look with Emma.  She said through nearly clenched teeth, "What does your wife do?"

            "Well, I guess you could say she's a freelance researcher.  She was in Egypt doing some studying on the Old Kingdom.  She's going to write a book."

            "How interesting."

            "She's a fascinating woman.  Been all over the world—even Australia.  The only place she hasn't gone is Antarctica."  Dan laughed as he added, "We were thinking of that for our honeymoon but they don't really have any resorts there."

            Steve laughed at this while Emma remained silent.  She had never felt hatred this powerful before, not even for the men she thought had murdered her parents.  She had never met this woman or even seen her, and yet Emma wanted to wring her neck, to snuff the life out of this usurper.  To fight back her irrational anger, she drank her cup of tea, draining it in one gulp.  "I have to go," she said.

            "Oh, sure," Dan said. 

            "I suppose I should be getting back to work too," Steve said.  He reached across the table to offer Dan his hand to shake again.  "It was good to meet you."

            "Likewise."  As Emma stood up to leave, Dan asked, "Are you going to be at the gala on Thursday night?"

            "Yes."

            "Guess I'll see you there.  You can meet Isis.  I'm sure the two of you will hit it off."

            "Maybe."  Emma hurried away to the elevator, taking it not up to her office but down sub-subbasement of the museum.  Back in the 1950s the cavern beneath the museum had been converted into a bomb shelter that a decade later was forgotten, except by Percival Graves, the previous Scarlet Knight.  Percival had turned the bomb shelter into a hideout known as the Sanctuary, from which the Scarlet Knight could monitor the city for crime.

            Emma pushed aside a fake wall to enter the Sanctuary, with its expensive computer equipment she used to watch for crime in Rampart City.  At the moment she had little interest in the screens, instead collapsing on the chair and turning to face the wall.

            Marlin drifted through the ceiling to stare down at her.  "What's wrong with you?"

            "Leave me alone."

            The ghost nodded to himself.  "Oh, I see.  One of those problems.  Maybe it would help if I told you—"

            "Just leave me alone.  Please?"

            "Fine.  I was only trying to cheer you up."  The ghost grumbled to himself as he disappeared back through the ceiling, leaving Emma to cry by herself.

#

            She was surprised to find Becky at Mrs. Chiostro's shop after work.  In addition, Becky had brought her two younger sisters, who were serving as the other bridesmaids.  Despite being handicapped with the names Brandi and Bambi that sounded appropriate for strippers, Becky's sisters were goodhearted girls, raised mostly by their older siblings.  Brandi was working on a nursing degree from Rampart City Community College while Bambi worked as a barista in a coffeehouse while waiting for a publisher to take note of her poetry.

            Bambi was also the tallest of her four sisters, as tall as Emma.  It was usually interesting to see what garish color Bambi had dyed her hair, but for the wedding she had let it go back to its natural light brown.  She had even—no doubt with some elbow twisting on Becky's part—taken the rings out of her nose and eyebrows.  It was Bambi who met Emma at the door, not so much as cracking a smile; Emma wondered if it would take more elbow twisting to get her to smile for the wedding photos.  "The others are in the back," Bambi said, her voice so low that it made Emma think of Marie Marsh, an outcast with the strange power to see through time.  Marie had given her own life over three years ago to save Emma, Becky, and Steve.

            In the parlor, Brandi was trying on her lavender dress.  Despite Mrs. Chiostro's best efforts, the gown didn't really flatter Brandi, who shared her older sister's short, chubby frame.  Her arms especially looked big in the sleeveless dress.  If she noticed this, she gave no sign.  The baby of the Beech clan, Brandi had always had a cheery disposition to set her siblings at ease.  "Emma!  Isn't it beautiful?" Brandi said.

            "It looks great on you," Emma said.  Beside her, Bambi snorted at this.

            "Of course not nearly so good as it'll look on you."

            "I don't know about that."  Emma cleared her throat and then asked, "Where's Mrs. Chiostro?  I need to see her."

            "She and Becky went to make some alterations to her dress," Brandi said.  "I told her she looked fine, but she wouldn't listen to me."

            "You think everyone looks fine.  You think bums look fine," Bambi growled.

            "I don't think you look fine when you wear that leather vampire outfit of yours."

            "It's not a vampire outfit.  It's Goth."

            "Girls, please, don't argue," Mrs. Chiostro said.  She emerged from a back room, followed closely behind by Becky, who was again wearing her wedding dress.

            "Emma, what are you doing here?"

            "I needed to see Mrs. Chiostro about a dress."

            "Is there something wrong with it?  It's a little late—"

            "Not that dress.  There's a gala at the museum.  The director expects me to go."

            The old witch's face lit up at this.  "A gala, how exciting!  Come, dear, let's go find you something special."

            Something special from Mrs. Chiostro's inventory usually meant it was a gown some famous woman had died in.  The old witch guided Emma along rows of dresses, some of them dating back nearly a century.  Emma suspected Mrs. Chiostro—who was over five hundred years old—kept much older gowns in her attic for when they came back into fashion.

            On this occasion the old witch stopped at a silky white gown.  She held this up to Emma's body and then clucked her tongue.  "I think that's about your size," she said.  As always, Mrs. Chiostro's judgment was correct.  The white dress didn't reveal much, flowing from her neck to her ankles in classical lines that put Emma in mind of something in an ancient Greek statue.  "Simple and elegant.  Just like you, my dear."

            "You think so?"

            "Have I ever steered you wrong?"

            "No."  Emma turned in the mirror, wondering what Dan would think of this dress.  When he saw her in it maybe he would remember how much he had loved her; maybe he would realize what a mistake it was to have married this Isis person.  Despite her best efforts, she began to cry again.

            "Is something wrong with the dress?"

            "No, I love it."  Emma sank down on a stool.  "Have you ever been jealous of someone?"

            "Oh, certainly.  You don't live as long as I have without meeting the green-eyed monster on occasion."  The old woman put a hand around Emma's shoulder.  "What's the matter, dear?"

            Emma told her about what she had done to Dan and his return to the city with this Isis person.  The old witch shook her head as she listened to this story.  "Now, dear, I've warned you about using magic frivolously, haven't I?  You see what happens."

            "I'm sorry.  I thought it was for the best."

            "It isn't for us to make those kind of decisions."

            "I suppose you're right."  Emma wiped at her nose, feeling like a child again.  "What should I do?"

            "Be happy for him, dear.  It's very difficult to find someone you love as much as Dan loves this woman.  You should know that."  The old witch gave Emma's shoulder a squeeze.  "I know it will be difficult, but you have to try.  Otherwise that jealousy will eat you alive."

            Thinking back to lunch, Emma understood this.  She had become a different person, petty and cruel.  That was unbecoming behavior especially for the Scarlet Knight.  "Thank you."  She stood up again.  "What do I owe you for the dress?"

            "Let's go with our usual rate:  two hundred, which includes the gloves and shoes."

            "OK."

            "Now, why don't you go out there and show it to Rebecca and her sisters?"

            Emma nodded, returning to the parlor, where Becky and sisters had changed into their normal clothes.  As expected, Becky smiled at the sight of the dress.  "That looks great, kid."

            "It does," Brandi seconded.

            "It's plain," Bambi said.  That she didn't say anything harsher Emma took as a compliment.

            "Thanks," Emma said.  Though when she looked in the mirror again, she imagined herself wearing a veil along with the white dress.  Then she imagined Dan standing next to her.  Shaking her head, she knew this was going to be a difficult fight.

#

            After saying goodbye to Becky and her sisters—who were going out for dinner and then a movie since it was one of the rare occasions when they were all in the same place—Emma found a cure for some of her negative feelings.  All she needed to do was put on the scarlet armor and then belt the first purse-snatcher she came across.  Kneeing him in the crotch hard enough to make his eyes roll up into his head gave Emma perverse thrill.  "Serves you right," she growled as she tied him up for the police to take into custody later.

            With this out of the way, she ventured over to the Plastic Hippo, the lesbian strip club owned by Don Vendetta.  This was the don's headquarters and usually too heavily defended for even the Scarlet Knight.  With the don's arrest, Emma decided to get a reading on what was happening with Vendetta's empire.

            The don's arrest hadn't done anything to lessen the number of hired goons in the alley behind the club.  A dozen of them loitered around at various points around the alley, though none of them could see her with her cape pulled around her.  She crept among them until she was close enough to use her infrared vision to see into the club. 

            In the back room sat four smaller shapes, the female lieutenants who ran Don Vendetta's empire.  Emma studied them for nearly an hour, but for the moment they seemed to be having a rational discussion.  Of course that might change after their meeting broke up.  She wouldn't be surprised to hear of one or more of the women "accidentally" falling off a rooftop or "disappearing" after a trip out into the sea.

            With nothing going on at the Plastic Hippo, Emma searched elsewhere for crime.  She had never so badly wanted to find criminals.  Keeping busy was always a good way to deflect pain; it had served her well to cope with the murder of her parents.  If she focused on her duty as the Scarlet Knight, she wouldn't have to worry about Emma Earl's feelings towards Dan—and his new wife.

            Jumping across one of the many alleys in Rampart City, Emma heard someone scream.  She threw herself off the rooftop, using the cape as she had the night before to parachute down to the ground.  By the time she reached the ground, she knew she was too late.

            A homeless man lay in the alley, his glassy eyes staring up at her.  Though not a medical doctor, Emma didn't need any expertise to know the man was dead.  Whoever had attacked him had sliced the heart right out of his body, leaving only a bloody hole in his chest.  Emma used the visor to look down the alley.  There were no prints, which was surprising considering the amount of muck in the alley.

            Then she heard footsteps running away.  Emma took off after the sound, closing the gap to see a shadow projected against one wall.  Even by using her boots for a jump, though, she couldn't catch up to the murderer.  She never got a glimpse of anything more than that vague shadow on the wall.  The sound of footsteps retreated, leaving Emma standing alone in the alley.

            She shook her head sadly.  She had seen more than her fair share of brutal killings—starting with her parents—but nothing quite like this.  Why would anyone do such a thing?  But there was no answer.  She could only focus harder on her work to make sure it didn't happen to anyone else that night.

Chapter 4

 

            Thursday night came faster than Emma would have liked.  She hurried from work to the apartment to change into the white dress.  To complement the simple elegance of the dress, she wore her tiny diamond earrings and a thin gold necklace.  Becky helped her put her hair up and then sighed.  "You look great, kid.  I hope I look half as good next Saturday."

            "Thanks."  Becky was wearing a conservative black dress.  She and Emma were going with Steve in his car, a much better way of getting there Emma thought than her motorcycle and much cheaper than a cab.  "Are you sure it's dressy enough?"

            "Come on, kid, when has Mrs. Chiostro ever steered you wrong?  If she says it's good enough then it is, right?"

            "I guess."

            "That's the spirit.  Now let's go.  You don't want to be late for your big event."

            "I thought it was good to be fashionably late."

            "Not if you're the hostess, my dear.  Let's go."

            The hostess.  Emma cringed at those words.  She had never been a hostess for anything in her life, content to always remain in the background.  The idea of being the center of attention was enough to give her hives.  She wished she could call for the scarlet armor and use the golden cape to make herself invisible.

            Steve waited for them down on the street.  His rusty Stratus didn't make an ideal carriage for this event, but it would be good enough.  He leaned across the front seat to give Becky a kiss—a rather deep kiss.  Emma politely looked down at her feet, though she could still hear them.  Once they finished, Steve looked back at her in the mirror.  "You look great," he said.

            "Thanks," she said again.

            "Come on, honey, let's get Cinderella to the ball."

            Emma blushed again.  She might be Cinderella, but there would be no Prince Charming for her at the ball.  He was already married to one of the ugly stepsisters.  Emma chided herself for thinking this way, remembering what Mrs. Chiostro had said about being happy for Dan and Isis finding love.  She should be happy she had been able to bring them together.

            They arrived early, Steve parking in Emma's spot.  The director was waiting for them just inside the entrance.  She greeted Becky and Steve with a curt nod.  Then she took Emma by the arm, leading her away from her friends.  "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't make it."

            "I'm sorry."

            "Never mind."  She took Emma over to the ticket counter, depositing her there.  "Just wait here to greet our guests as they come in.  Make sure to give them a big smile."  Emma tried a smile for the director, who clucked her tongue.  "Bigger, if you can."  Emma smiled until her cheeks ached.  "That will have to do."

            With this jawbreaking smile in place, Emma began to meet the guests.  She recognized many of them as the heavy hitters in business and politics in the city.  Among them was Councilwoman Napier, Becky's boss.  She was an older woman, her hair a steel gray that along with the string of pearls and shawl gave her a matronly appearance.  This was largely for effect as the councilwoman didn't have any children.  "Good evening, madam councilwoman," Emma said, enunciating the words with difficulty through the terrible smile.  "I'm Dr. Emma Earl, assistant director of the Plaine Museum—"

            "Yes, I seem to recall Miss Beech mentioning you.  You're the genius, right?"

            "Yes, ma'am," Emma said without a touch of pride.  She reached out with one hand to grab the edge of the ticket counter so she couldn't run away.

            "Slumming with the rest of us tonight, are you?"

            "Um—"

            The councilwoman patted Emma's shoulder.  "I'm only kidding, young lady.  If you have a moment later, I'd be interested to hear your take on things in our fair city."

            "Oh, certainly."  Emma wondered if Becky had mentioned anything about Emma's other life to her boss.  No, the councilwoman probably just wanted to hear what such a genius thought about the problems plaguing the city.  She probably thought Emma would be able to come up with some solutions never considered by those of lesser intelligence.

            It took the better part of an hour for her to finish greeting the guests.  With a sigh of relief she finally stopped smiling, putting a hand to her aching cheeks.  Then the doors opened and there stood Dan—and his wife.

#

            Dan's wife was everything Emma had feared.  She was beautiful, with lustrous black hair and glowing bronze skin.  She had put her hair up in a style very similar to Emma's.  Making things worse, she too was wearing a simple white dress, one nearly identical to the one Mrs. Chiostro had picked out for Emma.  The only difference came with the shoes—the woman wore simple sandals to expose well-manicured toenails.

            Emma couldn't bring herself to smile as Dan and his bride approached.  "Hi," she said gloomily.  "This must be your wife."

            "That's right.  This is Isis."

            The woman turned to Emma and for the first time Emma could see the woman's eyes.  They were black, the irises a darker black than the pupils.  They reminded Emma of Marie Marsh's eyes, except these didn't bore into Emma, so much as they looked through her as if she didn't exist.  "Dan says you're quite a brilliant girl," Isis said.

            "He said the same thing about you."

            "I'm sure he did."  Isis's flat done indicated this was not a joke.  Emma felt her lip curling at this woman's haughtiness.  She had probably found out what Emma was wearing in advance just to show her up.  A moment later Emma reminded herself there was no way for Isis to know about the white dress.

            "I hope you two have an enjoyable time," Emma said.

            "We will," Isis said.  As she pulled Dan away, Isis winked at Emma.  Only by clamping down harder on the edge of the ticket counter did Emma keep from charging after Dan's wife to fight her in the main gallery of the Plaine Museum.

            She was saved by the director, who took Emma by the arm again.  "Dr. Earl, there are some people you must meet."  From the way the director was tugging on her, Emma supposed she didn't have much choice in the matter.

            One of those she had to meet was the CEO for the city's largest brokerage firm.  Emma often suspected Don Vendetta used the firm to launder some of her dirty money, but as yet she had been unable to prove it.  "This is our assistant director, Dr. Emma Earl," the director said.

            She chatted with the CEO for a few minutes about mortgage derivatives, a subject on which she seemed to know more than the banker.  "It's all very technical," the CEO said, waving his hand.  "You must have your share of technical issues around here, running the museum."

            "I don't really run the museum," she said.

            "Yes, of course, you're only the assistant director.  It's only a matter of time I suppose."

            "I don't know about that."

            The director swooped in to pull Emma away.  "Now, Henry, don't plant ideas in the girl's head or you'll find me floating facedown in the harbor."

            Emma paled at this, thinking of Don Vendetta and her crew.  Were any of them floating facedown in the harbor yet?  She would have to find out later.  She didn't get any more time at the present to consider it as the director pulled her away to meet a wealthy heiress who wasn't more than Emma's age.

            The heiress pouted when the director introduced Emma.  "Isn't there anyone famous here?  This party is so boring."

            "I'm sorry," Emma said.  Before she could get another word in, the heiress began detailing a dozen much better parties she had attended in Los Angeles, London, and Paris.  Emma wanted to pull herself away from the tedious girl, but couldn't with the director watching.  She could only nod and smile as the director had instructed.

            This went on for over another hour, until at last Emma met up with Becky and Steve.  "You all right, kid?" Becky asked.  "You look like hell."

            "I'm—"  Before she could finish, the band began playing a waltz and suddenly Emma felt much worse.  Dan was out on the makeshift dance floor with Isis.  The way they swept around the floor was like something out of a fairy tale, the effect so spellbinding that the other couples stood aside to let them dance.

            Watching them, Emma couldn't help imagining herself on that floor with Dan.  She imagined holding his hand and looking into his eyes as they glided across the dance floor.  She pictured herself falling against his warm body when they finally stopped.  His lips would touch hers—

            Like Cinderella, Emma bolted from the gala, though she didn't lose a shoe.  Becky called after her, but Emma didn't turn back.

#

            In a major victory for the legal system, the judge denied Lydia Vendetta's bail request.  This meant Lieutenant Donovan would have unfettered access to the don, a privilege she planned to take advantage of.  She opened the door to the interrogation room to find Don Vendetta sitting calmly in the chair.  Next to her sat a rat-faced woman who could only be the don's lawyer.

            "My client isn't going to tell you anything," the lawyer said.

            Lieutenant Donovan shrugged.  She straddled a chair opposite the don to look the monster in the eye.  "That's fine.  Maybe I'll just tell you a few things."  Don Vendetta said nothing, as if she were catatonic.  "All right, if that's how you want to play it.  We have a truckload of stolen computers.  We have you at the wheel of the truck carrying those computers.  It's not looking good for you."

            "Your evidence was obtained illegally," the lawyer said.  "My client was assaulted by a vigilante known as the Scarlet Knight.  A vigilante in your employ."

            "I'm not responsible for what any vigilantes do.  Care to explain why your client was meeting with two known felons who were in possession of those computers?"

            "We don't have to tell you anything, Lieutenant.  Now, you can continue to waste my client's time—"

            "She has plenty of time to waste.  She's not going anywhere.  Not for a long time."  Lieutenant Donovan smiled.  "No one's going to spring you if that's what you're hoping for.  All your 'friends' are hiding now, covering their asses.  None of them are going to want to have anything to do with you."

            "Lieutenant—"

            "I'm just explaining the situation to your client.  Even as we speak, those friends of hers are carving up her empire, fighting each other like a bunch of rats over a piece of cheese.  Even if you're lucky enough to walk, there's not going to be anything left for you."  Lieutenant Donovan smiled.  "Of course by the time you get out of here, you'll need a cane or one of those electric scooters like they advertise on television."

            "Are you threatening my client?"

            "I'm just trying to prepare her for the inevitable.  And it is inevitable."  Lieutenant Donovan motioned to the lawyer.  "You and your mouthpiece can keep stonewalling, or you can start cooperating and maybe help yourself.  If you're a good girl in the joint, you might even be able to get out before you need those adult diapers.  How about it?"

            The don turned to her lawyer.  "Janice, would you give me a moment?"

            "Lydia—"

            "Now, please."

            The lawyer left as quickly as one of the don's henchmen.  Once the door closed, Don Vendetta smiled at Lieutenant Donovan.  Then she spat, hocking a wet ball of saliva into the lieutenant's face.  With a smile, the don said, "You can let my lawyer back in?"

            Lieutenant Donovan was tempted to break the other woman's face, but she held back.  The don wanted to unnerve her so she'd have a beef for police brutality.  Lieutenant Donovan wasn't about to lose the don on a technicality now.  She wiped at her face with the back of her sleeve.  "I guess we'll just have to let the jury decide," she said.  She stood up and then opened the door, where the lawyer waited.

            The woman bolted into the room as if on a spring.  "What did you tell her?"

            "Just a little girl talk," Don Vendetta said.  Then she winked at Lieutenant Donovan.  The lieutenant hurried back to her desk, grumbling obscenities.  She knew the don wouldn't cooperate, but it was worth a try.  Rats weren't known for their loyalty.  Give her time.  She'll crack eventually.

#

            For the second time that week, the Sanctuary became Emma's haven from her own pain.  She wasn't crying this time, having spent herself in the elevator on the way down.  She sat with her head in her hands, wishing she could follow Mrs. Chiostro's advice while knowing she couldn't.  The only way she could be happy for Dan was if Dan was with her. 

            In all her life she had never felt so ashamed of herself.  She had given Dan up and he had found someone else.  She had no right to feel so possessive of him and so jealous of Isis.  Despite knowing this in her head, she couldn't make herself believe it in her heart.  In her heart she wanted only to be with Dan.

            When Marlin floated down through the ceiling, she said, "Don't start with me."

            "Who's that woman?  The one with Dreyfus?" the ghost asked.  His voice bordered on panic for the first time in her memory.

            "Her name's Isis.  She's his wife."

            "Isis?"  Marlin floated around the Sanctuary in agitation for a moment.  He finally circled back around to face her.  "What do you know about her?"

            "Not much.  She met Dan in Egypt.  He says she's a freelance researcher.  She's going to write a book on Egypt—or something like that."

            "He met her in Egypt?"

            "Yes."  Emma forgot her own pain as she saw the look of horror on the ghost's face.  "What's wrong with you?"

            "You don't know anything else about this woman?"

            "No."

            Marlin gestured to the computers.  "Why don't you look her up on those machines of yours?  See where she came from."

            "That's an invasion of her privacy.  Has she done something wrong?"

            "Her?  No.  But she will."

            "I don't understand.  What are you trying to say?"

            The ghost floated down to within an inch of Emma's face.  His eyes bugged as he screamed, "She's evil, you bloody twit!"

            "Evil?  How do you know that?"

            "I can feel it."

            Emma considered this for a moment.  Those black eyes, the way she looked through people, and the haughtiness in her voice.  Not to mention the abrupt way she had appeared to meet Dan.  And that ridiculous cover story about being a freelance researcher.  Maybe she was up to something.  But evil?  That seemed a fair stretch.  Still, Marlin had a sixth sense—or third in his case—about these things.  Four thousand years as a ghost and trainer of Scarlet Knights had given him a nose for picking up on evil.  "You're sure?"

            "If she's who I think she is then she's very bad news."

            "All right, I'll do a search for her and see what I can find."  Emma hiked up the mud-splattered skirt of her white dress before sliding over to the computer.  It occurred to her she didn't know Isis's maiden name.  No matter, as it didn't take her long to track this down through the identification she had used for her passport to enter the country.

            According to the state department records, her real name was Isis Al-Manni, a Swiss citizen.  From searching the Swiss records, she found a driver's license giving her last address in Zurich.  Emma soon turned up school records from a boarding school nearby and employment records for a café, where she had worked as a waitress.  These records in turn indicated that Isis was an orphan, who had grown up in the custody of an aunt, who had since passed away—a similar story to Emma's own.  She tried not to let this influence her. 

            She finally had to shake her head in defeat.  Based on the available information, Isis's story checked out.  She had dropped out of college after her aunt died, used the family money to visit Egypt for research, and there she had met Dan.  "There's nothing suspicious about her," Emma said with a sigh.  This in turn brought another wave of shame that caused her to blush.  She had badly wanted there to be something about Isis that waved a red flag.

            "You're sure?"

            "Yes.  There's nothing wrong with her."

            "So you're not going to do anything?"

            "What can I do?"

            "Capture the little bitch and make her talk.  Find out what she's really after."

            Emma keyed up the cameras for the rest of the city.  "Isn't there enough real crime going on for me to worry about?"

            "You don't understand.  This isn't just some two-bit criminal.  This is worse than even the Black Dragoon."  Marlin whispered these last two words.  They didn't like to talk about the Black Dragoon, whose black armor had lain in the bottom of the harbor for the last five years.  The moment anyone found that armor, the Dragoon would be on the loose again.

            "Why?  Marlin, if you want my help, tell me what's going on."

            "I'd rather not get into all the gory details at the moment.  Suffice it to say she is nearly as powerful as my master and if she really has come back, we're all in deep trouble."

            "What's she going to do?"

            "I don't know, but it won't be pleasant.  For anyone, especially your friend."

            Emma gulped.  Part of her wanted to leap out of the chair and hurry to warn Dan.  But what would she say:  a ghost had a bad feeling about his wife?  He would have her committed, or at the very least he'd never want to speak with her again.  Despite what Marlin said, she needed proof before she could do anything.  "I'll keep an eye on her, all right?"

            "That's it?  You'll keep an eye on her?"

            "I can't abduct her and torture her."

            "Why not?"

            "Because that's not how we do things.  You know that."

            Marlin only snorted at this.  "That's not how you do things.  I've always said you're too soft."  He wagged a finger at her.  "Whatever happens is on your head.  Understand?"

            "Marlin—"  But the ghost was already gone.

Chapter 5

 

            There was only one place in the city for Marlin to go at this moment.  He floated along the grubby streets, ignoring several minor crimes that at another point the Scarlet Knight might have dealt with.  He continued until he reached the front door for Mrs. Chiostro's house that also doubled as her dress shop.

            Marlin had known the old witch since she was a baby—over five hundred years ago.  Even then she had been a witch, the latest in a long line of witches.  The ghost had never thought much of these witches, whom he described as conjurers.  They traded in potions, charms, and two-bit spells; they didn't have the power of Marlin's master.  Nor did they have the power of the evil that had arrived in Rampart City.

            There was a lot about this evil Marlin hadn't mentioned to Emma before he left.  There was a lot he couldn't say because it involved the deepest secrets of the Order.  These secrets were known only to Marlin and his master, who in turn had instructed Marlin not to reveal them until absolutely necessary.

            Marlin had decided at the moment it wasn't necessary.  She hadn't regained her power yet or she wouldn't be skulking around in the company of someone as low on the proverbial totem pole as Dan Dreyfus.  For now she was feeling out this new world, evaluating her opportunities.  It would be a few days at least until she regained enough of her power to become a serious threat.

            There was also the issue of Emma Earl.  As Marlin had suspected, she wouldn't act right away.  Even if Marlin told her everything, she wouldn't do anything without proof.  She was too moral to do what she should do at this moment—stab that bitch through the heart and then cut her head off just to make certain.  Not that doing this would end things, only forestall the inevitable for a little while.

            For three thousand years Marlin had waited for this time, when everything would be decided.  The apocalypse, Judgment Day, or the End of Days were how most people thought of it.  The Final Reckoning was the official term in the Order's lore.  It was the time when the ultimate good and ultimate evil would collide in a final battle.  Whichever side won would determine the fate of the world for millennia to come.

            Marlin couldn't be certain that this was the Final Reckoning.  It could wind up being yet another skirmish between good and evil that led to another stalemate.  That had been going on for the last three thousand years between the Order and the Black Dragoon.  It had gone on for a thousand years before that, the last time she had been marshaling her strength.  Then she had underestimated the Order and Marlin's master, but she wouldn't make that mistake this time.  She would careful this time, continue to work quietly in the shadows until she saw the perfect opportunity to strike.

            At that point it would be in the hands of Emma to stop her.  There was little doubt Emma was the best Marlin had ever seen.  While not the strongest in terms of brute strength, she more than made up for it with her intelligence, courage, and unfailing nobility.  But Marlin didn't know if that would be enough to deal with this threat.

            That was why he sought out the witches.  He needed their help to find the only person who could defeat her.  That would take some doing and then convincing him to return would be even more difficult.  Marlin had to try, though.

            He paused at the door to Mrs. Chiostro's house.  There was no way for him to knock or ring the doorbell.  That proved unnecessary as the door opened.  The old witch nodded when she saw Marlin there.  "I've been expecting you," she said.

            "Then you already know."

            Mrs. Chiostro shrugged.  "I know that's what you think is going on."

            "Do you really think I'd forget someone like that?"

            "Maybe you're just getting senile in your old age."

            "Oh, you're a fine one to talk about that."

            The witch stood away from the door.  "Sylvia is beginning the preparations downstairs."

            "Just great," Marlin grumbled and then went inside.

#

            Mrs. Chiostro's sister waited for them downstairs.  She was dressed in her typical Rambo fashion with an olive green tank top and camouflage shorts.  This perfectly fit the racks of automatic weapons around her.  It didn't fit with the cauldron and table of bones, herbs, and dried animals.

            "A cauldron?" Marlin said.  "Isn't that a bit theatrical?"

            "It's how we do things, dear," Mrs. Chiostro said.

            "Don't give me that 'dear' garbage."

            "Force of habit."

            Marlin snorted at this.  "I don't know why you want to go around looking like that in any case.  Can't one of your little potions make you beautiful?"

            "Of course, but this puts people at ease."

            "Are we going to do this or are you two going to yap all day?" Sylvia growled.

            "Don't be so impatient, dear."

            "Well, we are interrupting her beauty sleep."

            "You want to have a go?" Sylvia said.

            "What, are you going to shoot me with one of your toys?"

            Sylvia didn't pick up one of the machine-guns on the racks.  Instead, she picked up a chicken leg bone.  This she waved under Marlin's spectral nose.  "What's that supposed to do?"

            "Nothing—unless I say the right words.  Then you'll end up in some suburban house in Texas."  Sylvia continued waving the chicken bone, mumbling some words to herself.  Marlin refused to flinch, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.  The witches could banish him to another neighborhood, but they couldn't seriously harm him.  That required someone with real power, the kind of power his master possessed.

            "Stop fighting, you two," Mrs. Chiostro snapped.  She turned to Marlin.  "If you want our help, float there in the corner and be quiet."

            "Fine."  Marlin drifted into a corner stocked with grenade launchers.  These would be about as much good against her as a bouquet of daffodils.  The weapons Sylvia kept around to sell to various groups of freedom fighters, but only those actually fighting for freedom.  The real weapons were in a vault at the back of the basement.  This included Sylvia's collection of mythic weapons from a club used by Hercules to the bow of Robin Hood.  Not even these would be of much use.  Nor would all the potions, charms, and two-bit spells the witches possessed.  This required real magic.

            With a bemused smile, Marlin watched as the witches concocted their brew in the cauldron.  They tossed in herbs and the chicken bone Sylvia had waved at him.  For whatever reason, Sylvia picked up a stuffed rabbit and began shaking it as she danced in a circle around the cauldron.  It took all of Marlin's strength not to laugh at this pitiful display.  Sylvia finished her little dance by glaring at Marlin as if reading his thoughts.  With a scream that would have curdled Marlin's blood if he had any, Sylvia threw the rabbit into the cauldron.

            Marlin grimaced when Mrs. Chiostro dipped a spoon into the cauldron and drank a spoonful of the brew.  "That's about right," she said.

            "What does any of this have to do with anything?" he asked.

            "Patience, dear.  It won't be much longer."

            Marlin forced himself to wait in the corner while the witches continued with their silly ritual.  His master would already have gotten through by now.  Then again, if the master were here, none of this would be necessary.

            The witches began a furious chant while waving their arms in comical fashion.  As the chanting reached a fever pitch, Sylvia produced a black dagger from her pocket.  This she used to prick her left ring finger.  A drop of blood spilled into the cauldron.  The brew started to bubble as if there was a school of sharks inside the cauldron.  Marlin backed away, wondering what might pop out from the brew.

            "Everything is ready," Mrs. Chiostro said.  "In you go."

            "You want me to go in there?"

            "What, are you scared of getting wet?" Sylvia said with a wolfish grin.

            "Of course not."

            "Then get in."

            "You witches and your brews," Marlin grumbled as he floated over to the cauldron.  The brew continued to bubble, drops of it splattering onto the floor.  The stuffed rabbit bobbed along on the surface, as did the chicken bone.  Marlin was glad he couldn't smell at this point—or taste either.  With a sigh he descended into the cauldron and disappeared.

#

            Sailors talked of getting their "sea legs" but it was far more difficult for Marlin to adjust to having legs in general after almost four thousand years of being a ghost.  He collapsed to the ground, surprised for a moment by both the feeling of ground and the pain of falling.  For a moment he tried to will himself back into the air, but that was impossible.  "I guess we'll have to do it the old-fashioned way," he said.  He put a hand on the cool grass and then pushed himself into a sitting position.  From there he managed to get himself upright.  He wobbled before righting himself.

            His first steps were as hesitant and uncertain as a baby's.  After a few steps, though, he got the hang of it as old instincts kicked in.  He paused long enough to bend down and retrieve his pointed hat.  Settling this on his head, he set out along the packed dirt trail.

            Of course none of this was real in the traditional sense.  The world around Marlin was merely a representation of reality.  In this case the world around him featured the lush green hills, towering forests, and dirt paths of Britain approximately four thousand years ago—Marlin's home.  The air, gravity, and his own physical body were extensions of this false reality.  He was still dead, still a spirit, but on the astral plane so was everyone else.

            At least Marlin hoped this was the astral plane.  If those idiot witches had gotten their ingredients wrong or chanted the wrong words, there was no telling where he might have ended up.  This might even be the afterlife.  Marlin didn't usually give much thought to the concept after so long as a ghost, but he supposed it was possible.

            The dirt path continued up a hill, Marlin's climb becoming difficult as his legs burned from the effort.  He wished he could imagine himself a pair of wings or maybe one of those automobiles everyone back in the real world drove these days.  He stopped halfway up to take a break by sitting on the grass.  He had forgotten about such concepts as pain and fatigue; he gained a new appreciation for Emma Earl, who jogged five miles or more nearly every day.

            Another old sensation occurred to him as he sat on the grass—thirst.  He needed a moment to identify the proper word to describe the dryness in his throat.  He needed another moment to identify the solution to this problem.  Water.  He needed to find some water.  A rumble in his midsection reminded him that he should find food as well.

            Reaching the top of the hill, Marlin saw the solution to both of his problems in the form of a hut off the side of the road.  A thin column of smoke rose from the hut, indicating someone was home.  Marlin pushed himself as fast as his unsteady legs could go.  As he closed in, he saw a few sheep milling about in front of the house.  Saliva flooded Marlin's mouth as he remembered the taste of mutton.  Nice and crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, with some roasted potatoes on the side.

            He knocked on the side of the house.  The door flap opened to reveal a man who looked similar to Marlin with a long gray beard, only his was dirty and greasy.  The man wore a simple brown tunic; Marlin was grateful it covered up his naughty bits.  "Who be you?" the man asked, displaying a mouth with only a few rotting teeth left.

            "My name is Marlin.  I am searching for my master."

            "Who?"

            "Merlin, the greatest sorcerer ever.  You might have heard of him."

            "Can't say as I have."

            "Don't be daft, man, everyone's heard of him."

            The man shrugged.  "Not me."

            "Who are you?"

            "Name's Belt."

            "Belt?  Who was your wife, Suspenders?"

            "Don't have a wife."

            "What a surprise."  Marlin sighed.  "I have traveled far and would appreciate partaking of your hospitality."

            "What?"

            "Could I have some water?  And maybe a bit of food if you can spare any."

            "Oh.  Fine."  Belt held the flap aside so Marlin could duck into the hut.  There was little inside except a ring of stones for the cooking fire and a straw pallet for sleeping on.  A rabbit as dead as the one the witches had used in their brew hung from the roof, only this rabbit had been skinned and gutted.  "Dinner's right there."

            "Looks delicious."  Marlin had always found rabbit to be too stringy, but at this point he couldn't be choosy.  The water looked even less appetizing, as cloudy as Rampart City's harbor.  At least it was wet, quenching the dryness in Marlin's throat.  "So, how long have you been here, Mr. Belt?"

            "Long time."

            Marlin sensed he wasn't going to get much in the way of conversation out of this man.  "What about your neighbors?"

            Belt shrugged.  "Don't know." 

            "Mind if I ask how you came to be here?"

            "Don't know."

            "Great talking to you."  Marlin leaned back against a dirt wall of the hut.  He turned away with disgust as Belt cooked the rabbit by tossing it into the fire.  The smell of cooking meat caused saliva to again flood Marlin's mouth.  He had forgotten how disgusting and yet appetizing food could be.  As he waited for the rabbit to cook, Marlin wondered if there were any women nearby so he could satisfy another need he'd neglected in four thousand years.  A proverbial roll in the hay would be just the thing.

            Despite being blackened on the outside, the rabbit was still pink on the inside.  Marlin ignored this as he bit into the leg quarter Belt gave to him.  For a moment the food stuck in Marlin's throat before his muscles remembered what they were supposed to do.  "Good," he said.  Belt only grunted at this.  "I suppose I ought to be going soon."

            "Good luck finding your master."

            "Yes, thank you.  And thanks for the meal."  Marlin ducked as he exited the hut.  He took a look back, but Belt did not emerge to wave goodbye.  "Such a friendly neighborhood," Marlin grumbled and then continued along the path.

Chapter 6

 

            It was Becky's last day at work before the wedding and a week-long honeymoon in Costa Rica.  She would have her hands full at that point keeping Steve in the hotel room.  With so many interesting plants and animals in the jungle, she wouldn't see him again until it was time to leave should he escape from the hotel.

            This was only one of her many worries as she ostensibly prepared Councilwoman Napier's schedule for the next two weeks.  Much of this schedule would be rendered moot if there were a crisis, as was almost certain to happen.  In Rampart City politics it never paid to plan more than three days in advance.  At least this would give the rest of the staff some idea of what to do when they weren't managing whatever crisis came up.

            As she always did, Becky considered why she bothered to do this.  She had hoped in spite of herself that perhaps she could affect some change from within, but the city's politics were as dirty as ever.  The only way anything got done was through the greasing of enough palms to make something happen.  Even Napier, who was better than most of the city's politicians, took bribes in the form of free vacations for "conferences," one of which was scheduled at the same hotel where Becky and Steve would honeymoon.  It was no wonder the city needed a masked vigilante to get anything done.

            That masked vigilante was another problem distracting Becky from her work.  Emma had disappeared for much of the party, returning hours later with mud on her dress and some flimsy excuse about needing some fresh air.  Becky had only pretended to buy this excuse, knowing the real problem was that the man Emma loved had married someone else.  There was no use trying to talk about the problem with Emma until she was ready to cope with it.  What would happen to the girl while Becky and Steve were on their honeymoon?  Becky didn't like the thought of leaving Emma alone in such a delicate state, but her friend was twenty-five years old now, not a little kid anymore.

            Becky sighed and shook her head.  In her mind Emma would always be that shy little girl Becky had met in kindergarten.  Emma was still so naïve and innocent, despite five years of seeing the gritty underbelly of society as the Scarlet Knight.  No matter how magic the armor or sharp the sword she carried, there was always that sensitive core in Emma that hadn't changed even after losing her parents.  Becky hoped it never did change, because that's what made Emma the person she was. 

            But, like any mother with a child leaving the nest, Becky knew she couldn't protect Emma from the world.  This had started when Emma left for college, first at Northwestern and then at Berkeley.  Those had been difficult years for both of them, lonely, painful years.  They had somehow managed to get through it with their friendship intact, but Becky had promised herself when her best friend returned to the city not to let her get too far away again.  Perhaps Becky couldn't protect Emma from the world, but at least she could be there to pick up the pieces.

            "Excuse me," a woman's voice said.

            Becky looked up to see the woman responsible for the turmoil in Emma's life.  "Can I help you?" Becky asked.

            "Yes, my name is Isis Dreyfus.  We met briefly last night at the museum gala."

            "Oh, yes, I remember now.  Is there something I can do for you?"

            "My husband and I recently moved to the city.  I wanted to involve myself in some charitable endeavors.  When I spoke to the councilwoman last night, she said I should talk to you about it."

            Becky frowned at this.  If this whore wanted to really do a good deed she should divorce her husband and take the next flight back to Egypt.  "I'm not sure exactly what I can do," Becky said.  "Did you have something particular in mind?"

            "I am not sure.  Do you have any suggestions?"

            Becky swept aside some papers on her desk to retrieve an old campaign brochure.  "This lists some of the charitable causes Councilwoman Napier has been involved in.  Maybe one of these will interest you."

            Isis took the brochure, tucking it into her purse.  Then she looked down at the floor meekly.  "Thank you, Ms. Beech, for your help."

            "No problem."  Becky waited a moment for the woman to leave, but she didn't.  "Was there something else?"

            To her surprise, Isis burst into tears.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I don't mean to embarrass myself this way."

            Becky stood up from behind the desk to pat Isis on the back like a small child.  "It's all right.  Come on, let's go somewhere and talk."  She led the sobbing woman into the break room.  The one intern eating lunch beat a hasty retreat, allowing Becky to close and then lock the door.  She sat Isis on one of the plastic chairs in the room.  "What's wrong?"  Though she knew it was wrong, Becky hoped it was some marital tension.

            "Oh, it's nothing much.  I just feel so lonely here."  Isis dapped at her eyes with a paper napkin.  "I don't know anyone and this country is so strange." 

            "I see.  Well, I'm sure you'll get used to it in time."

            "Yes, perhaps you are right.  In time maybe I will make some friends and feel at home."

            "Would you like something to drink?  A cup of coffee?"

            "Thank you." 

            Becky poured two foam cups of coffee, which she supposed was a form of revenge in that the coffee in the office was lousy.  As she took these back to the table, a plan formed in Becky's mind.  "My sisters and I are going out tonight for a party.  You could come along with us if you'd like."

            "I wouldn't want to intrude—"

            "It's not an intrusion.  We'd love to have you along."  What Becky really would love would be to leave Isis in one of Rampart City's worst neighborhoods and let her fend for herself there.  But the second, far more ethical, idea was that by allowing Isis to come along for the party, perhaps Isis and Emma could work out their differences.  Dinner, a few glasses of wine, and maybe they could come up with some kind of truce.  A truce Becky would broker, her most important political work yet.

#

            One perk of being an assistant director was Emma could take a longer lunch if she so desired.  She didn't usually need more than a half hour to eat a sandwich or drink a protein shake at her desk before going back to work.  Today she decided to take a long lunch to visit Mrs. Chiostro and her sister.  Under her arm she carried the white dress from the night before.

            "Hello, dear," Mrs. Chiostro said.  "Did something happen to the dress?"

            "It got a little dirty.  And there's a tear in the skirt."

            "Let me have a look at it."  Emma followed Mrs. Chiostro into the parlor, where the old witch took the dress to examine it.  She clucked her tongue.  "What were you doing last night?"

            "I had to go visit the Sanctuary.  To check for any major crimes."

            "Yes, of course," Mrs. Chiostro said in a tone indicating she didn't believe this at all.  Never a gifted liar, Emma was even less gifted at lying to the witch.

            "There was this woman there.  She's Dan's wife."

            "I see.  She must be the one Marlin was talking about last night."

            "Marlin?  Did he come to see you?  He thought there was something wrong with her, but he wouldn't say what."  Emma sighed.  "I checked her out and everything seems fine."

            "I'd keep an eye on that one if I were you."

            "You think there's something wrong with her too?"

            Mrs. Chiostro said nothing for a moment as she straightened out the wrinkles in the dress.  "I can't be certain.  Could be she's exactly what she claims to be.  Or she could be something else."  The old witch draped the dress over a mannequin.  She looked up to ask, "What do you think about her?"

            "I don't know.  She seems a little off, but maybe that's what I want to think.  Maybe I want her to be evil so she won't be with Dan."

            "That could be."

            "What do you think I should do?"

            "It's difficult to say, but I think you should listen to your head and not your heart.  Should be easy enough for you."

            "I'll try."  This didn't seem easy to Emma; in this case she found it extremely difficult to think logically.  She had, though, last night down in the Sanctuary.  It had pained her greatly to do so.  She wanted Isis to be guilty of something, to be a monster like Marlin said.  Objectivity, she reminded herself.  That was part of the Scientific Method, principles that had governed her life since she was a child.

            "That's a good girl.  Now, why don't you go down and see Sylvia while I fix this dress up for you?"

            Emma went downstairs to Sylvia's salon—bunker was more appropriate.  As expected the hair dresser/arms dealer's take on the situation was far different from her sister's.  "Just knife her in the heart," Sylvia said as she brushed Emma's hair.  "She stole your man, broke your heart.  An eye for an eye as they say."

            "I couldn't do that."  Emma sighed.  "I let him go."

            "That was your first mistake.  If you wanted him, you should have took him."

            "Club him over the head and take him into the bushes?"

            Sylvia set the hairbrush aside to shrug.  As she began rinsing Emma's hair, she said, "If that's how you want to do it.  He'd probably have gotten a kick out of it.  That's how men are."

            Emma couldn't help wondering when Sylvia had last been with a man.  It was probably some time during the Industrial Revolution.  "I couldn't do that to Dan," she said.

            "Then you shouldn't mope about it.  Just find another man.  There's plenty of them to go around."

            "Not like him."

            Sylvia snorted at this.  "Oh, right, love.  If you want my advice, forget about it.  Love is nothing but a pain in the ass."  Sylvia jerked Emma's head up so she could see into the mirror.  "What do you want me to do with it?"

            "I'm not really sure."

            Sylvia took a handful of wet hair.  "How about we go with something a little shorter?  Make you look a little more like a grownup."

            Emma considered this.  She had always worn her hair long, usually because she couldn't be bothered to take time to get it cut.  Maybe it was time for a change, a break with the past.  And maybe if she looked different she might feel different too.  "All right," she said.  "Let's give it a try."

            They didn't make much conversation as Sylvia worked.  Emma didn't want to distract the witch as she worked with the scissors.  Instead, she thought about Isis and the situation with Dan.  Maybe Mrs. Chiostro was right and she just needed to think logically about this.  If she talked with Isis, perhaps they could hammer out their issues.  Their previous interactions had been brief and not gone well, mostly Emma hated to admit, to her jealousy.  If she could keep it in check, then she might get an honest appraisal on the woman and the danger she posed.

            "All done," Sylvia said.

            Emma looked in the mirror, fingering the short, almost boyish cut.  The witch was right, though, it did make her look more like an adult, like the assistant director of a museum.  "It's great," Emma said.  "Thank you."

            "I'll make sure to dispose of all this hair for you.  Never know what someone could do with that if they were inclined."  Sylvia and her sister were experts on that.

            "Thank you."  Emma went upstairs, to where Mrs. Chiostro gushed over her new haircut.  She had finished with the dress, repairing the slight tear and getting out the stains so it was good as new.  Emma wondered if she had used magic to accomplish this so quickly.  Probably not given her views on using magic frivolously. 

            "Make sure you take good care of it from now on."

            "I will.  Thanks."  With that Emma returned to her motorcycle.  As she put the helmet over her head, she noted how much more comfortable it felt.  That would probably be a good thing for later on when she donned her other helmet.

            Back at the museum, she found Dan eating his lunch on the museum steps.  He nodded to her.  "You must have got a haircut," he said. 

            She blushed at this.  That he would notice this was a reminder of why she had loved him in the first place.  "I thought I'd try something new."

            "It looks nice."

            "Thank you."  Emma stared down at her feet, feeling a surge of embarrassment.  "I better get back to work.  See you later."  She hurried back to her office, where she dropped with relief into her chair.  She shook her head; it would take more than a haircut to fix things.

#

            Captain Kramer hated to work late.  He usually told his wife he was working late—in Rampart City a police captain's work was never done—but usually this was a cover to meet Eileen at the Econolodge in Parkdale.  Those nights he really had to work late meant a phone call to an irate Eileen, who would start suspecting him of having an affair with his own wife.  That in turn would mean an expensive gift, though usually he could find something in the evidence locker of suitable value to win back Eileen's love.

            He didn't have much choice this time.  The Vendetta case was the biggest in the history of the Rampart City Police Department.  Everyone from internal affairs, the state troopers, and the FBI were monitoring the handling of the case.  The RCPD had a reputation for corruption unmatched by any department since the days of Al Capone. 

And there was that damned woman detective—Donovan.  She had been watching him like a fucking hawk since this whole thing started.  Then again, she never had a problem working late.  She probably hadn't fucked anyone—he suspected she was into women far more than men—since she was in the academy.  The department had to literally force her into take a day off, no matter how many times Kramer complained she was making the department look bad with her overzealous dedication to the cause.  He had said as much to the promotion board, not that they listened to him.

            To emphasize this point, she knocked on his door.  "Don't you ever go home, Detective?"

            "Not until she's in prison," Lieutenant Donovan said.

            "That might not be for a while yet."

            "Then I might stop paying my rent, sir."

            Captain Kramer shook his head at this.  "Is there something you want?"

            "I want to interview her again."

            "Why?"

            "To see if she's ready to crack.  She might be more receptive now that she's had a few days in here."

            The captain shook his head again.  "Fine.  Just don't leave any marks.  And I don't want her fucking lawyer in here screaming at me again.  Got it?"

            "I understand, sir."  The lieutenant hurried away, closing the door behind her.  It didn't stay closed for long.

            Kramer heard the creak of the door and assumed it must be Donovan coming back for something.  "Forget some—"  He looked up to see it was not Lieutenant Donovan but a young Middle Eastern woman, a very beautiful Middle Eastern woman.  "Can I help you?"

            "Yes, I believe you can," she purred.  She approached his desk slowly, her hips shaking in rhythm with her long hair.  "You are Captain Kramer, aren't you?"

            "That's right, Miss—"

            "You can call me Isis," she said.  She came to sit on the edge of his desk, her breasts so close to his face that he could almost taste them.  Her hand reached out to touch his arm.  "Are you in charge of the Vendetta investigation?"

            This killed the erection building in Kramer's pants.  Was she from internal affairs, the state police, or the FBI to smoke him out?  Or maybe she was with the mob to assassinate him.  He wanted to reach into his desk for his pistol, but her hand clamped tightly around his arm.  "Let's not be hasty," she said.

            "What do you want?"

            "Only your help."

            "Who sent you?"

            "No one sent me.  I'm just a concerned citizen making sure an injustice isn't committed."

            "Right.  Who are you working for?  IA?  The troopers?  The Feds?"

            "Of course not."  She ran her hand up his arm, reaching into his shirt to stroke his chest.  "I told you already:  I'm just a concerned citizen."

            The erection he'd lost started to build again as she gently caressed his chest.  "What do you want from me?"

            "Nothing much.  Just a teeny, tiny thing."  The leaned forward so that her lips touched his ear.  "The key to the evidence locker."

            "What are you going to do?"

            "The less you know, the better."  Isis reached into her purse to produce what looked like a credit card.  It wasn't until she pressed it into his hand that he saw it was a key to the Econolodge in Parkdale, the same place he took Eileen.  "How about a trade?"

            "A trade?"

            "A key for a key.  You give me the key to the evidence locker and I give you the key for this room, where I'll let you read me my rights."

            "I can't do that," Kramer said, his voice faltering.

            "Oh, that's too bad.  I was really hoping the three of us could have some fun."

            "Three of us?"

            Isis took something else out of her purse.  This was a Polaroid of Eileen tied to a chair, a gag in her mouth.  "It was so easy to convince her to let me tie her up.  I can only imagine what you two must do together in there."

            "If you hurt her—"

            "I'm sure you can find yourself another whore."  Isis's fingernails dug into the flesh on Kramer's chest.  "I'd much rather we keep things cordial."

            "If I give you the key, will you let her go?"

            "Only if she wants me to let her go.  I think she rather enjoys it."  This she said with such an evil grin that Kramer shivered.  It was only then he really noticed her black eyes.  These seemed to mock him as he wrestled with the decision.  Of course all he had to do was shout for help and he'd have a dozen police officers charging in.  But then they would find out about Eileen and everything would be ruined.  His wife would leave him, taking the kids with her.  He'd probably be fired, not long after which Eileen would dump him too.

            "All right, but only if you swear she'll be safe."

            "Of course she'll be safe."  Isis let him take the key to Eileen's room.  He in turn took the key to the evidence locker off his key ring.  He dropped this into her open palm.  "Thank you."  As a token of her gratitude she kissed him on the lips.  It was the best kiss Kramer had ever experienced, far more passionate than those of his wife or Eileen.

            When Isis pulled away, Kramer was left gasping for air.  Once he recovered his wits, he took off in a brisk walk to the parking lot.  With typical late night traffic it wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes to get to the motel.  Though once he got there, he might take his time in letting Eileen go.  It was going to be a great night.

#

            Lydia Vendetta sat in the interrogation room with a cup of coffee.  Lieutenant Donovan listened to the don slurp from the cup and then checked her watch.  "We've still got about ten minutes until your ambulance chaser gets here.  Why don't we pass the time with a little conversation?  We can talk about anything:  sports, politics, the weather, or your ties to organized crime in the city."

            The don snorted at this.  "Do you really think such an obvious ploy will work?  You drag me from my cell in the middle of the night with no lawyer and you think I'll say something to incriminate myself?"

            "I just thought you might have decided to cooperate by now.  Of course if you don't want to, we can put you back in the cell."

            "You might as well.  I'm not going to tell you anything."

            "Come now, Lydia, I thought we were friends by now.  We've spent so much time together these last few days."

            "It won't be much longer until I'm out of here."

            "I wouldn't count on that.  I think you're going to be our guest for a long time."  The last syllables of this sentence faded away when the fire alarm went off.  Lieutenant Donovan reached down to her belt, taking the handcuffs she kept there.  She clamped one of these on Don Vendetta's wrist and the other to the table leg.  "Stay here."

            "What if the place is burning down?"

            "I'll come back for you.  Wouldn't want you to get to Hell before I've put you away."  Lieutenant Donovan sprinted from the interrogation room, following the line of cops heading to the source of the fire.  Her stomach churned as they approached the evidence locker.

            Officer Lois Early, Lieutenant Donovan's closest friend on the force, was already at the locker, a fire extinguisher in her hands.  She used this like a crowd control shield to keep her friend from charging into the flaming room.  "You're too late," Officer Early said.  "It's gone."

            "What's gone?"

            "Your evidence.  The computers.  They're all gone."  Officer Early gestured to the burning room, which was starting to come under control thanks to the sprinkler system.  "There's nothing left in there."

            "How do you know?"

            "I tried to get to them."  Officer Early motioned with the fire extinguisher.  "It was just too intense.  I couldn't get to them.  I'm sorry."

            "No.  That can't be.  It can't be.  Not after all that work.  Goddamnit, it can't be!"  Lieutenant Donovan seized the fire extinguisher from Officer Early and then charged into the evidence locker.  Though the flames had died down, there was still plenty of smoke, far more than even Lieutenant Donovan liked to ingest.

            She pulled up the collar of her T-shirt until it covered her mouth and nose.  This filtered out some of the smoke, though her eyes continued to sting.  Even with the smoke, she knew where the evidence for the Vendetta case was being held; she could have found it blindfolded if needed.  Using the extinguisher to put out a few rogue pockets of fire, Lieutenant Donovan made her way to where her case against the don was being kept.

            Just as Officer Early said, it was all gone.  Nothing more than melted plastic and scorched metal.  All of the stolen computers were destroyed.  Lieutenant Donovan sank down to her knees, in part from despair and in part to escape the smoke.  She battered the scalding floor tiles with her fists as she screamed a stream of curse words, many of which hadn't been invented until that moment.

            A hand touched her shoulder.  Lieutenant Donovan whirled around to see Officer Early standing behind her.  "Come on, Lottie, let's get out of here.  There's nothing we can do."

            "It's gone.  It's all gone."

            "I know."  The grip tightened on Lieutenant Donovan's shoulder.  "If we don't go, IA will bring you up for tampering with a crime scene."

            "Me?  Tampering with a crime scene?"  Lieutenant Donovan shrugged out of her friend's grasp to get to her feet.  "Whoever did this is the one who tampered with a crime scene.  And I'm going to find out who it was if it's the last fucking thing I do."

            Lieutenant Donovan stormed out of the evidence locker, back to the interrogation room.  Don Vendetta sat there with a placid grin like the proverbial cat that had just swallowed a canary.  The lieutenant banged a fist on the table.  "I don't know who you put up to this, but I'm going to find them and then I'm going to nail your ass for obstruction of justice on top of everything."

            "Does this mean I'm free to go?"

            "Get yourself out of here.  Or have one of your friends do it for you."  Lieutenant Donovan turned on her heel to stomp out of the room.  She stopped at Captain Kramer's office.  He had been there before she went to interrogate Don Vendetta.  Now he was gone.  From the look of it, he had left in a hurry.

            Lieutenant Donovan's fists clenched.  She should have known he was on the don's payroll.  Now she would make him pay.