Date:    Sat, 12 Sep 1998 16:50:30 -0600
From:    Dorothy Elggren <delggren@ES.COM>
Subject: Evidence 

     I actually began writing this story in the Fall of 1996.  But I
couldn't make it work, and put it away.  In the spring of 1997, I
pulled it out and took another stab at it.  Can you tell I really
liked the idea? <g> This time I actually finished it.  But for reasons
that are neither here nor there, I put it away and chose not to post
it.  This summer, I returned to it, and revised it significantly.  I
think that my writing skills are finally catching up to my original
vision--but that may be overly optimistic.
    At any rate, I thought it was time to give this story its chance.
It's the story from which Take Out came, for those interested in
trivia.  That was one of those side trips that just happen, but didn't
belong in this story.
     I must absolutely thank Jeanne for going through the editing
process twice on this story (luckily only once a year), and Liza for
encouraging comments.  Though our offices (make that cubicles) are no
longer in the same building (I got hijacked) and we are not in the
same group anymore (sob), she has continued to be a very strong
supporter, and I appreciate all of her comments.
    Finally, I must admit that this story has been influenced by
ongoing discussions on Forkni-l (yes I read it when I can, and am
often regretful that by the time I read it, the discussion is long
over).  In fact, it was a thread in the spring of 1997 that caused
me to rethink and change the focus of this story--and obviously was
the catalyst to picking it up and finishing it (the first time) <g>.
So I must give deep appreciation and thanks to the members of
Forkni-l who have so much depth and knowledge and aren't afraid to
explore the hard and difficult issues.
     As always, these characters do not belong to me.  I merely take
them out and play with them from time to time, and put them back in
absolutely excellent condition. <g>
     If you don't receive all parts, they can be found at
http://www.loftworks.com on my "Writing for the Knight" page
shortly after being posted.  This story may be archived at Mel's
fiction site.
     With all that out of the way, let's get on with the story (if
you're still with me)...

This story takes place shortly after Trophy Girl...




Evidence 
Copyright 1998
Dorothy Elggren



Prologue

Working a terrible pain and ruin.
  -- Electra

     Melvin sang off key as he worked.  Under his breath, the words
slipped out in a chant, while furious rain pounded out the percussion
on the windowpane.  "I can't get no... sat-is-fac...shun.  I can't get
NO, I can't GET NO...sat-is-FAC...shun, but I try, and I TRY and I
TRY..."
     He was terribly off-key, but he didn't care.  There was only one
person who could hear him, and he was beyond such simple
considerations.   He didn't care that Melvin couldn't sing, for he lay
captive--tied securely and snugly to the table.  All he cared about
was the pain.  Tears streamed from his eyes and sweat dripped from his
brow.   His cries were muffled, drowned in the gag biting him cruelly.
He fought futilely against the bonds that held him in a vicious grip,
and his wrists and ankles bled from his struggles.  But there was no
escape.
     Melvin sang loudly, jarringly, as he carved a rose in the living
flesh of his captive.  He made each slashing stroke with deadly
precision, in syncopated time with the song.  Blood welled up in the
incisions, pooled and overflowed.  The petals, leaves and stems slowly
disappeared in the tide of blood.  When Melvin was done, he put down
his knife and wiped the blood away.
     He surveyed his handiwork and smiled.  The rose seeped and wept
blood.  Tears filled Melvin's eyes and he sighed.  He looked up at the
frosted, cracked glass and for the first time noticed the rain.  The
earth, he thought, was crying, too.  "This one is for you, Libby," he
whispered.  "You see, I'm making him cry for you.  I'm making him
sorry."
     He looked down at his bloody victim and smiled gently.  "You're
crying for Libby, aren't you?"  The man stared back at him
uncomprehendingly.  He just wanted it to end.
     Melvin scrounged in the toolbox at his feet and pulled out a
cheap child's make-up kit.  "I gotta make sure you are crying," he
crooned.  "Now, be still," he commanded.  And then, very carefully he
drew a teardrop underneath his victim's eye with red paint.  His
victim moved his head, fearful of the brush so close to his eye.
Melvin cuffed him.  "I said, be still!"  He was still.
     With delicate strokes, he filled it in, and brought the tear to
life.  When Melvin was satisfied with his artwork, he nodded
carefully.  "It looks real good," he said softly, half to himself,
half to his victim.
     Then Melvin looked at his victim and said simply.  "I think it's
time for you to die.  You gotta die for Libby."


Act 1, Scene 1

Have I not seen enough of blood...
   -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Nick Knight could see the lights, even before turning off
Danforth Avenue onto the Don Valley Parkway.   The tightly packed
cluster of strobing lights illuminated the scene in Riverdale Park in
garish hues, and reflected eerily in the rain-slicked road.  Forensic
experts, in alternating shades of blue and red, huddled near the
evergreen bushes close to the river's edge.  Police held back the few
curious onlookers on the sidewalk.  The rain drizzled down with a
discouraging monotony, and water puddled everywhere.
     Nick glanced over at Tracy Vetter as he parked his Caddy next to
the Coroner's van.
     "You up for this?" Nick asked quietly, as he pulled the keys from
the ignition.
     Tracy bit her lip as her gaze slid from the scene in front of
them to Nick.  If the report were accurate, this would be the fourth
one.  The fourth man assaulted, mutilated, and murdered over the last
six months.  Their eyes met in unspoken understanding.  "Yeah, as
ready as I'll ever be," she said.  "Let's go."
     She shut the door rather firmly, to bolster her flagging spirits,
and turned up the collar of her jacket to ward off the insulting rain.
It wasn't as if this was her first homicide, or that she hadn't seen
worse, because she had.  But it was her first day back after a three
week "cooling off" period.  Cooling off, because Tracy had killed two
people in less than a week.  She winced mentally at the thought.
She'd been in homicide all of three months and had already killed two
people.
     Tracy sighed and tucked her chin into her body against the rain
as she followed Nick across the parking lot.  She was supposed to
handle murder with equanimity, but right now her stomach felt queasy.
The three weeks hadn't dulled the edge of her memories at all.  Even
as she detoured around a puddle, she could see reflected in its depth
the alley where she'd shot her first perp.
     She saw him firing at her from it's wavery depths--and miss.  In
slow motion she watched as she fired--and the perp went down.  The
gun's report echoed in her ears.  Tracy gritted her teeth and tried to
stay in the present.  It was very different when you were the one
doing the killing.
     And to compound her problem, she had ignored orders to take her
initial "cooling off" period and gone undercover, instead.  Tracy
remembered Nick pulling Efrem Sedrick off of her and throwing him into
the wall of the darkened cellar.  Then as Nick turned to her, she had
watched Sedrick pick up an axe and raise it behind Nick.  She'd had
one bullet in her gun, and she'd used it.  It didn't matter that she'd
taken that shot to save Nick.  It was another life taken, and it still
hurt.  Nick had been on the force for years and never killed anybody.
*Why am I so lucky?* Tracy wondered.
     With relief, Tracy saw that they'd reached the grass.  She pushed
her memories away.  It was time to deal with the present, not the
past.  She took a deep breath, pushed her straight blonde hair out of
her face, and followed Nick through the barrier to the crime scene.
     Dr. Natalie Lambert crouched over the body, holding one of the
victim's hands in her own.  She carefully covered the hand with a
plastic evidence bag, and then noted some information on the tag.  The
Ident unit was being particularly careful with this case.  There was
no doubt in anyone's mind that they had a serial killer on their turf.
The media was calling him the Parkway Killer, because he dumped all
his victims in a small stretch of the Riverside Park along the Don
Valley Parkway.   Natalie wondered what they would call him if they
knew what he was doing to his victims.  As Natalie bagged the hand,
she hoped that this time they'd find something to help them unravel
the case and find the killer before he struck again.
     "Hi, Nat," Nick said softly.  "What have you got?"  Tracy peered
over his shoulder and blanched at the sight, but she remained where
she was, determined to stick it out.
     Natalie looked up and smiled.  "Nick," she said, relief coloring
her voice, then added,  "Hi, Tracy, good to see you, again."  She put
the hand down gently and stood.  Her long chestnut-colored hair
fluffed briefly as she shook it back from her face.   Natalie looked
at Jake Carter who was standing by patiently with the body bag.
"Okay.  I've done all I can here.  Let's get him back to the lab."
     Natalie began to climb up the embankment and took Nick's
proffered hand to finish the trip. "Thanks," she said joining them on
the sidewalk.   Natalie noticed Tracy staring past her at the body as
Jake placed it in the body bag and realized that she was looking
rather pale.  She wanted to put a comforting hand on her arm, but
suspected Tracy would not appreciate it--not when she was trying to
regain her 'homicide stomach'.  Natalie glanced at Nick.  Nick was
pale, too, but it was his usual shade of pale.  Tonight, she thought
with gallows humor, they were a matched pair with their blond hair
gleaming in the klieg lights and pallid skin turning alternating
shades of red and blue.  Then she turned her mind to the business at
hand.
     "TOD," Natalie said briskly, "is somewhere between four and six
hours ago, I would guess, based on rigor and lividity.  But that, as
you know, is a rough guess.   I'll be able to tell you cause of death
after I've done some tests."
     Nick looked down the embankment at the body, then back at
Natalie.  "It's the Parkway Killer." It was not a question.
     She grimaced, and glanced up at Nick.  "Well, without doing those
tests I can't be 100% sure, but, yeah..., it's him.  All the usual
signatures are there."
     Tracy swallowed.  "This is just so sick.  What is it with this
guy?" she asked.
Nick and Natalie looked at each other.  Natalie shrugged.  "I don't
know, Trace.   That's your job, I'm afraid.  When you catch him, maybe
you can find out why he does it."
     "We'll get him."  Nick said with certainty.  "He's bound to
become overconfident.  And when he does, he'll get sloppy." Nick
watched them roll the body away.  "Maybe," he said quietly,  "he
already has."
     "Yeah," Natalie agreed.  "Let's hope so.  Well, I'm going back to
the lab.  I'll be putting this at the top of the stack, so I should
have something for you in a couple of hours.  See you later."  She
touched Nick on the arm with an encouraging pat, smiled at Tracy and
headed for her car.
     Nick watched Natalie go, allowing himself to enjoy the view.  He
loved the way her hair fell down her back and the slight sway of her
hips.   But if Natalie caught him watching her like that, he knew he'd
be in trouble.  He often had to remind himself that this was the
nineties--the nineteen-nineties.
     Tracy watched Nick watching Natalie with interest.  Since she'd
become Nick's partner, she'd spent a lot of time wondering exactly
what their relationship was--along with most of the precinct.  More
than one detective had asked Tracy for the inside scoop on Nick and
Natalie's relationship, but she didn't know anymore than anyone else.
However, she was a detective--and his partner--and she figured sooner
or later, she would find out.
     "Well, let's see what we've got," Tracy said.  "I'll check with
the uniform and see who found the body. "
     Nick smiled and nodded.  "Okay," he said.  "I'll talk to Garcia
about the physical evidence." Tracy nodded and they split up.
     Nick headed down the embankment his raincoat flowing behind him
and stopped momentarily, surveying the area where the body had lain.
Then he unleashed his very special senses and scrutinized the area.
For Nick was a vampire, and while he wished more than anything that he
wasn't, he figured as long as he had special powers, he might as well
do something useful with them.
     Natalie, who knew Nick's secret and was helping him search for a
cure, would disapprove.  She often told him in private, "if you want
to be mortal, Nick, then you've got to act like one."  But Nick didn't
know how to *not* use them.  They had been a part of him for almost
eight centuries.
     He cast his senses out over the area, searching for clues others
might miss.  His enhanced vision revealed nothing unusual.  He closed
his eyes and sniffed at the lingering scents in the air, turning his
head slowly, but nothing stood out.  Opening his eyes, Nick surveyed
the scene dispassionately, and after a moment, reluctantly allowed
himself to look at it from the killer's point of view.  He felt the
vampire rise up in him hot and hungry.
     The body had been dumped near the sidewalk.  It was a good move
on the killer's part.  In fact it was a well-calculated move, the sign
of a killer who was thinking and--regrettably in Nick's mind--in
control.  It was a popular area of the park, and it would be difficult
to sift through all the debris and figure out what--if anything--had
been left by the killer.
     Nick hesitated a moment, struggling with the vampire's desire to
hunt.  The beating hearts around him suddenly pressed heavily on him.
Nick swallowed and willed it away, knowing that what he was going to
do next required all his control.  He stepped next to the tape marking
where the body had lain, and then slowly reached out with his mind--
using the vampire's ability to sense others--his psychic sense.   A
cloud of anger and hatred enveloped him abruptly, and he trembled with
a fevered hunger.  He stepped back involuntarily and shuddered as his
fangs screamed for release.  His eyes briefly glowed a febrile green.
     Nick stood there, taut, silently *living* the murderer's anger
and his hunger to kill.  He *needed* and *wanted* to kill.   It was an
overwhelming passion, one Nick knew from personal experience.  He felt
an affinity with this murderer and his insatiable hunger.
     Nick moved farther away and shook his head to clear it, relieved
to be out of the psychic cloud, and still in control--barely.   He
took a breath and tried to analyze what he'd learned.  Beneath the
anger, he felt something more.  It was like a vibration deep in his
bones--reminiscent of a vampire's signature--and yet not.  He knew
instinctively that this was no vampire.  He shouldn't be able to feel
a mortal this way, but he could.  It disturbed and worried Nick that
he felt this--connection, whatever it was.
     Abruptly, Nick remembered a moment from long ago.  Amalia... Her
name was Amalia...  He knelt by her still warm body, lingering, unable
to untangle himself from the incredible moment of heady passion.  So
complete...and yet...already so empty and hungry.

     "Poor Nicholas," LaCroix murmured from behind him in
     cruel amusement.  "One moment we gorge on the life
     force, and the next...only  silence fills us, and we
     are empty again.  Then...whisperings...of renewed thirst.
     You feel it already, don't you?  Already your thoughts
     have strayed from her to the next.  How will you find
     her?  How will you take her?  All at once?  A little at
     a time?  I can see it in your eyes, Nicholas.  Can there
     be any finer thing than this?  Eternal hunger followed by
     eternal pleasure.  If this is our prison, let us *rot* for
     all eternity.  You will forget this one, Nicholas.   There
     will be many, many more and you...you will possess them all."

     Nick shut off the memory.  He knew that the Parkway Killer shared
those feelings, the satisfaction that lasted only a moment, the
emptiness, and then the renewed need.  He was probably already looking
for his next victim.  Victim...  It echoed oddly in his head.  Again,
he was conscious of every heartbeat calling to him.  Nick shook his
head and obliterated the desire.  He ignored the ache in his jaw where
his fangs still cried for release and shut off all of his senses to
regain control.
     It was dangerous to indulge in them for even a few moments.  It
was always dangerous.  Nick ran his hand through his damp hair and
took a deep breath, and then another.  The vampire slowly receded.
     After a moment, he looked around for Garcia, and spying him,
moved to joined him.   "Joe," Nick said, as he touched Officer Garcia
on the shoulder.
     Garcia looked up from the clipboard he'd been writing on.
"Detective Knight," he said with a grimace.  "I guess you want to know
what I've found."
     Nick nodded.
     Garcia shook his head and stared at his clipboard.  "I haven't
got a lot to give you, Detective.  This bastard is really efficient.
He knows just when and how to discard his victims without leaving any
evidence behind.  He's organized."
     Nick nodded, recognizing the reference to the standard profiling
term.  "Yeah, I've noticed," Nick said, shoving his hands into his
pockets.  "What have you got?"
     "Well, the body was found by a jogger about an hour ago."  He
inspected his notes.  "It was dumped just under a meter from the
sidewalk.  It was partially hidden by the evergreen bushes.  The body
was nude and lacked any distinguishing marks, besides those the killer
gave him.  If there was any obvious physical evidence, the rain
destroyed it."
     Garcia sighed and shoved his glasses up.  "My guess is that the
body was wrapped in something prior to being dumped.  Plastic perhaps,
something that kept it clean until he dumped it.   Our preliminary
inspection showed that there was nothing *visible* clinging to the
skin besides dirt and evergreen needles.  Dr. Lambert might find
something in the lab, but I wouldn't hold my breath.  As far as I can
tell, he didn't leave anything but the body."  Garcia fell silent, his
hands clenching the clipboard tightly.
     "And...," Nick prompted.
     "It's the same as before, a single small wound in the stomach, a
little tear drop painted on the cheek, and...,"  he stopped.
     "...and a rose carved on the torso," Nick finished, anger lacing
his voice.
     "Yeah, " Garcia said softly.  He shuddered slightly, but said
nothing more.  The dark humor he typically employed to deal with the
ugliness of his job was missing.
     Nick touched him comfortingly on the shoulder.  "Well, if you
find anything else, let me know," Nick said.
     "Sure, but, you know," he shrugged.
     "Yeah, I know.  Thanks," Nick said and looked around for Tracy.
     Garcia, cursing quietly, headed back up the path.  The
intermittent drizzle turned abruptly into a downpour, cleansing the
earth of the bloody crime.
     Nick sighed and turned up his collar against the sudden
onslaught.  Catching sight of Tracy, talking to a tall, thin man in
gray sweats, he climbed up the embankment and joined them.  She was
sheltering both herself and the man under her oversized umbrella.
     "...and you didn't notice anyone or any cars when you parked, Mr.
Fredette?" she was asking.
     "No.  Sorry.  I really wasn't paying attention.  I was thinking
about a work problem I'm trying to solve, and just wasn't looking,"
Fredette replied.
     "Well, if you remember anything, will you contact me at this
number?" Tracy asked, producing her business card with a bright smile.
     "Sure," he said as he took the card.  He turned it over absent-
mindedly, his face a pasty gray color.  Nick thought he might be in a
state of shock.
     "Mr. Fredette, I'm Detective Knight," Nick introduced himself.
"You look rather pale; are you all right?"
     He looked at Nick, or rather through him, as if he was still
seeing the body.   Then he focused on Nick and attempted a smile.
"Not really, but I guess that's to be expected.  I'm not used to
seeing..."  He stopped and looked at the card again, as if surprised
to find it in his possession.
     "If you need someone to talk to, we can put you in touch with
someone," Tracy supplied, knowing all too well what he was feeling.
She felt a little sick herself.
     "No, I'll be okay.  I'm just a little shook up," he said.
     "Well, I think that is all for now.  If we have any further
questions, we'll contact you.  Thank you for your help and patience,"
Tracy said.
     Fredette ran his hand through his damp hair.  "Yeah.  Then I can
go?"
     "Yes, Mr. Fredette."  Tracy smiled at him sympathetically.
     He nodded, then turned and left abruptly.  Tracy and Nick watched
him thread his way through the barrier and disappear into the rising
ground mist.
     "Think he'll be okay?"  Tracy asked, glancing at Nick.
     "Probably, after a while," Nick said, sliding under the umbrella.
     Tracy just looked at him.
     "Maybe after a stiff slug of whiskey?" he amended.
     "I don't know, I think he was really shook up."
     "He's not the only one," Nick said, looking searchingly at Tracy.
     She looked away.  Nick was too astute for Tracy's comfort. He
knew she was struggling with her demons.  It was all mixed up in her
head. Between her recent officer-involved shootings, her rocky
relationship with Nick, and her own feelings of inadequacy, she felt
like she was losing, rather than gaining, ground.
     During her third week in Homicide as Nick's very green partner,
she had seen this psychopath's work for the first time.  It had been
the Parkway Killer's second victim.  This was the second body he had
left them since then, and they were still no closer to finding him.
     She still remembered how appalled she'd been when she read the
autopsy report.  She couldn't understand how one human being could do
that to another.  Nick had taken one look at her white face and
suggested they take a break.
     It wasn't much later she'd found herself sitting in Kim's All-
Night Diner sipping Dutch-Almond coffee under Nick's sympathetic gaze.
That, in Tracy's opinion, was the moment when they actually began to
form a real partnership.
     She'd talked about her difficulties in dealing with dead bodies
and her struggle to be accepted on her own terms and not as
Commissioner Vetter's daughter.
     Nick had opened up a bit about Schanke--Donald G. Schanke, his
long-time partner.  Tracy had read between the lines to realize that
Nick missed Schanke deeply, and felt guilty for his death.
     She wished she could have met Don Schanke.   As Nick talked about
him, Tracy gained a clearer insight into Nick's partnership with
Schanke.  People had told her they'd been really something.  But
listening to Nick that night, she'd realized it had been far beyond a
partnership.  It had been a gestalt.  And their record proved it--it
had been astounding.
     Tracy had been envious and sad at the same time.  Her
relationship with Nick seemed so shallow in comparison.  She wanted
*that* kind of partnership.  But Nick was so distant and removed,
trying to deal with Schanke's death.  But slowly, it was getting
better.  She *was* learning, and Nick *had* come to accept her.  Then
she'd killed two people, and she felt like she was at ground zero
again.
     Tracy took a deep breath.  "Yeah, well ... I'm working on it."
     "So, what did you learn from our jogger?"  Nick asked, bringing
the conversation back onto safer ground.
     "Jaques Fredette, Engineer.  Apparently he comes jogging every
night after ten p.m.  He says he arrived around 10:15 tonight, and ran
two and half miles down the parkway, before turning around.  He didn't
notice anything until he came back.  He thinks it was about 10:55 when
he saw the body."  Tracy said, getting down to business.
     "Were there a lot of other joggers?"  Nick asked.
     "No.  There were only a couple of other joggers on the path.  The
rain seems to have put all but the die-hards off," Tracy said.  "You
know what this means, don't you?
     "Yeah, most likely the body was dumped in that half hour," Nick
said looking at Tracy.  "With such a narrow time frame, maybe we can
find someone who saw something.  What else did Fredette say?"
     "He said he looked around immediately, but didn't see anyone.
Then he approached the body just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
He says he checked to see if he was really dead, but one touch
convinced him, so he pulled out his cellular and called it in."
     "He touched the body," Nick said.
     "Yes, but only the neck to check for a pulse.  He said the body
was cold, and then he didn't touch it anymore.  In fact, I think he
tried to avoid looking at it at all until the patrol unit arrived.  I
get the feeling he was pretty close to losing it."  Tracy wrinkled up
her face as she thought about it.  "Not that I blame him.  I can't say
I wanted to look at it, either.  But he's obviously not the perp.
Can't fake that kind of reaction."
     "No, turning pasty gray isn't easy to do," Nick agreed.
     The rain drummed on the umbrella, getting louder, the storm's
intensity growing.  "Nick, my feet are soaked.  Do you think we can
leave now?" Tracy asked plaintively.



Act 1, Scene 2

Why is your face so stained with tears?
  -- Electra

     Finished with the autopsy, Natalie quietly covered the small
defenseless body.  She put a hand gently on his forehead.  "Rest in
peace, Kevin.  Just rest, now, in that better place you're in," she
said softly.  The pain suddenly seemed unbearable.  She turned away
and snapped her gloves off and threw them in the biological hazard
waste disposal.  Natalie sat down at her desk, closed her eyes, and
leaned her head against her hands.  A tear slid down her cheek.
     Children were the hardest.  They were so young, so innocent and
so defenseless.  They didn't have the physical strength to fight off
their attackers, nor could they outrun them.   Her insides churned at
the thought.  Tonight had been a bad one for her.  First the Parkway
Killer's victim, and then the call asking her to do the autopsy on a
child the day shift hadn't gotten to.  A child brutally abused and
murdered.  Sometimes she hated all killers with a violence that was
frightening.  They killed to protect themselves and their lusts.  They
didn't care that they destroyed; all they cared about was satiating
their own sick needs.
     Damn them, Natalie thought, as her god-child Cynthia's face
haunted her.  Damn them all.   The door opened bringing Natalie
abruptly back to the present.  She was unaccountably happy to be
interrupted.
     Tracy walked in followed closely by Nick.  Both looked
uncomfortably damp.  Their hair, while not plastered to their heads,
had that slightly frizzed look of slowly drying hair.  Tracy's shoe
squeaked as she walked across the room.  Natalie raised an eyebrow and
pointedly looked at Tracy's feet as she approached.
     "Nice squeak, Tracy," Natalie said with a grin.  She looked past
Tracy to see it mirrored on Nick's face.  He was trying hard not to
laugh.
     "Yeah.  Well, let's hope it's not permanent.  These shoes
cost...."  She stopped, took a breath, and found her sense of humor.
A smile suddenly lit her face.  "Murphy's law.  I would have to wear
new shoes in a rainstorm."
     "You should have heard her walking down the hall," Nick added
impishly.  "It was squeak, swish, squeak, swish..."
     "Hey!  The swish was you, too," Tracy protested, swatting his
arm, looking for support from Natalie.  "Wet clothes make this rasping
sound when you walk.  *Everybody's* wet clothes," she emphasized,
rising up on the balls of her feet slightly, staring at Nick.
     Nick merely grinned.
     Natalie felt her mood lift with the light-hearted banter.
     "It's a losing battle, Trace," she said dryly.  "You'll never get
Nick to admit to anything."
     "No, maybe not, but at least I can take comfort in knowing he's
wetter than me.  He didn't have an umbrella," she said triumphantly.
     "Turned into a downpour, did it?" Natalie asked.
     "Yes, one of those storms where someone turns on the faucet,"
Tracy agreed.  "And it lasted until we got back in the Caddy.  Then,
wouldn't you know it, it stopped.  Weird."
     "Speaking of which," Nick intervened adroitly, "did the rain wash
away all the evidence, or did you find anything?"
     "Well, whether the rain washed it away, or the killer was very
careful, I don't know.  I really haven't had a chance to check,"
Natalie said.  "But I'll bet the body is clean.  He really is thorough
and organized."  Natalie shook her head as though it would help clear
out the depression she felt.  "Sorry.  It's just that I'm not looking
forward to doing this autopsy.  The way this guy kills just makes me
sick."   Natalie stopped abruptly.  "I guess I let it get to me," she
said.
     "Sometimes we all do," Tracy agreed, thinking about how hard this
one was for her.
     "You haven't started the autopsy, yet?" Nick asked, surprised.
     "No," Natalie said shortly.  "I got a another one handed me as a
priority.  I barely made it to the lab when I had a *request* to
perform an autopsy ASAP.  Be glad you aren't on that one, guys."
     "Why?" Tracy asked. "What is it?"
     "A twelve-year old was beaten to death by his father.  Abused and
beaten...," Natalie trailed off.
     "Natalie?"  Nick asked gently.  "Are you okay?"
     "Yeah," Natalie said, avoiding eye contact.  "I'm okay...  I
think."
     "Should we come back later?" Tracy asked, concerned.
     "No.  I can give you some preliminary stuff, not that it's any
different, but we have the usual signatures, starting with..."
     "A teardrop," Nick supplied, "underneath the right eye."
     "Yes, the teardrop," Natalie confirmed, "which is comprised of a
cheap makeup, as before, probably something from a costume or
Halloween kit.  There's wax, mineral oil, talc, preservatives, and
coloring--probably ultramarine or cobalt blue.  It's being analyzed.
Anyway, it looks like the same kit he's been using all along.  What I
still find strange is that he seals the teardrop with nail polish,"
Natalie said.
     "Almost like he wants to ensure that it is preserved, undamaged,"
Nick added, thinking aloud.
     "Maybe," Natalie said.  "I don't know."
     "Could it be his way of making the victim cry, or feel pain,
whether they really do or not?" Tracy asked, puzzled.
     "I don't know.  It's possible.  But if the teardrop represents
pain, I think it more likely it's the killer's pain, not the
victim's," Nick said slowly, unconsciously rubbing his thumb.  "He
needs them to express sorrow for something--something specific--that
happened to him.   He can't resolve it in his own mind, so he's using
his victims to resolve it.  If that's true, he has to do it over and
over again, because it isn't the person he really wants to punish."
     Tracy raised an eyebrow.  "It makes sense, I guess...but you
would think he could work it out through a psychiatrist or something.
Killing people to resolve his pain is just sick."
     "You'd be happier if it was his way of acknowledging the pain
he's causing?" Nick asked softly.
     Tracy shrugged.  "Not really, but I could understand it, maybe.
I just don't understand it."
     "You probably don't want to," Nick said.
     Natalie looked up at him sharply, not liking the tone of his
voice.  Nick's own guilt was slipping through the cracks.
     "I suppose that's true.  Everything I've learned about serial
killers says they are so driven by their own needs that they don't
have a conscience--or at least they've suppressed it to the extent it
doesn't matter.  The desire to fill their own needs wipes out any
concern for their victims," Tracy said.  She looked at Nick.  "Doesn't
it?"
     "It depends," Nick said quietly.  Too quietly for Natalie.  "They
might not have any conscience when they kill, but often they struggle
to stop themselves.  But then the need fills them--whether it's the
need to satisfy the emptiness or sexual desire or whatever--it calls
to them and eventually they succumb, or are overwhelmed.  And when
they fail and sanity returns, they can be as guilty and horrified as
the next person--until the need overwhelms them again.  It just
depends on the person."
     "But that's not always the case," Tracy persisted, oblivious to
the undertones.  "Is it?"
     "No," Natalie supplied, eyeing Nick cautiously.  "Sometimes they
don't care at all.  Sociopaths, for instance, don't comprehend pain or
suffering, unless it's their own."
     "True," Nick agreed his voice lightening.  "But there is no
template that defines why a murderer murders.  Each is different,
Tracy.  There are no hard and fast rules.  But every murderer has a
pattern, and that mean we can understand their behavior, find them,
and stop them.  So even if the Parkway Killer doesn't leave hard
evidence we can trace, he does leave a pattern."
     Natalie took her cue.  "The rose, for instance."
     "The rose," Nick echoed.
     "Yeah, but what does it mean?" Tracy asked, idly running a finger
along Natalie's desk.
     "I don't know," Nat answered.  "All I know is, it's done *before*
death," she said softly.  "Why does he have to do that?"
     Nick looked at Natalie, feeling her underlying pain, and realized
that more than this case was bothering her.  He decided he would have
to talk to her alone.  Soon.
     "Still," Tracy pursued, looking at Nick, "it has to mean
something, just like the teardrop does.  Everything he's doing seems
to have some really significant meaning.  Or else why is he doing it--
and doing it over and over again?  I mean, its like he's taking out a
full-page ad in the paper or something.   So what is the message?
What is he trying to tell us?"
     "You're assuming the message is for us," Nick said leaning back
against the wall and crossing his arms comfortably across his chest.
"Remember he might be sending a message to only one person or simply
expurgating his own soul."
     "Yeah, but I doubt it," Tracy said emphatically.  "Otherwise, why
put the bodies out where they--and their messages--can be found.  I
think he wants to whole world to share his little problem."
     "Maybe, Tracy," Nick said suddenly keying in on what she had
rattled off thoughtlessly, "it is his way of telling us what his
problem is--what he's trying to resolve.  It could also be his way of
telling us something about his inner image of himself, or why he's
doing it."  Nick shrugged.  "Then again, it may just be his way of
putting roses on the grave."
     "Or his way of expressing his inner artist," Natalie added dryly.
     "Eww," Tracy said making a face.  "That's sick."
     "That's the point, Trace," Nick said quietly.  "He *is* sick."
He looked at Natalie.  "Anything else you want to add?"
     "No, not really.  Without the autopsy, anything else is
speculation," Natalie said.  "But he is definitely not someone I would
want to meet in a dark alley."
     All three were silent for a moment.
     "I wish I could give you more.  But I can't--yet.  From the other
cases, we already know that he's right-handed and likes to paint
teardrops and carve roses.  He's killing people, and he's doing it
with a consistently increasing frequency.  It was over three months
between the first two murders.   Then it dropped to two months between
the second and third victims.  Now it's been less than a month, and
he's killed again..." Natalie realized she was rattling on and
stopped, hating it.  .
     "Yeah," Nick said.  "I know.  He's losing control of his urges.
He needs to kill.  Let's just hope it makes him careless, so that he
leaves some useful evidence to help us catch him."
     "And someone will die," Natalie whispered,  "so that we can get
that evidence."
     "Probably," Nick conceded reluctantly.  "Unless we get help, or
get lucky..."  Silence filled the room.
     Tracy cleared her throat.  "We might get lucky," she pointed out,
"we might just find something new.  Remember there was only thirty
minutes in which he could have dumped the body.  He may have left some
physical evidence on the body."
     "True," Natalie agreed.  "I'll get started on the autopsy and see
what I can find."
     "And somebody may have seen him," Tracy said looking at Nick.
     Nick brightened.  "It's possible.   Maybe we should go look into
that, partner."
     Tracy smiled.  "Okay.  Catch you later, Natalie."
     "Yeah, later," Natalie said with a small smile.
     "I'll catch up to you, Tracy," Nick said, eyeing Natalie.
     Tracy looked at him with a spark of interest.  She really wished
she could figure out what was with Nick and Natalie.  Oh well, maybe
Nick would let something slip later.  Yeah, right, Mr. closed-mouth.
More like glued-shut, to be precise.  She was going to have to hone
her interrogation skills.  That, at least, was something to look
forward to.
     "I'll see you at the precinct, then," Tracy said, and waved a
cheery goodbye.
     "Squeak, swish," Nick mouthed to Natalie as she left.  She
listened to the squeaking fade away with a slight smile, and turned to
find Nick watching her intently.
     "Are you okay, Natalie?" he asked softly.
     She tightened her lips trying to suppress the emotions suddenly
heaving and churning inside her, under his understanding gaze.
     "Yeah, I'm fine...," she trailed off.
     Nick waited.
     She closed her eyes and a tear began a slow journey down her
cheek.  She struggled to hold it inside.  Nick was instantly beside
her, his arms surrounding her.
     "Okay, then." she surrendered with a slight sob, "I'm not fine."
Natalie began to cry quietly into his shoulder.  Nick held her and let
the storm run its course in silence.  He rubbed her back and held her
close.
     Finally, Natalie pulled away and found a Kleenex.  Defiantly, she
blew her nose and wiped her eyes.  She felt embarrassed at her
emotional overflow.  It didn't happen often, but it seemed like Nick
was always around when she did fall apart.
     "Thanks, Nick," she said quietly.
     "Anytime," Nick said, and added softly, "my shoulder is always
available for you to cry on, Nat."
     She stared at him and tension bloomed between them.
     Nick looked down at his hands, breaking contact.  He looked back
up to find Natalie watching him with a look he had no difficulty
reading.  He swallowed and changed the subject, knowing that whatever
feelings Natalie had for him, or he for her--it was something they
couldn't explore, it would only end disastrously.
     "It's Cynthia, isn't it?" he asked.
     Natalie blinked, and a brief shadow of sadness crossed her face.
Whether it was for Cynthia or for them, Nick couldn't tell.
     Natalie sighed as she looked up at Nick.  "It's Cynthia, and
every single one of these children that end up on my table.  Their
innocence is cut short, and then their lives.  They die in pain and
fear.  They die, not understanding why someone would do this to them.
Only a sadistic murderer keeps them company--and in this case, it was
his father--someone he should have been able to trust.  That's worse
than alone."  Her voice rose, becoming tremulous.  She took a shaky
breath.  "Sometimes I can't bear the pain.  Their pain."  She closed
her eyes and bit her lip, then turned away.
     Nick closed the distance between them and put his arms around
her, and rested his chin on her head.
     "You know, it isn't just the children, either.  It's all the
people who end up here, because somebody thought they had the right to
play God," Natalie said fiercely.  "I can determine exactly what was
done to them and in what order, and I can produce all the evidence in
the world to put away these killers--but it *isn't* enough.  I want
them to live!  I want to undo the horrible things that have been done.
They should have their whole lives ahead of them.  And they don't."
     Nick tightened his hold on her and rubbed her back comfortingly.
     "You know, Nick, I can understand how, I just can't understand
why.  I just can't..."
     "I know," Nick said.  "Natalie, I've done a lot of things in my
life that are probably beyond your comprehension, and some were..."
He stopped as Natalie took his hand in hers and held it tightly.  "
But you are right.  They should have their lives, they shouldn't have
to die like this.  But they do and we can't change it.  We can only
give them justice."
     "Justice."  Natalie said the word as if it was a foreign object.
"I'm not sure Kevin's father deserves justice--or this guy who carves
roses on people like it's some kind of new art form.  Justice is a
trial and a nice cushy jail cell.  They deserve to suffer, to burn in
hell, for what they've done. They should be dead!"
     Nick became still and was silent for so long that Natalie let go
of his hand and turned to face him.  The look on his face spoke
volumes.  Natalie felt his pain palpably.
     "Nick...," Natalie said stricken.
     He merely shook his head, and his face seemed to close down.
     "Nat," he said softly, "don't...don't feel that way.  Don't let
them control how you feel.  I...  It's just that I'm not sure if we
are talking about Kevin's father, the Parkway killer, murderers in
general..." His unspoken words *or me* hung in the air between them
for several long seconds,  "...or whether we are talking about Gault."
Nick paused for a moment, "You've never let go of that anger, and it's
eating at you.  Isn't it?"
     Natalie turned away and hugged herself tightly, closing him out.
     He waited patiently, stuffing his own guilt away.  This wasn't
about him.
     "I don't know," she said slowly.  "Maybe.  I just know it hurts
and I'm angry.  Maybe I'm still angry with Gault.  I guess I wanted
him to suffer, like he made Cynthia suffer, like her parent's did--and
still do."
     She turned and looked at Nick.  "Is it so wrong, to want him to
suffer?"
     "No, it's a normal reaction."  He smiled at her as he added,
"It's a very human reaction."
     Natalie smiled at the irony behind his words.
     "I just know from personal experience that when you hang on to
anger, the only one who really suffers in the end is yourself.  You
need to work this out, Nat.  Somehow, you've got to work it out," Nick
said quietly.
     Natalie kicked her toe against her desk.  "Yeah, maybe.  But how?
How do I stop hating him?  How do I stop hating all of them?" she
cried in frustration.
     "I don't know, Nat.  I've spent a lot of time trying to figure
that one out...," Nick stopped, and after a moment, quirked an
eyebrow.  "I can't say it's one I've ever followed, but... 'Love your
enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and
pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.'  Matthew,
chapter 5, verse 44."
     "What?" Natalie asked confused, staring at Nick in amazement.
     "I don't know, maybe you work it out by returning the hatred with
kindness, like the Bible says," Nick said with a grin, "you know, turn
the other cheek."
     "I didn't know you knew the Bible, Nick," Natalie said, suddenly
diverted.
     "Yeah, well, for a long time, it was the only thing you could
find to read.  So I read it.  Several times," Nick said a little
defensively.
     Natalie laughed.  "Really!  This is interesting, Nick.  Stunning,
in fact.  It's hard to image you reading the Bible."
     Nick gave her a look.
     Natalie snickered and hastily covered her mouth with her hand.
     Nick shrugged and gave a slightly sheepish grin.
     Natalie smiled back, then took a deep breath.  "Okay," she said,
pacing around the autopsy table, "Perhaps you are right.  Maybe you
are supposed to love your enemy, but it's a very hard thing to want to
do.  I feel so much anger, it closes off any desire I have
to...forgive, or to ...," Natalie paused,  unable to complete the
sentence or the thought.  "I just don't think I can, Nick."
     Nick gripped Natalie by the shoulders and stared intently into
her eyes.  "Yes, you can, Nat.  You're one of the most caring people
I've ever met.  Natalie, your life is full of kindness and giving.
Without you...I don't know where I would be.  You gave me hope, you
gave me a belief in my humanity.  You accepted me.  That's an
incredible gift.
     "People like Gault only know how to take.  They are full of anger
and hatred and it destroys them.  It's a very empty life.  I know,
Natalie.  I've been there.  Maybe that's why we need to give, because
it fills up the emptiness in us.  It makes us happy.  I don't know
why, but it does."
     Natalie looked at him quizzically.  "Now who are we talking
about?" she asked.
     Nick smiled lopsidedly.  "Maybe me.  Maybe you.  Maybe all of us.
I don't know."  Companionable silence fell between them.  Nick hugged
Natalie close and then pulled back to look at her.
     "Do you feel any better about this?"
     "Yes.  I think I do.  Thanks," Natalie said with a smile.  "I
can't say I've solved anything, but...I feel better."
     Nick kissed her lightly on the forehead.  "Good."
     "So what are you doing, later?" Natalie asked.
     "You mean after my shift?"
     "Yeah."
     "Nothing.  What did you have in mind?" Nick asked with a sudden
grin.
     "Why don't I bring a video over and we can wind down together?"
Natalie asked.
     Nick looked at her, his eyes expressing his love.  "I'd love
that."
     Natalie smiled.  "Okay.  I'll meet you at the loft after work.
Sounds like a plan to me."
     Nick kissed her forehead again.  "Guess I'd better go before
Tracy sends out an APB.  See you later."
     "See you," Natalie said softly.
     Nick gave her a smile and disappeared out the door.
     Natalie stood idly twirling a pencil as she thought for a moment
about what Nick had said.  He had given her a lot to think about.  She
hadn't realized she was so angry--not consciously.   She didn't like
the way it made her feel, or the kind of person it was making her.
She did have to deal with this.  She had to get this anger out of her
system before it did permanent damage.
     She was surprised in a way that Nick was the one to point it out
to her.  He was so wrapped up in his guilt he couldn't see straight
half the time, and yet, he could see this.  A pity, she thought, that
he couldn't apply it to himself--but then she wasn't one to talk.
Look at where she was.
     Natalie shook her head, and then she smiled.  Nick read the
Bible.  It still astonished her.  He avoided religious symbols as much
as possible, yet he'd read the Bible.  Amazing.  She laughed at the
thought, feeling somehow refreshed as if a weight had been taken off
her shoulders.  Then she got back to work.  She still had a body to
autopsy.



Act 1, Scene 3

If we put our heads together, we could surely...
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus


     Nick breezed into the precinct and slid into his chair.  Tracy
looked up at him and raised her eyebrows.
     "So, have you found anything out from the uniform interviews?"
Nick asked briskly before Tracy could get out the question that was
obviously burning a hole in her tongue.
     She opened her mouth, stopped, gave him a frustrated look, and
narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.  Nick watched her with a guileless
look while inwardly enjoying her thought processes.  She would be
lousy at poker.  Maybe he should invite her over to play a hand
sometime.  He could probably make a small fortune without even trying-
-not that he needed a small fortune--but still, the idea appealed to
him.
     "Not really," Tracy finally spluttered.  "The only possible
witnesses were joggers--seven of them, to be precise.  We have names
and addresses, but initial reports indicate none of them saw anything
suspicious.  With the rain, they probably had their heads down.  If
there was anything to observe--with our luck--they all missed it.
     "We need to interview these people for any vehicles they may have
seen and cross-check their whereabouts and see if we can derive any
useful information from their locations.  It is possible, Nick, that
our murderer took on the role of a jogger."
     Nick frowned as he thought about it.  "Possible, I suppose, but
not probable.  It doesn't really fit the profile we have of him."
     Tracy shrugged, "Well, you never know.  We might still want to
keep it in mind."
     "Okay," Nick said with a shrug.  It never hurt to keep an open
mind to the extreme possibilities.
     "Anyway," Tracy continued, "it looks like tomorrow we are going
to be doing interviews."
     "Maybe Getz and Miller can interview some of them during the
day," Nick mused, leaning his chin on his hand.  "It might help us get
a heads-up on things.  The sooner the better, you know."
     Tracy brightened at that thought.  She hated going door to door.
It made her feel like a salesman or something.  So slimy.  She
shuddered involuntarily at that thought.
     "We should probably check with the businesses and homes in the
area, and see if anyone saw anything," Nick added, thinking out loud.
"I think there is a reason the perp is dumping them all on the
Parkway."
     "Like, what?"  Tracy asked sarcastically. "He eats his lunch
there?  His happiest memories as a child were in the park?"
     Nick grinned slightly.  "That wasn't quite what I was thinking,
Trace,"
     Trace leaned back in her chair.  "You have a better reason,
then?"
     "No, but think about it.  The victims have been picked up all
over the city.  The first was from Chinatown, the second near Yonge
and Eglinton, the third over by High Park, and I'll bet tonight's
victim is from an entirely new location."
     "He could be from anywhere," Tracy agreed glumly.  "We won't know
until we can identify him."
     "Yeah.   But all of them were found within one mile of each other
on the Parkway.  Maybe he is being sloppy--but I doubt it.  It's more
likely a matter of proximity.  It might be close to home or work, so
that he isn't doing anything outside of his normal habits to dump
them.  This guy is organized and I'll bet he's doing it to prevent
anyone from noticing anything unusual."
     "If it's proximity, then why wouldn't he be picking them all up
in the same neighborhood, too?"  Tracy asked.  "I don't think it makes
sense."
     "Yeah, it does.  A neighborhood would become more observant as
the people got more frightened.  Spreading it out, keeps people from
becoming alert.  It's safer and easier to find a victim.  But he could
be involved in making deliveries or driving a vehicle on a standard
route that takes him all over the city.  He might spot them that way,"
Nick answered.
     "Or he just likes to drive around the city aimlessly looking for
victims," Tracy muttered.
     "Maybe, but I don't know," Nick agreed.  "There's too many
possibilities to really tie it down."  He rubbed the bridge of his
nose as he thought about it.  "I don't know, Trace, I still think
there is something here that we are missing.  Maybe we should go
through the case files again.  There's a reason for the Parkway."
     "Why?" Tracy asked, enjoying playing the devil's advocate.
Besides she was in a mood to question everything Nick said tonight.
He wasn't the only detective with brains in this partnership.
     "I don't know.  It's just a feeling," Nick said missing her
sarcasm.  Something hovered at the edge of his mind and he struggled
to bring it into focus.
     Just then Officer Lloyd dropped some files on Tracy's desk and
Nick lost his concentration.  Whatever was hovering vanished.
     "Here are the last of the reports, guys.  Oh, and there's the
report on the Jensen shooting, Detective Knight," she said as she
handed him another folder.  She smiled sympathetically and made her
escape.
     Tracy eyed the stack and made a face.  She hated paperwork.  Nick
glanced at the report in the file.  They looked at each other.
     "You finish up Jensen, I'll finish doing the uniform reports,"
Tracy volunteered reluctantly.
     Nick leafed through the file and sighed.  "I've got to go over to
ballistics."
     At that moment, Captain Reese swept into the bullpen and headed
for his office looking a little harried.  Lt. Corvall followed on his
heels with a stack of folders hugged to her chest.  Reese caught sight
of Nick and Tracy and detoured past their desks.  Corvall nearly ran
into Reese when he stopped abruptly.  Nick thought for a moment that
she looked just like a terrier.  He suppressed a smile
     "Hi, Cap," Tracy said brightly.
     "Cap," Nick added, "how was the vacation?"
     Reese smiled, a little tightly,  "Great.  Too many museums,
though.  Denise dragged me to every single museum in Boston, I think.
That woman loves museums almost as much as she loves talk shows.  But
I gotta admit there was one exhibit, that was...riveting," Reese
paused, looking at Nick,  "but it was good to get away.  Can't say I
missed this place at all."
     "Well, you were missed, though," Tracy said.  "Nick tells me
Captain Masur just doesn't do nights."
     Reese raised an eyebrow.  "That so?"
     Nick shrugged.  "He just needed more time to adjust.  Not
everybody is a night person."
     Reese nodded in agreement, while Corvall bounced around behind
him impatiently.
     "Glad to see you back on the job, Vetter," Reese said smiling at
Tracy.
     Tracy grinned up at him.  "It's good to be back, Cap."
     Nick listened to the banter, wondering why the Captain was so
tense for his first night back.  He could read it in every line of his
body.  It felt a little odd.  But Reese's next question answered his
question.
     "I hear the Parkway Killer is back.  You two have any leads?"
Reese asked.
     "Not really," Nick said.  "This guy is very clean.  He's an
organized killer--very methodical and planned.  He leaves nothing to
chance.  But he might have screwed up this time.  He dumped the body
earlier than he has in the past.  There were more people around and
we've been able to bracket the time-frame for when he dumped the
body."
     "A half-hour," Tracy piped in.
     "So we are going to canvas the area around the Parkway tomorrow
and see if anybody saw anything suspicious," Nick finished.
     "That's all?"  Reese asked, disappointed.
     "Yeah, but you never know, something could break. His cycle is
getting shorter.  He can't contain his urges anymore, and he's getting
careless.  Dumping the body that early in the evening is proof," Nick
said.  "He's never dumped one before midnight before."
     "Yeah, but  *people* are dying, and I want it stopped now.  You
hear!  Find this guy!"  Reese walked off frustrated and slammed his
door shut in Corvall's startled face.  After a moment's hesitation,
she opened the door and disappeared inside.
     Nick and Tracy looked at each other.  Tracy wasn't sure what to
think.  A tiny crease marred Nick's forehead as he thought over the
exchange.  Something was definitely up with Reese.
     Tracy sighed.  "You don't suppose the media's been leaning on him
already, do you?"
     "Maybe," Nick murmured, puzzled.  "Either that, or somebody
upstairs is."  Reese's reaction seemed a little off.  Nick shrugged it
off and looked back at the folder in his hands.  "I'm going to take
care of the Jensen case, and then we can concentrate on the Parkway
Killer."
     Nick pushed back from the desk and headed out.  Tracy watched him
go and thought about what he had said.  She wondered if her Dad was
leaning on Reese.  She knew what *that* felt like, and suddenly felt
sorry for the Cap.
     Idly she twisted a paperclip in her hands as her thoughts
wandered farther.  Nick had stayed with Natalie for quite some time,
and he'd deftly averted her questions when he had finally showed up.
He was really good at avoiding topics he *wanted* to avoid.
     Maybe she should change tactics and grill Natalie.  Natalie,
though, Tracy decided was just about as tight with a word as Nick.
But they couldn't keep it up forever.  They were bound to let
something slip sooner or later, and she was in the prime position to
see it.
     With a slight smile, she opened the first report and started
reading.  The shift would be over soon, and she had a lot of ground to
cover.

                                  +++++

     Nick signed the last of the papers and closed the folder.  "That
takes care of the Jensen case," he muttered.   In an even lower tone
he breathed, "I hate paperwork."
     "What?  What did you say?"  Tracy asked perking her ears.
     "Nothing."  Nick said.  He looked at the clock.  "Sun's coming
up.  I've got to go."
     "Yeah," Tracy agreed, "time to call it a night.  I've organized a
plan for tonight.  Interviews and canvassing.  And I've left some for
Getz and Miller.  That okay?"
     "Yeah," Nick said absently as he searched the desk for his
sunglasses.
     "Oh, I almost forgot, the Captain wants to have an update on his
desk tomorrow night, first thing," Tracy said.  She leaned forward and
whispered, "I'm really glad he's back from vacation, even if he had to
come back to this.  After listening to what people have been saying,
I'm glad I missed working under Masur."
     Nick smiled.  "Masur may be a good Captain," he said softly, "but
he's too wound up for the night shift." It took a certain laid-back
attitude to get through the nights.  People got tired after midnight,
and if they were wound as tight as Masur, they got cranky and
autocratic.  And Masur had been cranky and autocratic *all* week.
"Maybe he wasn't getting enough sleep," he said, "he is a day guy,
after all."
     Tracy smiled and said slyly.  "LoMiller told me that you were
calling him Little Napolean, Nick."
     "Never," Nick snorted.
     Tracy raised an eyebrow.
     Nick laughed.  "All right, I give.  He's cranky.  He's Napoleon--
and he's gone.  You happy?"
     "Yeah," Tracy said with a satisfied grin.
      "Good," Nick said, pushing back his chair and standing up.
"Sun's coming up," he said again, and put on his sunglasses.  "Bye."
     Tracy was always amazed how he just up and left.  No chit chat,
no nothing.  "Bye," she said to his vanishing form.  She shrugged.
That was Nick.




Act 2, Scene 1

What puzzles you?
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Joe Reese covertly watched Nick's departure from the safety of
his office.  He sat stiffly and uncomfortably in his normally
comfortable chair. When he'd first taken over the office, it had been
standard issue--and it had been as uncomfortable as hell.  It'd taken
a mere three days before he broke down and bought his own.  He had no
idea how Cohen had lived with that damned thing all those years.  A
good chair made all the difference in the world, and this one had
lumbar-support *and* extra padding.  But tonight it didn't feel
comfortable at all.  He shifted uneasily again, trying to find some
position that didn't make him twitchy.  The problem, though, Reese
knew, was not with the chair.  It was in his head.  He had a big
puzzle in front of him, and it was driving him crazy.
     He stared down once more at Nick's personnel file.  It wasn't the
first time he'd looked at it; he'd looked at all his people's files
when he'd become Captain of the 96th precinct.  But that had been a
cursory glance done under the incredible stress of Cohen's death and
the precinct bombing.  This time he'd examined it in minute detail,
searching every line for answers.  And he didn't like what he'd found,
not one damn bit.  His little puzzle, that he had been sure the file
would answer, was getting bigger every second.   In fact, getting
Knight's file (his first official action he'd taken when he'd returned
tonight) had made it worse...
     Reese shifted in the chair again.  It felt like the iron maiden,
he shifted again and got up to stretch.   Getting his hands on Nick's
file hadn't helped him at all.  It explained nothing, and Reese found
he was unable to keep his focus on work.
      He watched Tracy Vetter pick up her purse and follow Nick out of
the precinct.  He supposed he ought to go, too.  The shift was over,
but he didn't want to take this problem home again.  Denise would
probably throw him out.  She'd not been very happy to have to have him
muttering about it all the way home from Boston.  If only they hadn't
gone to that museum, Reese thought.  If only...
     Since that day his thoughts had kept circling and circling--and
always coming back to the same question.  Who and what the hell was
Nick Knight?

Boston, two days ago...

     Joe Reese looked undeniably relaxed as he sauntered along after
Denise.  It was their first museum of the day--and the fourth on this
trip--but he didn't mind.  It had been too long since they had been on
a vacation, and far too long since he had really pampered Denise.  For
the last five days, they'd done everything she wanted to do, and
Denise was in heaven.  It made Joe happy, too, because when Denise was
happy, she spread it around.  He grinned, remembering just exactly
what she'd done for him--and to him the previous night.
     He watched Denise's hips sway with pure enjoyment.  Yeah, this
trip had been great.  For once, his job wasn't getting in the way of
their plans.  Even better, he wasn't wearing a tie, and that made him
a very happy man.  Man, he hated ties.
     Boston had been a good idea, he thought.  Not too far, but far
enough that work wasn't following him.  He noticed Denise veering into
a bunch of cracked dishes.  Why would anybody want to display cracked
dishes, Joe wondered?   Ah well, it didn't really matter as long as he
didn't have to look at them.  He saw a another gallery that looked
more appealing to him, and touched Denise on the shoulder.  "Honey,
I'm going to check out that exhibit over there, okay?"
     Denise smiled.  She recognized escape when she saw it.  "Sure,
Joe.  I'll come and get you if I get done first."
     Joe bussed her fondly on the check and headed for the gallery.
He didn't pay much attention to what it was as he went in.  It wasn't
dishes.  That was all that mattered.  Turned out it was someone's
exposition on how scandal affected politics or some such drivel.  He
was amused to see that the nature of scandal that could affect
someone's career had changed over time.  Used to be that politicians
could have all kinds of affairs on the side and nobody would report it
or care, but that had changed a lot in the last 30 years.  Nowadays
people got real moral outrage over that--and didn't give a damn if you
lied.  Used to be the other way around.  Joe wasn't sure which was
worse.  He figured that people ought to be honest as well as faithful-
-made life a lot better in his mind.
     His stomach growled and Joe glanced at his watch.  It was close
enough to lunch that he could probably drag Denise away.  With lunch
beckoning, he headed back towards the entrance.  And that was when it
had happened.  He ran smack-dab into the photo--the photo of Nick.  Or
at least a photo of someone that looked *exactly* like Nick.  Joe
stopped and stared with open mouth.  Then he shut it and swallowed.
He'd never seen such a perfect double in his whole life.  Damn.  He
could swear it was Nick.  But it couldn't be Nick.  It just couldn't.
He checked the plaque just to make sure.  The plaque said it was taken
at the 1968 Democratic National Convention.
     Getting his bearings, Joe scanned the information next to the
photo.  Nick, or his double, was a minor character in the display.
Thomas Gardiner, a political candidate brought down by the suicide of
Angela Mosler, one of his top staffers, was the primary focus.
Gardiner stood in front of a doorway looking at Nick's double.  The
double was looking back at him, and the look they were exchanging
spoke volumes to Reese.
     He'd seen that kind of look before.  It was the kind that spoke
of subterfuge and under-handed dealings.  He wondered briefly what had
actually happened and then dismissed it.  He was more interested in
the fact that the look on this double's face was a look he'd seen on
Nick's too many times to count.  It was a look he was sure he'd worn,
too.  It was the one you wore when you discovered who'd killed the
corpse.  Gardiner, Joe thought, had been guilty as hell.  What he'd
been guilty of didn't matter.  He'd been caught and politically
skewered.  It was history.
     But who was this guy?   He looked so much like Nick that if you
changed the clothes and the hair, it would be Nick.  He had the same
pale complexion and the same intense gaze.  Joe found himself leaning
closer and staring hard.  The card identified him only as a security
guard.
     When Denise touched him on the shoulder he gasped and jerked
back.  "Joe?"  Denise asked quizzically.  "What is it?  You've been
staring at that photo like you've seen a ghost."
     Reese wiped his brow.  He felt like he had seen a ghost.  Deep
inside, alarms were going off and he didn't know why.
     "Joe?"  Denise asked, more concerned when Joe didn't answer.
     "It's all right, Honey.  I... uh, well, I don't know.  It's just
that this guy looks exactly like one of my detectives.  He looks like
Nick Knight.   It's a little unnerving, I guess," Joe said.
     Denise tilted her head and looked at the photo, and then at Joe.
"Which one looks like him?"
     Joe numbly pointed.  Not that Denise could make any judgment
calls, she had never met Nick.
     Denise examined the photo and then looked at Joe.  "So why is it
bothering you so much?  Everybody has a double out there somewhere.
After all, there are only so many ways you can combine noses, eyes and
mouths," she said with a smile.
     Joe nodded slowly.  "Yeah, I know, but..."  Denise had hit the
nail on the head.  It was bothering Joe.  It was bothering him a lot.
     "But, what?" Denise asked.
     "I don't know," Joe said slowly taking another look.  "I really
don't know."  His stomach growled, reminding him that he was hungry.
"Never mind, honey.  Why," he said, "don't we go find something to
eat, Mrs. Reese?"
     Denise smiled back.  "Why don't we, indeed?"
     But even as they walked away, Joe couldn't help but glance back
one last time.  He felt an odd tingle run through him.  He shook his
head, and took Denise's elbow.  The sooner they got out of here, the
happier he would be.  But as they passed the information center at the
entrance, Joe slowed and the cop in him kicked into gear.  He just
couldn't let this go.
     "Hang on a second, Denise.  I just gotta ask a question," he said
as he veered toward the information booth.  Denise followed him to the
booth and listened in amazement (and some disgust) as Joe drilled the
man with questions.  When he walked away, Joe was in possession of the
phone number and name of the Curator and the Exposition manager.  If
there had been a postcard of that particular photo, no doubt he would
have got that, too.  The guy in the booth hadn't stood a chance
against the seasoned grilling of Captain Joe Reese.
     Denise just shook her head as she steered him down the road
towards an interesting looking restaurant she'd spied earlier.  Joe
was with her physically, but he'd left, mentally.  She wished she'd
never gone into that museum.
     The crab cakes were delicious, but Joe didn't notice, as he
mulled it over what he had seen.  He kept trying to figure out just
exactly what he'd seen and why it was bothering him so much.  Even
more disturbing was the ominous feeling he had.
     Denise watched in frustration as the cop took over.  She'd spent
a whole week getting it out of him, and some stupid photo was
destroying all her work.  She sighed, but knew it wouldn't do any
good.  It was a good thing that they were heading home the next day.
     "Joe," Denise said, waving a hand in his face to get his
attention.  "What's going on.  You're supposed to be on vacation.
     Reese looked up sheepishly.  He hadn't realized he'd checked out
on her.  "Sorry, honey," he said.  "I don't know what's going on,
exactly.  I just know I ran across something important with that
photo."
     "Why is this so important, Joe?  It's just an old photo."
     Joe stopped stirring his coffee and looked up.  "I don't know,
Denise.  I just know that it is.  You get a sixth sense about things,
you know, being a cop.  And this is making all the alarms go off.  And
when they go off, well, I gotta listen."
     Denise sighed and leaned back.  She'd heard this speech before.
"So what are you going to do about it?"
     Joe thought about it for a moment.  "I don't know, but I'm sure
I'll think of something."

                                   +++++

     Reese watched Tracy disappear out the door after Nick.  He stared
down at the file in his hands.  Nick's file.  He tapped it in
frustration against the desk.  Initially he'd thought that it might be
Nick's father, and that he'd been a cop doing a little work on the
side.  But the file said that Nick's father had been an archeologist.
He didn't get within a right angle of being a cop or a security guard-
-and more importantly--he had died in 1961.  The image in the
photograph could not have been his father.  So who the hell was it?
He looked at the folder again.  Nick had no brothers, no sisters,
maybe an uncle?  The file was singularly unsupportive of his ideas.
Nick apparently had no immediate or extended family.  He stopped on
that thought for a moment and wondered what it was like to have no
family.  Man, that would make holidays hard.  Holidays were crammed
with family parties.  Denise had more family than you could shake a
stick at.  But Nick had none.  It gave Reese a hollow empty feeling.
But it explained Nick's shell.  With no family to draw him out, he had
turned into a world-class recluse.
     Well, it was beside the point, Reese supposed. The point was, it
wasn't Nick's father in that photo.  It was somebody else.  And Joe
knew deep inside him, in that place where all his gut reactions came
from, that the photo was of Nick.  It was absolutely stupid and
totally ludicrous.  But he believed it--he knew it.  And all he had to
do was prove it.  Prove the impossible.  Joe snorted at the sheer
madness of it.
     But he had a few ideas on that, too.  In a few hours, a very
specialized digital imagery corporation would be open for business and
Reese would be on their doorstep.  Before he'd left Boston, he'd
wangled a copy of the photograph from the Curator.  He wanted it
enlarged and examined in detail.  It was crazy--idiotic, in fact--but
he had to know.  And if anything could prove or disprove him, this
would be it. A digitally enhanced enlargement, he hoped, would prove
him wrong.  Then he could put this whole thing to rest.  Or not...
     Joe Reese sighed and put on his jacket.  It was time to get out
of there and let someone else wrestle with all the idiots breaking the
law.  He put the file away in his drawer and locked it.  With that,
Joe Reese picked up the incriminating photo and left, intent of
finding some answers.




Act 2, Scene 2

What do you bid me to do, of which I am capable?
To have the courage to follow my counsel.
  -- Electra by Sophocles

     Nick rode the elevator to the loft morosely.  The Parkway Killer
was getting under his skin.  He tentatively touched his fangs.  They
were aching dully.  He didn't need this.  He *really* didn't need
this.  But still, he could feel it, the hunger and the need to fill
the empty place inside.  He knew how the killer felt.  He knew how
every killer felt.  He'd been there, done that, and had too many damn
T-shirts.
     The elevator jerked to a stop and he slid the door open leaving
his thoughts behind.  The loft was alive with candlelight.  Natalie
had arrived before him and brought the place to life.  The loft felt
warm and soft and full of love--like Natalie.  He smiled as his eyes
met hers.
     "Hi, Nick.  I thought I'd make myself at home.  Hope you don't
mind."  She was stirring something up in the kitchen.
     "No," Nick said softly.  "I don't mind." He dropped his coat on a
chair and dumped his mail on the table.
     "I'm making soup, want some?" she asked playfully
     Nick walked over and gingerly took a peek.  It was green.  It
looked gross.  He took a sniff.  "What is it?" he asked tentatively.
     Natalie laughed.  "Cream of Asparagus soup.  It won't kill you!"
     He made a face.  "Maybe not, but I think I'll pass."
     "Wimp," Natalie said good-naturedly.
     Nick looked at her for a long moment and said reluctantly, "Okay,
I'll try a taste..."
     Before he could get any farther Natalie stuck a spoonful in his
mouth.  Nick struggled to keep from gagging and heroically swallowed.
     Natalie watched with hopeful amusement.
     "Well, that's enough of that," Nick said when he could speak, and
made a beeline for the fridge.
     "Nick... "  Natalie's voice followed him.
     Nick opened the fridge and pulled a bottle out.  He removed the
cork impatiently and foregoing any manners drank straight from the
bottle.  The blood slid down his throat, thick and salty, invigorating
him, burning through him--giving life.
     Natalie was silent, staring at him--and the incriminating bottle.
He looked at her, then resentfully at the bottle in his hand.  "I
know, Nat," he said bitterly,  "I just think we both know after all
this time that there isn't a quick fix or easy answer.  And nothing
else sustains me, or holds the *beast* in check."
     "I know.  I'm sorry," Nat said quietly.
     "Don't be sorry, Nat," Nick said his face softening.  "You've
done more for me than anyone ever has.  Don't ever be sorry."
     They looked at each other in silent understanding.
     "Nat?"  Nick ventured finally.
     "Yes?"
     "Your soup is boiling..."
     "Oh...drat!"  Natalie jumped and turned to pull the bubbling
stuff off the burner before it boiled over.
     Nick smiled and downed the rest of the bottle while her attention
was off him.  Feeling revitalized, he put the bottle in the sink.
While Natalie prepared her dinner in companionable silence, Nick
looked through his mail impatiently.  He threw it on the table and
wandered over to the window, staring out at the lightening sky.  Beads
of water splattered against the window as the storm renewed itself
with the dawn.  Rivulets slid down the pane in random glee.  Nick
stared in fascination, his mind drifting away...feeling himself slip
inside the killer's mind.
     "NICK!"
     Nick looked around, "Huh...  What?"
     "What century are you in?  I called you three times," Natalie
said.
     "Sorry, Nat.  I'm having a hard time getting my mind off of this
case."
     "I know.  Me, too," Natalie added, joining him at the window.
     Nick put a finger out and traced patterns on the window.  "I have
seen a lot of violence in my life," he said slowly, as if forming the
thoughts and putting them into words was physically painful.  "I've
been the instigator of a lot of violence.  I've enjoyed it.  I've
loved it.  Hated it...  I've wanted it, and...needed it."
     Natalie remained silent, waiting for him to reach his point.
     "I know this killer, Natalie.  I *know* how he feels.  Something
about him is like looking at my own soul.   I can feel his
ambivalence.  He's like me.  He loves it and hates it.  But he needs
it.  He *needs* to do this."  He looked at Natalie grimly,  "And he's
not fighting it anymore.
     "I'm also certain that this is not random.  He's not killing just
to kill.  It's not sexual, either.  I'm sure of that.  He has a
purpose.  I just haven't figured out what it is, yet, but I know he's
got a purpose--a very definite agenda.  If we don't find him before
he's done, I don't think we ever will."
     "Why?"  Natalie asked, puzzled.  "Because we don't have any
suspects?  And why do you think he'll stop.  Once someone starts down
this path, they typically don't stop unless they're captured or
killed."
     "I know.  But he's not exactly...typical.  Something about him
doesn't fit the profile."
     Natalie searched Nick's face.  "That may be true, but how can you
know he'll stop?"
     "Because.  I've felt it.  I felt something at the murder scene.
It's like a vibration, and you know what, Nat?   He leaves such a
strong impression behind, that I think I'd know him if I met him,"
Nick said as he ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
     "Wait, you can feel him?" Natalie asked incredulous.  "What do
you mean, you can feel him?  Is this telepathic or something?  Is this
typical?"
     Nick shrugged.  "No, it's not typical--it's not anything remotely
normal, Nat.  I just know he leaves this impression behind.  It
lingers with the body.  It's a lot like when I know another vampire's
around.  An aura would be the best way to describe it."  Nick shook
his head and stared out the window.  "But he's mortal, Nat--and that
makes it extremely unusual."
     "So you're telling me you have a psychic connection of some kind
with the Parkway Killer?" Natalie asked.
     Nick nodded, not looking at her.
     "And it's not a normal vampire ... talent?" Natalie asked
carefully.
     "No."
     Nat stared at him in fascination, wanting to pursue this new
information.  "But...you can recognize other vampires--just by this
aura?  And that is normal?"
     Nick nodded, as he suddenly realized he'd let something drop that
maybe he shouldn't have.  The more Natalie knew, the more danger she
was in.  He realized he shouldn't say anymore about this than he had
to.
     "Yeah, I can.  But that's not the point.  The point is, I can
recognize his aura.  I think I can recognize the Parkway Killer if I
get near him.   I'm sure of it, in fact.  I don't know why, but I'm
sure.  Maybe it's because he feels a lot like I do, Nat.  He's divided
and struggling with his nature.  He's consumed with this overwhelming
need to reach his...objective.  He's consumed by it--to the point that
I don't think he knows who he is anymore.  He just knows that if he
has to do this."
     The silence grew longer, punctuated by rumbling thunder.
     "What are you saying, Nick?" Natalie asked at last.  "That you
are divided?  That you don't know who *you* are?  That you are losing
the battle to be human?  That you are doing this just because you
think you have to?"  There was a tiny tremor in her voice.
     Nick turned and gazed at Natalie, and then looked away.  He
leaned his head against the pane.  "I don't know.  I just
feel...empty, and I want... I want..."
     He closed his eyes and sighed, "Sometimes when I deal with these
kinds of cases, the vampire becomes stronger--a lot stronger.  The
hunger overwhelms me.  I forget what I want--what I'm striving for--
because of the immediacy of the hunger."
     "Are you sure?" Natalie asked.  "Is the vampire getting stronger?

Or is it that you are just paying more attention to it, because of
this psychic connection?"
     Nick's shoulders slumped.  "I don't know."  He turned and leaned
against the window and stared at her.  His eyes were tinted gold.
"Sometimes I feel it's hopeless.  And I think that more often than I
used to."
     Natalie stared at him, trying to understand what he wasn't
saying, what he was struggling to verbalize.
     "Nick," she said finally, "have you lost hope?  Are you saying
you don't believe that you can become human, that you can find a way
back?"
     He looked away and shrugged.  "I don't know, Nat.  I... I don't
know."
     "Are you giving up?  Is this your way of saying it's time to move
on?"
     Nick wouldn't meet her eyes.  He turned back to the window and
watched the rain beat against it.
     Natalie closed the distance between them, but he refused to turn,
refused to meet her gaze.
     "Nick answer me!  Tell me what's going on.  Tell me what you're
thinking," Natalie demanded as the silence grew.  Lightning
illuminated them suddenly, throwing the room into stark relief.
     "I *don't* know," Nick said in frustration.
     Nat stared at him, anger starting to form. "Nick," she said
angrily, but he cut her off.
     "Nat, I don't.  Really.  I'm not planning on leaving... It's just
that if there is no hope, no cure possible..."  He shook his head
impatiently, and turned to look at her.  His eyes were a chilly green-
gold. "Nat, I'm a vampire who is *trying* to be human.  I'm not.  And
I may never be, no matter how much I want it.  My reaction to events
is far different than yours or Tracy's because of *who* and *what* I
am.  Some days I don't know who I am.  I don't know if I'm a vampire
playing at being a cop, or a cop that happens to be a vampire,
or...something else.  And when I don't know who I am, I lose control
and nature tends to win, and my nature is..." Nick sighed, "I'm sorry,
Natalie.  This wasn't a good idea..."
     Natalie watched him as he stared moodily out the window at the
dark lowering skies and heavy rain.  Sometimes she wondered if there
was a cure, too.  It was hard.  It was hard for her, and hard for
him... She wondered what she could say to reach him.  And then,
suddenly, she knew.
     "How well *do* you know the Bible, Nick?"
     Nick turned around and stared at Natalie, his face a question
mark.  "What are you talking about, Nat?"
     "Well, you are the one who said you've read it.  And there's
nothing quite like the Bible for encouraging people to overcome their
nature.  Doesn't it spend a lot of time encouraging people to change,
despite the odds?"
     "Nat...," Nick said on an exhale of frustration.
     "What does it say about faith, Nick?" Natalie persisted
     A slight smile crossed his face, and his eyes slid from gold to
blue.
     "'Now, faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence
of things not seen,'" Nick quoted softly.   "Hebrews, chapter 11,
verse 1.  Paul said it.  Why?"
     "I just think you are forgetting what faith is all about, is
all," Natalie said firmly.
     "What do you mean?" Nick asked, puzzled.
     "You *hope* for humanity, for a cure.  You've embarked on this
quest with absolutely no proof it is achievable.  No evidence.  Yet
you've believed.  You've had faith.  You've acted on it.  Why are you
giving up that hope, that faith now?"  Natalie searched his face to
see if she was even reaching him.
     He stared at her for a long time.  "Maybe, because the evidence
is saying something different--that there is no cure.  After all this
time, I should have found something, seen something, some change, and
yet I haven't.  I've found nothing.  I'm as much a vampire now as I
was four years ago--or a hundred."  The words were edged with bitter
cynicism.
     "On the other hand, maybe the evidence is just not obvious,
because you haven't found all the pieces," Natalie said quietly,
putting her hand on his arm comfortingly.  "Nick, anything worth
having, anything of value in our lives, typically is something we've
worked long and hard for.  This is worth the effort.  Don't quit
because you are in the middle of this and can't see the end, and you
can't remember the beginning."
     Nick stared at her as if she was some unreadable, unfathomable
Rosetta stone.  A light seemed to break across his face.
     "I won't quit," he said in a low voice, his hand convulsively
clutching at hers.  "I can't."  Then he smiled, "But I can and do have
set backs.  Big ones."
     "I've noticed," Natalie said dryly, humor crinkling the corners
of her eyes.
     Nick smiled back, glad Natalie was on his side.
     "Remember, you've got to be patient, Nick."
     "It's 'run with patience the race which is set before you' if I
recall correctly," Nick murmured.
     Natalie tilted her head.  "Is that in the Bible, too?"
     Nick merely smiled.
     "Well, it's good advice, Nick."
     "So..."
     "Nick, all of us are divided and ambivalent at times.  We all
struggle to be 'good', to be better than our nature.  Don't think
because you are a vampire, that you are the only one..."
     "Yes, but Natalie, when you lose the battle, it doesn't cost
someone their life," Nick pointed out, grimly.
     "Stop it, Nick.  Don't put yourself beyond redemption.  Look at
the Parkway Killer.  When he loses the battle, *a man--a human being*
loses his life.  Humans and vampires are not all that different.   Our
natures may be against us, but the choice to give in, is always up to
us," Natalie said firmly.  "And you," she added poking him with her
finger, "can't let the set-backs stop you.  You pick yourself up, dust
yourself off, and keep trying.  It's what all of us do, whether we are
mortal or vampire."
     Nick smiled slowly.  "Okay, *Doctor*, if you say so."
     "I say so. "
     They stared at each other, the air thick with raw emotions.
Tentatively, Nick reached out and pulled Natalie to him and gave her a
hug.  A gentle kiss touched her forehead.  They stood silently
gathering strength from each other.  The storm outside seemed to have
vented its force as well, the downpour turning into a soft misty rain.
     "Do you still want to stay and watch a video?" Nick asked,
hesitantly, against her hair, afraid she might decide to go home.
     Natalie pulled back and met his gaze with a reassuring look.  "Of
course.  I've been looking forward to it all night.  Besides, I still
have some soup to eat."
     "I'm glad," Nick said and stroked her hair.  He glanced over at
the coffee table where her bowl sat, obviously much cooler than when
she'd poured it out.  "Umm, Nat, I think your soup is cold..."
     Natalie laughed.  "It figures.  Oh well, I'll just throw it in
the microwave."  She picked up her bowl and headed for the kitchen.
     Nick quirked an eyebrow at the mental image Natalie's words
brought to mind.  "Could be messy," he murmured, as he picked up the
remote and shut out the day.
     "What?" Natalie asked glancing over her shoulder.
     "Oh, you know, throwing soup into a microwave.  I thought you
wanted to eat it, not use it for a sporting event."
     "If you want a sporting event," Natalie said with a wicked grin,
"I'm sure we can find something *else* to throw it at."
     Nick held up his hands in mock surrender.  "No, thanks," he said
as he sprawled on the couch.   "So, what are we watching, anyway?"
     Natalie smiled.  "Just a little something with no plot.  I
thought it would be a nice change of pace."
     Nick raised an eyebrow.  "Really.  No tearjerker?  No chick
flick?"
     "Nope," Natalie said as she put her soup down carefully on the
coffee table.  She smiled innocently as she plopped down next to him.
Nick casually dropped his arm around her as he hit play on the remote.
     "Ferris Bueller's Day Off....!!" he said incredulously, as the
credits began to roll.
     Natalie sighed contentedly.  "Yup.  I love this show.  I figured
we needed something different.  Something light.  Besides, it's lots
of fun.  It reminds me of the stupid things I did in high school--not
to mention college.  Didn't you ever do anything crazy and wild like
that?"
     Nick thought for a moment, "Some.  But it was different when I
was growing up.  We didn't have a lot of free time to waste.  But I
did a lot of really stupid stuff when they first came out with the
automobile, so I suppose that counts."
     "Oh, yeah?  This I've got to hear," Natalie said.
     "After," Nick said, as Ferris went into his 'sick' routine.
"Besides, I want to study his technique.  I always need to add to my
repertoire.  It's not easy being a vampire, you know.  People look at
you, start thinking you're way too pale.  Then they think you're cold,
or that something is wrong.  It never hurts to have a good non-
specific, 'I'm sick' routine, up your sleeve."
     Natalie almost choked on her soup.
     "Hey!" Nick said feigning a wounded look, "it works."
     "So that's your secret," Natalie said.  "And I always thought it
was the whammy."
     "Last resort, only" Nick smirked.
     Natalie laughed.  "Hand me the popcorn," she demanded, and
snuggled a little closer.




Act 2, Scene 3

I am bewildered.  And I cannot think...
  -- Iphigenia inTauris

     Tracy unlocked her door and walked into her dark and empty
apartment.  She sighed and shut the door with a little more force than
was necessary.  The night had been harder than she thought.  And it
hadn't helped that the Parkway Killer had chosen her first night back
to kill someone.  "Why did he have to choose tonight, of all nights?"
Tracy wondered.  "Why," she muttered, "does he have to kill at all?"
     The words dropped into the silence around her, and Tracy took a
deep breath.  She hated coming home to an empty apartment when her
mind was buzzing like this.  She needed someone to talk to, someone to
work through everything with--from everybody watching her on her
'first night back' to the Parkway Killer's nasty present.
     In some ways, it was as if she hadn't been off the job at all--in
other ways it felt like a lifetime had gone by.  She supposed that all
in all, she'd done okay.  A few butterflies, a few bad moments, but
she'd lived.  She'd gotten through her first night back in one piece.
Now, if they could just stop this *stupid* killer.
     "Food," Tracy said to the walls,  "I need food, and my head
hurts.'  What she really needed, was a little company.  She supposed
she could use food as a substitute.  It wouldn't be the first time.
She puttered around the kitchen and eventually decided on toast and
hazelnut coffee.  It wasn't like she needed the coffee. It would
probably keep her up.  But on the other hand, she...well, needed it.
     Tracy sighed.  She hadn't figured out how to adjust to sleeping
during the day and living her life at night.  She just wasn't a night
person.  "Whose idea was this, anyway?" she asked.  "Nobody should be
up all night."  Shaking her head she turned around and smacked into
Vachon, splattering coffee all over him in her shock.
     "Aarrgh!"
     "Is that any way to greet a friend, Vetter?" Vachon asked mildly,
as he pulled his hands out of his pockets and calmly brushed away the
coffee droplets.  "And I, personally, if you are taking a poll, think
being up all night is great."
     Tracy waited for her heart to find its way back into her chest.
She looked at him through narrowed eyes.  "It is when they don't
*knock*!" she said with meaning.   "Why do you do that?"
     He grinned innocently.  "Because I can."
     "What?  Am I the only one you can sneak up on?  So you take
perverse pleasure in trying to scare me to death?"  Tracy demanded,
almost spilling her coffee again.  She glared at him, and then circled
around him to get to the table.
     Vachon grinned slightly as he followed her.  Tracy carefully
placed her cup on the table with a shaking hand and turned back to
find him practically on top of her.
     She gasped, and Vachon laughed.   "Well, you are the only one I
know that I could scare to death, so to speak, and you can't sneak up
on another..."
     "Don't say it!"  Tracy ordered.
     Vachon smiled gently.
     Tracy glared for a moment and then her humor reasserted itself.
Shaking her head she sat down and with a nod invited Vachon to join
her.
     He slouched onto the chair.
     Tracy regrouped.  "Okay, so why are you here?  Just in the
neighborhood?"
     "Actually, Trace, I came to see you, and if you don't mind, I'd
like to borrow your couch."
     "My couch?"
     "Yeah.  Unless you want to drive me home."  He nodded his head in
the direction of the window.  "In case you didn't notice, the
umm...sun is up.  I could get a bad sunburn," he added with an
innocent look.
     "I thought you had a built-in alarm clock or something.  You
know, like the computer on Star Trek.  'Warning, the sun will be up in
10.2 minutes.'  That sort of thing."
     "We do," Vachon allowed.  "It even sounds just like it."
     Tracy rolled her eyeballs.  "Yeah, sure."
     "Okay, it's more like this feeling that you want to find a dark
hole.  But it works."
     Tracy smiled at him.  "If it works so well, how come you're still
here."
     "It was your first day back on the job, and I thought I'd see how
it went.  And since the sun is now up, when you get through talking
about it, I thought I'd borrow the couch, unless you feel a serious
need to drive me home--and with your trunk space, Trace, it just isn't
a lot of fun.
     She didn't know how to define Vachon.  He didn't fit into any of
the neat categories in her life, and she didn't know how he felt about
her.  But looking into his deep, dark eyes, she realized he did care--
more than he probably wanted to.
     She smiled ruefully.  "Thanks.  That's the nicest thing anyone
has done for me since this all started.  You can borrow the couch."
     Vachon smiled gently.
     "Specially the part where you hung around...even though I didn't
get here until late," Tracy said quietly.
     Vachon leaned back casually, tipping the chair up on two legs.
"So, how'd it go?"
     Tracy wrinkled her nose, and shook her head as she took a bite of
her toast.  "Nof greaff," she said a round the mouthful, laughing.
     Vachon raised an eyebrow.
     Tracy swallowed, "Not great, but not bad, I guess.  It's just
that people were looking at me like I was some kind of circus act.
Sheesh, you'd think I'd taken out half of Toronto, instead of a couple
of criminals actively pursing their...criminal activities.
     "And then we had another homicide tonight.  The Parkway Killer
dropped another victim off for us."  Tracy took a sip from her coffee
and stared into it morosely.
     "So?"
     "So, why couldn't he have waited until I adjusted?  Or better
yet, why couldn't he just have forgot the whole thing?  This guy is a
complete creep.  He tortures them, carves pictures on them, and kills
them."  Tracy stopped.  "Oops.  You're not supposed to know that,
Vachon."
     "Which part?" Vachon asked mildly.
     Tracy sighed, "The part about carving pictures.  Erase that,
okay?"
     "Erased," Vachon said.  "Never heard it."
     Tracy laughed.  "Thanks.  I guess I'm really wound up or I
wouldn't have let that happen."
     "S'okay."
     "So, what did you do while I was off serving and protecting?"
Tracy asked, feeling something inside of her start to ease.
     "I started the night with a motorcycle ride," Vachon said.  "It
was a perfect night.  You should have been there."  His glanced at her
sideways, under lowered lashes.
     As their eyes met, Tracy felt her heart slam into her ribs.  It
wasn't like he'd said anything, exactly, but it was there in his eyes-
-that indefinable something that told her he was attracted to her.
More than attracted.
     Tracy cleared her throat, feeling a sudden tension building.
"Well, yeah, I wish I'd been there, too.  Some other night, huh?"
     Vachon smiled and after a moment blinked, and the tension
vanished.  "Yeah," he agreed.
     Tracy wondered if she'd imagined it.  Not that she knew what to
do with Vachon anyway.  He was, after all, a vampire.  She couldn't
quite imagine taking him home to meet the folks.
     "Hey," he said.  "Can I play your guitar? I'm trying to write
this song.  There's this one part I want you to listen to..."


Interlude

Keep a sharp lookout.  Somebody may be coming...
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     He whistled tunelessly as he waited for the light to change.
Traffic waded slowly through intersections flooded after the night's
deluge.  The day looked to be raw and cold.  It was a perfect day for
a stroll in the neighborhood.  He squinted up at the sky through the
windshield and smiled.  He loved rain--the way it could delicately
mist the air, or splatter drops with intense abandon, or deluge the
earth so suddenly you couldn't see to drive, or even hear yourself
think.
     Rainy days were better for seeing color.  Sunlight paled
everything to a shadow of itself, it washed out the colors.  But on a
rainy day--every delicate color and shade was alive--vibrantly alive.
Yeah, he *loved* rain--especially when it washed away any trace of
evidence.  He laughed--a loud cracked sound.  It momentarily unsettled
him, and he wondered if he were mad.  Then he wondered if it mattered.
     The light turned green, and he put the truck in gear and moved
forward, the tires sending up gouts of water as he pushed through the
intersection.  He wasn't going to get to work on time today.  Nothing
was moving fast.   Frustration marred his face with a scowl, and he
tapped unconsciously on the steering wheel.  Underneath his
frustration at traffic, he felt another frustration building in him.
     Already, he felt the need twitching in him--calling him to finish
it.  He was so close, and yet...   He'd dumped the guy just last
night--he'd been high, excited.  For a moment he'd felt satiated and
elated.  But the anger burned in him, still.  It wouldn't go away.  He
knew it wasn't going to go away until they had all been given
retribution.  All of them.  He cursed and tried to empty it from his
mind.  But it was a vibration deep inside demanding completion.  It
was thrumming in his bones, a whispering in his muscles, and a scream
inside his mind.  He couldn't ignore it.
     Before he realized it, he started thinking about the next one.
Already he was making plans, figuring out what he needed to do.  How
to do it--pull it off.  The sweaty feel of anticipation was exciting.
It made him feel alive.  It was the only thing that made him feel
alive, anymore.  He hadn't been alive since they all died...




Act 3, Scene 1

No wonder you are asking all these questions
  -- Iphigenia In Taurus

     Tracy strode into the precinct humming under her breath.  She
tried to ignore the fact that she was humming Vachon's new song.  It
didn't work.  A silly grin briefly crossed her face, and Tracy shook
her head.  "This is ridiculous," she muttered.  "This is really
stupid, Vetter."
     Stupid or not, Vachon made her feel...good.  Somebody out there
cared about Tracy Vetter, normal human being, not Commissioner
Vetter's daughter.  Vachon didn't give a damn about who her father
was, or what her job was.  He just cared about her.  And that made
Tracy feel extraordinary.
     She wouldn't really say he was a boyfriend, and she wasn't sure
she wanted to.  In fact, Tracy wasn't sure what Vachon was to her, or
how she felt about him, or for that matter, if she wanted him as more
than a...friend.  But he had made a major difference in her life.  She
felt...happy.  And it was all Vachon's fault.  She grinned openly at
the thought, as she entered the bullpen. Thanks to Vachon she was
ready to take on the world again.
     Nick looked up as Tracy plunked down in her chair with a sigh.
She removed the lid from her coffee and sniffed appreciatively.  Nick
wrinkled his nose ever so slightly as the bitter aroma wafted his way.
She took a sip of the steaming liquid and gave a satisfied sigh, then
looked across the desk at Nick.
     "You know, if it wasn't for coffee, I don't think I'd ever be
able to do the night shift.  I don't know how you do this on a
permanent basis, Nick.  Even after all this time, I still feel--well,
weird.  Like everything is backward."
     Nick laughed.  "You get used to it...specially when you don't
have a choice."  He leaned forward and whispered,  "I adjusted to the
night life--oh, it seems centuries ago.  Can't remember it any other
way."
     Tracy shook her head, laughing, suddenly thinking of someone who
really had adjusted to the night centuries ago.  "Well, maybe someday
I'll get used to it.  For now, it still takes serious amounts of
coffee to wake up."
     "Well, I've got something to wake you up," Nick said as he threw
a folder on her desk.  "They've identified our latest victim--Curtis
Pierson, who just happens to live off of Danforth Avenue.  Two blocks
from where he was left."
     Tracy stared at Nick.  "He killed a guy from the neighborhood?
But...why?  That seems awfully close to his dumping ground?  It breaks
his pattern, doesn't it?  People are going to start paying more
attention."
     "Yeah, it's a possibility," Nick agreed, looking down and making
random circles on his blotter with his finger.  "The question is, why?
This guy is one cool customer--or at least he has been.  He's picking
them up from all over, he dumps them late at night..."
     "Except for last night," Tracy interjected.
     "Except for last night," Nick said softly.  "And the guy was from
nearby.  I wonder if he picked him up near there, or from somewhere
else?"
     Tracy frowned at that, "You mean, he might not have known where
he was from?"
     "Possibly.  The killer hasn't done anything to specifically
excite this area, besides dump the bodies.  Nobody has been from near
here--keeping the level of awareness down a bit."
     "Until now," Tracy added.
     "Yeah," Nick agreed.  "The question is, was it deliberate or
accidental?"
     "It would be nice if we could ask him," Tracy said in
frustration.  "Even if was just hot or cold."
     Nick stopped twiddling with his blotter and looked oddly at
Tracy.  "What?"
     Tracy grinned, "You know, like when you played hide and seek, and
they'd let you know if you were hot or cold."
     Nick stared at her.
     "Like close or really far away," Tracy said in surprise.  "Didn't
you play that?"
     Nick shook his head.  "I don't think so."
     "Weird.  I thought everybody played a version of that."
     Nick decided to change the subject before it got dicey.  "I'd
still like to know if it was deliberate.  And the victims, is it
random or do they have something in common?"
     "Something in common,"  Tracy repeated in frustration, easily
sidetracked from Nick's lack of familiarity with childhood games.
"Well, if they have, we haven't found it, Nick.  It's not like we
haven't looked, and cross-checked, and..." Tracy quit on an exhale of
frustration.  She slumped back in her chair.  "Okay.  We'll do it
again.  What do we know about Curtis Pierson?"
     Nick nodded at the folder lying on her desk.  "Everything we
currently know is in there.   Getz and Miller did the background
check.  Pierson, it turns out is no boy scout.  He was known for being
drunk and abusive.   He did some time for theft a few years ago, and I
get the impression he wasn't exactly reformed by the experience.
     He wasn't liked much by anybody.  No one had anything good to say
about him.  He was loud, rude, angry, and he beat his wife."
     "Sounds like a winner," Tracy muttered.  "A guy with enemies
everywhere.  Great."
     The words echoed oddly in Nick's head, touching a long-forgotten
chord...


     "....he has enemies everywhere, Nicholas," LaCroix said, pulling
the velvet hanging back and peering out at the angry crowd.  "We
really can't afford to make any mistakes.  The sooner we leave this
miserable place, the better.  He's a venal, greedy young man with far
too much power--and no sense."
     Nicholas rose from the bench by the fireplace and joined him at
the window.  They watched in silence the sullen crowd gathering in the
square below.
     "Perhaps," Nicholas said, "he's gone too far."
     "Oh, he went too far, long ago," LaCroix said mockingly.  "I've
heard he killed his brother to gain the Duchy.  Poison."  LaCroix
smiled at that, "Actually, that was probably a sound move, but he has
no head for power.  He uses it for personal pleasure only.  I hear
he's very fond of torture, just for the sake of torture.  *That* is
depraved.  He doesn't gain anything politically from it."
     Nick stared at LaCroix in disgust, but said nothing.
     LaCroix smiled wickedly,  "Oh, really, Nicholas!  And what would
you do if it was your Duchy?"
     Nicholas turned away.  "I wouldn't use it like this," he said
impatiently.
     LaCroix eyed him, and nodded.  "No, you've no desire for power.
You'd probably be poisoned within the week."
     Nicholas turned and stared at LaCroix.  "LaCroix!" he said
impatiently.
     "It's true, he has gone too far," LaCroix said with a shrug,
returning to the subject of the Prince, "he is depraved.  It's a good
thing he's not one of us.  He has no idea of control.  He would bring
far too much attention to us with his behavior.  If the Enforcers
didn't get him, the mortals would."
     "Perhaps, we should leave tonight.  Gian Maria may hunt his
enemies with impunity, but his people are growing angry, and will soon
be hunting him," Nicholas said.  He turned away from the window, his
houppelande of sapphire velvet, trailing after him.  He looked very
much the part of a rich nobleman.
     LaCroix looked out the window.  "Perhaps...," he said.  "But I do
not think that they will overthrow their Duke.  His guards are loyal.
He pays them *very* well.  Besides, Nicholas, you know we cannot
leave.  Not without our pretty Janette."
     Suddenly, the crowd began shouting as the Duke and his entourage
rode through the gates of the city.   Nicholas rejoined LaCroix at the
window.  They watched the people cry out for respite from their heavy
taxes.
     The young Duke sneered impatiently.  His voice carried clearly.
"Get this rabble out of my way.  Now!"
     The troops rode forward into the crowd, their horses piked armor
maiming several people instantly.  More fell beneath their hoofs.
"Lord, Duke," the people cried, almost as one.  "Spare us!"
     But their Prince ignored them and pressed his troops forward.
They did so brutally, lowering their piked lances at the milling,
terrified crowd.
     Screams echoed throughout the city as the streets emptied before
Nicholas and LaCroix' eyes.  The young, fat Duke laughed as rode up
the hill, looking awkward on his horse.  His entourage disappeared
from sight, and the street was empty save for the dead and wounded.
     LaCroix licked his lips as he looked down, and Nicholas stiffened
at the sweet smell of blood that rose up from the cobbled street.
     "Dinner is laid for us," LaCroix said softly, angrily, "and yet,
we dare not feast.  Too many eyes are watching.  The Duke makes it
difficult for us to even get a decent meal in this wretched city."
     Nicholas shut the window abruptly, and let the velvet hanging
fall--shutting out the blood scent calling to them.
     "He has no character," LaCroix murmured, "he is truly
disgusting..."


     "Nick?" Tracy asked, "Did you hear me?"
     Nick looked up at Tracy.  "Um, no.  I was thinking.  What did you
say?"
     "I said, maybe we should go finish up the interviews."
     "Maybe," Nick said.  "But I just realized something.  Our victims
do have something in common."
     "What?" Tracy asked, wrinkling her brow.
     "Curtis is an abusive drunk.  Terrence Wilburn was an habitual
liar, John Prandle was an intimidating bully, and Caroll Vickers
was..."
     "...a small-time con-man.  So what are you thinking, Nick?" Tracy
asked.
     "I think that maybe they are being picked out because of their
character traits.  His picking them because they are...jerks."
     Tracy blinked at that.  "They're being auditioned?"
     "Yeah," Nick said with sudden insight.  "I think our killer is
looking for just those kind of people.   He's looking for people that
fit a profile.  And that's why we can't find a common denominator.
Not time of disappearance, or last known location, race or religion.
I'll bet our killer is bar-hopping and picking them out by their
behavior, or he sees them somewhere in his daily routine.  Anyway, he
sees enough to know what they are like, and then I'll bet he stalks
them and picks them up when no one is watching.  I should have seen
this before...  He's a stranger killer.  He has to be."
     Tracy shook her head in amazement.  "Where do you come up with
these ideas, Nick," she asked in amazement.
     Nick looked at her in surprise.  It was suddenly so obvious.
"Experience," he said dryly, thinking to himself, about 800 years of
experience.
     "I don't know.  It sounds kind of out there to me.  I mean, I can
buy the stranger killer, because of his behavior.  But picking them
out because of their characteristics?  That takes time, and effort.
Why not just pick up the first convenient guy that strays into his
path?" Tracy asked.
     "Because he's got a mission," Nick said suddenly, staring into
space.  "He's on a personal mission, and it's got to be just right."
     "Nick!" Tracy said.  "Get real!"
     "You got a better idea?" Nick asked with a grin.
     Tracy locked stares with him, and finally shrugged.  "No, not
really, but Nick, that's pretty thin,"
     Nick smiled at Tracy as he picked up the folder.  "Maybe it is,
but I think we ought to check it out.  Meanwhile, we still have some
interviews to do."
     Tracy wrinkled her face up in disgust.  "I was hoping Getz and
Miller would have got them done."
     "Well, they did get a lot done, but some people weren't home, so
we should..."
     Nick's phone suddenly trilled.  "Knight," he said as he put it to
his ear.  He looked at Tracy as he listened.  "Yeah, we'll be right
there," and hung up.  "That was Natalie, she's just finished the
autopsy and she's got something she wants us to see."  He was already
out of his chair as he spoke.
     Tracy sighed and shoved the lid back on her coffee.  Watching
Nick go off on a tangent like this just made her tired.  How did he do
it?
     "And he does it without any caffeine, too," she said sadly as she
picked up her coffee and followed Nick out of the precinct.




Act 3, Scene 2

But what has happened that would call for this?
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     "It's not much, but it's something," Natalie said as she pointed
to the microscope.  Nick peered through it at the slide.
     "And it is...?" Nick asked as he peered through the microscope.
     "Transmission fluid," Natalie said as Nick gave Tracy a chance to
look.  "Easily identified by the cherry-red coloring.  Not to mention
the high detergent content, and, of course, the petroleum based
synthetic oil."
     "Oh, of course," Nick said dryly.
     Natalie grinned.  "Sorry, I'm just excited to actually *find*
something."
     Tracy looked up from the microscope at that.  "This is great,
Natalie.  I think our guy is finally slipping.  Do you think you can
identify a manufacturer?"
     Natalie shook her head.  "I doubt it.  Too many manufacturers use
the same exact formula."
     Nick walked slowly around the autopsy table thinking, then turned
and looked at Natalie, "Nat, where did you find it?"
     "It was in the puncture wound that killed him.  Around the edges.
It must have been on the surface of whatever he's using for a murder
weapon."
     Nick was silent for a moment.  "Was there any oil found on his
internal organs?"
     "It's hard to tell.  His insides were pretty chewed up.  This is
a pretty gruesome way to kill someone, you know," Natalie said.



     "It's a gruesome way to kill people,"  LaCroix said.  "He hunts
them down with a pack of dogs.  He trains them to hunt people."
     Nick turned from the fire's dancing light, his hammered silver
girdle glinting in the light, and waited for LaCroix to finish the
thought.
     "They rip them to shreds, and he laughs while he watches it.  He
reserves this particular death for those he believes have betrayed
him."
     "And Janette is up there in his castle.  What game does she think
she is playing?  She could expose us all!" Nicholas said with
frustration.
     "Yes, but do look at it from her point of view.  The spider who
believes he controls the lives and fate of everyone around him is
being lured in by a much more venomous spider.  One who does have a
very good reason to kill him," LaCroix said softly.  "He did, after
all, kill Virginie just because she was in his path.  I must admit,
even I had a fondness for her.  If Janette wasn't doing it, I think I
would..."
     Nick stared at LaCroix, feeling slightly surprised.  He knew that
he would like to kill the miserable little Duke, but LaCroix?
     LaCroix raised an eyebrow.  "Oh, come now, Nicholas.  If I didn't
like her, she would have been breakfast a long time ago.  Janette has
never been a fool, and her choice of servant was...remarkable. She was
truly an asset."
     "Yes," Nicholas said softly, his face tinged with sadness.  "She
was unique."
     "And Janette *will* have her revenge," LaCroix added.
     "And if she's not careful, he could discover her trick during the
daylight--and then how will she escape?"  Nick asked pacing the room
in anger.
     LaCroix watched him with amusement.  "Do have a little faith in
her...Janette is no fool.  I expect we will hear from her soon.  And
then the pretty little Duke will find that being torn to death is not
the most frightening death imaginable..."


     "Nick?" Tracy asked, tapping him on the arm.  She rolled her eyes
at Natalie.  Nick could go into a fog at the oddest moments.  "Are you
there?"
     Nick focused back on the present. "Yeah.  I was just thinking
about the way he kills.  He must be very angry."
     "Why do you say that?" Tracy asked.
     "Because most people kill with a single gunshot, or a single blow
with a knife.  They use the most convenient method at hand.  It's
quick.  But this guy is plotting it out.  He's torturing his victims
and making sure they suffer.  Revenge, perhaps," Nick said
thoughtfully.
     "Revenge?  His victims are total strangers...  Nick, they haven't
done anything to him.  How can it be revenge?" Tracy asked in
frustration.
     Nick turned and grabbed her by the shoulders, staring intently
into her eyes.  "It's not revenge on them, but revenge on somebody
else.  Someone he can't touch--that is out of his reach--or dead.  And
so he has to kill over and over again to satisfy the need.  I had a
case like that a couple of years ago.  It's possible that this is
similarly motivated."
     Natalie raised an eyebrow at that.  Sometime Nick took giant
leaps into unknown territory, but he was seldom wrong.  It just took a
while for the evidence to support him.  She hoped he was right, and he
could solve this quickly.
     "You think that is why he's killing them by..." Tracy trailed
off.
     "...by puncturing them with a sharp object and rotating in
through their internal organs and shredding them," Nick finished
brutally.  "Yes.  I do.  It's starting to make sense.  He's been
suffering for a long time, and now he wants revenge--he wants someone
else to pay, to suffer as he has.  He wants closure."
     Natalie looked away from Tracy's devastated face.  She still
remembered the first victim.  There had been no obvious evidence of
trauma, nothing to really show cause of death--only a small puncture
wound in the stomach.  It hadn't been until she'd opened him up that
she'd understood what had happened.  The killer had pierced the victim
with something long with a sharply pointed tip.  It had been jabbed
forcefully into the stomach and then rotated around at an angle
through the intestinal tract and stomach.  Nothing had been whole.
And when he'd pulled his weapon out again, the flesh sealed back over
the wound to disguise the destruction.  All that was visible was a
tiny puncture mark hiding the grim evidence.  She'd actually read
about a case like this in medical school.   She just never thought
she'd actually see one.
     Tracy swallowed and regained her composure.  "Okay, so what can
we do with the transmission fluid?"
     "Let's start checking out some of the automotive shops around the
Don Valley Parkway," Nick said.  "I think it's close to home for our
killer."  He was already heading for the door.
     "Nick," Tracy protested, "there are hundreds of auto-shops in
Toronto.  How can you be so sure its going to be nearby--or if he even
works in a shop?  Maybe he's a backyard mechanic and had to change his
own fluid.  Maybe he's one of these guy's who wouldn't go near a shop
for anything.  A do-it-yourself type of guy."
     Nick turned and looked back at Tracy.  "He could be, but I don't
think he is."  Tracy opened her mouth, but Nick forestalled her.  "I
know, Trace, but somehow I think this guy's a mechanic, and I think we
will find him.  Soon."
     Nick left the door swinging silently behind him.  Tracy looked at
Natalie.  Natalie shrugged.  "Don't look at me, Tracy.  I don't know
where he gets these ideas.  I just know when he's like this, things
happen."
     "Then, I guess I'd better catch up with him before he arrests
somebody, huh?"  Tracy said, shaking her head and following Nick out
the door.
     Natalie smiled to herself.  Nick was really fascinating to watch
when he began putting things together.  It must be really something to
have 800 years of experience to rely on.  Somehow it made it possible
for him to see things beyond mortal ability.  From a mortal
perspective it seemed crazy.  But she knew it wasn't.  It was
experience beyond mortal comprehension.  She wished just for a moment
that she could access that kind of perspective.
     In fact, right now, she could really use a different perspective--
or more precisely, any perspective.  She'd endured a sleepless day,
tossing and turning as she dreamed of faceless murderers who carved
roses and killed children.  Her dreams were a confused jumble of her
current and past cases.
     In her dream, Natalie had found herself walking through gray,
empty hallways in the Coroner's building, with her footsteps echoing
around her.  In each room she had entered, rows of bodies had lain
before her, and as she walked past them, each had turned their dead
eyes upon Natalie.  She'd run and run and run, trying to escape their
wounded eyes.  But no matter where Natalie ran, their dead and empty
eyes followed her and demanded that she give them retribution.  They
begged her to give them peace.
     The faster Natalie ran the slower her progress, until she seemed
to be running in place.  She'd stopped finally in despair and pressed
herself against the wall as all the dead had closed in on her.  It was
only then that Natalie had realized each one of them had a rose
slashed into their chest.
     Her screams had echoed around her, and then suddenly, she'd been
in the park, and as if she couldn't see him, slipping up quietly, with
a surgeon's scapel in his hand, had been the killer.  She knew it,
because his bloody red T-shirt was emblazoned with the words.
"Parkway Killer and proud of it!
     Natalie had read the words, then met his eyes.  They were
familiar eyes.  They were Roger's eyes.  "I'll make you feel so loved,
Natalie," he whispered gleefully.
      And then she'd run once more in panic, only to find he was in
front of her--again and again.
     Just as he caught her and raised his arm high, blade glinting in
the host sun, he turned into Gault.  The tables were abruptly turned
and Natalie found the knife firmly gripped in her hand.  She stared at
Gault handcuffed in front of her to a wall.  Natalie looked at the
knife and then without hesitation, stabbed him over and over again as
he laughed at her.  She'd begun to weep as his hot spurting blood
covered her...
     Natalie had woken up in to find herself drenched in sweat.
Weeping softly, she had sat on the edge of her bed for a long time.
Feeling chilled she had found refuge in her shower.  She couldn't have
said how long she stood in the shower under a pulsing hot stream.  She
only knew it was for a long time.
     Natalie sat down in her chair and stared into space.  Nick had
suggested she forgive and forget.  She wondered if he had *ever*
followed that particular advice himself.  Was it even possible?  Did
it ever get any easier?  How did you learn to cope?   She stared back
at the empty mockery her life had become.  Richie was dead, Cynthia
was dead, and Natalie--well, a serial rapist had damn near killed her--
because of her search for someone to love.
     To make matters even worse, she'd freaked out over that awful
comet scare, and nearly ended up dead--or undead.  Natalie had been so
scared, and so angry over Nick's refusal to help her, that she'd
sought a total stranger out to make her a vampire, just so she
wouldn't have to die.  "Stupid, Natalie, really stupid," she muttered.
     So much had happened to her in so short a time.  She wondered if
she could cope anymore.
     Therapy was starting to sound really good.  The only problem was,
if she went into therapy, could she stop before she started talking
about the most important thing in her life--Nick.  He loomed over
everything else.  He was friend, patient, and sometime when she looked
really close, lover.  At least she thought so, but she wasn't certain.
In quiet moments, she relived Nick kissing her, holding her, wanting
her, slowly reaching out to her.  They had been getting very close.
     But something had happened on Valentines Day, and Nick had backed
away, and slipped behind his mask.  She remembered a kiss, she
thought, and when she thought about it, sheer terror would shoot
through her.  She thought she remembered Nick's mouth ravishing hers--
hungry, desperate.   She was almost sure that she remembered Nick
holding her, tightly as if absolutely terrified.  But she didn't know
why, and she was afraid to ask, afraid to know for sure, mostly
because her dreams might be truly destroyed, and all hope of a future
together, gone.
     Natalie sighed.  Love and hate.  Such strong emotions that one so
easily became the other.  Love your enemy.  Sure.  Right.  That's
about as easy to come by as winning the lottery...  She sighed again.
She had a body waiting for her, reports to be filed, and tests to be
run.  Life went on, all the daily demands.  It didn't care about your
emotional pain, it just expected you to keep moving.  After a moment,
Natalie got up and got moving.




Act 3, Scene 3

And what would you suggest, to ease your mind?
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Joe Reese slowly swiveled in his chair, his mind far from work.
He'd sacrificed four hours of sleep and two-hundred dollars today to
spend some quality time at The Digital Image, Ltd. The two-hundred had
netted him one hell of a photo enhancement, and the quality time had
made him late--late enough to miss Nick and Tracy.  The Duty Officer
had informed him they'd gone to the morgue about twenty minutes ago.
     "Damn," Reese said softly under his breath.  "Damn."
     He picked up the digitally enhanced and enlarged photograph and
glared at it balefully.  All doubt was gone, now.  Absolutely all
doubt.  The guys at The Digital Image were good.  But even they had
admitted that the original photo's lighting had helped them get lucky.
Get lucky, Reese thought bitterly, staring down at it.  Yeah, real
lucky.
     It had been just a tiny hint of light and shadow on the photo,
but enhancement had turned it into a scar.  Probably chicken pox the
tech had guessed.  A chicken pox scar on his forehead, exactly where
Nick had one.  You could see it in his personnel file photo.  Right
there.  Same place.  There was no way that this was possible.
Absolutely no way.  But there it was in black and white--very cold
black and white.
     Reese didn't know what to do about it.  He didn't know how to
feel about it.  He couldn't begin to wrap his brain around the concept
that Nick had been alive and well and looking just the same in 1968.
It just wasn't possible.  But there it was...
     When they'd first showed him the enhanced photo, his heart had
started to pound and pushed up into his throat, closing it off.  Sweat
had beaded across his brow and adrenaline had slammed through his
system, making his hands shake.  If he didn't know better, he'd think
he'd gone into shock.  The tech had taken a look at him, and gotten
him a glass of water.  He wished it had been Scotch.
     Reese stared at his hands, and turned them over carefully.  They
were still shaking slightly.  He felt sick to his stomach.  He was
scared, and he was angry--a very bad combination.  He supposed it was
a good thing that the enhancement had taken so long.  Otherwise he
would have confronted Nick and demanded to know what the hell was
going on.  Not a good idea.  Reese had been reacting and running on
adrenaline.
     Confrontation almost always led to disaster, and Reese knew
better.  But his fear had gotten between him and his good judgment.
     Joe stared at the photo for a few more moments, as if it would
make any difference.  It was burned into his memory--it wasn't like he
needed another look to refresh his memory.  With a deep labored sigh,
he slowly put the photo in a folder and carefully locked it in his
drawer.  Reese stared out into the bullpen and didn't see a thing.
His mind seemed to race in circles.  If he was a dog, he thought
wryly, he'd be chasing his tail.
     "Dammit!" he swore again. "I can think about this logically.
I've been trained to.  Where the hell is my head!"
     With that, Reese pulled a pad of paper out from under a pile of
papers, and turned to an empty page.  After a moment, he carefully
titled it "Reese:  X-file #1" in large black block letters. He grinned
a bit at his temerity.  He was no Mulder, but then this wasn't
fiction, either.  But it fit the profile.  It was beyond the realm of
normal reality.
     Then he began to write down all the jumbled thoughts in his head:
     *Who is Nick Knight?
       What do I know about him?*
     Reese bit on the cap of his pen thoughtfully as he contemplated
how little he really knew his star detective.  He began writing down
what he did know, and the list began to grow under his hand:
      *He's allergic to sunlight and exclusively works nights.
       He's on a special diet and nobody has ever seen him eating or
drinking.
       He has no family.
       He doesn't fraternize with other detectives.   He's a loner.
       He's a maverick.  He breaks the rules.  He doesn't know how to
be a partner.
       He's got the temper from hell.
       He's weird and freaky at times--makes people think they are in
the Twilight Zone.
       He unnerves people with his stare.
       He can solve a case even if he's in a room with no doors or
windows, and he has
       zero information.
       He has an arrest record that's almost perfect.
       He's an excellent officer.
       He's compassionate and caring.
       He likes Dr. Lambert--a lot.  And Dr. Lambert--loves him.* 
     Reese looked at his list and realized that his list was
describing Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde, a man with two completely opposing
sides.  And that, he thought, was extremely interesting.  "Now, why
didn't I ever see that before?" Reese murmured slowly.  And then it
struck him that Knight was a cipher.  When it got right down to it,
nobody knew the man--except, perhaps, for Natalie Lambert.  And he
began to sweat again.
     After a moment, he added another line to his list:
     *He's not aging*
     He stared at that line, as if it would suddenly swim and change
into some kind of secret message, giving him the answer.
     It didn't move.
     If he wasn't aging, Reese wondered, what did that say about his
physical condition--about who, no, what he was?  Reese finally added
one more line to his list:
     *Is he human?*
     Just the thought of that scared him to the depths of his soul.
Were there more things in heaven and earth than anyone had dreamt of?
Reese shook his head.  He knew he was getting rabid when he started
quoting Shakespeare.  Damn Denise for making him watch all those
plays.
     He tapped the pencil on the paper for a while and then underlined
his last question.  The one he kept coming back to.  Is he human?
What the hell was he?  How could he not be aging?  And finally he
asked himself--is that why he doesn't go out in the daylight?
     Something niggled his brain and whispered to him, but he couldn't
quite pin it down.
     What did the evidence point to?  He couldn't quite figure it out.
He had evidence pointing to something--he just wasn't sure what.
     Suddenly he remembered with vivid clarity the night of the
precinct bombing.  He'd been talking to Nick on the phone when the
bombs had started going off.  Somehow Nick had put it together
instantly.  He'd asked him what was making the music.  Reese had been
trying to ignore it, but Nick had persisted--no insisted.  So he'd
told him--a musical candy box, Reese recalled.
     Nick had told him it was a bomb, and not to move his hand or else
he'd be going off with the bomb.  Reese remembered his paralyzing fear
as if it was happening again.  The phone had been in one hand and the
other had been touching a chocolate.  He'd been scared to death.
     And then Nick had walked into his office.

     "How did you get here so fast?"  Reese had asked
     "I flew," Nick had replied

     Reese pondered it for a while.  Not that it seemed remotely
possible, but...had he been telling the truth?  Had he flown?  That
was just as improbable as the photo.  But with Nick, nothing, it
seemed, was normal.  Maybe he had flown.  Reese's mind short-circuited
at the thought.  After a long while, he carefully added it to his
list.
     *Can he fly?*
     He stared at is and shook his head.  He must be crazy to even
entertain such a foolish idea.  He must be...
     And yet, his gut whispered back, 'no, you're not'.
     "So how do I find out?" he asked the room in fairly reasonable
and rational tones.
     The words seemed to echo oddly, and no answer leapt to his mind.
     He supposed he could have a team assigned to investigate Knight.
Yeah, right, like Knight wouldn't notice--or, for that matter, anybody
else.  They were, after all, detectives.  Well, what about personally
setting up video surveillance on Knight?  To do what?  Catch him
flying?  What the hell would that prove?  Well, besides the fact that
Knight might be able to circumvent the laws of physics--it sure
wouldn't answer anything, now would it.
     Reese realized there was only one thing to do.  He would have to
ask Nick.  His heart lurched at the thought, and his hands went clammy
and cold.  Sweat broke out on his brow at the very thought.  What if
he was having a mental breakdown?  What would Nick think?  What would
he do?  And what, something else whispered, if it was all true?  Then
what would Nick do?
     Reese closed his eyes.   He hoped he wouldn't have a heart attack
right here and now.  His heart was running a marathon.  Well, he
thought with grim humor, it's better than dying sitting on the can.
     "All right," Reese whispered to himself.  "I'll ask.  Worst thing
that can happen is I'll die."  That was better than going insane
wondering.  He would have to ask.  But not here--somewhere else--
somewhere very, very private.
     And in the meantime, he could continue to investigate the
minutiae of Nick Knight's bio.  He might as well gather all the data
he could before he committed suicide.
     There was a brisk rapping on his door.  He looked up to find Lt.
Thompson standing there with the two new officers that had been
assigned to the 96th precinct.  They were straight out of the academy.
He'd forgotten he had two brand-new wet-behind-the-ears rookies to
assign and brief.  He unlocked his drawer and put the notepad in the
folder with the photo.  He carefully locked it again--just to be sure.
He would have to deal with this later.  He had a precinct to run, and
he couldn't ignore it all night, as much as he'd like to.
     He motioned for them to enter, and Thompson ushered the rookies
into his office.
     "Lt.Thompson," he said as he stood.
     "Cap, I'd like to introduce Officers Scott Bowen and Nancy
Schiller.
     "Welcome to the 96th precinct," Reese said as he shook hands.




Act 3, Scene 4

Go look for him, tell him your crazy story.
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Light and shadow slid seductively over the Caddy's windows as
Nick drove.  Tracy stared at the reflections, mesmerized.  Nick was
silent beside her.  The only interruption was the occasional message
over the police scanner.
     Nick knew Tracy thought he was nuts, but he could feel the
rightness of where instinct was leading him.  After so many centuries
of observing behavior of killers and beasts--including his own--he
just *knew* the killer was nearby.  No analysis could explain his
conclusion, and he'd long ago stopped trying, he just knew.  But how
could he explain that to Tracy?
     Tracy looked down at the list in her hands, and stared at it.
They had stopped by the precinct and obtained a listing of auto-shops
around Riverdale Park and the Don Valley Parkway.  They were listed in
two groupings:  a primary and secondary search perimeter.  The primary
area was closest to the area where the bodies had been dumped.  The
secondary area was a wider circle around the primary perimeter.
     There were four shops within the primary search perimeter.  They
included AAA Automotive Repair on Bain Ave., Expert Automotive on
Danforth Ave., Floyd & Mike's Automotive on Bayview Ave., and Pro-Tech
Complete Automotive Repair on Fairview Blvd.    There were an
additional five shops in the secondary search area: CRM Auto
Specialists on Rosedale, Ray's Restoration on Broadview Ave., Quality
Exhaust on Simpson Ave., Precision European Car Service on Gerrard
St., and Belliveau Automotive on Bloor St.
     Tracy would have thought that Nick would want to head for those
in the primary search area.  He hadn't.  He'd decided to start with
the ones physically closest to them and work their way through.  She
shook her head.  It was just as weird as everything else he'd come up
with tonight.
     Tracy checked at her watch.  "Do you think any of them will still
be open?  It's after 8:00."
     Nick glanced at her as he turned a corner.  "You never know.
More and more are staying open until 9:00 and 10:00 at night.  We just
have to see what we can find."
     "You know this is really..."
     "Stupid?" Nick asked.
     Tracy looked at him and laughed.  "Well, you said it."
     Nick grinned at her.  "I've done stupider.  And believe me,
Trace, it seems like they always turn up something."
     Tracy shook her head.  But she couldn't help smiling.  Nick's
enthusiasm was contagious.
     "Which one's first?" Nick asked suddenly.  "Not the address, the
name."
     Tracy was surprised for a moment, and then realized he'd focused
on the address and not the shop name.  "Okay...well, the first is
Precision European Car Service, then Ray's Restoration.  After that
we'll be hitting primary stops.  Probably Floyd and Mikes, the Expert
Auto, and Pro-Tech."
     "That's probably enough to start with," Nick said.  "After we get
through that group, it'll probably be too late to find anybody home."
     "No kidding," Tracy said dryly.
     Light rain began to fall on the window.  Tracy looked up.  "Rain?
I thought we'd had more than enough last night.  My shoes are still
drying out."
     Nick turned on his wipers and smiled at Tracy.  "Yeah, well, it
could be worse.  It could be snow."
     Tracy grimaced.  "True enough.  I really think I'm becoming a
summer person.  Why couldn't I have been born in Florida?"
     Nick laughed.  "You could always move..."
     "Are you kidding?  My father would have me arrested and locked up
for ten-to-twenty...  Oh, there's Precision over on your side.  Hey!
Would you look at that?  They're open.  You sure are lucky, Nick."
     Nick merely smiled as he pulled over and parked the Caddy.  Tracy
stepped out and felt the ground squish ominously under her feet.
     "Oh damn...,"  Tracy muttered looking down.  She'd chosen the
only muddy spot within several feet to step in.  That was the second
pair of shoes in two days...
     "What?"  Nick asked coming around the car.  He followed her gaze
and choked back a laugh.
     "Don't say a word, Nick," Tracy threatened and strode off.  She
yanked the door open vigorously.  It slammed against the wall.   Nick
caught it before it bounced back to smack Tracy.  He smiled as he
followed her into Precision European Car Service.  She left muddy
footprints behind her on the tiled floor.
     Tracy was already leaning on the bell at the counter when Nick
caught up with her.
     A grizzled man, well into his fifties, with a graying close-
clipped beard came out of the pit area.
     "Can I help you?" he asked.
     "I'm Detective Knight, and this is my partner Detective Vetter,"
Nick said.  "We'd like to ask you a few questions...Mr.?"
     "Rene Giroud," the man supplied, a surprised look crossing his
face.
     "Are you the owner?" Nick asked.
     "Yes...  What's this about?"
     Nick listened to his steady heart rate, and knew that this man
had nothing to hide.
     "The Don Valley Parkway murders," Tracy supplied.
     Mr. Giroud looked askance.  "Can't say I know anything about
them."
     "Do you do a lot of transmission work, Mr. Giroud?" Tracy asked.
"We have reason to believe that the perpetrator of these crimes does
transmission work."
     Giroud scratched his head.  "Yeah, we do quite a bit of
transmission work.  Maintenance, replacement--that sort of thing.  But
then everybody who does auto work does."
     "We are aware of that.  But we are tracking down every possible
lead in this case, and this one has us canvassing auto shops," Nick
said quietly.   "Can you tell us whether you have noticed any strange
or inappropriate behavior in your employees--especially those that
work on transmissions."
     Giroud stared at them for a long moment.  "Well, I cannot
honestly say that I have noticed anything odd in my employees.  I only
have five.  One is my son, another is my brother.  The other three
have been here a long time.  They are all good men.  I know nothing
bad about any of them."
     "Could we get their names?" Tracy asked.  "This is just routine.
None of them are suspects, Mr. Giroud."
     He shrugged.  "Sure, but I think you're looking in the wrong
place."  Giroud motioned them to follow him into his office.  They
wound their way through the pit area.  Two men working on a Jaguar
stopped momentarily to watch.  Nick casually observed that they, too,
were unperturbed. Only curiosity showed in their faces.
     In Giroud's office, Giroud pointed them toward two dusty chairs.
They remained standing as they waited for him to print out his
employee information.
     "What kind of cars do you work on mostly?" Nick asked idly.  He
let his senses slip through the building, listening, testing,
feeling... The killer was not here, he was sure.  There was nothing in
the psychic ambience of this place.  Nothing.
     "Jaguar, Mercedes, BMW, Volvo, Ferrari, Peugeot, you name it,"
Giroud said proudly.   "We've been here a long time.  Many of our
customers have been coming here as long as we've been in business."
     He handed Nick the printout.  Nick glanced over it.  "I see
everyone lives here in the area."
     "Yes, they are long-time residents.  We're more like family than
anything else."
     Nick had to agree as he smiled reassuringly at Giroud.  "Thank
you."
     Nick and Tracy left, winding their way again through the cars and
out the front.  "I don't know Nick," Tracy said.  "I can't see how we
can possibly get any kind of lead this way."
     Nick looked at the list.  "Yeah, well, I don't think he's here,
but somewhere there's someone who's just a little different and
someone's noticed."
     "Assuming he really is working as a mechanic," Tracy muttered
under her breath as she got in the Caddy.
     Nick smiled.  He hadn't been meant to hear, but he had.  "Trust
me, Tracy," he whispered as he walked around the Caddy.  "We'll find
him."  He could feel it.
     Their next stop was Ray's Restoration.  Tracy stared in
amazement.  They, too, were open.  "What is it with these people,
don't they ever go home?"
     Nick grinned.  "Everything's changing.  Now everybody works, and
businesses have to be open when people can come."  He thought about it
for a moment.  For centuries, it had been very difficult as a vampire
to purchase clothing, to bank--without bribing people to work with him
at night.  Nowadays, it was no longer a problem.  Many of the old
problems had simply disappeared, but unfortunately they had been
replaced by other difficulties--much worse difficulties--such as
maintaining an identity in this electronic age.
     "C'mon, Tracy, let's see what we can find."
     Tracy checked the ground carefully before stepping out.  No mud
anywhere.  Inside Ray's, Tracy's eye's widened, and Nick whistled
appreciatively.  Three mechanics were clustered around a 1934 Packard.
"Wow," Tracy breathed.  "You don't see cars like that everyday."
     "No," Nick agreed.  "It's classic, a convertible Victoria.
Twelve cylinders, four stroke, 3200 rpm and a classic v-window
shield," he said reverently.
     Tracy stared at him.  "I should have known you'd know what it
was--what with the Caddy."
     Nick smiled cheerfully back at her.  He'd owned one of those
once--and loved it.  And if he hadn't totaled it, he'd still own it.
     "Hello," someone said pleasantly behind them.  Tracy and Nick
turned to see a round-faced, cheerful man with a shiny pate.  Tracy
couldn't decide if he waxed it or not.  "Need some work done on that
beautiful classic Cadillac out there?"
     Nick smiled as he pulled his badge out.  "No.  Not today.  This
is Detective Vetter, and I'm Detective Knight.  We would like to talk
to the owner."
     The smile disappeared off the man's face as he perused the badge.
"Oh... um, sure.  Ray's still here, so hang on a sec."  He vanished
through a door.  As he did, Nick suddenly felt it.  He turned sharply
and looked at the men working.
     He was here...
     He felt the vibration as surely as if it were that of another
vampire.  The killer was here.  His hunger for vengeance was palpable.
Yet none of the five men he could see working was obviously the
killer.  Two were barely out of school.  Car junkies, Nick thought.
     There was an older man, with a kind compassionate face,
instructing one of the not-quite-children on some of the finer aspects
of the Packard.  Nick didn't think he was the source of the vibration.
     His gaze settled on a narrow-shouldered, bony-looking man.  He
was somewhere between 25 and 30.  His clothing was neat and tidy.  He
coarse brown hair was cut in a butch, similar to what LaCroix had
favored for the last 800 plus years.  He seemed to hold himself
rigidly as he worked on the Packard.  As if realizing he was under
scrutiny, he looked up.  His pale blue eyes seemed flat and empty to
Nick.  Then he looked away and continued with his work.
     Nick stared at him, willing him to look at him again.  He was
sure that if he could maintain eye contact for a few moments he would
know...
     "...Nick!" Tracy hissed, kicking him in the shin.  Nick turned to
find himself facing a man of Egyptian heritage.
     "I'm Ray ZalZal.  Can I help you, Detective?" he said, obviously
not for the first time.  Nick gathered his scattered thoughts and
focused on Mr. ZalZal.
     "Yes, we are looking for some information about an investigation.
Could we talk somewhere privately?" Nick asked.
     "Sure," he said, surprise large on his face, and after a
flustered moment, ushered them into a small, neat office.  He sat
behind his desk expectantly.  Nick waved Tracy into the only other
chair in the room.  He still found it hard to concentrate, for the
emanations coming from the killer still roiled around him.  His fangs
ached in resonance and pain seemed to shoot through him.  Not his
pain, but the killer's.  He hadn't expected pain. Anger maybe, but not
pain...
     "We're investigating the Don Valley Parkway murders," Tracy said,
looking narrowly at Nick.  For once he seemed unwillingly to take the
lead.  In fact, he didn't seem to be there at all, in her opinion.
Once again, Nick had left the room--mentally.  She just hated it when
he did that.  She wished that just for once, he'd stay in the present.
     Tracy fervently hoped this wouldn't result in another tangent.
Couldn't he wait until they'd finished the current crazy tangent
before going off on another?  Tracy shook her head and focused on the
task at hand.  She'd just to have to deal with Nick when he came back
from wherever he was.
     "We have some evidence that leads us to believe that the man
perpetrating the crimes may be somehow involved in car repair," Tracy
said,  "Specifically, transmission repair.  We are checking out all
auto-shops in the area.  We would like to know about your employees--
whether any of them have been behaving erratically or suspiciously, or
if you have any employees that have only been here for the last six to
eight months."
     Nick managed to throw off the foul miasma around him in time to
hear the last of Tracy's involved speech.
     "Hmm...," Ray said.  "Can't say that I know all of them real
well.  Frank, now he's been with me for years and years, and so has
Terry, but I got a bunch of kids that seem like good kids.  But I
don't know much about them.  They come and go real quick, you know.
Then there's Melvin and Jake.  Both of them have been here for about a
year.  I just can't imagine either of them being a murderer though."
     "Tell us about them," Nick sadi, his voice demanding.
     Ray blinked in surprise as he looked at him.
     "Yeah, well Frank's about 50 and he don't do nothing that isn't
cars.  I don't think he knows there's anything out there besides cars.
He builds cars from kits on the sides..."
     "What about Terry," Nick interrupted, anxious to get a name on
his suspect.
     "Terry's one of a kind," Ray said with a grin.  "Terry's the only
woman I ever knew who loves cars more'n me.  She's got a big 4x4 that
she likes to take out on the weekends and..."
     "Next," Nick said.
     Tracy goggled at Nick's manner.  He was acting strange.  What was
wrong with letting the poor guy finish?  Then it hit her.  Nick *was*
on to something, or on another tangent.  Just great, she thought
grimly.  She was gonna kill him.  Just as soon as they were alone.
She was going to do it.  She deserved to do it--he was driving her
insane.  Ray interrupted her thoughts as he stuttered out a reply.
     "Um, Melvin.  He's real quiet.  Been here about a year.  Don't
say much, but he's neat and tidy--does really good work."  Zalzal
stopped in expectation of being cut off again.
     Nick looked at him.  "What else?"
     "Uh, well, he came from Edmonton, I think.   He seems really shy,
except when he's working on a car--he's not what I call a talker.  But
he's polite and nicer 'n nice..."
     "Which one is he?" Nick asked, looking through the glass window
in the door.
     Ray stood and pointed.  As Nick thought, it was indeed the rigid
man with pale, flat eyes.
     "Melvin," he murmured to himself.  Ray looked at him uneasily.
"Melvin what?"
     "Brackner," Zalzal said, slowly, not liking this at all.
     Tracy intervened.  "What about the others," she asked.
     Zalzal looked at her in relief.   "I got four kids working here
on a release program with the automotive school.  Ernie, Dick, Kelly,
and Paul..."
     Nick lost track of the conversation as the foul vibration
thrummed through him.  The air reeked of it.  He unconsciously wiped
his hand on his trousers....


     "He has a foul air about him, doesn't he," LaCroix said as he put
his pomander to his nose.  He stepped forward into the Duke's Great
Hall.  Nicholas followed after looking around vainly for Janette.  He
unconsciously wiped his hand on his hose.  He looked back at the Duke.
He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to make physical contact again.
The Duke had touched him briefly for some reason, and the air had
seemed to crackle.  He'd felt a strange vibration roll through him.
Something about Gian Maria felt foul, as if long decayed and rotten.
The Duke's eyes had suddenly sparked with interest and as they had
looked at each other.   Something had passed between them.  An odd
recognition, a recognition of another killer...
     "Yes," he said shortly.  "I do not think I want to stay here,
long.  I'm glad Janette plans to finish this tonight."
     As they stepped forward on the sweet rushes covering the floor,
Nicholas wished that their scent could eradicate the disgusting,
horrifying flavor of the young Duke.  His flat, pale, bulbous eyes had
scrutinized Nicholas as Nicholas had bowed graciously over his flabby
hand.  In his eyes there had been a sickness of soul that repelled
him. The evil didn't show on his face, but his spirit was rank with
it.  Nicholas wondered if LaCroix had felt it, or had it been only
him...
     "LaCroix," he asked, urgently,  "did you feel him?"
     "What?"  LaCroix asked, swinging around to look at Nicholas
indulgently.
     "Did you feel him?" he repeated,  "I felt something, when he
touched my hand, I felt something..."
     LaCroix raised an eyebrow.  "Now you are imagining things.
Really, Nicholas, he's mortal.  What is there to feel?"  He walked
off, laughter hanging in the air behind him.
     Nicholas stared after him.  LaCroix hadn't felt it.  Why had he?
He wondered what it meant.  A shiver passed through him as he slowly
followed, looking for Janette.  He wondered how Janette could play
such a part--act as if she found the Duke interesting, enticing.  He
shuddered.  He couldn't believe that Janette could tolerate the Duke's
touch or look for even a single second--no matter her cause.  He
looked around for her again, and found her at last, smiling
seductively at him from behind a rose she held.
     She was dressed in a close-fitting gown of silver cloth.  The
tight sleeves descended to the knuckles of her slim pearly white
hands.  Over her dress she wore a houppelande of ruby velvet, reversed
at the throat.  Her hair was captured in a silver caul that glittered
with rubies.  Nicholas regarded her with reverence, held in thrall to
her beauty.   He missed her.  He needed her.  He hoped she would
finish it quickly so they could leave...get away from this place, and
from the Duke, who reeked of evil.


     "...and anyway, I can't see any of them boys being mixed up in
anything," Ray concluded.
     "We'd appreciate it, if you could give us full names and
addresses of everyone.  We really don't believe that there's a
problem, but we are being thorough.  We want to stop this man before
he kills again'" Tracy said as Nick began to pay attention.
     "Sure," Ray agreed.  He pulled a sheet of paper to him, and
looking through his Rolodex, began to write the information down.
     Tracy glared at Nick angrily.  Nick shrugged and after a moment,
mouthed, "Sorry."
     Tracy's look told him he wasn't nearly sorry enough for her.
     "I sure hope you find him soon.  I can tell you my wife, she
don't like me being down here late at night or coming home alone with
this loony out there," Ray said as he handed Tracy the paper.  Tracy
smiled at him.
     "We hope so, too," she said as she handed him her card.  "If you
think of anything, or notice any odd behavior, please call us."
     "Sure," Ray said as Tracy stood.  "And if you need any work on
that Caddy, call us.  We specialize in restoration work, you know."
     Nick followed Tracy meekly out.  He could tell she was going to
wallpaper his face in her frustration.  He supposed in her view, he
deserved it.
     "What...WHAT was that in there, Nick?  Huh?  You think that kid
did it or something?"  She fumed as she headed for the car.  "I could
use a little support.  WE are supposed to be a team--not to mention
you got that guy scared that you think Melwood is..."
     "Melvin," Nick supplied.
     "WHATEVER.  You've got him thinking Melvin is our killer or
something," Tracy spluttered.
     "Let's just say," Nick said quietly, "that there's something
about him that fits the profile, Tracy.  I think he's a strong
candidate, and I'd like to check him out.  Thoroughly."
     Tracy glared at Nick.  "Yeah.  Right."
     Nick merely looked at her.
     "Oh, sure, and on what evidence is that based, Nick, huh?  C'mon,
you've got nothing."
     "I've got a gut feeling--and my gut is rarely wrong," Nick
retorted.
     Tracy was quiet for a moment, as his intensity finally got
through to her.  She took a deep breath.
     "Yeah, well, Reese is just gonna love that.  Sure, we'll put him
under surveillance on a gut feeling.  Get real, Nick," Tracy said, and
getting into the Caddy, she slammed the Caddy door shut.
     Nick winced.  "Could you be a little kinder to the Caddy, Trace?"
he asked as he got in.

                                   +++++

     Melvin watched the Detectives leave uneasily.  Panic tweaked him.
Ray came out of his office and stood there for a moment lost in
thought.  Everybody had stopped working.  Ray suddenly noticed the
silence and looked at the earnest faces staring at him.
     "What'cha staring at?" he asked, irked.  "Haven't you ever seen a
cop before?"
     Frank, who was leaning against the Packard's fender, stood up.
"Yeah, we seen some before.  We just couldn't help wondering what they
wanted."
     Ray was silent.  Involuntarily he glanced at Melvin.  "They're
looking for clues on the Parkway Killer," he said at last.  "They
think the killer is a mechanic and they are checking out every auto
shop around here.  Okay?"  Ray turned on his heel, feeling surly and
unsettled and stomped back into his office.  After a moment the crew
got back to work, but the conversation was suddenly bleak.
     "You think, they think one of us did it?"  Ernie asked anxiously.
     "Nah," said Frank comfortably.  "I think they're just chasing
haystacks..."
     Ernie grinned, "You mean needles..."
     Melvin stopped listening as he worked on the engine.  Something
about that detective bothered him.  They'd exchanged glances, and he'd
felt...something, something familiar and yet alien.  He was twitchy
with fear.  Maybe the cop knew something.  He didn't know how he could
know, though.  He'd been so careful.  Yet, somehow they'd figured out
he was a mechanic.  How'd they do that?  His fears crept along his
skin, making goosebumps.
     He put the spark plug back carefully and thought about what this
might mean.  He'd have to hurry.  There was only one more to go.  Just
one.  He had to finish this.  They wanted him to do it, and he wanted--
needed--to do it.  He'd have to hurry, though.  He swore silently.
He hadn't found anyone yet--and this one had to be special.  It just
had to be.  It was the last.




Act 3, Scene 5

Mightn't it be a little bit of earthquake that moved her?
   -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Tracy stalked into the precinct still feeling an urge to go
ballistic.  Nick followed her, keeping his distance.  There was no
sense in provoking another eruption.  He knew his behavior had been
far beyond her comprehension tonight, and to gain her help, he needed
to appease her.
     Tracy sat down in her chair with energy and glared at Nick.  He
sat down and waited for her to get it out of her system.  Only then
could they get to work, and he felt a compelling need to find out
about Melvin Brackner.

     From across the room at the counter, Officer Nancy Schiller
stared openly.  Realizing she was staring, she looked away and licked
her lips.  Her heart was pounding loud enough for everybody to hear
it.  She sneaked another look.  He was gorgeous!  In the words of her
fifteen-year-old sister, he was to die for.
     She'd never looked across a room and been struck like this
before.  It was stupid.  But she couldn't help it.
     "Lt. Garson," she asked her new partner.   "Who're they?" She
pointed to Nick and Tracy.  "I don't think I've met them."
     Garson looked up and followed her finger.  "Who?  Oh, that's
Detectives Tracy Vetter and Nick Knight.  Vetter is the daughter of
*Commissioner Vetter*.  She's kind of risen through the ranks fast,
but Nick says she's got good instincts.  She'd have to, or else he
wouldn't tolerate her long."
     "Why is that?" Schiller asked casually, once more feasting on
Nick.  His name is Nick, she thought, savoring it, as she let her eyes
drift down his body.  Nick Knight.  She liked the sound of it.
     "Because," Garsen snorted, "Knight wouldn't put up with it,
otherwise.  He's kind of a loner--more so since he lost his last
partner.  He's touchy, but he's a good Detective.  Damn good.  We're
lucky to have him.  He's got a real knack for it.  Makes up for
Vetter's lack of it.  'Course, she's still a rookie..."  Garsen looked
at Schiller and caught a glimpse of her expression.  He smiled.  He'd
seen *that* look before.
     "Schiller," he said.
     Schiller tore her eyes away from Nick and looked at him.  "Yeah?"
     "Forget it," he said gently.
     "What?"
     "Forget it.  There have been a lot of women that have made a run
on him.  And he's never paid attention to anyone.  Never.  Nada.
Zip."
     "I'm not...," Schiller began defensively.
     "Yes, you are.  I've seen that look before," Garsen said.  He
looked at Nick and shook his head.  "I just don't get it, though.
Women fall for him at the drop of a hat.  He ain't even trying and
they're all over him.  Nothing like that ever happened to me.  When I
was single, I couldn't get a date with anything--least not 'til I met
Carol. But him, he's not even looking and they swarm."
     Nancy looked at him. "Swarm?" she asked raising her eyebrows.
     "Yeah, swarm, swoon, whatever.  He's oblivious--totally
oblivious.  Only woman to make a dent in him is Dr. Lambert."
     "Who's Dr. Lambert?" Schiller asked, sneaking another peek.
     "M.E. over in the coroner's office.  And no one is sure what
they've got going.  Not even Vetter.  So just give it up."
     "So, he's single?" Schiller asked, looking back at Nick
     Garsen shook his head at her.  "Aren't you listening?  He's
single, but it don't matter.  You'll just beat your head bloody."
     "Why, is he gay?" Nancy asked.
     "Not that I know of, but it doesn't matter.  He's never looked at
anyone around here.  Got that?  No one but Lambert!  And if he's got
someone else tucked away, no one knows.  He keeps his private life--
private. You're just wasting your time," Garsen said, exasperated.
     "Well, that's my choice, isn't it?" Schiller said with a smile.
     Garsen stared at Schiller.  She was a good-looking woman.
Schiller was tall with brilliant red hair, green eyes and freckles.
Even a nice personality, but no brains when it came to men.  She just
wasn't listening.  At all.  "Yeah, it's your choice, but don't do it
on my time.  Now pay attention."
     Schiller smiled.  "Yes, sir," she said and resolutely went back
to studying the information sheet.  She'd better know it cold;
tomorrow they would start working the beat together.  But still, a
woman could dream, couldn't she?

     Tracy stared at Nick, hard.  "Okay, so tell me again why you
think we should investigate Melvin what-his-toes?  Tell me why we quit
our cross-check of auto shops after you took a look at him?  The auto-
shop thing was pretty thin in the first place.  Give me something to
go on here!"
     Nick picked up his pencil and played with it.  Finally he looked
up at Tracy.  "Some of it is just what I said--gut instinct, but part
of it is also the way he looked at me."  Nick hesitated, picking his
way very carefully.  He didn't want to give Tracy any ideas about what
he was, but he wanted to give her something solid to work with.
"There was this look that passed between us, and something about it
wasn't right, Tracy.  I could feel he was hiding something.  He felt
off."
     Tracy knew what he meant, because a good cop instinctively knew
when there was something wrong with someone.  She sighed.  "Okay, but
that doesn't mean that he's the killer.  It just means something isn't
right."
     Nick leaned forward,  "I know, but I *felt* something Tracy, and
... it felt like the killer."
     Tracy stared, dumbfounded.  "Felt like the killer?  *Felt?*  What
does that mean, Nick?"
     "Just what I said.  There was a connection.  I looked into his
eyes, Tracy, and I knew.  The only thing that would be more convincing
was if he waltzed in here and confessed."
     Tracy narrowed her eyes at that, and started to speak.
     Nick held up his hand.  "I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but
humor me here.  Let's just run with it a bit and see what we can find
out about Melvin Brackner from Edmonton, Alberta."
     Tracy fidgeted a bit under Nick's intense look.
     "We haven't got any other leads, what can it hurt?" Nick pleaded
softly.
     Tracy looked at him.  "That's true.  But that doesn't make this
one any more realistic."
     "C'mon, Tracy," Nick whispered leaning over his desk.
     Tracy let out her breath in a frustrated exhalation.  Her bangs
fluffed up briefly.  "Okay, we'll look.  But, Nick, we still keep
looking at other possibilities, too."
     "Okay," Nick agreed, gratefully.  "You want to take Toronto or
Edmonton?"
     "I'll take Toronto.  You get Edmonton," Tracy said.  It was
always easier to find current data than to dig into the past.  Let
Nick do his own dirty work for once.
     Nick smiled, knowing exactly what she was thinking.  "Okay,
Tracy."  He hesitated a moment.  "Thanks.  You won't be sorry."
     "I'm sorry already," Tracy muttered as she turned to her
computer.  Nick grinned as he turned on his own computer for the first
time in days.

                                   +++++

     Tracy sighed and stretched, wriggling her back against the chair.
Nick looked up and watched her contortions amusedly as she yawned
loudly.   "Well, Nick," Tracy said with a wry look as she shook her
head,  "this guy is clean in Toronto.   He squeaks.   No arrests, no
parking tickets, nothing.  No marriages and no divorces--messy or
otherwise.  He pays his rent on time, and he doesn't even have any
credit card debt.  Now that is an asset I'd like to have.  My Visa
card is permanently maxed out.  I cannot for the life of me...,"
Tracy trailed off, "well, never mind.  Anyway, I'll bet he escorts
people across the street in his spare time. You, Nick, are up a creek
without a rowboat."
     "Paddle," Nick corrected absently as he drummed his fingers on
his desk.
     "What?"
     "Up a creek without a paddle, not rowboat," Nick supplied.
     "No, Nick.  It's way past a paddle.  You are out there without a
rowboat," Tracy contradicted.
     Nick looked up and grinned.  "Yeah, well, maybe--maybe not.
However, so far, he's squeaky clean in Edmonton, too.  But I still
have several inquiries that we won't get any replies on until
tomorrow.  One of those will show us the real Melvin--I'm sure of it."
     Tracy laughed.  "Yeah, right.  Want to bet on it?"
     Nick raised his eyebrows a bit and then grinned.  "Sure, why not?
What's the bet?  A night at the opera--or perhaps a rock concert?"
     Tracy smiled.  *Gotcha*, she thought.  "No.  I'm thinking of
something more interesting.  I want the answer to one question--the
complete and unvarnished truth.  The winner gets to ask whatever they
want, and the loser *has* to answer."
     Nick leaned back in his chair and smiled.  "Truth is a very
dangerous thing, Tracy.  This could backfire on you.  You might be the
one answering that question, you know."
     Tracy leaned forward.  "I'm not worried--are you?"
     "No," Nick said, laughing.  "Deal.  I'm looking forward to asking
you your deepest, darkest, secret."
     "No way.  I'm going to win, you're going to reveal your secrets."
And then, Tracy thought, I'll know what's going on with you and
Natalie.  She grinned slyly.
     Nick laughed as he shook his head, knowing exactly what she was
thinking.  He glanced at the clock and confirmed what his own inner
senses were telling him.  "I've got to go.  Do we have anything else
we need to cover tonight?"
     Tracy shook her head.  "Not on this case, anyway.  But *you* have
a report to finish.  It's your turn to do our weekly report.  I don't
have a clue about what you did while I was out--so you've got to do
it.  Besides, I think I did it for the last month before that.  I'm
going on strike."
     Nick laughed.  "Don't let Reese hear you saying that..."
     "Hi, there," a low, pleasant voice interrupted them.  Nick and
Tracy looked up to find a uniformed cop standing by their desks.  "I'm
Nancy Schiller.  I'm new here tonight and you weren't here when the
Captain was making introductions.  I just thought I'd get acquainted
before I left."
     Tracy smiled and held out her hand.  "Hi, Nancy.  Welcome to the
96th precinct. You'll like it here.  Captain Reese is a really good
Captain, and the people here are great."
     "Thanks, I'm excited to be here."  She turned her gaze on Nick at
full intensity and put out her hand.  "And you are?"
     "Nick Knight," Nick said as he stood and took her hand.  He
listened to her heart rate speed up somewhere between amusement and
annoyance.
     "Pleased to meet you," Nancy said her voice slightly husky.  "I
look forward to working with you."  His hand was cool in hers.  He
felt different somehow, but ... sexy.
     Nick smiled gently and eased his hand out of hers.  Her fingers
lingered wistfully in the air for a moment and then her hand fell to
her side.  She smiled back, and then suddenly a little flustered under
Nick's knowing stare, moved back a step.
     "So, are you just out of the Academy?" Tracy asked, curious,
watching with bright amusement at her obvious play at Nick.
     Schiller looked at Tracy, getting her bearings again.  Her palms
felt sweaty.  "Yeah.  Yes.  I just graduated last week.  This is my
first assignment.  I'm partnered with Lt. Garson."
     "He's a good man," Nick said.
     "Yeah," Tracy chimed in.  "He's really great.  You'll like
working with him."
     "Thanks...well, I guess I'd better get going," Nancy said, and
with a sultry smile at Nick, turned away.  She let her hand slip
softly along his desk--almost touching his hand, as she moved away
with languid grace.  Perfume drifted in her wake, seductively.
     Tracy shook her head as she watched.  She looked at Nick and saw
he was watching, too.   She felt a fit of giggles coming on at the
look on his face.  Schiller's pursuit of Nick was nothing short of a
siege.  "Well, she certainly didn't waste any time, did she?" Tracy
whispered.  "You know, Nick, if you're not careful, you'll wake up to
find out she's moved into the loft."
     Nick snorted and shoved his hands into his pockets.  "Not a
chance, she doesn't know where I live, and she hasn't got the access
code."
     "Yet...," Tracy laughed.  "Give her time, she's only been here
one night."
     Nick raised his eyebrows.
     Tracy smiled innocently,  "Whatever will Natalie say when she
hears about this?"
     Nick looked at her, amused.  "Whatever she wants, I imagine," he
said putting his sunglasses on.
     Tracy made a face and sighed.  "Right.  Calling it a night?"
     "Yeah.  Sun's coming up," Nick said.  "See you tomorrow--and be
ready to answer a question."
     "No.  Nonono.   I grill, you answer," Tracy parried.
     Nick laughed.  "Don't bet on it.  See you."
     "See you," Tracy said to his back.  As he disappeared out the
door, she added,  "and I will win, I can feel it..."  And then
realization dawned. He'd left her to finish the report.  Like she had
a clue what to put in it!  Tracy glared at the door he'd disappeared
through.  Just wait till I get you in my sights, buster, she thought.
She turned back to the computer and stared at it.  The report had to
be in.  She guessed it would be the most incomplete report ever done.
"Damn," she muttered.  "Damn..."




Act 3, Scene 6

Fate comes and goes, invisible and mute,
And never whispers where Her blow shall fall.
None of us ever sees her in the dark...
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Melvin sat at the bar and slowly sipped his beer as the night
waned.  Morning was coming and he was on his fifth bar.  Closing time
was coming up soon, but the fear in his gut had eased since he'd
strolled into this disgusting little joint.  The guy in the corner
playing pool was a prime candidate.  He'd watched him with growing
excitement.  What a gutless wonder, Melvin thought.  Swearing and
cursing at everyone, drunker than a tech-ni-color skunk.  He'd been
telling his pool partner what he'd been doing to his woman and his
kids.  He was a beater.
     Melvin turned away and stared at him in the mirror.  His Dad had
been one.  Beat him to a bloody pulp all the time, him and Gordon and
Libby.  Kimmy had only been slapped around, but it had been coming,
sure as a freight train, if things hadn't fallen out the way they
had...  The only one he hadn't hit had been Edward.  Cute little
Eddie.  Too young for the old fart to beat.  He thought about his
mother for a long moment.  It hurt to think about her too much.  She
had always stood in the way, trying to protect them from all the hurt.
And she'd gotten the worst of it.  He felt his hand tighten around his
beer.  He stared down at it.  Mom, he thought, he's gonna pay.
Promise.
     He glanced once more at the guy playing pool as he threw money on
the bar and left.  He'd never said a word, never talked to him.  No
contact.  Perfect.  He slipped down the road to his truck and sank low
in the seat.  He waited, and felt the thrumming in him begin to whip
itself up to a fever pitch...
     The lights went off and the closed sign was flipped over before
the wife-beating jerk strolled out, a little unsteadily.  He leaned
against his car and fumbled for his keys.  Several tries later, he got
the door open and fell into his car.  Melvin sneered as he watched.
'What a jerk,' he thought, 'too damn drunk to even get in his car.'
Well, he would be one less drunk driver on the road.  Melvin would see
to that.
     The drunk's headlights came on and he pulled jerkily away.
Melvin put his truck in gear and followed discreetly.  Right, left,
and then straight down quiet neighborhood roads.  Finally he pulled up
in front of a house, his car tire going up and over the curb before he
stopped.  The car stayed there, canted at an angle.
     Melvin parked quickly, and in his dark clothing, was a shadow
slipping down the street before the guy even got his door shut.  The
drunk leaned against the hood of his car, letting the air clear his
head.  As he came around the car and started up his walk, Melvin hit
him hard over the head with a padded crowbar.
     He stood for a second swaying, and then crumpled into Melvin's
waiting arms.  "Gotcha," Melvin whispered gleefully, threw him over
his shoulder, and weaving a bit under the weight, hauled him back to
his truck.  A dull thud was the only sound as he threw him in the bed.
Leaping in beside him, he pulled handcuffs out of his pocket and
cuffed his victim's hands behind his back.  Quickly Melvin stuffed a
gag in his mouth and tied it, and then with a second set of handcuffs,
secured him to the truck's side.  Throwing a tarp over the inert body,
he jumped out of the bed and slipped into the cab of his truck, and
drove away.
     It had gone down in under five minutes and none of Billy "Tuff
Guy" Nayson's neighbors had seen a thing in the dark dregs of night.
The neighbors slumbered on, blissfully unaware of Billy's fate.  And
it was questionable whether anyone would have come to Billy's rescue
if they had.  Billy Nayson was too quick to take offense and too quick
to beat up anybody who got in his way.  Nobody liked him.  Nobody.
     The first hint of light dusted the horizon as Helen Nayson woke
up and turned over to look at the clock.  Dawn was coming, and Billy
wasn't home.  Maybe she'd be lucky, she thought hopefully, and he
wouldn't come home for a week.  She smiled and turned over and slid
back into sleep, happy at the empty place in her bed.
     Melvin hummed under his breath as he drove his truck into the
empty warehouse's parking lot.  He left the truck idling as he opened
the lock on the door.  Two minutes later, the door was shut securely
behind him, and Melvin danced about in excitement.  He took off the
dark coveralls he'd been wearing, as well as the baseball cap and
blonde pony-tailed wig.  The mustache followed.  He shrugged out of
the home-made padding he'd been wearing underneath.  Let them match
my description to *that*, he thought with a satisfied smirk.
     He walked over to the truck bed and pulled the tarp off.  Billy
still lay unconscious.  Unhandcuffing him from the truck, he hauled
Billy's overweight liquor-perfumed body to the table and snapped his
hands and feet into the restraints.  Finally he fastened the
restraining bars over his chest and legs.
     "Wife-beater," Melvin said looking into Billy's slack face.  "You
and me are going to have a little party."  Laughing he walked over to
peer out at the coming dawn.  He had about six hours before he had to
be at work.  Plenty of time.  Billy Nayson's fate was sealed.


Interlude

Women have a way....
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     "Detective Knight? Nick..." a low breathless voice called out as
Nick was opening the door to the Caddy.  Nick turned to find Officer
Schiller making her way across the parking lot towards him.
     "Officer," Nick said, "what can I do for you?"
     She had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.  "Actually, I was
wondering if you would be interested in getting a cup of coffee or
something?"
     Nick smiled at her.  "Thanks, but I can't.  I've got to go."
     "Maybe some other night?" she asked, putting her hand gently on
his arm.  Sheet lightning sizzled through the air, highlighting the
roiling storm clouds and heightening the intensity Schiller exuded.
     Nick hesitated.  She looked as if she wanted to throw him to the
ground right there and then. He heard Schiller's heart go into
overdrive, as he met her eyes.  The beast inside stirred with
interest--and desire jolted through him.  For a moment he wanted to
take her, send them both into ecstasy, as he drained her soul and life
away.  He glanced at the pulse throbbing in her neck and looked away.
Of course, that would land her to the morgue...Natalie would *really*
love that.   He pushed the desire back into submission.   He really
couldn't encourage this.
     "I don't think so, Officer Schiller..."
     "Nancy," she said huskily, pressing up against him as thunder
rumbled by.
     "Nancy," Nick said as calmly as he could.  "You're new to the
precinct.  Why don't you give yourself some time to settle in first,
okay?"
     She smiled brilliantly, undaunted by his lack of interest.
"Okay," she crinkled her nose at him, "we'll give it a couple of
weeks."  With that, she patted his arm possessively and headed towards
her car, her hips swaying sensuously.
     Nick stared after her, mouth open.  Then he closed his eyes.
"Why me?" he whispered as raindrops began to splatter the ground.


Act 4, Scene 1

What brought you here?
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Reese rolled into the precinct as the night gave way to dawn.
He'd been stuck for most of the night answering the questions of one
of the police commissioners about a nasty incident that had happened
while he was on vacation.  Seemed one of his patrolmen had arrested a
buddy of said police commissioner.  He'd deserved it and Reese wasn't
about to let it go just because he was some commissioner's pal.  He
hoped the guy rotted in jail for a good long time.  As he entered the
bullpen, Reese immediately looked for Nick.  All he saw was Tracy
muttering under her breath and looking madder than his mother  had
been when Reese had trailed mud on her carpet.
     He made his way over to stand by her desk.  "What seems to be the
problem, Detective Vetter?" he asked mildly, wondering where her
partner was.  He really wanted to talk to him.  He needed to talk to
him.  He wanted to resolve this...puzzle.  But fate was conspiring to
see that he *didn't* talk to him.  He felt like he was going to go
crazy.
     "Just paperwork, Cap.  Not really my favorite thing to do," Tracy
said with an attempt at a smile.  She was too mad for it to work.  It
looked more like a snarl.
     Reese backed off a step.  He didn't feel any desire to get
between a woman and the object of her wrath.  He changed subjects.
"Where's your partner?"
     "Gone home," Vetter said in clipped tones, the temperature in her
voice making Reese suddenly feel cold.  He glanced towards the window
and noticed the sky's angry bronze tint in the heavy storm clouds.
     "Oh, yeah, I guess he would.  Sun's almost up.  I'll catch him
tomorrow," Reese said and beat a hasty retreat.  He wiped his brow as
he walked into his office.  A mad woman could still make him sweat.
Even if he wasn't the one she was mad at.  He suspected Nick held that
position.
     Nick.  It all kept coming back to Nick...
     He sat at his desk and stared out into the angry dawn.  He
wondered if he should call Nick at home.  He put his hand on the
phone.  He took it off again.  Maybe he would wait.  There was some
other stuff he should check out first.  He had the name of Knight's
Captain in Chicago, maybe he'd call him... Reese stared at the phone
for a minute indecisively then opening the folder he found the number
and dialed Chicago.  He drummed his fingers anxiously on the desk as
he waited for the call to go through.
     "122nd Precinct," a tired voice said.
     "Uh, yeah, I'd like to speak to Captain Kelson, please."
     "I'm sorry, but Captain Kelson works days, he won't be in until
8:00 a.m., sir."
     "But he *did* used to work nights, didn't he?" Reese asked,
trying to clarify that he had the right person.
     "Yes, he did, he worked nights for years.  Can I take a message?"
     "No, that's all right, I'll call back after 8:00, thank you."
     Reese hung up.  So much for that little idea, he thought.  He
glanced at the clock, counted the hours until he could call, and
decided to call it a night.

                                   +++++

     Nick stopped in at the morgue, wanting and needing to see Natalie
before the daylight imprisoned him in the loft.  He found her hunched
over her terminal, sipping coffee to stay awake, dark circles under
her eyes.  She looked up when he pushed open the door and smiled.
     "Hi, Nick, aren't you cutting it a little close?" she asked.
     Nick smiled back at her and sat down on the corner of her desk,
covering her paper work.  He kissed her gently on the cheek.  "Yeah,
but I was hoping I could talk you into dropping by," he said softly.
"But you look like you could use a good night's sleep."
     Natalie wrinkled her nose.  "Yeah, well, if I could sleep and not
dream about..."
     "...the murders," Nick finished.
     Natalie nodded.  There wasn't much point trying to hide it.  Nick
already knew how much this case was bothering her.  What he didn't
know was just how disturbing her dreams were becoming...
     "Maybe we can talk about it, then, ... at the loft.  It might
help," Nick said.
     Natalie leaned back in her chair.  When he looked like that,
there wasn't much he could ask of her that she wouldn't do... "Why
not?" Natalie agreed, and then she looked a little closer.  There was
a shadow on his face that shouldn't be there.  "Something on your
mind?" she asked.
     Nick looked away, briefly.  "Yes, there is, but it can wait.  I'd
better run, or I'll be toast."
     Natalie laughed.  "Okay.  I've got to feed Sidney, and then I'll
be over."
     Nick kissed her swiftly on the lips, surprising her.  Her heart
flipped over and started pounding.  "I'll make you some hot
chocolate," he promised as he disappeared out the door.
     Natalie put her hand on her heart and took a deep breath.  "Don't
do that, Nick," she muttered at the still swinging door, "my heart
can't take it..."

     Tracy walked out of the precinct still simmering.  The sky
matched her mood.  Dawn had dwindled and the skies were darkening,
threatening more angry rain.  She looked down at her hands as she
stood on the steps of the precinct and found they were clenched into
solid fists.  Carefully she opened her hands, releasing the tension.
She didn't want to go home.  She was too angry to sleep, too angry and
too frustrated.  Nick was absolutely driving her out of her mind.
Between his crazy hunches and his paperwork avoidance, she was ready
to lock him in a jail cell and torture him.  Perhaps a rack, or
boiling oil, or paperwork duty for the next six months.  And she'd
only been back two days.  Great...
     She sighed, and wished once again for someone to talk to.  But
there wasn't anyone she could talk to at--she checked her watch--6:08
a.m.  She exhaled in frustration.  Working the nightshift had really
made a mess of her life.  Her friends were all getting up and rushing
to work just when she needed to relax.  She'd like to sit in a cafe,
watching the dawn turn into day and unwind.  She needed a night
person, someone else who worked the same hours.  Natalie, perhaps?
No, she was definitely too close to Nick.  And Nick was the heart of
her problems tonight.  Who, then? ...Vachon?  She considered the idea
carefully.   He was a night person--okay, vampire --whatever.  So they
couldn't sit in a cafe and enjoy the sunshine, but otherwise he met
all her criteria, and after all he was a captive audience....
     "Are you going to take root there, Detective?" Reese said into
Tracy's ear.  She jumped and turned, putting her hand to her heart.
     "Captain, you just about gave me a heart attack," Tracy gasped.
     Reese raised his eyebrows.
     "Um, no, I'm not just going to stand here.  I was just
thinking...," Tracy sputtered to a stop.
     "Well, I'm no expert, but aren't there better places for
thinking?" Reese asked
     Tracy smiled, feeling her decision to see Vachon solidify.
"Yeah... yeah, there are.   I'll see you tonight, Cap," she said, and
with a wave, headed for her car.
     "Goodnight, Detective," Reese said dryly.




Act 4, Scene 2

Stop this talk!  You called me here for something, girl.
  -- Electra

     Tracy cautiously took the rickety stairs up to the church attic,
leaning her hand against the wall for support.  The wall was rough and
gritty to her touch.  She carefully opened the door and peered into
the gloom.  No candles flickered within, and her hopes sank. Vachon
must have taken refuge from the dawn somewhere else.  Sighing, she
walked around the room, letting her hand trail along boxes.
     "Trace," Vachon said behind her, "what are you doing here?"
     "Aarrghhh," Tracy said as she grabbed the nearest box.  She
gulped in air.  "You really enjoy scaring people, don't you?" she
demanded.
     Vachon smiled.  "No, not people, just you, Trace."
     Tracy sat down on the crate and glared at him.  "Oh, thank you.
You don't know how much I appreciate that.  That is the second time
this morning that I have been scared spitless.   If you are not
careful, you're going to land me in an early grave."
     Vachon looked at her with a glimmer of amusement.  "If that's
what you want, Trace, I can help you out..."
     "Vachon!" Tracy started, and then "Ouch!" as she put her hands
down on the crate.  Surprised, she examined her finger carefully.
"I've got a sliver...  This is your fault, you know!"
     A carefully blank expression covered Vachon's face for a moment.
He put down the guitar he was carrying and sat beside Tracy.  Quietly
he took her hand in his and examined the wound.  "Close your eyes,
Tracy," he said.
     "Wha...? Ow, ouch!  Vachon!"  Tracy complained as he suddenly
squeezed her finger between his and pulled the sliver out.  A dark
ruby droplet of blood formed on her finger.  Vachon stared fascinated,
and before Tracy realized what was happening, he licked it from her
finger.  His tongue was soft and furry, if oddly cool.  Tracy felt a
shiver ripple through her.  Her knees quivered, and she felt limp.
She was glad she was sitting down.
     Their eyes met in the sudden silence.  Vachon's dark, deep eyes
seemed to penetrate her very soul.   Then his eyelids closed over the
unfathomable expression in his eyes.  When he looked at her again, the
tension had vanished, and he smiled ruefully and let go of her hand.
"Sorry about that, Tracy."
     Tracy licked her lips, wondering why she felt like she was
drowning.  Something had just happened, and she wasn't sure what it
was.
     "Um.  Yeah....," she trailed off, and then her brow crinkled up
and she stared at him suspiciously.  "What just happened?  Did you
whammy me or something?"
     Vachon smiled gently.  "No.  You don't whammy, Trace, remember?"
     "Maybe not, but I felt all floaty or fizzy or...something.  So
what *did* you do?"
     Vachon stood up and stared down at her.  He shoved his hands into
his pockets and briefly looked away.  Tracy folded her arms tightly
across her chest, waiting.
     "I tasted your blood.  It created a connection," Vachon said
softly.
     "And...?" Tracy prompted after another minute of silence passed.
     "It's like a thread--a tie, I guess.   We can bind someone to us
that way, create a sense of ... um, desire.  It makes the, uh..."
     "Victim?" Tracy filled in the blank when Vachon stopped and
seemed unwilling to continue.
     "Well, anyway, it makes them want to be with us.  Seek us out,"
Vachon finished slowly, glancing at her out of the corners of his
eyes.
     Tracy stared at him.  "You mean you can seduce somebody, make
them want to come to you--willingly--just by tasting their blood?"
     " It's not quite that simple, it takes a lot of effort,
but...something like that...."
     Tracy glanced down at her finger, stunned.  "Your victim *wants*
to come..."  She looked at Vachon.  He looked away, uncomfortable.
"So, could you, like, just call me now?  Seduce me?" Tracy asked,
amazed.
     "Maybe, but probably not.  Resistors shake it off pretty easily."
Vachon picked up his guitar and headed for the couch.  "Anyway, it's
something we shouldn't be discussing," he murmured as he sat down.
     Tracy watched his back as he bent over to gently pick a cord out.
"Why not?  Isn't it kosher to let the victim in on what to look out
for?  You know, how to avoid a vampire seduction?"
     Vachon glanced at her briefly, amused.  "No.  It's not that."
     Tracy crossed the room and stood with her hands on her hips
staring down at him.  "What then?"
     Vachon stopped playing and flattened the strings with his hand.
"It's not safe to talk about."
     "For who?  Me?"
     "Yeah, and for me.  Just leave it at that, Trace, okay?"  He
looked up at her calmly.
     She let out an exasperated sigh.  "I hate it when you do this,
Vachon, you know that?"
     He smiled.  "Yeah.  So why did you come to see me?"
     Tracy chewed her lip, obviously not ready to let the subject go,
but wise enough to realize he wouldn't say anymore.  She looked at her
finger one more time and felt a slight tingle shimmy through her
again.  And then she sat down abruptly beside him.
     "Nick," Tracy said in frustration.
     A shadow of an expression crossed Vachon's face.  Tracy, looking
down at her finger, missed it.
     "What about Nick?" Vachon asked.
     "He thinks he knows who the Parkway killer is.  He *says* it's a
gut feeling, based on a look he exchanged with this guy.  Just like
that, he decides a guy he's never even talked to is the killer."
Tracy stopped and took a breath.  "And he left me with the damn weekly
report."
     Vachon blinked.  He picked out a melody as he watched Tracy stare
into space.
     Tracy leaned against Vachon.  "I guess I just wanted someone to
talk to, or at least listen to me rant.  It's been a bad night.
There's just not that many people I can talk to this early in the
morning.  Sorry."
     "So," Vachon said casually as he added an accompaniment to his
melody, "tell me about it."
     Tracy leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees, resting her
chin on the palms of her hands.  "I don't know.  He said he traded
looks with this guy and something *passed* between them.  Something
that he said 'felt' like the killer.  Like he's psychic."  She stared
moodily into space.  "Go figure..."
     Vachon raised an eyebrow as he stopped playing..  He'd heard that
some vampires had the ability to *see* mortals on a psychic level, but
he thought it was just a legend.  Perhaps it wasn't.  Maybe Knight
really knew something.
     "...he makes these really wild suppositions, and the next thing
you know, you're out there in orbit," Tracy continued, "following a
harebrained idea.  Every case is like that.  Every single case.  What
I really hate is that he's usually right.  I can't figure out how he
gets there.  Whatever happened to solid police work, following a lead,
serious investigation...," Tracy complained, warming to her theme.
     "Trace?" Vachon interrupted.  "Is the problem Nick's ideas and
intuition, or is it that you can't solve a crime the way he does?"
     Tracy stared at Vachon, and then looked away.  She'd never really
thought about it before, but Vachon had found the heart of her
problem.  "Maybe," she hedged

     "How long have you been a detective, Tracy?  Three or four
months?"
     "Something like that," Tracy admitted with a sigh.
     "And how long has Knight been doing this?"
     "Years."
     "Don't you think the problem is that you want to do what he does,
and you can't?  Tracy, he's been doing it a long time, and he's
developed his instincts and intuition, through years of experience.
You build the instinct through practice--and time," Vachon said.
     Tracy looked at him and then sighed.  "I guess.  I don't know.
He just seemed so... so... out there, tonight.  Maybe if he'd just
explain once in a while.  I feel like I've barely left the gate when
he's already arrived at the finish line."
     "Feeling a little inadequate, are we?" Vachon queried as he began
plucking out another tune.
     Tracy nudged him with her hand and smiled.  "Yeah, just a
little."
     Comfortable silence fell between them as he played a mournful
song, one she'd never heard.  Tracy leaned back against the couch and
let the sound wash over her as she finally relaxed, realizing that a
lot of her problem was her need to prove herself.  She needed to be
better than good, right now.  She had so much to prove--to herself, to
the precinct--and to her father.  She let it all slide away in the
music.  Vachon was a very good musician--and he wasn't bad as a
therapist, either.
     Her finger tingled again, and Tracy looked at the tiny cut on her
finger.  It was weird how erotic it had felt when Vachon had licked
her finger.  She glanced at him from under her lashes.  Once again,
she wondered what he'd done to her.  If it was a spell, she didn't
mind at all.  He was so very different, so interesting, so sexually
attractive--and she added, a vampire.  Not for the first time, Tracy
wondered what kind of relationship was possible between them.   She
was sure he liked her and she wished she dared ask him what he wanted,
but she couldn't.
     She remembered once more the look on his face when he'd licked
her finger.  It tantalized her... "Vachon?" Tracy asked abruptly as he
finished the tune, "what does my blood taste like?"
     He looked up startled at the unexpected question.  She laughed
then felt her humor slide away as he looked at her.  She caught her
breath as his suddenly sensuous gaze caught her eyes.
     Distant thunder rumbled through the room amplifying the silence
between them.
     He softly brushed the hair away from her face and touched her
lips with his finger.  "Beautiful, fresh, and young," he whispered,
"like apricots and calla lilies...," and his lips brushed hers for the
briefest of moments.
     He pulled back and their eyes met.  His eyes were dark.  Black.
Black and sensuous and they sucked her in.  He pulled her close and
kissed her again...




Act 4, Scene 3

O walk now, walk now weeping aloud, O for my grief!
  -- Electra

     Nick stared moodily at the fire blazing in the hearth.  Thunder
rolled through the room, magnifying his frustration.  He found himself
at the fridge and filled a glass with dark, rich blood.  He gulped
half of it down in a single swallow.  He wandered aimlessly around the
loft sipping slowly what was left of his drink.  The piano beckoned
him, whispering of peace to be found in music, and as if mesmerized he
quietly approached it.  Nick ran his hands lovingly across the keys,
letting soft sounds escape.  Then with a sigh, he sat down and, after
a moment, slowly started playing a nocturne.  The music flowed out
from the piano like ripples on a pond, filling the room, silencing the
rain now steadily splattering against the window.  He closed his eyes
and played from memory, caught up in the beauty of the chords, the
patterns, the sheer ecstasy.  The music swelled outward into the
world.
     Natalie heard the music as she stepped out of her car and dashed
for the security entrance.  As she rode up, it flowed around her,
wrapping her in its ethereal beauty.  Nick was so lost in the music
that he didn't notice Natalie's bedraggled entrance to the loft.  She
stood for timeless moments listening to him pour his heart out, while
water dripped on the floor.  After a few moments, water slid down her
back, abruptly reminding her of her waterlogged state.  Natalie shook
her hair out, sending more water onto the floor, and dropped her coat
over a chair before quietly walking over to the piano.    She leaned
against it and listened as he completed the nocturne.
     Nick sat with eyes closed, hands still upon the keys.
     "That was beautiful...exquisite, actually.  You should play more
often," Natalie said softly.
     Nick looked up, surprised.  "I'm sorry, Nat, I didn't hear you
come in..."
     Natalie smiled at him.  "Well, I can understand why.  It truly
was wonderful.  What was it?"
     "Chopin's Nocturne, Opus 72, No. 1" Nick said quietly, running
his hands up and down the keys reverently.  "I've always loved this
piece."  He looked into Natalie's face earnestly.  "It makes me feel
at one with myself."
     "And you aren't?"  It really wasn't a question, for Natalie knew
Nick, knew his tormented soul, and guilty heart.  But she wished
desperately that somehow he could find a way to be at peace.
     "No," Nick said.  He stood abruptly and walked to the fireplace,
tension suddenly visible in every line of his body.
     Natalie walked over behind him and gently placed her hand on his
back.  "What is it, Nick?" she asked softly.
     Nick slowly outlined the carvings on the ornate fireplace with
his finger.  He was silent for a long moment.  Natalie waited with
patience born of experience.  It always took Nick a long time to open
up.  "I found him," he said at last.
     "Found who?" Natalie asked, already knowing the answer.
     "The killer.  I *felt* him, Nat.  We walked in to this auto shop,
and I felt him.  We were looking at a classic '34 Packard they were
restoring.  A convertible...," Nick said, momentarily sidetracked as
he remembered the car.
     "And...," Natalie prompted.  She recognized the signs of imminent
mental displacement, and short-circuited it.  Nick spent all together
too much time in the past--granted he had a lot more than most to
spend it in, but still...
     "...and I felt this vibration.  I felt his hunger--and his pain.
I hadn't expected pain, really, but it was there, too.  It hung there
in the air around him."  Nick looked at Natalie and sighed.  "He wants
vengeance, Nat.  That, I'm sure of.  For what, I don't know.  But he
wants it very badly.  And when he looked up...I don't know how to
describe it.  It all came together.  It's hard to put into words, but
I recognized him"
     "Recognized him?" Nat asked, puzzled.  "What do you mean?  Do you
know him?"
     "No," Nick said flatly.  "I've never seen him before."  He turned
at that and looked at Nat bitterly.  "The killer in him recognized the
killer in me.  The beast..." Nick turned away again.
     "Oh," Natalie said softly.  "The vibration..."
     "Yes," Nick said curtly.  "I felt it, Nat.  It shouldn't be, but
it is.  I don't know why.  Maybe the emotions he feels are so intense
that they bleed over into the wavelengths we communicate on.  I don't
know.  I only know I felt something like this once before from a
mortal..."
     "When?" Natalie asked, curious.
     Nick took Natalie's hand and stroked it, staring at it with an
odd intensity.  "It was a long time ago," Nick said softly.  "A long,
long time ago..." With a shake of his head, he tugged Natalie along
with him to the couch and pulled her down beside him.  Unseeingly he
put his arm around her and kissed her forehead.
     "It was in 1410," Nick said softly.  "We were in the Duchy of
Milan.  The Prince, Gian Maria, was a tyrant, a despot.  He held
absolute power in his duchy.  His father had ruled wisely and made it
a powerful place, but he died, and all that power went to Gian Maria's
head.  He was young--barely 18 at the time, and cruelly brutal.  He
levied heavy taxes on his people to the point they were desperately
impoverished, while he lived in coddled luxury.
     "He killed his people indiscriminately," Nick said, revulsion on
his face.  "His favorite sport was to hunt his enemies with a pack of
dogs.  They would run in panic and terror until they could run no
more, then he would loose his dogs on them, and they would tear them
to pieces."
     Natalie grimaced, but held her peace.
     "We would never have crossed his path," Nick said with a sigh,
"except he killed Janette's maid.  She was just in the wrong place at
the wrong time--doing an errand.  Janette was devastated.  She loved
Virginie.  In fact, I think we all did.  And Janette wanted
revenge..."


     "My Lords!  Madonna!"  The voice was frantic.  The knocking on
the door was a staccato of anxiety.  "Please..."
     Nicholas came awake abruptly at the sound.
     Janette stirred and sat up beside him.  "Nicolas...," she
breathed fearfully.  "It is not yet dark."
     "Shh.  I know.  Stay here."  Nicholas kissed her on the forehead
briefly and slipped out of bed.  Pulling his robe around him, he met
LaCroix in the small ante-room of their bed-chambers.  Their eyes met
in wordless agreement.  LaCroix stepped back into the shadows as
Nicholas answered the summons.  He opened the door and all possible
scenarios he had envisioned slid away in the reality before him.
     The servants of the house they had rented stood with mingled
panic, fear and sorrow on their faces.  Blood was generously spilled
across their clothes.  The smell of the blood heightened his senses,
and he felt desire well up in him.  Then the rank scent of their
sorrow engulfed him and brought him reason.
     "Guiffre?  Enzo?" Nicholas asked, "what has happened?"
     "Virginie...," Guiffredo answered woefully.  "Oh, My Lord, she is
dead!"  It ended in a wail.  He pointed back towards the front hall.
"We have brought her back, but there was nothing we could do.
Nothing."
     Nicholas looked back at LaCroix as he moved out of the shadows,
anger in his face.  It mirrored Nicholas' own anger.  Turning back to
Guiffredo he commanded, "Show me."
     Bowing low, tears in his eyes, Guiffredo led them through the
cool, pleasant, arched hallway into the front receiving area.
Nicholas and LaCroix followed silently.  Enzo snuffled along at the
rear of the procession.
     Virginie lay across the horsehair couch.  Her red hair, freed
from its customary bun, spilled across her pale white face in glorious
abandonment, clashing with the blood that covered her.  Her body was
bruised, broken and torn, as if she had been tossed about and crushed.
The room reeked of blood.  It reeked of death.
     Nicholas knelt at her side and gathered her hand into his.  Her
nails were torn and broken, the hand covered in blood, but he stroked
it softly as if it were a dove's breast.  No life pulsed within her,
not a spark or ember--nothing to breathe life back into.  There would
be no respite from the grave for Virginie.  Looking up at Guiffredo's
tearful eyes, Nicholas asked softly,  "What happened?"
     Janette, her hair in disarray and wrap loosely tied, suddenly
entered the room and stopped with a gasp.
     Guiffredo loosed a sob, his words coming out in odd cadence,
without rhyme or order.  "We were shopping, gathering supplies.  And
then the Duke came with his entourage.  She was in the Duke's way.  He
was in his carriage....the road, it was very narrow.  There was no
doorway at the place Virginie was at, in which to shelter out of his
way.  He is the Duke...he simply drove past her--over her, and her
clothing caught.  She was pulled, My Lord, under the carriage and..."
Guiffre crushed his cap in his hand, "...and dragged for some distance
before she came free.  The Duke never stopped.  He just laughed and
continued on.  His guard, they, too, rode over her.  She was dead when
we got to her..."
     "NO!" Janette cried and flung herself across Virginie's body.
Sobs wracked her body as she cried Virginie's name over and over
again, willing her to respond.  Nicholas closed his eyes and put his
arms around Janette.  LaCroix watched with anger smoldering in his
eyes.
     Nicholas looked up at Guiffredo and Enzo.  "Thank you for
bringing her back...you may go."  The servants backed out of the room
sorrowfully, tears streaking down their blood-spattered faces.
Nicholas looked up at LaCroix as he held Janette's slight form in his
arms, giving what comfort he could.
     Virginie, sweet, laughing, loving Virginie.  She had been
Janette's maid and servant for the last year.  Janette had met her one
night in the market place in Lucerne, as Virginie's mistress threw a
tantrum and shoved Virginie down a short flight of stairs--to land at
Janettes' and Nicholas' feet.
     Nicholas could remember the moment so clearly.  Janette had
raised an eyebrow as she looked up at the angry young noblewoman
screaming epithets about servants who could do nothing right.
     Janette had looked down at the dazed Virginie, as Nicholas helped
her up.  "Are you all right?" she asked.
     Virginie blinked and nodded slowly.  A bruise stood out starkly
on her cheek.  It was not new.  Janette touched it softly.  "Your
mistress is harsh, is she not?"
     Virginie said nothing.  Her mistress screamed at her.  "Get up
here right NOW!"
     Virginie rolled her eyes, ever so slightly, and Janette's dimples
quivered.  "Would you not like a change of scenery...Virginie?"
     Their eyes met, and Nicholas, watching could have sworn in that
moment they saw each other's very heart and bonded.
     "Very much," Virginie said with a smile.
     "Then be my maid," Janette said simply.
     Virginie grinned.  Her mistress screamed louder.
     "You can start right now," Janette added with a twinkle.
     "I have nothing but the clothes on my back, madame...," Virginie
said humbly.
     "Janette," Janette corrected calmly and tilted her head slightly.
"Let's go shopping." And with that, put her arm around Virginie.  They
had walked away arm in arm, Virginie's ex-mistress ranting behind
them.  Nicholas had stared after with an open mouth.
     "Nicolas," Janette had murmured over her shoulder, "we'll need
you to hold the packages..."
     She and Janette had been close as sisters from that moment
forward.  Her vibrant spirt had lured even LaCroix into her genial
acceptance in their ranks.  She just had a way about her that even
LaCroix had succumbed to.
     Virginie had been no fool.  She had known what they were.
Janette had told her, for she would find out soon enough--who could
not in those close quarters--and Virginie had known no fear.  Her love
for Janette had outweighed any fears she might have had.  She had
given them loyalty, love, and acceptance.  She had given Janette
healing of some long sore place that Nicholas had not been able to
reach--something to do with a woman she had known before LaCroix had
crossed her path, a woman who had died.  And Janette had given
Virginie security, happiness, and healing as well...
     Nicholas looked down helplessly at Janette, protectively holding
Virginie.  "Janette," he said, quietly.
     Janette looked up, anger filling her face, hardening it.  "He
will pay for this," she said in a low voice.  "He *will* pay.  With
his life.  And you will help me."  She looked beyond Nicholas at
LaCroix, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout.  "Both
of you."
     LaCroix looked into Janette's eyes.  "Of that," he said with
silky venom, "you may be sure."


     "Janette had a maid that traveled with you?  She knew what you
were?"  Natalie interrupted, astounded.  "I thought you didn't tell
anybody."
     Nick looked at Nat with appreciation.  "It depends.  *You*
know..."
     "Yes, but only because you came back to life on my morgue table,"
Natalie pointed out acerbically.  "If I wasn't a resister, I wouldn't
even remember that."
     "True," Nick conceded.  "But I'm glad you are."
     "A resister?
     "Yes, and that you are you."  Nick pulled her close and hugged
her.
     "You know what I find incredible, Nick?" Natalie said with a
laugh.
     "What?"
     "LaCroix.  I can't believe he actually liked a mortal."
     Nick laughed.  "She was really something.  He never knew what hit
him.  She had him wound around her finger in no time at all."
     "And she wasn't worried that she'd be an after-dinner snack?"
     "No.  Virginie was... special."
     "Wish I knew that trick," Natalie muttered, envious.
     Nick laughed and hugged her.
     "So how," Nat asked, her voice muffled in Nick's shoulder, "did
you meet this wicked Duke?"
     "Janette had LaCroix arrange for her to attend a gala at the
palace.  Gian Maria didn't have a chance against Janette," Nick said
remembering.  "She used every artifice she'd ever learned, and she
seduced him.  She's very good at seduction...," Nick trailed off.
     Natalie squinted up at him.  If he wasn't a vampire, she could
have sworn he was blushing, and suddenly Natalie realized that Janette
had seduced Nick.  Another little piece of the puzzle clicked into
place for her.  Carefully avoiding the issue of Janette, Natalie
asked, "Did she use the 'whammy' on him, too?"
      Nick smiled down at her.  "Yeah, she hypnotized him.  He thought
she was a goddess.  She wove a web around him within days--hours,
actually.  He wouldn't make a move without her.  Then she had him
invite LaCroix and me to the palace.  It was one of those overblown
and incredibly boring state dinners.  You'd think that after all these
centuries someone would have realized how boring they are.  In fact,"
Nick mused, "they ought to have a moratorium on them..."
     "You're straying from the story," Natalie said tartly, as Nick
played idly with her hair.
     Nick grinned, and then it dissolved into a grimace as he
remembered his meeting with the Duke.  "That was when I met him.  I
touched his hand--you know, bowed over it--paying homage, and this
feeling, like a vibration, rolled through me.  It felt as if there was
a cloud of hatred and anger hanging in the air around him.  LaCroix,"
Nick said softly, "didn't feel it, nor did Janette.  Only me.  I never
knew why."
     "So what happened?" Natalie asked, curious.  It wasn't often Nick
would talk so frankly, and she wanted to hear as much as possible
before he clamed up again.
     "Janette had it all planned out.  My job was to make him jealous,
and LaCroix' to ensure no one else saw what we did, or who did it...


     Nicholas closed the distance between Janette and himself, drawn
unconsciously to her.  Her gown shimmered around her.  Even though
Nicholas knew he was performing for the Duke's benefit, it was no
staged performance.  She had been absent from his life and his bed for
a week now, and he felt empty without her.  He reached out and
captured her hand and kissed it.
     "Janette--my Madonna," he breathed over it, "you are lovely
tonight. I think you are seducing me all over again."
     Janette smiled in amusement.  "Mon cher, my sweet Nicolas, I
seduce you each and every night.  And it is my secret delight for
there is no lover like you in the world."  Her words were spoken low,
for his ear only.  He kissed her hand slowly, nuzzling her knuckles.
He teased them with the tip of his tongue.
     "Ah, Nicolas, my love," Janette whispered, breathlessly, "I've
missed you.  We shall make up for it...later..."
     "Children," LaCroix said above them.  "It's time for the play to
start.  Your foolish Duke has entered the hall and is looking this
way.  He looks most displeased at Nicholas' attentions."
     Janette dimpled at LaCroix.  "Then let us bring the miserable fly
into the spider's lair, hmm?"
     LaCroix raised an eyebrow and moved discreetly away.
     Nicholas smiled at Janette.  "Shall I whisper poetry in your ear,
Madonna?"
     "Oui, mon Nicolas...let us set the stage."
     "It may be a stage, but I do not act upon it.  Everything I say
is true!" Nicholas said passionately.  Janette smiled upon him and
slid her hand more firmly into his.  He fondled it sensuously as he
gazed into her eyes.
     "I know, sir knight, but do not forget it is still a stage for a
few short moments."
     "As you command," Nicholas and bowed low again over her hand.
Idly watching the Duke's approach, he spoke softly to her.
     "With a kiss, she stole my heart away, my sweet gentle lady..."
     "Gentle, Nicolas?" Janette laughingly asked.
     Unswayed, Nicholas continued,
     "So well do I remember the kiss
     I gave that in my mind
     There is no moment--and this betrays me--"
     Janette smiled, passion sparking her eyes.  She had missed him
this long week, so much...
     "When I do not feel it on my lips..."**
     "Janette," the Duke interrupted imperiously, his face ugly with
jealous anger as he came close enough to hear the last of Nicholas'
poetry, "come away with me."
     Nicholas straightened unconsciously and stared down at the Duke.
His hand tightened over Janette's hand.  "My Lord," he said, with a
slight sneer, "the lady does not wish to go."  His other hand
unconsciously curled into a fist.  The odd vibration he felt from the
Duke repelled him, set him on edge.  It battered at his mind, stifling
his thoughts, making Nicholas feel soiled.  His fangs ached to drop
into place.
     "And I will not have you speaking so to her!" Gian Maria said
sharply.  The dewlap of fat under his chin quivered with anger.
     "Did you think she was yours, Lord Duke?" Nicholas answered with
a sneer.  "She is mine, she always has been, and always will
be...mine."
     "Nicolas," Janette smoothly interrupted. "My Lord, please, pay no
attention.  He has always been my devoted slave, but
he...exaggerates."
     "Does he?" Gian Maria said coldly, turning his gaze upon Janette.
His pale eyes bulged with ire.  "Let us find out." He turned to call
his guard, when he felt Janette's arms twine around him, caressing
him.
     "Please, My Lord," she whispered into his ear, "let us take this
into a quiet chamber by ourselves.  There is no need to call the
guard..."
     Gian Maria looked into her eyes, his anger still hot, and felt it
melt away in the heat of her gaze.  His heart beat loudly in his ears.
     "No need...," Gian Maria said slowly in a monotone under her
spell.
     Janette smiled softly at him and caressed his face.  "Come..."
     Gian Marie blinked and his face took on character again.  He
looked at Nicholas and Janette imperiously, "Let us go to a private
chamber, Madonna, and there you shall deny this fool's allegations."
     "Yes," Janette said seductively.  "Come, My Lord."  She took his
hand and led him away; Nicholas followed after, enchanted by Janette's
smooth wiles and amused at how easy it was to lure the pompous fool to
his death.  No one paid attention to their departure, as LaCroix drew
the crowd's attention by overturning the candelabra on the other side
of the room...


     "So you could feel him," Natalie said thoughtfully and then added
on further reflection, "this aura, was it visible--to you, I mean?"
     "No," Nick said, "it wasn't visible, but it was there--heavy,
ugly, filthy.  It made me feel filthy--contaminated.  Perhaps because
Gian Maria was so perverted even then.  Melvin's is similar and yet
it's different.  I'm certainly aware of it, but it doesn't feel like
putrefying flesh.  It's full of anger and hatred. It's as if there is
so much hatred built up inside him that it's leaking out on some kind
of psychic level.  I don't know, Nat.  I don't have any proof, any
evidence that I can give the Captain, or Tracy, but I know it's him.
I just *know* it!"
     "So what are you going to do?" Natalie asked.
     "I don't know.  I'm hoping for something to come in from Edmonton
that I can use, but if there's nothing--I don't know."




Act 4, Scene 4

To do what, or undo what?
  -- Iphigenia in Tauris

     Reese watched the angry sunrise turn into day.  More aptly the
night's gloom had turned into a gloomy, stormy day.  Here and there,
the sun peeked through for a moment, but as the morning advanced, the
sky was limned with thick, heavy clouds, laden with more rain.  The
sidewalk reflected the clouds in the heavy puddles.  Rain came down
steadily, a soft staccato punctuating his thoughts.
     Reese turned away from the window, running his hands through his
hair.  He felt itchy and restless.  He wanted to get out.  Yard work
would be nice.  It would help get the knots out of his system.  But
the rain had taken care of that.  He was sick of rain...
     He couldn't sleep.  He couldn't work. He had nothing to do, but
pace.  His thoughts raced around and around in his head.  "Damn," he
muttered.  "Drat, rats, and horse-puckey."
     He hadn't had a chance to talk to Nick all night.  In fact, he
hadn't seen him.  Their paths hadn't even crossed.  Fate was being
perverse and playing with him.  And he didn't like it.  He didn't like
it at all.  It was almost like something was telling him to let it be.
The thought sent chills down his back.
     But he couldn't let it be.  Twice since reaching home he had picked

up the phone; the second time he'd dialed all but the last digit of
Nick's phone number before he'd slammed the phone into the receiver.
     It was the fear that stopped him.  Fear of what, he wasn't sure--
but he was afraid--petrified.   Maybe he was afraid that Nick would
confirm his beliefs--that it was Nick in that photo.  If it were true,
no one would believe him and he'd probably be locked up.
     And if Nick denied it and said that it wasn't him, well, then,
they'd probably still lock him up as a psycho.  And Reese would still
be wondering, watching and waiting for proof--proof that he wasn't
mad.  Proof that he was right.  Proof that Nick was lying.  Reese felt
like he was going crazy.  He didn't see anyway out of this maze.
     "I'm in a maze of twisty little passages," Reese muttered to
himself, "that are all alike."
     Denise walked through with a load of laundry and stopped as she
heard his comment.  She put the basket down and came over to stand by
him as he stared into the daylight.
     "You haven't played Adventure for at least ten years, Joe Reese.
So what's got you so worked up, you're reverting to quoting that old
game?"
     Joe squirmed and said nothing.
     Denise pressed her lips together and crossed her arms.  Joe
hastily glanced down to see if she was tapping her toe, yet.
     "It's that photo, isn't it?" Denise demanded.
     After a moment, Joe nodded his head.
     "Oh, Joe...," Denise said on a long exhale of air.  "You've got
to let this go, or you've got to resolve it now.  It's driving you
nuts--and that is driving me nuts."
     Joe put an arm around her and kissed her on the forehead.  "I
know..."
     Reese shrugged.  "I know, but I can't.  How can I, when I need
answers and I don't have any."
     "Stop putting it off, and just call.  What are you afraid of?"
     Reese didn't answer.
     "And honey, you've got to get some sleep.  You can't function and
do your job if you don't...."
     "I know," Reese said again.
     After a moment, Denise sighed.  She knew she couldn't push him
any farther than he wanted to go.  He would have to resolve this in
his own way and time.  Even if it put them both in the looney bin in
the meantime.  Shaking her head ever so slightly, Denise picked up the
basket and trudged down the stairs to the washing machine.  Joe stood
there for a long moment, and then finally whispered, "I'm afraid of
the answer."
     He felt stupid, paralyzed by that knowledge.  But realizing he
was afraid of the answer--and how it might change his reality--
suddenly made his foolishness clear.  Saying the words out loud gave
him strength.  The only constant in life was change, so why the hell
was he so concerned about reality changing.  It changed every night
when he walked into the precinct and discovered what new and stupid
things the criminal element of Toronto was up to.
     With new resolve Joe headed for the phone.  "First," he said,
"let's finish the background check...," and firmly dialed the number
for Chicago's 122nd precinct.  He listened to the ring and click as the
phone was answered.
     "Chicago P.D.  122nd precinct..."
     "Yeah, this is Captain Joe Reese of Toronto Metro P.D.  I'd like
to speak with Captain Thomas Kelson, please."
     "One moment," the bored, disembodied voice said.  Reese held the
phone, hand sweating, counting off the seconds.
     "Kelson, here," a firm clipped voice said
     "This is Captain Joe Reese of the Toronto P.D," Reese said.
     "What can I do for you, Captain Reese?" Kelson asked pleasantly.
It was obvious to Reese that Kelson was getting plenty of sleep.  He
sounded too happy by half, Reese thought sourly.  And he was getting
his sleep at night, too.  It wasn't fair.
     But he put aside his personal observations and got down to
business.  "Um, I'm calling to verify some background data on one of
my detectives.  He transferred from Chicago's 122nd precinct to Toronto
about five and half years ago.  My records indicate that he worked for
you."
     "Hmm, can't remember anybody transferring.  Who was it?" Kelson
asked, a thread of puzzlement in his voice.
     "Detective Nicholas Knight," Reese said, tightening his sweaty
palm around the phone.
     Silence crackled through the phone line for a moment.  "I'm
sorry, Captain, would you say that name again?"
     "Nicholas Knight, Nick Knight," Reese repeated, feeling suddenly
scared.
     "Uh, I don't recognize the name.  Are you sure your records are
correct?"
     Reese gulped and closed his eyes.  Maybe he wasn't a paranoid
fool after all.  "Well, I thought so.  Are you sure you don't
recognize him?  He works the night shift due to a sun allergy."
     He could almost see Kelson shaking his head.  "No, that
definitely doesn't ring any bells.  I ran the night shift for years.
I would have given a year's salary to have somebody who *wanted* night
shift.  Every time you get someone trained, they want to transfer to
days."
     "Yeah," Reese said, with feeling.  "I know."
     Kelson laughed.  "Captain of the night shift, right?"
     "Yeah," Reese said, "look are you sure you don't remember him?
Knight's blonde, in his late thirties, and very, very sharp.  He's the
best damn detective I've ever had," Reese said, hope expiring.
     "Wish I could say yes, but I'm sorry.  I don't recognize him.
Would you like me to check with the other precincts?  Paper work, you
know, sometimes gets really fouled up."
     Reese thought about it for a moment.  "No.  That's okay.  I'll
check on my end first.  Maybe it's just a typo on our end.  I'll
verify that first before I start people looking through haystacks.  I
appreciate your help, Captain."
     "You're welcome.  Always glad to help out a fellow officer."
     The line went dead.  The dial tone bored into Reese's ear as he
sat there, somewhere between vindicated satisfaction and astounded
frustration.  He finally hung up the phone, and then stared at it
blankly as he thought about his options.
     "Okay.  Time to check *all* my records on Knight," Reese
muttered.  "All of them!"  He heaved himself up out of his chair and
headed for his den.
     He sat down in front of his computer and quickly logged on.
Anxiously, Reese pulled up Nick's file and tabbed through the
information.  He double- and triple-checked the information.  Phone
number, Captain, everything.  It all said the same thing.  Nick Knight
had worked at Chicago's 122nd precinct under Captain Thomas Kelson for
eight years, four as a beat officer and four with his detective
shield.
     "Damn," Reese said softly.  The mystery was getting deeper.  He
sat in thought for several minutes, staring blankly at the screen,
then decided to dig a little more.  A few minutes later he was
accessing the records of the Illinois State Academy, where Knight
supposedly trained.  It didn't take long to find his records.
     Reese noted down the recommending officer--one Sean O'Hallihan,
who had been at the Academy for almost twenty-five years.  Reese
smiled and called the Academy.  His luck was in, he supposed because
five minutes after calling he was talking with Commander Sean
O'Hallihan.
     "Commander," Reese said much more calmly than he felt, "I'm doing
a background check on a Nicholas B. Knight, who graduated from the
Academy in 1981.  You are listed as the recommending officer, and I
wondered what you could tell me about him."
     "Hmmm," O'Hallihan said in a deep baritone that boomed loudly out
of the phone.  Reese pulled the receiver back a bit and shook his
head.  "Let me pull the records.  I hate to admit it, but I just don't
remember all of them anymore.  Too many fine men have passed through
here, along with many a lout, as well."  O'Hallihan's cheerful brogue
made Reese smiled.  "Unfortunately, we can't catch them all.  It seems
that time must cook them slowly until their real natures are all that
is left.  But then, you didna want to be a-knowing about that, did
you?"
     Reese smiled.  "I guess it depends on which category Knight falls
into."
     "Well, with a fine out-standing name like that, let's hope he
lives up to the name, eh?"
     "Yes," Reese agreed, wondering if he should admit that Nick was a
fine and truly outstanding man, even if he just might not be a member
of the normal human race.
     "Well, this is a puzzle," O'Hallihan said finally.  "I'm here
looking at the records, and my signature is on his graduation
recommendation, but I don't recognize him...  It says here that Knight
was near the top of his class.  Now, laddie, I remember all those that
were at the top of the class, good or bad, once I lay me eyes on them,
and this one--well, I've never laid me eyes on him."
     Reese closed his eyes against the knowledge.
     "Dammit," O'Hallihan swore, his brogue growing very thick.
"Somebody has been playin' in me database.  Without me consent!  I'm
going to find the rascal if it is the last thing I do!"
     O'Hallihan suddenly realized that Reese was still on the other
end of the line.  "Captain Reese.  This man, I'm afraid, is a
scoundrel.  If he's a-trying to get on the force, you'd better put a
stop to it right now."
     "Yeah," Reese agreed weakly.  "I'll do that."
     "And if you find out how he did this heinous technical crime, I'd
appreciate knowing, so I can stop it.  Now I'm going to have to check
the entire database."
     "I'll let you know if I find anything," Reese said.  "Thank you
for your time."
     "Well, I'll be a-thanking you for bringing this to my attention,"
O'Hallihan said grimly, and hung up.
     Reese leaned back in his chair.  The news was getting worse.  His
gut feeling was dead on, and Reese wasn't happy.  He wondered what
else was hiding behind the facade of Nick Knight.  Once more he
accessed the database and asked for Knight's financial records.  The
computer demanded his access level, and Reese typed it in.  He had to
specify his access level twice more before the computer blandly
informed him the information would be downloaded as soon as possible.
     Reese knew that meant anywhere from five minutes to hours, and
headed for the kitchen for a beer and a sandwich.  He took loving care
in slathering mayonnaise and mustard onto the thick slices of rye
bread.  Several slices of roast beef followed, then lettuce--lots of
it--and tomato.  He put it together and went back to his computer.
     Propping his feet up on the desk, he swigged on his beer and ate
his extra-thick sandwich from which lettuce and roast beef threatened
to escape.
     And he thought about Nick.
     Who was he?  How had he gotten this far?  For that matter, how
had he managed to put such a falsified record in place?  And for that
matter, how much truth was there in it, and how much made up out the
whole cloth?  Nick was too good a detective to not have been an
officer somewhere prior to coming to Toronto.  The question was where
and as whom?
     The truth struck him suddenly.  He'd forgotten in the growing
puzzle.  It had all started because of a picture where Nick was an
unnamed security guard.  An off-duty cop, perhaps, making a little
money on the side.  So, perhaps he kept it close to the truth.  Maybe
he had been in Chicago, but just not as Nick Knight.  Maybe he'd been
Nick somebody-else-or-other.  And when he'd been Nick somebody-else
for too long, then he'd moved on.  Reese supposed he'd have to keep
moving--every eight to ten years if he didn't age.
     For the first time he wondered about how long Nick had been
alive.  What had he seen, been and done?  As a history buff, Joe was
suddenly intrigued.  The stories Nick could tell, the inaccuracies he
could set straight.  What an opportunity!  Just to know history from
that perspective.  He'd love to sit and chat about all the unsolved
mysteries...
     Reese guzzled more beer and stared at the ceiling.  But what made
Knight that way? Just what the hell was he?  Maybe he was like that
guy on television that Denise drooled over that carried a sword--maybe
he was immortal.  Joe smiled at the thought.  Reality rarely, if ever,
was like the glorified vision of television.  But still it gave him no
peace to speculate on Nick's past.  What he needed to know, for his
own peace of mind, was who Nick was and if he was the guy in the
photo.  He needed the truth...
     The computer beeped suddenly, startling Reese and his feet
thumped to the ground heavily.  There was a confidential file waiting.
The icon blinked unrelentingly at him.  After a moment, he licked his
lips and clicked on it.  The file expanded to reveal more unbelievable
news.
     He had money.  Lots of it.  Stashed here and there in savings
accounts.  The accumulated total was about three million.
     "Why are you working at a dangerous, dirty job like a cop," Reese
asked puzzled, "when you can live like a king?  Why take the risks?"
     Knight was indeed an enigma.  The records were even more
confusing, as he examined them closely.  Most of the money was
untouched.  Only his checking account was truly active, going up and
down like a yo-yo with his deposits and expenditures.  Incredibly,
Nick lived mostly on his salary.
     Reese shook his head.  It was crazier and crazier.  He really
didn't know what to think.  But he sure as hell knew what he believed.
     It was Knight in that photo.
     He wasn't aging.
     He was rich.  But heck, anybody could get rich if they could hang
around for long enough for their investments to grow.
     And Nick loved being a cop.
     "Twisty little passages," Reese said again.  "Real twisty."
     Slowly, with heavy feet, he trod across the room to the
telephone, and at last, picked it up and dialed Nick's number.  He
expected Knight would be asleep, but that couldn't be helped.  He'd
leave a message.  He'd...
     "This is Nick Knight.  I'm either in bed or incommunicado.  Leave
a message.  Don't take it personally."
     Click.   "Beeeeep."
     "Nick," Reese said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call as
soon as possible, at home.  Something has come up that I really need
to talk to you about."  He hesitated for a moment.  "It's not work
related--but it's important.  Call me.  Thanks."
     He hung up and felt relief wash over him for having finally taken
action.  He heaved himself out of his chair and headed for bed.  He
stopped in the kitchen to talk to Denise.
     "Sorry, honey," he said, "for being such a bear," as he hugged
her and kissed her.
     Denise laughed and smiled up at him, "It's okay.  But if I catch
you eating anymore calorie laden sandwiches--you are going to pay!"
     Reese smiled sheepishly.  "Sorry, I needed it to get the brain
working.  I had a lot to think about."
     "Well, just don't make a habit of it," Denise said nudging his
ample stomach.
     "I won't," he said, then changed subjects.  "I'm going to hit the
sack, but I'm expecting a call from Nick Knight, so wake me, if he
calls, okay?"
     The smile on her face faded.  "The guy in the photograph," she
said.
     "Yeah," Reese agreed.  "The guy in the photograph.  I'm gonna ask
him what's going on.  Just come and wake me up when he calls, okay?"
     Denise looked at him and shook her head.  "Okay.  I hope you know
what you are doing."
     As Reese walked down the hall, he muttered to himself.  "So do I,
baby, so do I."

                                   +++++

     Tracy unlocked the door to her apartment and let herself in.  She
slowly shut the door and leaned against it. Closing her eyes, she
inhaled slowly, and let it out even more slowly as she remembered.
Even the memory was wonderful... Drifting to the couch, she sat down
and stared into space.  He'd kissed her.  It had been...erotic,
sensuous, and tender at the same time.  A tiny little whisper of a
kiss--and it had packed so much power that she found it hard to
describe.  Her feelings were in a complete state of disarray.  All of
her defenses had come tumbling down.
     He'd kissed her--just the briefest of kisses--and then they had
stared at each other from a distance of mere inches.  His breath had
been a cool breeze on her heated soul.  And he'd kissed her again,
leaning into it, his hand tangling in her hair.  It had been a
kaleidoscope of feeling and color and she wanted more and more and
more.   Then she'd been alone on the couch, catching herself from
collapsing in a puddle in his sudden absence.  Bereft.  Alone.  Needy.
And on fire from his touch....
     He'd been staring at her with glowing eyes from across the room.
     "Vachon?" she'd whispered, not understanding, only wanting to be
close to him.  Needing something only he could give her.
     "Tracy, I think you'd better go home," he'd said so quietly, so
carefully, she hadn't been able to take it in.
     "Wha...?"
     "Go home...  Now."  An edge of desperation had infused his words.
     Then it had gotten through to her.  She'd managed to realize
through the fog that she was in imminent danger of being dinner.  It
was like cold water being dumped on her.  Reality had reasserted
itself so fast it left her dizzy.
     She'd gathered her purse and jacket, and practically ran to the
door.  Only then had she turned and looked at him again.  His eyes
were a hot, hungry yellow-green.  "I'm sorry," she'd said, and then
much more softly,  "and I'm not.  Thank you."  Without waiting for an
answer, she'd left.
     Sitting on her couch adrift in feelings she didn't know she had,
Tracy hoped that she knew what she was doing...

                                   +++++

     Natalie stirred restlessly in her bed in the mid-day
thunderstorm.  Her bed felt like a disaster area.  Her sheets seemed
to be clumped around her arm, cutting off circulation.  There was a
lump underneath her that turned out to be her blanket.  She sat up and
stared at the wall sightlessly.
     A flash of lightning, followed by booming thunder finally woke
her from her daze.  The storm hadn't let up all morning, and with her
mind spinning this way, she knew she wouldn't be getting any rest
without some help.
     The stories that Nick had told had taken their toll, too.  She'd
relived his tale in her restless dreams, closer to wakefulness than
sleep.  Sighing, Natalie made her way to the bathroom and fumbled for
some aspirin, and chased them down with lukewarm water.  In the
shadowy darkness, she stared at her reflection.  Her face was pale and
wan.  It watched her warily from inside the mirror.  As she stared, it
seemed as if her eyes took on a golden tint.
     Natalie shook her head, and turned on the light.  A tired coroner
stared back at her, a very tired, very human coroner.  But she knew
where the illusion had come from.
     Her dreams were full of vampires.  LaCroix' voice and Janette's
scream echoed in her head.  Nick's pain-filled eyes swallowed her.  It
was fascinating, what he'd told her--all of the history, the lore, the
moments in time that sprang to life with such vividness.  It was all
given the breath of life far beyond what any history book could
report--because Nick had been there.
     She leaned her head against the mirror, and felt it cool and
smooth beneath her forehead.  Her dreams were full of fantasy, too.
Dreams that were centered on Nick filled her with hopes and wishes and
wantings.  Dreams...the only place where she acknowledged how she felt
at all.
     Dreams didn't lie--they might not make sense--but they didn't
lie.  And her dreams were full of jumbled passion and love.  In some,
she was not so human, and in some he was oh-so-very human.  But all
had a central theme...
     Her dreams were the only place where it was safe to love one
beautiful vampire with deep-burnished golden hair and summer-blue eyes
with a past that was a graveyard of pain.
     "You're in way over your head, Lambert," Natalie said finally to
her deep-eyed reflection, as she remembered how the morning's
conversation had ended.

     "I'm sorry," Nick said abruptly.  "I didn't mean to go on about
all of that.  You're probably bored stiff."
     "I'm never bored, Nick," Natalie said.  "I find your life
fascinating.  You've seen so much, it boggles my mind."
     "Yes, but the point of this get-together was to talk about you,
remember?" Nick pointed out as he took a good look at the dark circles
under her eyes, and her wan appearance.
     "You said you weren't sleeping...that you were dreaming about the
murders."
     Natalie looked away and bit her lip.
     "You know," Nick said conversationally, "I still have shoulder
for you to cry on.  Here I've been using yours, and you're the one who
really needs it."
     Natalie smiled at that, briefly.  Looking into Nick's earnest
face, she let her nightmares spill out. "I had a really lousy day,
Nick.  I couldn't sleep, and when I did, I dreamed of rows and rows of
bodies.  So many of them were people I've autopsied.  So many were
children..."
     Nick put his arm around her and pulled her close.  Natalie closed
her eyes as tears threatened to overwhelm her.
     "They had empty wounded eyes, and they all seemed to be accusing
me of failing them.  I kept running, but they always seemed to follow
me, find me--and they wanted me to give them retribution--and...and
then they surrounded me, and they all had roses slashed in their
chests."  Natalie stopped for a moment as she relived the horror.
Nick pressed a kiss against her brow.
     "Then the Parkway Killer was there, Nick.  He was wearing a t-
shirt that said so--and he turned out to be Roger.  Oh, Nick, it was
awful."
     "I know, Nat," Nick said softly.
     "And then...and then he turned into Gault, and I stabbed him over
and over again, until I was covered with blood," Natalie whispered,
tears in her eyes.
     Nick pulled her close into an embrace and held her silently.
     "It's like these last few cases have just been more than I could
handle.  I feel as if one more thing--no matter how tiny--will break
me, Nick.  There's been so much disaster in my life, and it's all too
much for me.  I just can't seem to cope with it.  I'm falling
apart..."
     "Oh, Natalie...," Nick whispered.
     "No, let me finish," Nat said abruptly, pushing him away.
"Remember how you talked about forgiveness and love?"
     Nick nodded slowly.
     "There's so much pain inside, I don't know how to find any
forgiveness.  There's just no room left.  If I let anything else in...
I'm a cup filled to the brim, and one more drop, Nick, and I'll..."
     "...overflow?  Break?" Nick finished her sentence.  "Maybe, but
probably not, Natalie.  The human soul can take more than most people
would ever believe.  You just need to step back for a moment and let
it all go.  Just rest here, Natalie, and let it float away."
     "How?" Natalie whispered, leaning against him.
     "Remember the good things in your life--let them replenish your
heart, your soul.  Think about the happiest moment in your life, Nat,
and then relive it, dwell there for a while, and just feel the peace."
     Natalie was silent.  She closed her eyes, and after a few minutes
smiled.  Nick held her quietly as the minutes sped by.  He remembered
so many times when precious memories were all that had anchored him to
this life, and hoped that happy memories would help Natalie, too.
Finally she opened her eyes and met his clear blue ones.
     "There's always room, Natalie, if your own soul has a place to go
to drink.  And when you do that, the pain eases.  And you can find the
strength to shoulder the burdens you must, and put off the ones you
don't need to carry."
     "Sometime you can be so wise, Nick," Natalie murmured, "and
sometimes you..."
     "Are an idiot," Nick supplied with a small laugh.  "I know.  Now
let me ease the tension I can still feel."  He pushed her forward and
began to massage her back.  Natalie relaxed and felt peace flow into
her for the first time in days.
     "What else can I do, to take some of those burdens, Natalie?"
Nick whispered in her ear, as he rubbed her back.  "What else can I do
to help you?"
     "I guess," Natalie said slowly, sitting back, leaning against
him, "just don't let me feel like I'm all alone, that I have to do
this alone."
     Nick tightened his arms around her.  "Never," he whispered.  He
kissed her cheek and held her close.  "Do you think some hot chocolate
would help?"
     Natalie laughed, "Oh, yeah."

     Staring in the mirror, Natalie realized for the first time since
she'd done the autopsy on Kevin, her dreams weren't filled with anger,
hatred, and revenge.
     "No," she whispered, "they're just full of vampires."
     She wondered if that was better or worse.  And then she realized
that somehow, a piece of her had let go of the anger.  Oh, she could
still feel it, but it wasn't so intense, so all-consuming, making her
body ache.  And she wondered why.  What had made a fissure in it, what
was different?
     But she knew what it was, already.  There wasn't room in her
heart to contain both the hatred and her burgeoning love for Nick.
There wasn't room or energy for both.  Something had given, and it
hadn't been the love.  It was the anger.
     Odd, she mused, as she thought about it, life is full of letting
go, learning to forgive.  And she'd done a lot of that over the past
few years with Nick.  She just hadn't really realized it until now.
She had been accepting him and forgiving him of little and not-so-
little infractions all this time.  In a sense they had prepared her to
learn to be forgiving of much larger, almost insurmountable
trespasses.  Like Gault.  And you had to do that, or it destroyed you.
It didn't matter whose fault it was, only what you chose to do about
it.
     "Fine time to be learning that, Lambert," she muttered.  "But
better late than never, I suppose."  Yes, she thought, it was far
better.  And the knowledge brought her peace, and freedom.  She now
knew the path she had to follow.  She had to let go of the hatred.
What happened to Gault, or the Parkway Killer, or any other of those
that had haunted her--was up to God--not her.
     She turned out the light and made her way back to bed, yawning,
and feeling ready to sleep.  As she sat down on her bed Natalie also
realized that for her, there was also something else she needed to do.
It wasn't just learning to let go of the hate, but to let out the love
she hid deep inside her.
     Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pondered what might happen if
she gave Nick a little "evidence" of her love for him.   Just the
thought made her feel shaky--giddy, scared and excited.  Lying back
down she indulged in a little mental make-believe and drifted back to
sleep in the middle of a passionate kiss.  A smile touched her lips as
Natalie dreamed.




Act 5, Scene 1

Kill him.
  -- Electra

     Melvin got out his other coveralls--his operating coveralls--and,
pulled them on.  Sitting down on the stool next to Billy, he pulled
his tools out and lined them up carefully on the tray.  The array
included everything from small and very sharp scapels to a large and
wicked icepick.  Looking at Billy, he felt excitement well up in him.
He was so close to freedom.  So very close.
     Bill lay slack and unresponsive on Melvin's operating table.  His
dark hair was ruffled up on one side, and he looked more like a
rumpled two-year-old rather than a thirty-four year old drunken bum.
His brow was matted with dried blood where Melvin had bashed him with
the crowbar.  Melvin calmly wiped away the blood and looked over his
latest victim.
     He didn't look so tough, now, but then none of them had once
they'd arrived on his table.  Quietly he took a knife and slit Billy's
shirt, and efficiently removed the pieces.  He paused for a moment to
sneer at the beer belly that Billy was developing.  The man didn't
take care of himself--he only indulged himself--just like Melvin's
dad.  He was perfect.  He smiled and continued with his task.  Moments
later Melvin stripped Billy's jeans from him and then finally, his
underwear.  The pale white skin of his unexposed flesh was almost
luminous.
     Everything was ready. All he was waiting for now was for Billy to
regain consciousness.  They had to be conscious.  They had to
understand their crimes, and be punished for them.  And Melvin was the
one who doled out that punishment--like a surgeon--cutting out the
evil, and purging the soul.  He stared down into Billy's slackened
face and thought about his mother.
     This one was for her.
     Then she'd be free.
     They'd all be free.
     He would be free and he could put it behind him.
     His mind began to drift as he waited for Billy to wake up, and he
remembered how it had all started, how he had found the road to his
own freedom...

     Tired of his four walls and boring life, Melvin stared out of his
window into the street.  He thought that leaving Edmonton would help,
but it hadn't.  His demons chased him and chased him.  He could never
forget the screams of that night.  They never left him alone.  Never.
     His nightmare was with him waking and sleeping.  Whenever he
closed his eyes, or let his thoughts wander, he was back there--back
then.  The screams would ring out as he huddled in fear, trying to
stop his limbs from trembling.  The shots would deafen him, and with
every shot, he'd jerk uncontrollably.  All these years and he could
still remember like it was yesterday.  It had shaped him and changed
him forever.
     Melvin sighed.  Toronto ought to have been more fun.  But it
hadn't been.  He was still scared, like that stupid kid he'd been.  He
was still carrying the same problems around.  Maybe if he had some
guts Toronto would be different--maybe...  But he couldn't remember
when he'd had guts--or when it had ever been different.  At least, not
since that night.
     He decided to go get drunk at the bar down the street.  That way
he could forget for a while.
     Pulling on his jacket, he walked down the stairs and out into the
street.  Avoiding looking at anybody, he walked head down, watching
his feet, to Red's Bar.  Slipping onto a barstool, he quietly asked
for a beer--his usual--and started drinking, searching for oblivion.
Before long Melvin was through his second beer and starting on his
third.  The pain was receding into a fog, and the loneliness was just
about bearable, when *she* hiked herself up onto the barstool next to
him.
     "Hi," she said grinning.  "What'cha doing?"
     "Drinking," Melvin answered stupidly.  He stared at her.  She was
showing lots of leg and cleavage.  Melvin found himself drawn to the
shadow between her breasts as she leaned on the bar.  There was an
awful lot of it showing.  He licked his lips.
     "That all you ever do?" she asked.  "I seen you in here before,
but you don't talk to no one.  How come?"
     Melvin stared at her, feeling a blush rise up his face.  He
couldn't imagine what she wanted with him.
     She wriggled around on her seat, as if making herself more
comfortable.  Melvin's eyes were glued to her.  If she leaned any
farther forward, she'd be showing everything.  He watched, mesmerized,
waiting for that moment.
     She smiled,  "Are you shy?"
     Melvin met her eyes for a second, and tore himself away from the
view.  He stared into his beer.  But the pull was magnetic and beyond
his ability to control.  He watched her out of the corner of his eye.
"Guess so," he muttered.
     "Well, that's okay.  I'm Sherry.  What's your name?"
     Melvin sat up straighter on the stool.  "Melvin," he stuttered
out.
     "Melvin, huh?" Sherry said.  She made it sound so beautiful.  She
tilted her head to one side and asked, "Do you go by Mel or Melvin?"
     "Mostly Melvin," he said stoically, staring at her breasts again.
     Sherry smiled enigmatically, and put her beer in the valley
between her breasts as she arched her head back.  "It's hot, ain't
it?" she said.
     Melvin could only nod.  He didn't think he could get much hotter.
He was wrong.
     "Do you mind if I call you Mel?  I like the sound of it."  She
smiled and put her hand on his arm.  He felt himself ignite.  He was
throbbing all over.  He could barely concentrate on what she was
saying.
     He'd sat there gulping beer, while Sherry talked--and he tried to
listen.  Most of it went in one ear and out the other.  He couldn't do
anything but watch her, watch the rise and fall of her breasts, watch
the way the cut of her blouse revealed and then hid them.  He stared
in fascination as a trickle of sweat slid down her throat and
disappeared in that shadowy valley.
     It barely penetrated when she leaned closer and whispered, "You
want to come over to my place and have a drink, Mel?"
     He couldn't think.  Weren't they having a drink?  But then Sherry
put her hand on his leg and inched it up his thigh.  He looked down at
her hand and then back at her face.  He could hardly speak for the
heat rising up in him.  He gulped, "Sure."
     She took his hand and pulled him out the door, so fast his head
was spinning.  He knew she was talking to him, as they walked, but he
didn't hear it, watching the sway of her hips, watching her body
talking to him.  She took him to her place. He would have gone
anyplace with her--over a cliff, or through the lake--he wanted her
that badly.

     Melvin grimaced and stared down at Billy.  He never did know why
she'd singled him out, not then, not looking back, but it had been a
disaster--and the catalyst that had changed his life.

     Sherry shut the door behind him and her arms slid around him.
Her hands pulled his head down, and her lips found his.  Melvin
trembled with desire, as she pulled his shirt out of his jeans, and
slid her hands up his chest.  She kissed him as she stripped his shirt
away.  She pressed herself against him, teasing and taunting him with
her body.  He could feel all that softness against him.  And he pulled
her against him desperately.
     She stripped her own blouse off in a single smooth move, and her
lacy black bra barely contained her heaving breast.  Melvin didn't
have a conscious thought in his head after that.  He only wanted her--
and he wanted her badly.
     Strewing clothing behind them, Sherry led him giggling and
laughing into her bedroom, and they'd fallen across it in a heap.  He
was burning up.  It was all fire and heat and throbbing, pulsing need.
It screamed at him, and he didn't know what to do, or quite how.
Melvin, at 27, had never done it.  He was too shy, too traumatized and
demoralized by the events of his life.  Destroyed emotionally before
he ever got started, he found himself suddenly awkward, making a mess
of it.
     He touched the velvet skin of her breast with a jerky hand.
     Sherry started laughing, her head falling back.  The long column
of her neck was the most beautiful thing he'd seen--well almost.  Her
whole soft white body was beautiful.  But her next words tore him to
shreds.
     "Mel, ain't you never done it before?  Are you a virgin?" she
asked with a giggle.  Her laughter seemed mocking, her words full of
pity, to Melvin.  It ripped and shredded his already non-existent ego,
and he went slack like he'd been hit with cold water.  He couldn't do
it.   Instinct had been guiding him, but his knowledge was sketchy--
only what he'd heard in locker rooms--and it was obviously not what
she was used to.  Sherry laughed, and it sounded loud and mocking to
Melvin. Humiliated and embarrassed, Melvin turned bright red from top
to bottom.  He grabbed his clothes and dressed as he hobbled to her
door..
     "Mel," she said, surprised.  "Mel, come back."
     He turned at the door, his shirt unbuttoned, and his jeans only
half zipped.  The smooth milky-white skin of her naked body was
imprinted on his mind as he ripped the door open and ran out into the
night.
     Running down the street, he felt such a fool.  His body ached
with unfulfilled need.  Anger burned in him.  And suddenly Melvin
realized it was all his father's fault.  All of it.  His inability to
deal with life, all the pain and anger, his shyness, and being a
virgin at 27.  All of it.  It was his fault.  Damn him and damn him
and damn him.  He'd left Melvin a wasteland, stunted and dying inside
his mind.  All over again he wished he was dead.  Dead with the rest
of them.  Dead with Libby, Gordon, Kimmy, Eddie and Mom.   Dead and
buried.  Why the hell had he hidden?  Why couldn't he be dead, too?
Why?  Why was he alive and they were dead?  WHYWHYWHY???
     Melvin found himself in an empty lot, tears streaming down his
face, curled in a tight little knot, pressed against a wall.  He
wondered why couldn't he just be a normal guy if he had to be alive?
Why couldn't things go right for him just once?  Looking towards the
street, he stared without seeing at the people walking by, until a man
swaggered by, looking so much like his dead, departed, unmissed, hated
father.  Suddenly he knew what he had to do.  It was clear, like a
vision.  Everything was bright in his head.
     It would all work out, if Melvin made *him* pay for all those
deaths.  Nobody had made him pay.  They couldn't--because he'd been
dead.  But Melvin could do it.  And when he'd paid, then Melvin would
be free, and he would be whole and clean.  And he knew just exactly
how to make him pay for each and every one of his brother's and
sister's deaths.  And then he'd make him pay extra for his mother's
death.  He knew how.  He knew just exactly how.
     Resolve hardening his face, he'd wiped away the tears with a
grimy hand, and gotten up.  Slowly he'd followed the guy who looked
like his father down the street....

     Billy moaned and stirred, bringing Melvin out of his memories.
Billy opened his eyes and tried to move.  He was startled when he
realized he couldn't move.  It showed in his eyes.   He tried to
speak.  The gag in his mouth stopped him.  All that came out was a
muffled squawk.  He struggled to free himself.  Melvin smiled in
anticipation. It was time to start--and time to finish it.
     "You and I got some business to do," Melvin said softly, with an
odd menace in his voice.  "You think you can treat people like that?
Hurt them and walk all over them?  Well, not anymore.  You are going
to be sorry.  You're a damn wife-beater.  You're going to pay for
that.  Yes sir, you're not going to hit anybody ever again--not your
wife and not your kids.  You hear?  And you are going to be sorry--
really and truly sorry for all the pain you caused...for all of it."
     Reality shifted and vanished for Melvin as he talked, his voice
growing louder and louder while his words made less and less sense.
     "You're gonna pay for all the deaths.  You're gonna pay for
shooting them like that.  What'cha have to do that for?  Why couldn't
you just kill yourself?  Why them?  You have to pay!  For all of it!"
Melvin waved his fist angrily under Billy's nose.  "You are gonna
apologize to Mom and you are going to give her the flowers she never,
ever had.  You hear?"
     Billy stared at him, not understanding what the hell he was
talking about.  This skinny, bony guy was absolutely bonkers.  And
then he felt fear wash through him as Melvin abruptly picked up a
knife.  He held it high in the air, and light glistened menacingly off
it--at least to Billy.
     "My arm is sure...,"*** Melvin hissed and then made the first
incision so quickly, Billy was stunned by it.  At first he felt no
pain, but at the second much deeper cut across his chest, pain roared
through him.
     Billy screamed through his gag, screamed for help, screamed in
fear, hoping that somebody would hear.   Anybody....




Act 5, Scene 2

Say anything--say anything at all.
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Nick woke to a scream echoing in his head.  He stared at the
ceiling for a moment getting his bearings.  So many nightmares in his
head, so many deaths relived in his sleep.  He wished that just once
he could sleep without reliving someone's death.  Sighing, he put a
hand to his forehead and it came away bloody.  But then it always did.
It always came back to blood.   He headed for the shower, wondering
how he'd ever gotten by before the shower was invented.
     He stood in the invigorating hot water and let it cleanse his
nightmares from him for another day.  Another day.  He hoped this
particular day would let him catch a killer.  He needed to catch this
killer.  He needed it.  When the water began to run cold, Nick finally
turned the shower off.  He almost felt clean.  He dressed quickly and
ran lightly down the stairs.  Seeing the red light on his answering
machine blinking, Nick stopped and hit the playback button on his way
to the fridge.  He had the cork out and the bottle upended when he
heard Reese's voice.
     "Nick," Reese's voice boomed out, "I'd appreciate it if you'd
give me a call as soon as possible, at home.  Something has come up
that I really need to talk to you about." There was a brief hesitation
and then he continued, "It's not work related--but it's important.
Call me.  Thanks."
     The machine reset itself and clicked off.  Nick stared curiously
at the machine, as if it could tell him what the Captain wanted.  What
could the Cap want to talk to him about?  And why talk to him away
from work?  Nick didn't like where that thought led him.  He suddenly
felt a prickle in his spine.
     Nick finished the bottle and tossed it in the trash before
picking up his phone.  He glanced at the clock before he dialed.  He
didn't have to be to work for another couple of hours--there would be
plenty of time for whatever the Cap wanted.
     "Hello," Reese answered gruffly after the third ring.  It was so
late, he'd begun to think that Knight wasn't going to call.
     "Cap," Nick said without preamble.  "It's Nick, you wanted to
talk to me?"
     "Yeah," Reese answered, his heart in his throat.  "I do.  Would
it be all right if I drop by?  This is going to take some time for me
to explain."
     "That'll be fine.  I'm not going anywhere."
     "Good, I'll be there in ... soon as I can, okay?"
     "Okay," Nick said and hung up.  He stood motionless in the middle
of the room, feeling more than concerned.  He felt incredibly uneasy.
Suddenly he knew that he had trouble.  The Captain knew something.
What, Nick didn't know, but it was something that might put the
emergency exit plan into execution.  But Nick wasn't ready to leave
this life.  He wasn't ready to leave Natalie.  In fact, he didn't
*know* if he could leave Natalie.  He'd made preparations to leave
when Schanke had died, and yet, when it came right down to it, despite
the pain he'd experienced and the emptiness of spirit and soul, he'd
felt even emptier at the thought of leaving Natalie.  Perhaps that was
why he'd delayed, playing the piano, long enough for Natalie to come
and yell at him.  He'd never been so glad to be yelled at in his
life...
     Nick started out of his reverie and decided to take out the
trash.  It was better than sitting here waiting.  He'd know soon
enough what he was up against.  And until he knew what the problem
was, he couldn't do anything about it
     The intercom buzzer interrupted Nick's pacing.  Gratefully, he
pressed the switch.  The Captain's 'soon' had been an overestimation.
It had been exactly one hour and twelve minutes.  Both of them were
due at work in about 45 minutes.  He had a feeling they were going to
be late.
     "Yeah," Nick said by way of identification.
     "Nick," said Reese, "it's Joe Reese."
     Nick hit the security switch.  "Come on up."  He filed away the
tiny detail.  Reese hadn't referred to himself as Captain.  Not good.
Not good at all.
     Reese pushed the elevator door open and walked into Nick's loft
for the first time.  He glanced around and appraised his surroundings
carefully in light of his recent suspicions.  The loft was spacious
and simply decorated, but what was there was elegant, unique, and
whispered ever so subtly of wealth and power.
     Nick walked over to the couch and gestured to it.  He sat down in
one of the chairs as Reese sank into the soft leather of the couch.
     "What can I do for you, Cap?" Nick asked, trying to put Reese at
ease.  "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
     Reese shook his head.  "No, thanks," he said.
     "What did you need to talk about?" Nick asked.  He couldn't fix
what he didn't know.  The sooner Reese told him what was up, the
sooner he could solve it.
     Reese twisted his hands together, avoiding Nick's steady gaze for
a few moments.  Nick waited in silence as Reese composed his thoughts.
It was a lot harder than he thought to come in here and say this.  He
was about to accuse his star detective of deception, deceit,
and...well he didn't quite know what else.  There wasn't a crime that
he knew of, for staying young eternally.  For a moment, he considered
leaving before he made a fool of himself.  But his need to know drew
him on.
     Looking up, he met Nick's gaze.  "Something really strange
happened when Denise and I went to Boston on our vacation.  It's been
bothering me ever since."  Reese paused and pulled a large manila
envelope out of his raincoat.
     Nick felt his throat tighten.
     "We went to this museum.  Well, actually we went to a lot of
museums.  Denise has this thing for 'em.  Anyway, this particular one
was full of lots of interesting stuff, but what caught my attention
was this display on politics and scandal.  You know, how scandal
affected people in different eras.  That sort of thing.  One of the
people profiled was a political candidate for President of the U.S.
back in 1968.  A guy by the name of Thomas Gardiner."  Reese looked at
Nick expectantly as he spoke the name.
     Nick kept his gaze steady, but inwardly he tensed up.
     Reese felt awkward.  There wasn't a hint of recognition in Nick's
eyes at Gardiner's name.  He was really feeling stupid.  Nick looked
so unconcerned, so calm.  He didn't have a clue what Reese was talking
about, he was sure.  He pushed on anyway.  It was too late to stop
now.  "Anyway, they had this picture, and, well, it stopped me in my
tracks.  Could have pushed me over with a single little tap of a
finger."
     Reese opened the envelope and pulled the first photo out--the
original from the museum.  He handed it to Nick.
     Nick reached out and took it.  Turning it around, he looked into
his own face and remembered very clearly the anger he felt at Gardiner
for the abuse and humiliation he'd heaped on Angela.  She'd been so
full of life, so excited and happy--and Gardiner had taken it from
her--destroyed her without blinking an eye.  And Angela had hung
herself.  The waste of it still hurt.
     Outwardly he raised an eyebrow and showed surprise.  He looked up
at Reese who continued with his story.
     "You might have noticed, the guy in the photo--uh, he, uh, looks
just like you," Reese said a little too loudly.
     "Yeah, he does," Nick agreed.  "Amazing coincidence."
     Reese felt beads of sweat break out on his brow, and hastily
wiped his hand across his forehead.  It didn't help.  "Yeah, I thought
it was, too.  It's more than that, though.  Nick, you're a good cop.
You've got the instinct.  A cop always knows when something is funny,
when something isn't right.  And that's the feeling I got looking at
that photo.  Something," he said, "isn't right about this.  I know it,
and you know it."
     Nick looked up at him and waited for his world to crumble.
     "When I got back, I went through your file.  After all, you're
from Chicago.  I thought it might be your father, but it isn't.  He
died in 1961, according to your records.  And you don't have any
family, either.  The likeness is too uncanny, too much like 'you'. The
way you stand, the way you emote, the way you 'feel,' to be a
stranger.  I know what they say about there's a double for everybody
out there, and I'm not buying it.  So I went to Digital Images, Ltd.
and had them do a photo enhancement.  I kept thinking it would prove
to me that I was just hallucinating...but it didn't."  Reese pulled
the second photo out of the envelope and handed it to Nick.
     Silently he took it and stared into the closeup of his face.
Nick saw the damning pox mark, a scar from his childhood, and knew
what Reese was thinking.  He looked up into Reese's solemn face.
     "The only damned thing that photo proved," Reese said quietly,
"was that my instincts are still good.  Once a cop, always a cop--no
matter how long you ride a desk.  That picture is of you, Nick.
Doubles and twins are one thing, but even they don't share the exact
same scars.  This picture taken in 1968 of an 'unnamed security guard'
does.  Now I haven't said anything to anybody, because frankly, I
don't think anyone would really believe me, despite this evidence.
All I've got is a coincidence that just isn't possible--yet, there it
is, in black and white.  Good as that is for me, I'm not real anxious
to take it upstairs.  I just want to understand.  I just need to know
what you are.  How can this be?"
     Reese watched as Nick shook his head ever so slightly, in
puzzlement. Nick stared at the photos for a long time while his mind
raced around a lot of possible solutions.  He didn't want to try and
erase the Captain's memory until he knew he had all the evidence in
his hands--that there were no more copies--and that Reese hadn't
talked with anyone else.  Only then could he control him.  He'd
finally learned that lesson with Tawny Teller and the Enforcers.
     Reese felt a pit growing in his stomach at the prolonged silence.
The longer Nick was silent the surer Reese was that he was right, and
the more scared he became.
     "Cap," Nick said finally, slowly.  "I'm not sure what to think.
This is, well crazy.  You've been carrying this around ever since you
got back from Boston, and you haven't said a word, or given a hint by
any of your actions that you were suspecting me of--well, I'm not sure
what you suspect me of.  Time travel?  Immortality?"  Nick looked at
Reese as he spoke, trying to judge his reaction.
     Reese stared back into Nick's incredulous face, and almost felt
foolish enough to get up and leave.  Almost.  It was pretty fantastic,
he had to admit.  But his gut was telling him he was right, so he
stayed put.  Nick would be bound to deny it.  This was not something
you went 'Live with Geraldo' on.
     "I can see why you'd come to this conclusion," Nick continued
across Reese's thoughts, "but really, I was only ten in 1968.  As much
as this looks like me, down to the scar, it isn't me.  I have to
admit, though," he said with a grin, " it's a great idea."
     Reese got up and paced around to the back of the sofa in his
agitation.  He leaned on the table and stared hard at Nick.  "You
know, I'd almost believe that, Nick, if I hadn't called up the Chicago
Police Department."
     Nick looked up at him, surprised.  It was worse than he thought.
How much more, he wondered, does he have?
     "I talked to Thomas Kelson, Captain at the 122nd Precinct,
previously of the night shift, and you know what he said?" Reese
asked.
     Nick shook his head, playing it out.
     "He never heard of you.  Never.  Probably wouldn't be able to
pick you out in a line-up, now would he?" Reese said.
     "Cap," Nick began.
     "Nick, your whole history is a lie.  After I called Kelson this
morning, I did some more checking.  I called the Illinois State
Academy.  Commander O'Hallihan was very upset that somebody had got
into his database and falsified his records.  He'd never heard of you-
-or for that matter, seen you before."  Reese paced back and forth
agitatedly.  "And then, I took a good look at your financial records,
Nick.  You've got a hell of a lot more money than any cop I've ever
met--oh, I know you had it before you came here, but still, it all
begins to add up to something really...fishy.
     "It's a great paper trail, one of the best I've ever seen, but it
ain't real.  None of it, is it?  I'll bet you didn't do anything
listed in your record, because it's all carefully fabricated.  If you
don't age, you have to move on, don't you?  What the hell are you,
Nick?  Don't lie to me.  I *need* to know.  It's driving me crazy, and
*I'm* driving Denise crazy."
     Nick looked away and stared out the window.  He'd have to control
Denise, too.  Who else had Reese talked to about this?  It was not
good at all.  The only upside was that Reese hadn't yet put two and
two together and come up with the truth.
     "Joe," Nick said quietly, "I..."
     Suddenly, Reese's cell phone shrilled, and almost simultaneously,
Nick's phone began to ring.  They stared at each other for long
seconds while their phones demanded attention.  Nick glanced at the
clock as Reese swore and pulled his cell phone out and answered,
"Reese, here."  They weren't due at work for another twenty minutes.
That somebody was calling them both was not a good sign.
     Nick stood and reached across the sofa for his own phone.
"Knight," he said brusquely as he eyed Reese.
     "Detective Knight," said the night duty officer.  "We have
another body on the Don Valley Parkway, about 300 meters from where
the last one was found.  Could you get there as soon as possible?"
     "Yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can," Nick said, glancing out
the window, verifying that the sun had set.  Frustration warred with
anger for instinct told him that Melvin had moved his schedule up
because of that one single look.
     "Thank you, Sir.  Your partner will meet you there."
     Nick hung up the phone to find Reese doing the same.
     "Damn," Reese said bitterly.  "He's dumped two in one week.  What
the hell is going on?"
     "I don't know, Cap, but I guess we'd better get over there and
find out.  We'll have to continue this conversation--as interesting as
it might be--later."  Nick said.
     Reese stared at him in total frustration.  "Yeah," he said
slowly.  "Later."




Act 5, Scene 3

Whose hand then does the deed?
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Nick parked the Caddy next to Reese's 4x4 in the parking lot off
the Don Valley Parkway.  It hadn't taken long to get there, since
Riverside Park was a little over two miles from the loft.  What
surprised Nick was that the area was already ablaze with lights.  The
forensics team, remarkably, arrived right behind him and fanned out to
begin carefully surveying the area.  It was obvious that the Parkway
Killer was taking precedence with all departments.
     There was a brisk breeze blowing as Nick walked across the lot
towards the site.  For the first time in days, it wasn't raining, and
the cloud cover showed signs of breaking up.  What it meant to Nick
immediately was that no rain had fallen since the body was dumped--
giving them a lot more evidence to work with.  That would make
everyone's job just a little easier.
     Showing his badge to the officer keeping the curious away, Nick
made his was across the grass to where Dr. Connors was just covering
the body.  It was Natalie's night off, and Nick missed her on this
one.  The continuity would have been helpful.
     Reese was already there, ahead of him, staring grimly at the
body.  "What do you know, Dr. Connors?" Reese asked curtly.  His
stomach hurt from all the stress, and he was  acutely conscious of
Nick standing next to him.  He felt very awkward and uncomfortable.
Another ten minutes and he would have had his answer.  He was no
slouch at grilling a suspect, and he'd had Nick just about completely
boxed in when the damn phone had rung.  This turn of events gave Nick
a lot of breathing room, and a chance to change tactics.  It meant he
would have to work a lot harder now since he'd lost the advantage of
surprise.
     Connors pushed back his unruly red hair and looked up at them.
"It's not the Parkway Killer," he said quietly.   "I think we've got a
copycat.  Someone wants in on the thrills, Captain.  They just don't
know the details."
     Nick looked at him sharply as Reese swore.  "Are you sure?" Nick
asked as he squatted down next to Connors.
     Connors looked at him.  "Yeah, I'm sure.  This guy has been
stabbed to death--and there's no artwork."
     Nick picked up the edge of the protective sheet over the body and
pulled it up.  He stared down at the nude body, decorated with several
stab wounds.   The victim was no more than twenty.  Nick put the sheet
down carefully.  "You're right, it's not the Parkway Killer.  Not only
is the M.O. different, but the victim is too young."
     Reese looked at him in surprise.  "What do you mean, too young?"
     Nick stood and said calmly, "The Parkway Killer's victims have
all been in their mid-to-late thirties, probably because he's killing
some authority figure in his life over and over again.  This victim,"
Nick said nodding towards the body, "never got out of his teens."
     Reese shook his head, and muttered.  "It just gets worse and
worse."
     His attention was distracted by the sudden clamor of voices--the
press had arrived--and Reese swore again.  "Damn press is here.  They
spend too much time listening to our wavelengths."  He took a deep
breath.  "You want to give me anything else before I give them a
statement?"
     Connors shook his head.  "No, we don't know enough.  But I can
tell you that there is a lot of physical evidence on this one, unlike
our serial killer.  Maybe we can pick the murderer up before the shift
is over."
     Nick snorted,  "Yeah, if we're *really* lucky."
     Tracy walked across the grass and joined them.  "Hi Nick, sorry
I'm late.  Car trouble.  I had to take a cab."   She looked down at
the sheet-covered body, then at Nick.  "Is it the Parkway Killer?"
     Nick shook his head.  "No.  We've got a copycat killer trying to
get in on some of the publicity."
     "Great," Tracy said dryly.  "Let's hope he's not a serial killer,
too."
     Reese sighed.  "Well, I guess I'll leave you two to take care of
this.  I've got to go talk to that mob of barracudas..."  Reese turned
and walked away.
     Tracy nudged Nick with her elbow as she watched Reese trudge
towards the waiting reporters.  "What's with him?  He seems really
frustrated."
     "He's got to go talk to that mob of reporters over there," Nick
said, "and tell them we've got a copycat.  How would you feel?
They're going to eat him alive."
     "Maybe.  Reese is pretty savvy when it comes to dealing with the
press....no, I'd say something else is bothering him.  Happen to know
what?"  Tracy asked still watching Reese.
     "Nope," Nick said.  Not, he thought, unless you want to count the
fact that he's figured out I'm not exactly human.  But Nick didn't
have time to deal with that right now, and neither did Reese.  It
would have to wait.  They had a crime scene to deal with.
     Nick looked at Tracy,  "C'mon, let's get the details."
     Nick and Tracy finally left the crime scene as a light rain began
to fall once again.  The weatherman had been overly optimistic in
hoping it would clear up.  It had taken them almost two hours to
complete the interviews and help identify, bag and tag the evidence.
The killer had left behind the murder weapon--a switchblade--as well
as several beautiful footprints in the mud, clothing fibers, and blood
samples.  The forensic team also thought they had a good latent thumb
print.  With luck, they might find a match in the database.  All in
all, if they had to deal with another murder, this was about as good
as it could get.  They had more evidence than they knew what to do
with.  Once they caught the perpetrator, it would be a simple case to
prove.
     Driving down the road through pools of light and shadows,
watching the wipers move rhythmically across the windshield, Nick felt
his own frustration building as Tracy chattered away beside him.
Melvin was probably moving up his timetable due to their psychic
encounter, and no one was watching him.
     On top of that, Nick still had to check out what had come in from
Edmonton.   And he *absolutely* had to figure out what to do about
Reese....and deal with it within the next twenty-four hours.  He did
not want the Enforcers coming after Reese.




Act 5, Scene 4

O bitter my beginning...
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Tracy and Nick walked into the precinct in grim silence.  Things
had definitely taken a turn for the worse.  It was bad enough having a
serial killer on your hands; having a copycat at the same time was
frustrating as well as distracting. Reese had informed them prior to
leaving the crime scene that he'd gotten word Commissioner Vetter
wanted a task force formed.  Tracy rolled her eyes at that--would her
father never butt out of her life?
     "Nick," Tracy said, tugging at her ear, "I think I'll go down to
forensics and see if we can't get a profile put together on our
copycat killer.  Maybe we can get him out the way before he muddies
the water too much.  Okay?"
     Nick waved a hand abstractly in her direction.  His thoughts were
already far away.  With a smile, Tracy went left as Nick went right,
towards the bullpen.  With luck, Tracy thought as she headed down the
hallway, it would be someone with a record; if not, they would have to
investigate this murder in tandem.
     Nick sat down and turned on his computer, hoping he would have
something solid from Edmonton.  He smiled in satisfaction as he
checked his inbox.  Several messages had come in from Edmonton.  He
checked through them hopefully.
     The first revealed that Melvin had been a troubled teen with
several minor infractions ranging from shoplifting to vandalism.  He
also had one major run-in with the law, battery of his foster father
at age 17.  After that incident, he'd been moved to a group home and
been given extensive therapy due to extenuating circumstances.  Nick
scratched his head in puzzlement.  There was no information on the
extenuating circumstances.  He made a note of it and moved on to his
next file.  He caught his breath at what he read.
     "Well, I guess I found the reason for his rage," Nick murmured
quietly, feeling sudden sorrow.  "This is definitely an extenuating
circumstance."  He read the file intently.
     When Melvin was eleven, his father, an unemployed factory worker,
came home one night and shot and killed his wife Arlene and all his
children, with the exception of Melvin.  Then he'd shot and killed
himself.
     Melvin, according to his own report of the incident, had escaped
because he'd hidden in the clothes hamper.  Covering himself with
dirty sheets and towels, he'd hidden during his father's angry
rampage.  It wasn't the first time his father had been on a binge, and
Melvin didn't want to get another beating.  So he'd hidden, and been
the sole survivor.
     Jack Brackner was a chronic drunk, according to the bio.
Neighbors reported, after the fact, that the children frequently were
decorated with bruises, and his wife, Arlene Brackner, often sported a
black eye.  No one had ever reported him.  If they had, Nick thought,
shaking his head, this all might have been prevented.  But the
Brackner's home had been on the outskirts of Edmonton, down a narrow
lane.  The nearest neighbor had been a quarter mile away, and people
minded their own business
     Melvin's account was heartbreaking.  He'd listened to his father
yelling and screaming.  He'd demanded they all get in the house.
Eventually he had herded them into the living room.  Melvin had
recalled hearing his mother trying to placate her husband to no avail.
She'd been severely beaten for trying.
     Melvin had tiptoed into the laundry room, intent on sneaking out
the back.  Hearing his father coming towards the back, he'd hidden in
the hamper.  His father had locked the back door--with a key--cutting
off his escape route.  The rest had remained in the living room,
terrified, while Brackner screamed at Melvin.  Terrified, Melvin had
stayed hidden.  He'd heard the cries of his siblings, his mother's
final frantic pleading--presumably when he'd produced the gun, Nick
thought--and then finally, he'd heard shots.  Four shots had been
fired close succession, amidst terrified screaming that ended
abruptly.  After a pause, there had been one more shot.  A dull thud
had followed and then there had been complete and utter silence.
     Melvin had not moved for hours.  Finally exhausted, his tears
dried on his face, he'd come out of hiding and discovered the carnage
in the family's living room.
     There had been blood everywhere.  Splattered on the walls,
soaking through the carpets.  And everybody had been dead.  Melvin had
thrown up, and then he'd fled to his bedroom, afraid of what he'd
seen.  It had taken him some time to get up the nerve to pass through
the living room once more so that he could find help.
     Since they had no phone, Melvin had run the quarter mile to the
neighbor's house to get help.  Melvin, thought Nick, had never
recovered.  He leaned his chin on his hand and stared into space.
He'd been through a lot of trauma in his own life, the Crusades,
plagues, war after war, as well as LaCroix' brand of parental
obsession.
     Nick had suffered every form of abuse at LaCroix' hands.  He'd
been physically, mentally, emotionally, and sexually abused.  They
just hadn't called it that then.  LaCroix had called it love.  Nick
had called it a lot of different things.  In this enlightened age,
they called it abuse and tried to help people recover.  Nick knew how
hard it was to recover from some of that.  Some scars, he mused,
thinking of Sylvaine, never did heal.  He'd had centuries to learn to
deal with his pain and failings, his traumas with varying degrees of
success.  A lot of it he kept inside, and he understood, now, that he
had built walls within walls.  Nobody had gotten close to him since
Sylvaine--until Natalie.  It was only now, that he was beginning to
find his own healing.  But he still found himself doing things that
hurt Natalie and kept her out--because it kept him safe from the
emotional pain.
     Melvin's trauma, however, was less than twenty years old.  He'd
been a child when his world was destroyed.  Melvin had been
emotionally destroyed, and no one had been able to put the pieces back
together again.  Nick suspected it was worse to be abused like that as
a child.  He, at least, had been an adult, and had some ability to
defend himself.  Melvin had not been old enough or strong enough to
defend himself.
     Now he was following his own recipe for therapy, trying to find
his own way out of his rage, hatred and anger.  The only problem,
thought Nick, was that it involved killing.  Whether Melvin's victims
were guilty of anything or not, it didn't justify murder.
     Nothing ever did.
     Nick slammed the door on that thought.  He didn't want to think
about that.  Nick couldn't change his past any more than Melvin could
change his.  You could only change the future.
     On that thought, Nick got back to business.  He sent the files to
print and logged off.  Picking up the printouts, he read through them
again, and reviewed the information, trying to see how that event
could be tied to the murders.  The process was painful, because he
understood Melvin's madness.
     He was killing his father.  Just like Nick had tried to kill
LaCroix--his father and master.  Melvin was killing him over and over
again.  So far he'd taken four lives...
     Nick caught on that thought.  Four times.  Could it be that he
was killing his father once for each of his murdered family?  If that
were true, he would only kill one more time.  Nick's own words to
Natalie suddenly came back to haunt him... "He has a purpose.  I just
haven't figured out what it is, yet, but I know he's got a purpose--a
very definite agenda.  If we don't find him before he's done, I don't
think we ever will."  If Melvin truly had only one more death to
avenge, they might not obtain the evidence they needed to arrest him
before he quit killing.
     Nick drummed his fingers on the desk.  They needed to get him
under surveillance, now!  He understood Melvin far better than he
wanted to.  He understood the desire for revenge, the need to make the
pain and anger stop.  The only problem was that getting rid of the
source didn't get rid of the voices in your head, or who you had
become because of the abuse.  Nick knew that from his own personal
experiences.
     After all, Nick, too, had sought revenge.  He closed his eyes as
he remembered how LaCroix had maneuvered him into seeking revenge--
more than once. He could feel the anger thrum through him when he'd
been hung.  He'd killed the instigators of the lynching--only to find
out that LaCroix, not the Tavern-keeper, had set it all in motion.
     And then there was Gian Maria.  Janette had wanted revenge.
Well, she'd gotten it, hadn't she?  It had been hot and sweet and
wonderful.  Both times, revenge had been the instigator.  It was so
easy to want revenge, to seek and obtain revenge.  The problem was,
whether you were right or wrong, justified or not, it didn't change
anything.  It all turned to ashes in your mouth.  When all was said
and done, it never healed the hurt, it never solved the problem.
     The only solution, he'd found, that truly worked, was to let it
go.  Forgive.  While he could never forget, he could forgive--and that
was harder to do than anyone could imagine.  Nick had pondered the
idea of forgiveness many times.  His own personal opinion was that it
was more an acceptance of that person, and their faults.
     It was where he was now with LaCroix.  He'd nearly destroyed
Nick, because that was just the way he was.  It didn't make it right,
but then it wasn't Nick's job to make it right.  He finally understood
that.  He'd come to accept LaCroix, and forgive him.  It was past, it
was done, and Nick could only go forward making his life what he
wanted it to be.
     And that knowledge gave him peace and compassion.  There were no
'if only' moments, or time spent dwelling on how to get even or make
him understand that he was a monster.  They'd tried that.  It hadn't
worked. He'd staked LaCroix and killed him--more or less.  That hadn't
solved anything either.  But forgiveness--acceptance--whatever you
called it, that seemed to be working.  For the first time since
Sylvaine, they were almost like...family.
     Now, Nick thought, if only those he'd wronged, those whose lives
he'd ended in his hunger and lust could only forgive him...  His
dreams were haunted by his victims; a painful, never-ending stream of
them.  But if he could forgive LaCroix, perhaps those, whose lives
he'd taken in his hunger, could someday forgive him.  And if that was
possible, perhaps God would forgive him, too...
     Nick stared at the papers in his hands unseeingly for a moment,
caught up in the hope that just for a moment swept through him.  And
then reality reasserted itself.  He doubted anyone would ever forgive
him.  He'd done too much evil in his life.
     And that was why he was here.  To atone.  And right now that
meant stopping Melvin.  With that, Nick picked up the phone and
requested surveillance on Melvin for the coming day.  Then he dialed
Tracy.  He had a stake-out to invite her to.

                                   +++++

     Melvin listened to the TV report with rage.  Someone was
impersonating him!  Making a mockery of his personal justice.  He
quivered with suppressed anger.  Standing in the corner of his room,
he wrapped his arms tightly around himself and slid down the wall to
rest in the corner with his back pressed to the wall.  Tears slid down
his face.  This was important!  Didn't they understand?  It was
important, it was freedom--for him, for all of them.  They could rest
now, and maybe, so could he.
     He lifted his red-rimmed eyes and stared unseeingly at the TV.
He still had a body to dispose of tonight.  A smile touched his thin
lips.  Fine.  See what they did when they got another body in the same
place.  He'd show them.  Quietly, Melvin rose, picked up his jacket
and slipped out into the rainy night to finish one last task.




Act 5, Scene 5

Everyone's in a panic!
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Tracy plopped down in her chair and threw the folder across the
desk to Nick.  He picked it up and leafed through it.  Looking up into
Tracy's triumphant face, he smiled and read the information aloud.
"David L. Huntley, knife-fighter.  He's wanted for armed robbery,
assault, and burglary.  Looks like he upped the ante a little too far
this time.  This is great!  You managed to get a name on our copycat
perp."
     Tracy shook her head slightly, and said deprecatorily, "Well,
actually, it was the forensics unit.  They ran the print through the
database and came up with a match.  I just happened to be standing
there."
     Nick grinned, "Doesn't matter, at least we can get an APB out on
this guy and stop him before he does anything else really stupid."
     "Already done," Tracy said smugly at Nick's surprised look.  "I
already got a call from Vice.  They said they thought they knew where
he was hanging out.  Seems he's also gotten into drug dealing, but
they haven't been able to nail him.  I told them to go ahead and make
the collar.  I figure we already have enough to do.  Hope you don't
mind."
     Nick shook his head.  "No."
     Leaning forward, Tracy let her smile disappear, "Did you find
anything on Melvin, or is it another dead end?"
     Nick looked down at his hands as he replied.  "Yeah, I found
something.   Possibly a motive, but it's nothing we can use to tie him
to the murders, yet."  Looking up, Nick said quietly, "Melvin's the
victim of domestic violence.  Melvin's father came home one night when
he was eleven, and shot and killed the rest of his family.  Melvin
escaped by hiding in a laundry hamper."
     Tracy gasped, appalled.  Nick handed her the folder, and Tracy
scanned it with disbelief.  "This is awful, I can't imagine living
through something like this."
     "I know.  They probably did their best to help him, but I don't
think it worked.  He had years of therapy, but he was a troubled teen.
Seems to have grown out of it--or perhaps it went deeper in his soul.
I think he's finally reached a point where he's figured out his own
brand of  *therapy,* and he's taking what he believes is the
appropriate action.  I think he's killing his father over and over
again--once for each member of his family."
     "If it's him," Tracy said softly.  "You've no proof."
     "It's him," Nick said. "And no I have no proof, but it's him.  It
fits.  I just haven't figured out what the rest of it means.  The
roses...," Nick shook his head slowly, "I'm not sure what he's trying
to say.  Or the tear, but I think it has to do with making his father
show sorrow for his act.  That's a wag though..."
     Tracy stared at him.  "And...," she prompted.
     "I also think that if this is true, he's only going to kill one
more time, and then he'll be done.  He'll have exorcised his ghosts
and then he can move on.  He'll be free--or at least he'll perceive he
is free.  Anyway, if we don't catch him before he does it, we may
never catch him.  And that's why I called you.  That's why we are
going on stake-out."
     Tracy flipped through the folder and then looked at Nick.  "Just
let me get a cup of coffee, first," she said.
     Nick smiled tightly.  "Sure."
     Nick watched Tracy head for the coffee machine and mentally urged
her to hurry.  The feeling of urgency inside him was almost at a fever
pitch.  He reached in his pocket and checked for his keys.  Just as he
picked up his cell phone, he was assaulted by violet perfume.  He
turned to find Officer Schiller standing in back of him.
     "Hi," she said softly.  "I know you're busy, but I was wondering
if you'd like to go to the symphony next Friday?  It's Shostakovich,
Tchaikovsky, and Rachmaninoff.  I checked the duty roster, and it's
your night off."
     Nick stared at her.  She just didn't get it, he thought.  "Thanks
for the offer, Officer Schiller..."
     "It's Nancy," she interrupted, her green eyes glowing with hope.
     "I already have plans for my weekend.  And didn't we already
discuss the fact that you were going to leave this alone for a while?"
     Nancy's face fell.  "Yes, but its such a lovely symphony, and I
heard that you like classical music.  They say you play the piano
really well."
     "Right now is just not a good time," Nick said as Tracy walked up
with her coffee.
     "You ready, Nick?" Tracy asked.
     "Yeah," Nick said with relief.  With a nod, he strode away
rapidly, with Tracy playing catch-up.  She glanced back curiously at
Schiller as they left, and hid a smile.   Nick had a *very* persistent
groupie.  Persistent, but dumb.  Somebody, Tracy thought, should have
told her by now that Nick was immune to women--except Natalie, maybe.
     Schiller watched them leave, crestfallen.  After a moment she
said softly, "Well, I guess it's time for Plan B."

                                   +++++

     Melvin, once more in his pony-tail disguise, quietly drove into
the parking lot of Riverside Park.  He found a lot of satisfaction in
this act.  The police tape still cordoned off the area from the
earlier homicide investigation.  Melvin smiled at the irony of it.
This was a fitting end, an ironic twist on the copycat murder.  He
parked and checked the area carefully.  No one in sight.  Good.
Quickly he picked up Billy Nayson and threw his body over his
shoulder.  Billy's hand slapped Melvin repeatedly as he moved to the
police tape.  Melvin broke through the tape using Billy's body as the
leverage.  The tape fluttered to the ground in mute protest behind
him.  Staying on the sidewalk he moved down the hill and dumped Billy
by a tall pine, rolling him out of the plastic sheeting.
     "Bye, wife-beater," Melvin whispered, and scampered quickly back
up the hill.  Moments later he was driving out of the park and down
the street, as the rain poured down around him.  Melvin smiled at
that, it would help hide any clues he might have left behind.  Ten
minutes later, he pulled the truck into the empty warehouse for the
last time.
     Most of his clean-up work was already done.  He'd done research
before he'd even started his personal odyssey.  Melvin knew what
forensics could do and he was doing his best to make sure there would
be as little as humanly possible for them to use.
     He'd placed plastic sheeting under each victim and then with
wicked glee cleaned the plastic up and donated it to a local charity
that was renovating a building.  Melvin had seen the advertisement for
any and all materials to aid in building and painting.  He'd
splattered paint on the plastic just to make sure they'd get the idea
to use them as drop cloths.  What better way, he'd reasoned, to get
rid of the evidence?  Let someone else use them and dispose of them.
If by some chance the police were to find out about the plastic, which
he doubted, they wouldn't be able to connect it with him.  He'd
dropped the last of the plastic--used on Billy Nayson--off in their
donation bin just this morning.
     Melvin had methodically wiped all surfaces for fingerprints and
hosed the room down--twice--obliterating any evidence that might be
there, as best he could.  He'd also cleaned his tools meticulously.
He knew there was still blood on them--blood that could convict him--
but the tools were about to disappear.  And then Melvin had thoroughly
washed the truck in which he had transported his victims, inside and
out.
     When he'd taken the truck tonight, he put a paper mat on the
floor--ensuring he wouldn't track dirt back into the clean truck.
Dirt, Melvin had learned, could lead the investigation to a specific
area, depending upon its makeup.  He didn't want to lead them back to
the warehouse, so he was making sure that there would be nothing to
find.
     Melvin looked around and double-checked his work.  Satisfied, he
changed out of his disguise, dumped it, including shoes, into a bag,
which contained several other items of clothing from his victims as
well as his coveralls.  He tossed the bag into the truck and placed
the carefully cleaned bag of tools next to it.
     Melvin left the warehouse, locked the door, and drove away in the
truck.   The truck, stolen months before, had served it's purpose,
like the warehouse, and was about to be abandoned.  Five miles later,
he stopped briefly at a construction site, and using a shovel he
borrowed from the auto-shop, buried the tools and clothing in an area
that was to be covered with concrete that morning.  He spent enough
time to make sure the ground looked undisturbed before leaving.
     Finally, Melvin drove the truck to the airport and parked it in
long-term parking.  He wiped the steering wheel and door handle one
last time.  He walked away with a smile on his face.
     Melvin's quest was over.  It was done.   And as if nature agreed
with him, the rain suddenly stopped and the moon broke hesitantly
through the clouds.   He picked his own truck up from short-term
parking, where he had dropped it at the start of the evening and
headed home.
     Melvin arrived home ten minutes before Nick and Tracy quietly
parked across the street, and two minutes after he turned off his
lights and lay back to giggle with relief in his bed.  He felt free,
he felt like flying.  All the ghosts that had haunted him had one by
one left as they had been avenged.  Nobody cried in his head for the
first time in years.  And now Mom was free.  They were all free.
Smiling, he lay back, hugged himself in satisfaction, and drifted
towards sleep.

                                   +++++

     Nick quietly doused the Caddy's lights and switched the engine
off, while Tracy peered up at the windows of the apartment building.
     "Doesn't look like anybody is up, Nick.  Anywhere.  Which
apartment is Melvin's?" Tracy asked.
     "Apartment 2A.  I'll go check out the layout and then we'll know
which windows we want to watch," Nick said as he got out of the Caddy.
     "Nick!" Tracy protested in a whisper at his departing back.  She
stared after him in frustration.  Why couldn't she go scope it out?
     Nick checked the building and took the stairs to the second
floor.  He made a quiet surveillance, determining that Apartment 2A
was the right front apartment.  He closed his eyes and listened, and
heard Melvin's heart beating.  A little too rapidly to be asleep, but
it was slowing down, even as he listened.  Melvin was definitely home--
and probably in bed.  He slipped back down the stairs and sprinted
across the street to the Caddy.
     He'd barely got the door shut when Tracy asked, "Nick, what is it
with you?  Why do you always get to do the fun stuff and I get left to
do the report?  Huh?"
     "Wha..?" Nick asked, confused.
     "Don't you think I'm capable of doing a close surveillance?  I
would think by now you'd know I can handle this--or is it because of
my father?" Tracy demanded.
     Nick stared at her with an open mouth.  He couldn't even begin to
figure out where this was coming from.  "Well, uh...yes.  I'm sorry
Tracy, I guess I just wasn't thinking.  Next one's yours.  Promise,"
Nick said with an engaging grin.
     "Fine, but what about the report that you never seem to do?"
     "What are you talking about, Tracy," Nick asked puzzled.  She'd
changed subjects so fast that he just wasn't following.
     "I'm talking about last night.  You promised to do the weekly
report last night.  The one *I'* did.  And since I haven't been here,
what was I supposed to put it in?  The one, it seems, I always end up
doing.  And then you put on your sunglasses and left.  Poof.  And I
did the report again.  That's what I'm talking about," Tracy said
angrily, and then suddenly as it appeared, her anger dissipated.
     Nick stared at her in amazement, not sure if it was safe to say
anything.
     "I don't know where that came from," Tracy said finally.  "I
guess I sort of overflowed, there.  Maybe the stress of coming back is
worse than I thought.  Sorry."
     "It's okay.  I guess I just wasn't paying attention last night--
no, I was distracted--by Schiller," Nick said.
     Tracy laughed, "That's right--you were.  In fact we both were.
I'd forgotten that."
     "I promise I'll do the report for the next month," Nick said.
"In fact, I'll write it down, to make sure it's taken care of."  He
pulled a small pocketbook out of his coat and wrote it down.
     "That's all right, Nick.  I didn't mean it.  I just, well, I
don't know what happened.  Really.  It's okay."
     Nick smiled at her.  "I'll do it," he said, "don't worry." At
times like this, he really missed Schanke's easy-going attitude.
Schanke seldom had beat up on him, despite Nick's eccentricities.
Tracy was a little more high-maintenance.
     They settled back to watch and wait.  Tracy sipped her coffee and
peered out the windshield.  "So which one is it, Nick?" she asked
contritely.
     "Um, it's the right front apartment on the second floor.  I'm
pretty sure he's home," Nick said.
     "How?" Tracy asked.
     "I heard the toilet flushing," Nick lied.  It was better than
telling her that he heard his heart beating.
     Tracy sipped on her coffee as they sat in silence watching the
darkened apartment. Finally, she broke the silence.  "I guess you win
the bet," she admitted.
     Nick glanced over at her.  "We haven't found anything that links
him directly to the murders, Tracy."
     "I know, but the bet was that you'd find something on him--and
you did.  And I have to admit, I think you are on to something."
     Nick smiled.  "Thanks.  I'll feel better when we catch him doing
something, though."
     Tracy smiled in the dark over her coffee.  "Yeah, I suppose so.
Anyway, you win.  So what do you want to know?"
     Nick grinned.  "Like you don't know.  I want to know if you've
got something going with the snitch of yours.  Vachon, isn't it?"
     Tracy blushed and was grateful that it was too dark for Nick to
see.  Nick noticed with interest the rise in her body temperature and
the bright blush that was clearly visible to him.
     "Um.  Well, I don't know.  Maybe," Tracy hedged.
     "Maybe?" Nick asked with raised eyebrows.  "What does that mean?
This is supposed to be the truth.  Remember?"
     "It means that right now, we're friends, but maybe we're working
on something more.  I saw Vachon last night, and things seem to be
getting interesting.  Okay?"
     Nick laughed, "Okay."  He filed it away, and decided he'd better
talk to Vachon.  He wondered if interesting meant he'd kissed her--or
Tracy had kissed Vachon.  There was little future in *that* kind of
relationship, unless Vachon brought Tracy across, and as far as Nick
was concerned, that was *not* an option.
     "You wouldn't," Tracy ventured, "by any chance want to tell me
whether you and Natalie are more than just friends, would you?"
     Nick looked at her amused.  "No," he said.  "You lost the bet."
     "Well, I figured I could still ask," Tracy admitted with a laugh.
"People want to know, you know."
     "People," Nick said dryly, "are too interested in me and Natalie.
There's even a betting pool."
     "Yeah," Tracy said, "I know.  I've got a couple of bucks in it
myself.  But, speaking of people interested in you, what about
Schiller?"
     "Schiller," Nick said with a grin, "is also way too interested in
me.  She's starting to turn into my shadow.  You could do me a favor,
and tell her to forget it, Trace."
     "I don't think so," Tracy laughed.
     Nick shook his head, "I told her I wasn't interested, but she's
not listening."
     "Poor Nick," Tracy teased, "you get to get out of that one by
yourself."
     "Thanks....partner," Nick said with some irony, "
     "Hey, what are partners for?" Tracy asked saucily.
     A car drove down the street, breaking the night's silence.  Nick
and Tracy watched it go by.
"You think Melvin might do something tonight?" Tracy asked, curious.
     "I don't know," Nick shrugged, "but I'd like to be here to
prevent it..."
"81-Kilo, please respond," the scanner crackled to life.
     Tracy picked up the mike, "This is 81-Kilo," she said.
     "81-Kilo, we have a body on Don Valley Parkway, in the same
location as the previous one.  Reese wants you on the scene ASAP.  
Initial reports indicate that this body *is* the work of the Parkway 
Killer."
     Tracy and Nick stared at each other.  Finally Tracy pushed the
button.  "Roger, Dispatch, we're on our way."
     Nick grabbed her hand before she could put the mike down.  "Ask
them to send a patrol to continue surveillance," he said.
     "Oh, and could you have a patrol unit take up surveillance at
1024 Albermarle?  Apartment 2A.  We are covering a possible suspect."
     "Roger 81-Kilo," Dispatch said and disconnected.
     "Damn," said Nick, as he started the Caddy and made a U-turn
heading for the Don Valley Parkway.




Act 5, Scene 6

What is our action now...Do we kill?
  -- Electra

     For the second time that night, Nick and Tracy pulled into the
same parking lot in Riverside Park off the Don Valley Parkway.
Already, lights had been set up and the forensic team was making their
preliminary survey, photographing the area carefully.  Others were
examining the ground for possible footprints.
     Nick and Tracy walked down the sidewalk to find Dr. Connors once
more examining a body.  Nick squatted down besides him and took a good
look at the body.  Tracy remained standing, preferring to keep her
distance.  The victim's eyes were open, his expression one of shock or
amazement, as if he couldn't believe that this was happening.  On his
chest was not one, but five roses.  A teardrop was painted on his face
below his right eye.  Nick and Dr. Connors silently exchanged glances.
     "You'd think," Connors, said, "he would at least wait until we
were finished with the other investigation, or choose a different
spot."
     "Actually," Nick said, "it reminds me of a dog marking its
territory.  If anyone invades it, then they have to remark it."
     "Yeah," Connors said slowly in agreement, "like in that movie,
'Never Cry Wolf'.  So maybe the Parkway Killer's feelings were hurt
that somebody else would use his personal dumping ground."
     "Something like that," Nick agreed.
     "So, who found the body?" Tracy asked curiously, looking around.
     "A patrol unit did.  Officers Poulsen and Gerdes.  They came by
to make sure the site was undisturbed.  It was a routine check,"
Connors said, standing.  "Only it turned out to be not so routine."
     Nick briefly touched the damp ground before standing.  "So did
the rain stop before or after he dropped the body off?"
     "After," Connors said with a grimace.  "It was coming down hard
when they stopped by to check the area.   A lot of clues have been
obliterated.  It's a compromised scene."
     Tracy looked up at the sky, where the clouds were breaking up and
the stars could be clearly seen.  "Does he check the weather report?
And if it's raining, he trots off and picks up his next victim?"  She
shook her head.  "Sick."
     Connors shrugged.  "I don't know.  Anyway, I'm not going to find
more data until we can sift through stuff back at the lab and get an
autopsy going.  But with the other body still lying on the slab, this
John Doe will probably have to wait until the day shift.  What a
night!  I hope all the mayhem is over.  I'm exhausted."
     Nick nodded his head in agreement.  "I hope so, too.  It's been a
hell of a night."  He looked at his watch and confirmed what his inner
senses told him.  It was 4:10 a.m., the sun would be coming in little
more than an hour.  Looking back down at the body, Nick felt an odd
mixture of frustration and sorrow.  Melvin had moved quickly.  He
hadn't wasted any time at all.  And if Nick was right, there would be
no more murders.
     He also suspected that they would find nothing to connect him
with the murders.  They had no hard evidence.  They had no clues about
where he'd killed them, and no witnesses to their disappearances--
unless somebody made a report on this last victim.  Nick suddenly
wanted to know where this man had last been seen.  It would probably
be their best lead.
     "Nick," Tracy said, "I'm going to go find out the details from
Poulsen and Gerdes, okay?"  Nick nodded and Tracy moved down the path
to talk to the Uniforms.
     He stared down at the body as Connors knelt down and carefully
began to bag the victim's hands.  Reluctantly, Nick unleashed his
tautly held senses and reached out to feel the aura he knew was there.
He inwardly recoiled as he felt it.  The air churned with emotions.
Hatred.  Love.  Sorrow.  Joy.   It felt the same and yet it felt
different.  There was an odd air of satisfaction--almost happiness
clinging to the twisting cloud of emotions.  Nick tried to find a name
for what he felt, and realized it was 'completion'.   The utter joy of
revenge hung in the air...


     Nicholas shut the door to the small ante-chamber behind him and
thrust the bolt home.  Gian Maria turned at the protest the rusty
metal made, and shook off the 'glamour' Janette had mesmerized him
with.
     "What are you doing, you knave?" Gian Maria demanded angrily, his
voice rising.
     Nicholas turned around and smiled, letting his eyes drift to
gold.
     Gian Maria gasped and backed away.  "Demon!" he cried, reaching
for the small cross around his neck.  It was ripped out of his hand as
Janette broke the chain and flung the ornately filigreed cross against
the wall.  Gian Maria cried out as he clutched his neck where blood
oozed from a thin red line.  "By the Bones of God...," he began
angrily turning around.  He found Janette smiling at him in sheer joy,
her eyes a rich, ripe gold.
     Fear crept into his pale, bulbous eyes.   The dewlap under his
chin began to quiver ever so slightly.  "What *are* you?   What do you
want?  Riches?  I will give you twenty-thousand gold florins if you
leave--now.  Otherwise," Gian Maria said more firmly, "you will pay
for attacking me like this."
     "Attack?" Janette asked, honey-sweet, twining her arms around
Gian Maria.  "Have we attacked him, Nicolas?"  Gian Maria shook her
off and pressed his back to the wall.
     "No, my heart," Nicholas said, grinning.  "We haven't attacked
him...yet."
     Gian Maria flung a venomous look in Nicholas' direction.  "What
do you want?" he asked Janette, again.
     Janette's eyes' grew cold.  "Revenge," she said, her voice icy.
"Revenge for the death of an innocent.  So little do you value
anything but yourself, that *you* ran my servant down, ran over her as
if she were a clod of dirt--and left her to die.  *How dare you!*"
     Janette's anger blossomed and filled the room as she stared into
Gian Maria's fearful eyes.  "You think yourself the ruler of all you
see, but you rule nothing.  NOTHING!  You are nothing, and you will be
nothing.  My Virginie didn't deserve to die like that.  She didn't
deserve to be crushed and broken like old dishes.  She never had a
chance.  Virginie had but moments to realize what was happening, as
you crushed her under your carriage.  They were terrible, horrible,
pain-filled moments.  And your death will be just as terrifying,
because you see it coming, you feel it coming--don't you?  You *reek*
of death.  You are dead... I, Gian Maria, I am your death..."
     Janette reached out and pinned Gian Maria to the wall with one
hand around his fat neck.  He whimpered in fear.  He tried to speak,
but Janette tightened her grip, and only a squeaky gurgle escaped.
Slowly she ran a finger down his cheek, her nail teasing him, and then
she scratched deeply, drawing blood.  It welled up and dripped down
his face.  Janette stared in joyful fascination.  Nicholas stepped
forward at the hot scent of blood, until he stood just behind Janette,
his eyes riveted on the sliver of blood sliding down Gian Maria's
face.
     Janette laughed and her fangs dropped.  Gian Maria stared in
horror into her hungry eyes that suddenly went red, and felt his hose
grow wet as fear overwhelmed him.  He struggled to breathe around her
grip.  His heart pounded in his chest as she leaned forward and licked
the blood from his cheek.  Her throaty laugh echoed around the room.
     "You see, little fly," Janette purred, "you are not the ruler of
the universe, you have no control over your own life or death.  You
will never kill again.  You will never, ever hurt someone like you
hurt Virginie again.  You will lie broken and forgotten and alone.
Your people, who love you so much, will probably feed your body to
your own dogs--and celebrate as they do so.  How does it feel, fly, to
be on the receiving end, hmm?"
     She reached out and raked the other side of his face with all
four fingers, leaving bloody trails down his face.  Nicholas crowded
close behind her and reached out with a finger to harvest a droplet.
He sucked it off his finger, a sublime look on his face at the first
taste.
     Janette ripped open his silken tunic and shirt, laying bare his
white, puffy chest.  She slid her fingers along his chest sensuously,
teasingly, and then ripped her nails down it cruely.  Blood poured
from the deep wounds as he screamed.  Only a gurgled whisper got past
Janette's cruel hold on his throat.  He struggled for breath against
her iron hold.  Slowly she lifted him up and ran her tongue along one
of the wounds in his chest.
     Fear rode him, and the pounding of his heart trebled, pushed by
the adrenaline flying through him.
     "Drink, Nicolas," Janette whispered as she slashed his chest
again.  Nicholas' tongue slurped the blood from the fresh wounds as
Janette licked the first slashes, savouring the terror in his blood.
     Gian Maria at last began to kick and struggle against them.
Nicholas, with blood on his cheek, laughed as he looked up, grabbed
his legs.  "It isn't polite to kick a lady, especially," he whispered,
"when she's dining."
     Nicholas watched as Janette shredded Gian Maria's chest as easily
as if it were delicate fabric.  His chest became a latticework of
blood under Janette's assault.  Both looked up suddenly at Gian
Maria's face in fascinated anticipation as his heart began to founder,
the beating erratic.
     "Finish it," Nicholas said, "his heart will not last long."
     Janette slowly lowered Gian Maria down the wall, and tilted his
head to the side.  Gian Maria watched in horror out of the corner of
his eyes as she opened her jaws.  All he could see were her fangs,
large, ever looming larger.
     "How do you like the spider's lair, little fly?" Janette asked,
teasingly, and then she struck, finding the vein in his neck and
drinking deeply.
     Gian Maria's heart faltered and then stopped from sheer terror,
shock, and blood loss.  Laughing, Janette let go as Gian Maria's eyes
glazed over.  Nicholas caught him and plunged his fangs eagerly into
his neck to catch the last of the rich red nectar in his veins.
     Nicholas looked up at Janette, filled with the lingering taste of
Gian Maria's fear.  He looked down at the body in his hands, and with
a single twist, broke the neck. And then he let Gian Maria's body fall
to the ground.  It lay there, a pale bloody mess, eyes wide in panic.
Janette looked down at him as she delicately wiped her face with a
handkerchief.  In her eyes was a look of satisfaction.
     "Revenge is always...delicious, and you, Nicolas, were
wonderful...," she said and pulling Nicholas to her and kissed him.
The passion of the kill entwined them, and Janette slid her fangs into
Nicholas neck.  Hungrily, Nicholas completed the circle plunging his
own fangs into Janette and taking her blood.  In it, he felt a heady
sense of excitement, and a feeling of....exquisite completion.
     LaCroix cleared his throat behind them.  "Children," he said
calmly, "it's time to go.  We must be out of Milan before the Duke is
discovered."
     Janette pulled away from Nicholas and looked over his shoulder at
LaCroix.   "It was wonderful," she breathed...


     Nick shook at the strength of the memory.  He struggled with his
baser desire for a moment as he stared down at Connors neck.  Then he
pushed it away, as he concentrated once more on the feelings in the
aura.  Completion.  Satisfaction.  Freedom.
     Melvin, it would seem, was indeed done.  His quest, however
warped, was over.  Nick cursed quietly.  He had been too late.  If
only Reese hadn't chosen tonight to bare his soul, if only the copycat
killer had waited until tomorrow, Nick might have caught Melvin in the
act--and just maybe he could have stopped it..."
     "Dr. Connors," Nick asked abruptly, "any idea what the time of
death is?"
     Connors looked up.  "Not exactly, but my rough guess would be
sixteen to twenty-four hours.  I'll be able to pin that down,
hopefully, during the autopsy."
     "Thanks," Nick murmured.  He realized that he couldn't have
stopped it.  Death had occurred before sunset.  While Nick had slept,
Melvin had completed his therapy, and because he hadn't been there to
catch him disposing of the body, Melvin had walked away--clean.

                                   +++++

     At 5:13, Nick and Tracy trudged into the precinct, exhausted from
the night's events.  Both slouched in their chairs dispiritedly.
Unlike their copycat killer, the Parkway Killer has left little in the
way of usable clues behind.  The body appeared clean and the ground
was clean.  The rain had seen to that.
     "Well," Tracy said quietly, "where do we go from here?"
     Nick played idly with his pencil for a moment, then he looked up
at her.  "I don't know, Tracy.  I really don't know.  We've got Melvin
staked out, but somehow, I don't think it's going to give us anything,
now.  I think he's done."
     "Why," Tracy asked, wrinkling her brow.
     "Gut feeling, and," Nick added stopping Tracy before she could
interrupt, "the five roses.  One for each death.  In his mind, he's
avenged all of them."
     "I have to admit," Tracy said slowly, "it makes sense.  It fits.
Which means, it will be really hard to prove anything if we don't get
any prints or DNA..  And we can't pull him in without more that this
for testing."
     "I know," Nick said quietly.  He looked at the clock and sighed.
"Well, it's been a hell of night, and the sun is coming up.  I think
I'll go home.  We can regroup tonight, and see what the surveillance
has found--if anything--and by then, we might have an autopsy report
and preliminary test results.  Call it a night?"
     Tracy nodded tiredly.  They walked out together in the pink
tinged sky.  Tracy stopped,  "Oh, I forgot, I took a cab to work,
could you give me a ride home?"
     Nick smiled.  "Yeah, come on."  And in companionable silence,
they walked to the Caddy and left the carnage of the night behind.




Act 5, Scene 7

But that's impossible!  How can I grasp it?
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Nick walked into the loft and threw his keys on the table, along
with his mail.  Walking to the window, he picked up the remote and
closed out the pink and gold dawn.  He felt tired and frustrated.
Melvin had won the match, and maybe the game.  He had his revenge.
And there might not be anything he could do about it.
     After a moment, Nick dismissed it from his mind.  He had more
pressing matters to deal with.  All night long, in the back of his
mind, he had tossed around what he was going to do about Reese.  He
was sure that the Captain had held nothing back.  His proof consisted
of two photographs and a couple of undocumented conversations with
members of the police in Chicago.  The academy records could cause a
problem--he might have to have Larry Merlin or worst case, Aristotle,
send somebody to do a little clean-up work.  Nick supposed he might
have to deal with Denise as well.  It wasn't much, but enough to cause
Nick a serious headache.
     Pulling a bottle from the fridge, Nick dispensed with the cork
and drank straight from the bottle.  He needed to feed.  He had to be
fresh and strong to deal with Reese.  The cow's blood tasted
particularly flat and stale tonight.  Memories of the hunt and kill
crowded into his mind as he vividly remembered again the thrill of
Gian Maria's death.  Cow's blood could only be a gaunt shadow in
comparison.  He willed such thoughts away resolutely.  What he had
sustained him.  It was enough.
     Nick sat at the table with the bottle in front of him.  Absently,
he sipped from it as he formed his plan of attack.  First Reese, and
then, if necessary, Denise.  But that would depend on what Reese had
told her, and what story he gave Reese.  Then he would have to call
Larry Merlin.  And Larry Merlin would not be happy with him.  He would
probably suggest he move on to a new identity.  But Nick wasn't going
to do that.
     He let out his frustration on an exhalation of air and ran his
hand through his hair.  If only, he thought, I could have taken care
of this when he came over tonight, if only....  Nick laughed suddenly,
without humor.  How many times this very night had he thought 'if
only,' and how often in his life had he thought 'if only.'  And none
of it would change for wishing.
     Unexpectedly, Nick remembered one of the oddest events in his
life.  He never had figured out if it had been a dream or a delusion.
Everyone in his life had suddenly switched places and roles.  Cohen,
Nick remembered with bemusement, had owned the Raven, and been his
confidant. He'd told Cohen all the things he held back in this
reality.  Everybody, in fact, had known he was a vampire, or at least
thought Nick believed he was a vampire.  Schanke, Natalie, and even
Janette had all played a part.  In the end, LaCroix had explained to
Nick that it was his guilt, made incarnate, that caused the delusion.
     Nick stared at the bottle of damning cow's blood in front of him.
There had been a refreshing freedom in that deluded state.  His life
had been an open book.  There had been no lies.  Nick yearned for a
life like that.  One of honesty and openness with no lies, no stories,
no acts.
     Except for Natalie, Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd
truly been honest with a mortal--totally and completely honest.  Oh,
there had been friends along the way, with whom he had pursued his
dream of mortality, but he had never revealed as much of himself in
the past as he had to Natalie.
     Nick wondered what it would be like to confess to Reese, to be
free of subterfuge.  It was incredibly tempting.  He wondered how
Reese would react.  The idea took root in Nick's mind, and he examined
from every angle.  "Why not?" Nick whispered.  It would only be for a
few moments--it would have to be.  Reese couldn't be allowed to leave
the loft with that knowledge.  But while he was here...
     "Why not?" he asked again.  "Confession is good for the soul, or
so they say."
     Nick liked the idea.  He liked it a lot.  It would put an
interesting twist on the morning.  For Nick was sure Reese would be
here any time.  Reese wouldn't let grass grow under his feet in
getting back here to finish the conversation.  He'd just about nailed
Nick to the wall earlier.  He was a damn good cop.  He was someone
Nick respected.
     The thought of confession lingered in his mind like a liberating
breeze.
     The buzzer sounded, blaring out into the loft.  Nick looked up at
the monitor, unsurprised  to see Reese's face peering into it.  He
walked over and pressed the release button.  "Come on up," he said.
     A moment later, the elevator began its growning ascent.
     "Showtime...," Nick murmured.
     Reese pulled back the sliding door and walked into the loft for
the second time in less than twenty-fours hours.  He looked as bad as
Nick felt.  His eyes were blood-shot and the skin underneath was puffy
with tiredness.  Strain was dragging at his face.  His raincoat was
bedraggled and damp.  Without a word, Nick turned and went straight to
the bottle of whiskey on his shelf, left over from Schanke's rampage
when he'd moved in, a century or two ago.  He pulled ice from the
supply Natalie maintained and poured Reese a drink.
     Silently he handed the drink to Reese, who took it with a
grateful sigh as he sank down into a black leather chair.
     "I sure as hell hope," Reese groaned, "that things will be calmer
tonight.  No bodies, please God, no media, and no frustrated police
commissioners jumping down my throat."
     Nick nodded in weary agreement, ever so slightly.
     "And don't tell me I'm drinking alone," Reese ordered him
sternly.
     Nick complied by picking up the bottle off the table, grabbing a
glass from the cupboard and pouring himself a glass of flat, stale,
but slightly-better-now-that-it-was-warm, cow.
     "Let me guess," Nick said as an opening gambit, "people upstairs
are not happy at the spate of bodies we got tonight."
     Reese shook his head.  "You've got that right.  Stupid bean
counters and pencil pushers.  Bunch of cops and politicians that have
forgotten --if they ever knew--that it takes time to solve these
things, and that's if you are lucky."  He swirled his drink around
absently as he stared into its depths.
     "We got lucky with the copycat killer.  He was obliging enough to
leave a really nice latent thumbprint.  He has a record, and Vice
seemed to think they know where to find him.  I expect he'll be in
custody before the day is over," Nick offered.
     Reese grunted in agreement.  Then he looked up at Nick seriously.
"Yeah, but what about the Parkway Killer?  Last I heard we had
absolutely nothing."
     Nick sipped the last of his dishwater cow, put the glass down and
looked at Reese. "Not exactly."
     "You have something?" Reese interrupted, excitement lighting his
tired eyes.
     "Not exactly...," Nick repeated, in a slightly different tone.
     "What the hell does that mean?" Reese asked exasperated.
     "It means we think we found a suspect who might have done it.
And we have an idea of why.   But we have no proof, and no reason to
even bring him in for questioning at this time."
     "Huh?  You want to explain that?"  Reese complained angrily.
     Nick looked into his drink for a moment, then met Reese's gaze.
"We were staking out our 'suspect' tonight when we got the call about
the second body.  We hadn't been there very long when the call came
in.  But we'd had at least verified that he was home.  If he's the
killer, then we barely missed his arrival home."  Nick's frustration
showed clearly in his face.
     "Cap, he fit the profile. He's shy, lonely, and I suspect, a very
angry young man.  His name is Melvin Brackner, a mechanic previously
from Edmonton, with a history of abuse--domestic abuse and violence.
Melvin's father was an abusive drunk, and in the end, he killed his
wife and children--with the exception of Melvin.  Melvin was the lucky
one," Nick said bitterly, "he escaped by hiding in a laundry hamper.
I don't think Melvin saw that there was anything good about surviving.
I think Melvin would rather have died with the rest of his family."
     "How does that make him the possible killer?" Reese asked
interested.
     "Five bodies, four with a single rose, the fifth--tonight's
victim--had five.  Melvin had four siblings, and a mother.  Five
people.  I--we think that he found his own brand of therapy to get rid
of the demons riding him.  He killed his father over and over again,
once for each of the family members he killed.  If that's true,
tonight is the last death.  If Melvin is the killer--and I believe he
is--then he's done, and we will probably never catch him, unless we
can find some physical evidence to tie it to him."
     "How sure of this are you?  What the hell led you to Brackner?"
Reese asked.
     Nick looked away for a moment.  Then he calmly met the Captain's
gaze.  "Natalie found transmission fluid on victim number four, so we
were checking out auto shops near the Parkway when we ran across
Bracker.  All I can say, Cap, is that he looked at me, and I looked at
him, and I knew.  Gut feeling.  The problem is he knew I knew, too.
So he moved up his time-table, and finished it before we were able to
put anything in place."
     "A gut feeling?  C'mon, Nick.  That's ridiculous, and you know
it..."
     "Anymore than the gut feeling that's got you sitting here for the
second time today wanting me to explain away your problem?" Nick asked
quietly.
     Reese was silenced by Nick's words and his arguments were in
shreds, his position suddenly defensive at Nick's penetrating
question.
     "A 'good cop'," Nick quoted Reese's words, "'always knows when
something is funny, when something isn't right'."
     Reese had the grace to look uncomfortable.
     "A good cop has a sixth sense about these things," Nick said.  "I
know about Melvin.  There was no doubt in my mind once our eyes met.
I have no proof, but I know....just as you have no real proof, but you
know..."
     Silent seconds ticked by.  Reese, for once didn't know what to
say.  Nick had advanced his arguments like rooks and pawns.  Reese was
damn near close to being checkmated, and he knew it.  Worse, he knew
Nick knew it.
     "All right," Reese conceded, "you know about Melvin." He paused,
then suddenly, all his pent up frustrations pouring out, "But, dammit,
I'm not wrong, either?  Am I?...AM I?"
     Nick quietly poured himself another round of getting-warmer-and-
therefore-better cow blood.  He looked up into Reese's pleading eyes.
     "No.  You are not wrong," Nick agreed, looking calmer than he
felt at this unburdening of his soul.  His hands felt sweaty,
suddenly.  It was suddenly harder than he'd thought it would be.  It
didn't feel all that liberating right now.  He didn't want to lose
Reese's respect, and he suddenly knew he was about to.
     And then a totally unrelated afterthought occurred to Nick.  The
Enforcers.  He *really* hoped no Enforcers were doing a routine check
on him today.  Suddenly it seemed like a really bad idea.  Nick hoped
this would work out as planned.  At least, he knew Reese was not a
resister.
     Reese sank back into the soft leather, stunned at Nick's
capitulation.
     "Then...then, that is you in the picture."
     "Yes."
     Reese jumped up in his agitation and made a turn around the
chair.
     "So, how...  What are you?"
     "Sit down, Captain...Joe," Nick said.  "You really should be
sitting down..."
     Reese sat down, his knees buckling at Nick's command.
     "Nick...?"
     Nick made a small grimace.  "Captain, what I am...is your worst
nightmare come true.  Living forever...it isn't what it's cracked up
to be.  The advertising is much better than the reality."
     "Forever...," Reese breathed, "How long have you been alive?"
     Nick met his gaze squarely and said evenly, "Just about 800
years,"
     Joe Reese's jaw dropped.  "Eight..."  He stopped and pulled his
handkerchief out and mopped his brow.  "I must be dreaming.  That's
not possible.  It's just not poss..."  He stopped at the look Nick was
giving him.  "Okay," he gulped, "it's possible."
     Nick said nothing.  He waited for Reese to regain his composure.
     "So," Reese finally asked again.  "What are you?  What keeps you
alive?"
     "I'm surprised you haven't figured that one out, Cap.  All the
information is there, if you just fit the pieces together the right
way," Nick said calmly.
     "What pieces?" Reese asked, still numb from the last revelation.
     "Think about it...," Nick said softly.  He couldn't quite bring
himself to say it.
     Reese was silent as he thought of his list.  After a moment, he
pulled it out of the folder he'd brought with him and reread it.
"Works nights," he said slowly.  "Allergic to sunshine.  Special diet.
Never seen eating or drinking."  Reese looked at Nick, nursing his
drink.  "Well, you're drinking now."
     "True," Nick agreed.
     Reese squinted a little to see what it was Nick *was* drinking.
Suddenly he realized it was a little thicker than wine ought to be.
Works nights.  Allergic to sunshine.  Doesn't go out in the day.
Doesn't eat.  The phrases repeated themselves like a mantra in his
head.
     The pieces clicked neatly into place.  Suddenly, Reese was
several shades paler.  The answer was as utterly impossible as the
idea that Nick was 800 years old--and yet...  It couldn't be, could
it?  Nick couldn't be a...
     "You're a...vampire?" Reese asked, his voice actually squeaking,
something it hadn't done since he'd hit puberty.
     "Yes," Nick said baldly.
     "You drink blood? ... You're drinking blood?"
     "It's what sustains me."
     "Is that human...?" Reese asked, appalled and repulsed, yet oddly
fascinated.
     Nick read his gaze perfectly, and felt his heart sink.  He looked
at the damning cow's blood and answered in a low voice.  "No.  It's
steer, actually."
     Reese gulped, "Have you ..."  He couldn't quite get it out.
     Nick met his gaze.   "Yes, I've drunk human in my time. But I
haven't killed a mortal for his blood in a hundred years.
     "Killed?"
     "It was the only way to survive," Nick said quietly.  He looked
away, "Your worst serial killer, Cap, has nothing on me.  I've done
worse, been worse, than anything you can imagine."
     Reese actually felt himself pressing back in his seat.  Fear made
him tremble.  Finally, he got his mind and mouth back in sync again.
"Why are you even telling me this?"
     "Because," Nick said quietly, "I respect you.  I admire you, and
I enjoy working for you.  And I lie to you every day.  My whole life
is a lie.  Just once, I wanted to tell someone I respected the truth.
Just once.  Do you know how much I miss that kind of honesty in my
life?"
     Reese shook his head.  "No," he whispered.
     "I'm a killer, Cap," Nick continued.  "It's what a vampire is--
the perfect predator.  I'm a predator and a killer--and I can never
forget it.  But I don't kill anymore.  I spend my time trying to stop
killers.  And I'm good at it, because I understand the killing mind.
I understand them, because I'm one of them."
     Nick sighed and rubbed his eyebrow wearily.  "I would give
anything to be mortal again, Cap.  I would give anything to be free of
this curse, anything.  Just for the chance to live, to love, have
children, to die..."  And Nick thought, to find forgiveness and
redemption.  He closed his eyes.
     "Natalie?" Reese asked.  "Everyone thinks you two are..."
     Nick opened his eyes again, "I know."  His face softened into a
smile.  "Natalie is special.  Yes, Natalie knows.  I was brought in
DOA and woke up on her table.  She suffered quite a shock, and
yet...Natalie is the most amazing woman I've ever met.  She's trying
to help me find a cure, find a way back.  But that's all.  Anything
more would be rather deadly to Nat."
     Reese gawked.  Then he ran his hand through his hair.  He stared
down at the pictures that had been lying on Nick's coffee table since
his first visit.  He'd never dreamed, he'd never conceived what really
and truly lay behind them.  The truth was far more bizarre and
frightening than the puzzle.
     "No wonder...," Reese said slowly.  "It all makes sense, now.
Well, mostly."   He looked intently at Nick and leaned forward in his
seat.  "Why are you a cop?  And where'd you learn how?"
     Nick smiled.  "I'm a cop because it's a way to atone, to help,
rather than hurt.  And I learned how in Chicago.  I actually did go to
the academy there, but it was in the sixties, not the eighties."
     Reese shook his head.   "Immortality isn't all it's cracked up to
be.  All the wealth, privilege and power cost too much, I guess."
     "Yes," Nick said after a moment.  "The price was my soul, my
integrity, my innocence, and my hope of redemption."
     Reese just shook his head, stunned.  "I don't know what to
think...," he said slowly.  "And I honestly don't know what to do...,"
     "But I do," Nick said.
     Reese looked at him sharply.
     "There's a reason why no one really believes in vampires.  Sure,
it's fascinating mythology--fantasy--a way to explore the concept of
immortality.  But no one *really* believes it.  We make sure of that.
Vampires would be an endangered species, if people did.  The truth is
too frightening."
     "Wha...there are more, um, vampires?"  Reese asked.  That thought
had never occurred to him.  Accepting that Nick was a vampire was hard
enough.
     Nick nodded and continued, "We have our own version of police
enforcement.  Most mortals who learn the truth, die very soon after,
to ensure the truth is never learned."
     Reese swallowed.  "Are you going to kill me?"
     "No," Nick said reassuringly.  "I don't kill anymore.  We have
other ways to protect ourselves.  I'm sorry, Cap, but you're going to
have to forget all of this."
     "But..."
     "All of it," Nick emphasized.  He gestured towards the pictures,
and file folders as he focused on Reese's heartbeat.  He pushed his
way into the Captain's mind, controlling it.  "Do you have any other
evidence, Cap?"
     Reese suddenly found that he couldn't look away.  His heart was
beating loudly in his ears.  He couldn't lie, either.  "No."  He
struggled to form the words, it was like swimming upstream, "What...
are... you... doing... to...me...?"
     Nick put his glass down and picked up the photos.  He looked at
them for a moment and shook his head.  No matter how careful you were,
these kinds of incidents seemed to be unavoidable in this modern age.
Nick stood and walked over to the fireplace.  Taking the remote off
the mantel, he lit the fire and calmly threw the pictures in.  He
watched as smoke curled around them.  They erupted suddenly into
flames, and quickly disappeared into ash.
     Nick picked up the folders and leafed through them.  All of
Reese's research was there, including his questions, his notes on the
conversations, and Nick's finances.  Nick took note of the names and
numbers.  There could be no loose ends.  He turned and found Reese
waiting, frozen in his chair.
     "I'm taking your memories of this--all of this--away.  I'm
sorry," Nick whispered.  Then, "What have you told Denise?"
     "Nothing....just that you look like the guard in the picture."
     "What about the enlargement?"  Nick pressed.
     "Only that it still looked like you...," Reese said slowly, his
voice flattened.
     "Have you told anyone else?"
     "No...  Didn't...know...what...to...say."
     Nick was satisfied.
     "Please...," Reese managed to say.
     Nick sat down and stared into his eyes.
     "It's going to be okay, Cap.  I promise.  Now listen carefully.
Captain, the man in the photo is my father's brother--his twin.
That's why I look so much like him, and act like him.  He's been dead
since 1970.  Killed in an automobile accident.  That's why he's not
listed on my background profile.  The answer is simple.  It's
uncomplicated.  It was just one of those one-in-a-million things.  I
showed you a family picture, and you were completely satisfied.  You
will forget that Captain Kelson told you I didn't exist.  He told you
I was a good officer, but he didn't remember about any family.  You
will tell Denise, and then you will let it go.  You will forget about
it.  All of it.  Including the phone call to the Academy.  All of it!
Do you understand?"
     "I...understand," Reese said.
     "I'm sorry, Cap," Nick said again, regret shading his voice.
     Reese stared into space distantly, as Nick observed him.  Tears
swam in Nick's eyes for a moment, and then he blinked them away.
"When I count to three, you will feel fine, if a little embarrassed.
One, two... three."  And Nick let him go.
     Reese blinked and looked up at Nick who smiled sheepishly at him.
"Sorry for the confusion, Cap."
     Reese shook his head and laughed as he pushed himself off the
couch.  "Well, I was an idiot.  I should have realized it would be a
glitch in the profile information."  Reese looked slightly
embarrassed.  "Well, I guess I'd better go home.  Denise will wonder
if I dropped off a cliff or something.  Thanks for putting up with my
delusions."
     "It's quite all right, Cap," Nick said.  "Glad to be able to
straighten it out.  It's pretty amazing actually that Uncle Fred would
have his picture in the museum.  He would have found that really
interesting."
     Reese walked briskly to the elevator door.  "Thanks again, Nick--
oh, and get some sleep.  It was a hell of a night, and I suspect
tonight won't be any fun, either.  Sorry to have taken up your time."
     "No problem," Nick said, and showed the Captain out.  He listened
to the elevator grind it's way down to street level.
     It had been liberating, and it hadn't.  The revulsion he'd seen
in the Captain's eyes hurt, but there had been an acceptance, too.
Reese liked Nick, despite the truth.  But the moment was gone.  Nick
had done what needed to be done.  It was over.
     "I'm sorry," he said again, and trudged up the stairs slowly,
tired and weary to his very core.




Act 6, Scene 1

Hold off a little; we might find another plan.
  -- Electra

     The night was crisp and clean.  The sky for the first time in
days was clear as Nick stared out into the night.  In the background,
the forecaster informed the world jubilantly that the rain had ceased
and a high pressure was settling over Toronto bringing clear weather
for at least the next three days.  Nick grimaced as he swallowed the
last of his drink.  They could have used clear weather three days ago.
Things might have turned out differently if...  He caught himself.
There was no point in saying if only, there never was, and right now
he didn't need the added frustration of such thoughts in his life.
Picking up the remote he silenced the forecaster, turned off the
lights and grabbing his keys, he headed for work.  There was a lot of
debris to clear up.
     Arriving at work early, Nick slid into his chair and began
reviewing the information that had come in during the day.  The
autopsy had been performed on Victim Number 5.  He had been identified
as Billy Nayson, a tough-talking man who drank too much and had a
history of abuse. He had been arrested and booked several times for
drunk and disorderly behavior.  The police had been to his house
numerous times on domestic violence calls.  The family had been
notified, and just might be celebrating rather than mourning Billy's
departure.
     The autopsy had found no fingerprints on the body--not
unsurprising.  While fingerprints could be found and lifted from a
body, it had to be from dry areas such as the inside of the wrist,
abdomen or chest, and the perp's hands had to be moist.  In this case,
the chest was slick with blood, and the perp had probably worn gloves.
     Scratch that, Nick thought.
     There had been no hair samples that did not belong to the victim,
and there had been no skin samples under his fingernails. A bruise on
Billy Nayson's right temple seemed to indicate he had been knocked
unconscious in the initial attack.  He'd never had a chance to fight
back. So, thought Nick, no DNA to use either.  All the mud and debris
on the body fit with the geology of the Parkway.  Some microscopic
fibers had been found, but they appeared to match clothing Billy would
have been wearing prior to his death.
     Nick sighed and shut the folder.  Nothing.  Again.  He drummed
his fingers on the desk for a moment then opened the next folder.  The
initial interview with Helen Nayson indicated she had no idea where
Billy had been.  He'd left home two days ago after an argument and had
never returned.
     Co-workers at the trucking firm where Billy worked could only
confirm Billy had been his usual obnoxious self.  He'd left work at
the usual time.  Several bars were listed as places Billy frequented.
But nobody knew for sure where he had gone.
     "Great," Nick said.  "Just great."
     "Hi, Nick," Tracy said as she slid into her seat and took the lid
off her coffee.  "You're here early."
     "Yeah," Nick said.  "I figured there'd be a lot of stuff to clear
up tonight."
     "I know.  I hope tonight will be quieter," Tracy agreed.
     "Me, too," Nick said.
     Officer Lloyd interrupted them with a folder.  "The report on
today's surveillance," she said briefly.  "Oh, and Det. Getz said to
let them know if this was going to be worth pursuing tomorrow.
Apparently, this guy did nothing but go to work and go home."
     Nick took the folder from Lloyd.  "Thanks," he said.  Lloyd
smiled and disappeared down the aisle.
     "Doesn't sound like Melvin did anything interesting today, does
it?" Tracy said.
     Nick shook his head as he checked the report.  Melvin had been a
perfect citizen today.  Just wonderful.
     "So, are we going on stake-out?" Tracy asked.
     "Yeah," Nick said.  There was still an off-chance, he thought,
that Melvin could lead them to where he'd killed his victims.

                                   +++++

     Driving through the city towards Melvin's apartment, Nick tuned
in LaCroix for the first time in days.  LaCroix' mocking voice filled
the Caddy.
     "Revenge, Shakespeare tells us, is a dish best served cold.
Waiting makes it somehow...more delicious.  An interesting thought.
So, dear listeners, is revenge better when cold?  Or is it better
*hot* when the anger is still fresh, the wound still stinging?"
LaCroix laughed with wicked amusement.
     "Revenge, I believe, is a hot and angry heart, mes amies.
Shakespeare's lovely Beatrice cried out for revenge to Benedick, 'O
God that I were a man!  I would eat his heart in the market-place.'
     "Now there is a hot and angry heart.  When the iron is hot, that
is when revenge is sweetest.  Not when it is cold, but at the moment
we are so filled with the injustice before us, my children.  And why?
Perhaps Hamlet said it best.  'Conscience makes cowards of us all.'
When we stop to think, to pause, to weigh it out--we do...nothing.
     "In fact, most of us do...nothing.  There are few brave enough,
bold enough to set things right, to exact--revenge.   And yet, there
is nothing like revenge.  The heady excitement, the satisfaction, the
... closure to injustice.
     "So, why does one take revenge and another not? Perhaps there is
not a compelling need to cause most to take the risk.  But for a few,
as it was for Hamlet, they must at all costs.  As poor Hamlet said, 'O
cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!'
     "So tell me, which do you prefer?  Taking justice into your own
hands?  Or allowing the law to grind along and perhaps bring the
criminal to trial?   A trial where he receives a slap on the wrist, a
fine, or a small amount of time served in a plush prison--if
convicted.  Agree or Disagree.  Discuss."
     Nick listened to LaCroix' monologue moodily.  He wished LaCroix
would stop tapping into his thoughts, his life, his cases, when he
prepared his show.  He wondered what the Nightcrawler's adoring public
would think if they realized his show was really for an audience of
one.
     Tracy reached over and switched stations.  "Yuck.  That guy is
really creepy.  I don't know how you can stand to listen to him. He's
worse tonight than ususal, Nick."
     Nick glanced at her briefly.  "It's an acquired taste."
     Tracy shivered, "Well, I can honestly say that I don't think I
want to acquire it."
     "Probably not," Nick answered.
     "You've got to find somebody else to listen to.  And you know,
I'd almost say he was talking about the Parkway Killer--about Melvin--
if I didn't know better."
     Nick glanced at Tracy, "I've often thought he was psychic,
personally."
     "Yeah, well, maybe he is, but he's still disgusting.  He's
practically inciting people to commit crime."
     "It's his trademark," Nick said.  "He likes being controversial."
     "Yeah, well, it's going to get him dead one of these days."
     Nick practically choked, but managed to maintain a bland
exterior.
     As the road disappeared beneath the Caddy, Nick turned his
thoughts again to Melvin.  Melvin, Nick thought, had exacted his idea
of justice, his revenge, on those who had, in his eyes, represented
his father.  As LaCroix had suggested, something had ignited the anger
in his heart, and now there were five people dead.  Revenge had not
been cold, or distant, for Melvin, no matter how many years stood
between the injustice and his revenge. His victim's families and
friends would want justice.  The way things stood, there would be no
closure, no justice by mortal standards for them, though.  Melvin
would never be indicted, never stand trial, never pay for his crimes,
because there was no proof.
     But Nick had his own proof of Melvin's guilt.  What would be
better? Allow mortal law to stand supreme?  Which meant Melvin would
be free?  Or take justice in his own hands?  What was right?
     Nick pulled in across from Melvin's apartment behind the
surveillance team in the white Ford Bronco.  Tracy got out, walked up
and leaned in to talk to them briefly.  As she walked back, they
pulled out and drove off.
     "Nothing," Tracy groaned as she got back in the Caddy.  "They
said he stopped at McDonald's for a burger on the way home and that's
it.  Hasn't been out since.  I think it's going to be a long, long
night."
     "Probably," Nick agreed, knowing they were wasting their time.
     "Well," Tracy said, "what shall we talk about?  Most embarrassing
moments, first loves, worst date, best date, or how about the
strangest thing you ever did, or--maybe we can talk about what you are
going to do about Schiller.  You know she was watching you like you
were dessert when we left."
     "Yeah, I noticed," Nick said dryly.  "I think we've already said
enough about her.  I still think you ought to talk to her."
     "And I still think it's your job," Tracy said with a smile as she
sipped her coffee.
     "Let's talk about something else," Nick said abruptly, "how about
your worst date--you first."
     "Why me?"
     "You brought it up, you start."
     "Oh, thanks... I should have known better," Tracy moaned and
shook her head.  Then she laughed at the absurdity of it.  "All right.
My worst date.  It was my first year in college..."




Act 6, Scene 2

We might--
Might what?
  -- Iphigenia in Taurus

     Tracy walked up the steps and down the hallway wearily.  It
wasn't, she thought, as she fumbled for her keys, so much that they'd
had another grueling night, but a long, boring, inactive night.
Melvin had sat tight all night.   His lights had gone out at 11:30.
He'd gotten a good night's sleep, they hadn't.  She pushed the door
open on a sigh.  She didn't think she'd ever get used to the night
shift.
     The good news was that there had been no new homicides.
Toronto's low-lifes had been very obliging and given them a night off.
Even more interesting, she and Nick had gotten to know each other
better, though she was suspicious of some of those stories he told.
Interesting, but definitely fiction.
     Turning on the lights, Tracy turned around and jumped.  Her heart
started racing.  Vachon was seated on her couch, looking for all the
world, as if he belonged there.  His feet, in some very nice leather
cowboy boots, were propped up on her coffee table.
     "Hello, Tracy," Vachon said calmly.
     Tracy took a deep breath and tried to calm down.  She knew he
could hear her heart.  She didn't like being at a disadvantage like
this.  "Vachon," she said at last.  "What brings you here...no,
actually, how do you get in?
     Vachon smiled vaguely.  "In order.  You.  I slip through the
cracks."
     Tracy felt a suspicious weakness in her knees and found a chair
to sit in before they collapsed.  "I didn't think I'd be seeing you
for a while after what happened the other night."
     "I know," Vachon said quietly.
     Tracy waited, but he said nothing more.  He might be here, but he
wasn't saying much.  She needed a drink.  Getting up, she headed for
the fridge. "I'd offer you a drink, but I don't think I have anything
you'd be interested in," she tossed over her shoulder as she found a
Diet Pepsi, and popped the tab and poured it into a glass.
     "S'all right," Vachon assured her.  "I've just had dinner."
     Tracy went still at that for a moment, wondering what that meant,
exactly.  She almost asked, bottled or fresh, but bit down on her lip.
She didn't want to know.  She downed a quarter of her Pepsi and let
the caffeine start working.
     Tracy turned around, took a breath, and put on a smile.
"So...what did you want to talk about?"
     "I think you know the answer to that, Trace," he said gently.
     "The other night."
     "Yeah."
     "Well, there's really not much to say, is there," Tracy said,
suddenly nervous.  "You're a vampire, I'm a mortal.  We got a little
close, we kissed, I almost ended up as an apertif."
     Vachon stood up and turned to face her. "Tracy," he said softly.
"It wasn't like that."
     Tracy looked forlornly into his dark, liquid eyes.   "Then what
was it?"
     Vachon scratched his head, uncertain of what to say.  He supposed
he could blame this on Knight.  He was the one who'd preached
responsibility at him.  Yak, yak, yak.  And so he'd stayed in Toronto,
and now look what it had gotten him.  A complicated relationship with
a mortal.  Someone so different from him, and yet, somehow so like.
Someone he was halfway to loving.
     He looked into Tracy's face, and unable to stop himself reached
out and brushed her hair back.  Okay, maybe it wasn't Knight's fault.
It had been his decision to stay, and part of it was because of Tracy.

"I wasn't thinking," he finally said and put his hands in his pockets
to keep from touching her.
     "Yeah, I noticed," Tracy said and took another sip to fortify
herself.
     Vachon looked at her probingly.  "Tracy, don't."
     "Don't what?"
     "Don't get defensive and angry."
     "Well," Tracy demanded, near tears, "What am I supposed to do?
You taste my blood and make some kind of weird blood connection with
me, kiss me, and then..."
     "Tracy," he said again, patiently, "I wasn't doing anything on
purpose.  Just like you I was...feeling...and what I felt, I
expressed.  But I haven't been this close to a mortal in a long time,
where it's been more than a really, ah, short relationship.  I wanted
to kiss you and it...just got out of control.  If I were mortal, or if
you were a vampire, we would have ended up somewhere else...but we're
not, and it..."
     "Can't work," Tracy said flatly.  "I'm either dead or undead."
     "I don't know, really.  They say a woman can do it, but with a
guy, the need to bite is too strong. I don't know if it's possible to
*not* bite.  I've never needed or *wanted* to know before.  That's the
truth, Trace."  Vachon turned and walked away, running his hands
through his hair.  He wasn't sure he wanted to know now.  He only knew
that he wanted to be around her.   He wanted to kiss her and touch
her, but he also wanted what lay beneath her skin.  The duality of his
needs scared him.  He wondered if Knight felt this way about Lambert,
and what the hell he did about it.
     Tracy stared at him, unable to process what he was saying for a
minute.  Then she put her drink down and walked across the room to
where he stood with his back to her.  Slowly she put her hand up and
touched him.  He went still at the touch.
     "Then where do we go from here?"
     Vachon turned around and looked at her.  "I don't know, Tracy,
maybe just friends, maybe...  I like you.  I like the way your mind
works," he said, and his eyes told her he was attracted to her, and he
wanted more, but..
     "Can we be *just* friends?" Tracy asked, doubtfully.  It wasn't
what she wanted.  She knew that.  Her eyes told him she wanted more,
too.
     Vachon met her gaze, understanding.  "I don't know, Tracy.  I
don't know what we can be or for how long, but I'd like to try.  We'll
just have to take this one step at a time and see what we can and
can't be.  I'll be honest, I don't think I can kiss you, it sets off a
lot of strong...um, needs that I've never tried to control in those
circumstances."
     "Oh," Tracy said.
     "It's up to you.  If you want me to go away, I will.  You're the
one in danger here, not me.  It's your choice.  But I just wanted you
to know.  I didn't mean to hurt you.  I kissed you and it felt good,
and then I lost control.  I'm sorry."
     Tracy sat down on the couch in amazement.  He'd been honest and
forthright about it all, and more amazing, he'd apologized.  She
thought briefly of the men she'd known recently and decided he was
better than all of the others put together.  Not one of them had been
honest, or apologized for their behavior.  He was definitely a keeper--
with one small..., okay, make that large--problem.  Sexual behavior
made him kill.  Great.  She was in a relationship with a vampire.  A
killer.  She was his natural prey.  It was a pretty stupid thing to
do.  But it didn't matter, she still wanted this.  She wanted Vachon.
     Vachon stood watching for any sign of what she was thinking.
"Maybe I should go," he said softly, "maybe this wasn't such a good
idea."
     Tracy reached up and pulled him down on the couch.  "No, Vachon,
don't go, please.  I'll give you a ride home if you want to stay past
sunup....I'd like to try."
     Vachon looked at her a long moment and then blinked.  "Me, too."
     He took her hand and turned it over and placed a kiss in the palm
of her hand, and then after a small hesitation, on her wrist where the
vein showed through.
     Tracy hugged him, and as Vachon stared down at her flaxen hair,
he wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing.  In fact, he'd
been about to leave, when she got home, believing that it would be
better to end this before Tracy ended up dead.  But he couldn't bring
himself to do it.
     He didn't know what to do.  His options were limited.  Damned if
he did, and damned if he didn't.  He wondered if that was what Knight
felt like.  He'd seen the way he looked at Natalie.  Maybe he knew
what to do.  Vachon decided to talk to Knight about the fine points of
having a...relationship with a mortal, and keeping them mortal.  After
all, it *was* his fault.
     Tracy smiled against his chest, suddenly feeling *very* awake and
not tired at all, and totally crazy.  What would Nick think if he knew
what Vachon really was?  Come to think of it, what would Daddy say?




Act 6, Scene 3

Must I then follow *your* conception of justice?
  -- Electra by Sophocles

     Nick shoved the loft door back with a bang and stepped into the
loft as the clear dawn turned from dusky pink to golden yellow,
depression hanging around him in a cloud.  He stopped abruptly on the
threshold and took in the candles glowing everywhere.  Unerringly, he
turned towards the heartbeat.  Natalie sat on the stairs by the TV,
her face inscrutable.
     "Natalie," Nick breathed, taking in her scent, his heart lifting
and his depression disappearing at the unexpected visit.
     "Hi, Nick," Natalie said cheerfully as she pushed herself up off
the stair.
     "I didn't expect to see you today," Nick said as he hugged her
and kissed her cheek.
     "I know.  But when I got in tonight and saw what had happened
while I was off...well, I decided to drop by.  Last night sounds like
it was pretty bad."
     "Yeah, it was," Nick agreed, as he pulled her down onto the couch
with him.  Natalie snuggled into his arms.
     She added coyly, "I hear you have a fan club..."
     Nick closed his eyes.  "Everybody's heard... She's got me in her
sights, Nat."
     Natalie giggled.  "What are you going to do?"
     "Short of whammying her?  I don't know.   I'm thinking of
redirecting her to lay siege to somebody else, *anybody* else," Nick
said.  "Maybe McIntyre, or how about Harkner?
     "That's an unfair advantage," Natalie pointed out.
     "So?" Nick asked, "all is fair in love and war, and this is war."
     "Yeah, but I don't think they meant you could rewire somebody's
brain," Natalie said dryly.
     "But it may be the safest in the end, for both of us.  You know
that, Nat."
     "Yeah, I know.  But I'd like to see you try and deflect her with
good old-fashioned resourcefulness first--without dumping her like a
lot of people would do."
     "You're asking a lot."
     "Hey, you're almost 800 years old, be creative," Natalie
retorted.
     "Okay, but you may be sorry...  I could always dump you for
her...," Nick teased.
     "Yeah, but does she know her away around an electron microscope?"
     "You have a point," Nick said with a grin and hugged her.
     Natalie smiled and leaned against him.  They sat quietly for a
moment, and then Natalie spoke again, softly.
     "I saw Billy Nayson's body today.  Was it Melvin?"
     "Yes, it was Melvin," Nick said as he rested his chin on her
head.
     "And you felt him..."
     Nick merely nodded.
     "And he's completed this...whatever it is...hasn't he?" Natalie
asked softly.
     "How'd you know?" Nick asked curious.
     "The five roses.  He changed his M.O.  And after what you said,
well, I thought he must be done."
     "He is.  In some ways I'm sorry you weren't there last night, not
that it was fun or anything, but I really wanted to talk to you.  I
couldn't exactly discuss it with Tracy or Connors," Nick sighed.
     Natalie snuggled closer, and Nick leaned his chin on her head.
     "Anyway, now I know why he was doing it.  We got the report in
from Edmonton just before he dumped Nayson.  He was a victim of
domestic abuse.  And in the end, his father killed all of his family
but Melvin.  I don't think he ever recovered.
     "This is his revenge--and his way with trying to deal with it.  I
think he was killing his father over and over again--once for each
member of his family."
     "I wonder if he thinks this will solve all of his problems?"
Natalie mused.
     "Probably," Nick shrugged.  "I only know that the aura last night
was different.  Melvin is done."
     "The odds are against it," Natalie said, "he might think he is,
but he might miss the power he had over people and be drawn back to
it.  I don't see how he can go back after what he's done."
     Nick was silent for a moment.  "I suppose it depends on his
motives and how he felt.  It is possible to change, though, Natalie,
if you want it badly enough."
     Natalie looked up at Nick.  "I know," she whispered.  "I know."
     They sat silently for a moment.  "Oh," Natalie said.  "I looked
at the autopsy report.  We still don't have any physical evidence that
will link him, or anybody, for that matter, to these murders."
     "I know," Nick said in frustration.  "But that doesn't mean I
can't..."
     "Nick!" Natalie protested, "what are you thinking of doing?
Going after him yourself?"
     "Maybe."
     "You would be stepping outside the law, Nick."
     "Yeah, but it would be justice..."
     "Justice..." Natalie said.  "So we're back to that.  Justice."
     Nick looked at her startled.  "What?"
     "You remember what you said to me just a few days ago, Nick?  I
wanted revenge.  That was my idea of justice.  I wanted Gault, and
Melvin, and *all* killers to suffer, to burn in hell.  I was going on
about how justice isn't really justice, and how vengeance sounded
really good.  Do you remember what you said?"
     Nick drew imaginary lines along the back of the couch as he
remembered.  "Yeah," he said finally.
     "The human thing to do, the *mortal* thing, is to let the law
take it's course.  If we can't get him, we can't.  It's not our place
to take the law into our own hands for vengeance *or* justice.  We
don't have the ability to see and judge another person's life.  I was
wrong to judge Gault.  It's God's place to judge him.  Why don't you
leave Melvin to God, too?  Don't be his judge and jury.  You already
carry enough burdens, Nick.  You were the one who said it, 'love your
enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you'."
     Nick stared at Natalie somberly.  "I don't know if I can do that,
Nat.  I've never been able to do that.   When I started to try and
change, I was judge and jury.  I killed those that I thought were the
guilty.  I decided.  Maybe that's what's wrong with having this kind
of power.  You believe you have the right to make the choice."
     Nick closed his eyes against the remembered pain and guilt.  "But
the past is the past, and I can't do anything about it.  But I can do
something about Melvin.  I know Melvin did it, Nat.  He *is* guilty.
I *know* it.  And we may never get him on legal grounds."
     "If you want to be human, Nick, you can and you will," Natalie
said, staring into his eyes.
     "Nat...," Nick let out his breath in frustration.
     "Remember what I said about not giving up, Nick.  Have a little
faith.  Trust your humanity.  You have so much of it.  I don't think
you see it because you dwell so much on the all your past mistakes.
You dwell too much on the vampire--and you should dwell more on your
good deeds and your humanity. Nick, you are so much more human now
then when we first met."
     "I'm better at acting like them, you mean," Nick said bitterly.
     "No, you are more human.  You are more at ease, more comfortable.
Even after LaCroix returned, and despite the losses we've suffered
this last year.  Despite it all.  Maybe your humanity, your faith is
as big a part of it as physically becoming human again.  Without your
compassion, your humanity, you could be human, and it wouldn't mean
anything, Nick.  Look at Melvin or Gault, or any one of these other
killers.  They are far less human than you are.  They have no
conscience.  Their victim's pain and suffering means nothing to them.
They regard them as inanimate objects on which to carry out their own
agendas.  That's pretty inhuman, and inhumane.
     "You want evidence, Nick?  Look how much you care--in comparison
to how little they care.  Despite everything that has happened in your
life, everything you've done, you still care.  That is amazing, Nick.
It's a wonderful thing.  You've survived all that LaCroix dished out.
You've survived the vampire's instincts and overridden them with your
own honor and integrity.  I can't imagine how hard that has been,
Nick.  But you've never, never given up.
     "You care.  And because of it, you are far more human than you
realize.  Look at how many people love you and need you here.
     "There is evidence, Nick.  It is there, if you look."
     Nick stared at Natalie for a long time.  Silence drifted around
them.  Was he more human because he had more faith, more humanity?  He
didn't know.  He'd never looked at it that way.  He wondered if she'd
feel the same if she knew what he'd done to Reese.  And yet, he'd
given Reese the truth--something he'd never done before.
     Then there was LaCroix.  The peace that lingered between them,
and by Nick's own admission, the ability he'd found to forgive him.
It was something he'd never thought about before.  Maybe there was
something to what Natalie was saying.
     "All right," Nick said finally, "I'll try.  Maybe you are right.
Maybe I'm looking for the wrong evidence.  I don't know."
     Natalie smiled and hugged him.
     Nick stared down at her and wondered what she saw in him that he
couldn't see in himself.  It amazed him that she had stayed in his
life, despite everything.  He was awed by her wisdom on the whole
subject of justice, vengeance, and the faith of one indigenous
vampire.
     Suddenly he realized that something had happened and changed
Natalie's attitude.  "Natalie," he asked softly, "what brought about
this change, this forgiveness in you?  It was just the other day that
you were crying for revenge, and I was giving this speech."
     Natalie spoke into his chest, afraid to look at him.   "It was
what you said about love and hate.  Hate was turning my life into an
empty desert, drying up my heart, swallowing all other emotions--
everything.  I realized that there would be no room for anything else
in my life if I let it go on."
     "And that was all you needed to change?" Nick asked, amazed.
     "No," Natalie said, in a whisper.  "I realized that I could
either hate or I could love, but there wasn't room for both, and I
chose the love..." Natalie looked up at him.  "I would rather love you
than hate Gault.  I had to choose, and I chose love."
     Nick stared at her, unable to take in what she was saying.  He
felt an ocean of feelings flood through him.  His love for Natalie
washed over him.  He loved her so much and yet...he couldn't.  They
couldn't.
     "Natalie," Nick said.  "Natalie.  It isn't safe to love me.
There is no future in it.  There is no hope.  You can find someone
better, someone who can be in the sun with..."
     Natalie stopped him with her hand across his lips.  "Don't, Nick.
Just accept it.  I'm not asking for anything.  Please.  Just remember
there is always hope, where there is love.  What we find given
our...unique circumstance is up to us.  Don't dwell on what we don't
have, what we can't have; just dwell on what we can.  I have.  And
that is why I can say this."
     Nick stared at her, his eyes filled with unshed tears.
     "Oh, Nick," Natalie whispered unsteadily, "if only you could see
what I see right now.  You would see so much evidence..."
     "Natalie," Nick said, his voice shaking, as he pulled her close.
"Natalie."  And then he kissed her with all the pent-up passion in his
heart.  For one timeless moment, nothing else mattered to either of
them.
     Then, feeling the lure of her blood call out to him, Nick pulled
back ruefully and smiled into her flushed face with eyes that were
touched with gold.  Gently he kissed her forehead and hugged her
close.
     Natalie smiled against his chest at this small step.  He'd kissed
her, and kissed her passionately.  Nick didn't know it, but this was
the first of many steps she planned on taking...




Act 6, Scene 3

I walk cliff-edge in a sea of evil, and evil I will do.
  -- Electra

     Nick leaned against the Caddy and stared up at the moon's hazy
glow with a baleful glare, while he let the cool night air wash over
him.  He glanced back at the precinct doors in frustration.  The task
force meeting he'd just left had explored the limits of his self-
control, primarily because of Commissioner Vetter's interference.  He
exhaled his anger in a long, slow breath.
     Commissioner Vetter had insisted on attending the meeting and
directing their focus.  "Half-wit idiot," Nick murmured, knowing it
was for the PR.  It had been a bad year for Metro PD, and Vetter was
leaving his sloppy fingerprints all over this case in his scramble for
some positive publicity.  Nick despised him for it, and was secretly
glad that Tracy wasn't like her father.  She had the right stuff to
become a good detective--if her father would just keep his hands off
and let her learn, instead of stage-managing her career.  He supposed
it was asking a lot, considering Vetter's performance in the task
force meeting.
     Amusement glimmered in Nick's eyes as he considered Tracy.  She
seemed happy and relaxed lately, despite her father's bungling
interference, and now Nick knew why.  Vachon had dropped in last
night...

     "What brings you by?" Nick asked in surprise when Vachon dropped
in through his open skylight.
     Vachon had looked at him with annoyance.  "Tracy," he muttered.
There was an edge on it.
     Nick raised his eyebrows and sat down.  This ought to be good, he
thought.
     "I don't know what to do about her.  She likes me, Knight.  She's
a hard, hard woman to keep at a friendly distance," Vachon said as he
slumped against the wall.  "She's fascinated.  She can't seem to get
enough of me--or at least the undead, supernatural me.  I think she
wants...you know," he finished lamely.
     Nick suppressed a grin and leaned forward.  "What's the problem?
You know how to keep a mortal at a distance. You can always move.  Or
don't you want to?"
     Vachon glared at him.  "It's not that simple!  I like her...I got
used to her.  She's interesting.  I ... ah, hell!" Vachon flung
himself in a chair and stared at the floor.
     Nick was silent for a moment.  He recalled very clearly the
moment when he realized he felt just *that* way about Natalie.   With
a sigh he said, "You'd be smarter to keep her at a distance, Vachon.
Don't let this go on."
     "You're a great one to talk," Vachon snorted.  "You and Lambert.
Doesn't look like that's a long distance relationship."
     Nick shrugged, "Yeah, well, advice is easier to give than to
follow."
     "Ain't that the truth," Vachon agreed.  "Besides, I think it's
too late to keep Tracy at a distance.  I don't think a fire hose
turned on full force could stop her, and, well...I..."
     Nick laughed.  "Tracy is very persistent when she wants
something."
     "Yeah, I've noticed."  Vachon stared at him morosely.  "This is
all your fault, you know--that whole responsibility lecture.  Look
where it's got me," he said in a depressed tone of voice.
     Nick raised an eyebrow.  "You think?"
     "I think," Vachon groused.
     "I doubt it.  You liked her from the start--which is why you
chose to let her live--*you* let her go, remember?" Nick hesitated a
moment.  "Somehow, I don't think you are looking for a way out.
You're looking for a way to make this work, aren't you?"  He met
Vachon's startled gaze.  The silence was suddenly uncomfortable.
     Vachon shifted uneasily in his chair.  "How do you do it, Knight?
When you feel...and you want...," Vachon trailed off, feeling stupid
talking about love and sex in a mortal context.  It just couldn't be
done.  He glared at Knight, as if it were his fault.
     Nick looked away for a moment, then met his gaze with a rueful
shrug.  "You have to find your limits and stay within them."
     "Well, that takes a lot of the fun out of it.  C'mon Knight,
you've been around a long time, you ought to have figured out some
creative alternatives by now, seeing how you hang around with them so
much."
     Nick sighed and slumped back in his chair,  "No," he said softly.
"I've never...  No."  He shifted the subject back to Vachon.   "You're
really serious about Tracy, aren't you?"
     Vachon looked uncomfortable. "I don't know.  I just know I like
her, and if I spend much more time with her, I need to figure
out...something."
     Nick looked at him seriously.  "Well, you'd better figure it out.
Tracy is my partner and I expect you to keep her alive--and mortal!"
     Vachon glared at him.  "I know!"
     Nick relented suddenly and laughed genuinely amused to see Vachon
in the same predicament as he was.   "You know," Nick said slowly,
"with 1200 years between us, we ought to be able to figure something
out..."
     "Oh, you mean like how to keep from killing the object of your
affection?" Vachon asked dryly, but he leaned forward, interest
suddenly lighting his eyes.

     A slamming door brought Nick back to the present, but for a
moment he lingered on the ideas they had come up with, and grinned at
the memory.  He might just have to try some of them out--on Natalie.
Vachon was nothing, if not...innovative.
     He glanced idly toward the precinct and saw that Nancy Schiller
was standing on the steps scanning the parking lot.  Instinctively he
slipped deeper into the shadows.  She frowned as she stood with her
hands on her hips--and Nick knew she was looking for him.
     So far he'd been unable to shake her fixation for him, much to
his chagrin, and Tracy and Natalie's mirth.  Nick had kept his word to
Natalie, and hadn't messed with her mind, but he didn't think he was
going to last much longer.  She was almost as relentless as LaCroix.
And if he didn't stop it soon, she might endanger herself.  He'd
already caught her trailing him one night as he headed for the Raven.
With some slick driving he'd lost her--but it had been irritating.
Nancy Schiller would probably end up as someone's after dinner snack
if she made it to the Raven.
     Nick abruptly decided that the next time her pursuit gave them a
moment alone, he would gently, but firmly redirect her interests.
"Sorry, Nat," he murmured as he watched Schiller shrug her shoulders
in frustration and disappear back into the building.
     Nick shook his head.  He had more than enough on his plate
without Schiller.  He had spent a lot of money to fix the mess Reese
had gotten him into.   He'd called Larry Merlin, and as expected,
gotten an earful.

     "What did you expect, Nick," he'd asked, "with that quick-fix job
I did?"
     "It wasn't your fault," Nick had told him patiently.  "It was
just one of those things.  The question is, can you fix it?"
     Merlin had cussed a bit,  "Yes, I can fix it, but, it's going to
cost you.  I'm going to have to send someone in to actually muck
around with people's minds.  That isn't cheap."
     "I know.  Just do it and send me the bill," Nick said.
     "Okay.  It'll take a week at least.  If we find it's getting out
of hand, though..."
     "Yeah, I know," Nick said.  "Thanks."

     Nick had been lucky.  Merlin had informed him that the
'contamination' had been contained.  O'Hallihan had only brought one
other person in, and Kelson had been trivial.  His life was safe
again.  As safe as it could be, when it was all a lie, that is...
     Two detectives left the building and hurried down the steps
talking loudly, and reality intruded on him once again.   The
investigation was essentially in a holding pattern as the task force
searched for any corroborating evidence to link their suspect--their
only suspect--to the crimes.  Nick shook his head in anger.  If only,
he thought, I'd gotten to Melvin's house sooner that night. If only...
     He brooded over the way luck had dealt the cards, and not for the
first time, wanted to change it.  Natalie's words haunted him, but he
pushed them away.  He wanted resolution.  So much of his life was full
of unfinished plots, there were so many open wounds.  This was one he
could close, and mortal law was the only thing standing in his way.
Mortal law...and a little evidence...
     The parking lot was suddenly empty and still, and Nick gave into
impulse.  Moving silently into the shadows, he took to the air.
Moments later, he landed, a streak of gold-swept darkness, on Melvin's
balcony.  The sliding glass door opened easily under his insistent
push, and Nick stepped quietly into the dim room.  Music played
somewhere, a rap tune, raging at the night.  Nick followed the sullen
chant into the bedroom where Melvin stood with his back to the door,
curling weights.
     Nick reached forward and clicked the boom-box off, silencing the
angry words.  Melvin turned abruptly, startled.  One weight fell to
the floor with a thud, as he gripped the other defensively.   Melvin
stared at Nick silently, his eyes narrowing as he recognized him.
     "How'd you get in here, cop?" Melvin asked, angrily.   "You're
trespassing.  Get the hell out of here!"  As he spoke, Melvin moved
aggressively towards Nick, swinging the weight viciously.  Nick
blocked the swing easily, sweeping the weight out of Melvin's hand as
if it were made of foam.  It crashed heavily to the floor, as Melvin
yelped, startled.  Somebody below yelled and pounded on the ceiling.
Neither Nick nor Melvin paid any attention.
     Melvin was surprised at Nick's quickness and strength.  To his
eye, Nick looked soft, as if the only thing he'd lifted in years was
his badge.  Angered, Melvin rushed Nick, his arm swinging.  As his
hand rammed into Nick's chest, Nick grabbed his arm, and the psychic
energy each had been dimly aware of, exploded between them.  Nick
almost drowned in his own desire to feed on Melvin's anger and rage,
and Melvin was profoundly frightened of the malevolent evil that he
felt flowing from Nick.
     Both leapt back, breaking contact, striving to get away from the
maelstrom flowing between them.  Melvin careened into his desk and
spilled onto the floor in a heap.  Nick found himself pressed against
the wall, his control slipping away as the vampire erupted to life.
     Melvin stared up at him in disbelief.  "What the hell...?"  He
shivered as the hair on the back of his neck stood out straight.  He'd
never felt anything like that.  Unconsciously he rubbed his hand along
the goose bumps on his arm.
     Nick moved away from the wall, wiping his hand shakily across his
mouth, as his control vanished.  His original intentions of extracting
information--obtaining admissible evidence--vanished as the bloodlust
rampaged through him.   He smiled cruelly as he felt Melvin's jolt of
fear...
     Melvin shrunk back, "Wha... what are you?" he asked in a whisper,
his eyes dark and frightened.
     Nick stared at him, his eyes glittering green-gold, and hissed
with sudden rage, "I am judge and jury for the dead, for your victims.
Why did you kill them?  I want to know.   WHY?"
     The room was suddenly hot and airless.  Melvin swallowed and
found his mouth dry and scratchy.
     "I didn't kill nobody...," Melvin faltered.
     "DON"T LIE TO ME!" Nick roared.  He stepped forward abruptly and
grabbed Melvin by the throat, hauling him off the floor and slamming
him into the wall.
     Melvin's face went chalky gray as he gasped for breath.  Terror
swept through him as he stared into eyes that were red-tinged gold.
     "I felt it!  I felt your anger and hatred lingering over every
dead and broken body," Nick whispered.  "I felt your delight in each
painful, tortured moment.  I felt it all!  And before I take your
miserable life, I want to know why!  THEY want to know why!"
     Melvin felt his heart pounding loudly in his head, drowning out
the world.  There was only the sound of his heart and those glowing
eyes.  The throbbing grew louder, consuming him, and Melvin's will
slipped away as he stared into the hot, angry eyes that dominated his
world.
     Nick ruthlessly pressed deeper into his mind, bending it to the
breaking point.  "Tell me why, Melvin," he whispered and slammed him
into the wall again.  Melvin slid in a boneless heap to the floor.
Only his eyes showed he was alive.  They never wavered from Nick's
glare.
     Melvin spoke slowly in a flattened, empty voice.  "It was his
fault.  All of it.  I never wanted to be left alone--left alive.  I
was just too scared to move, so I stayed hidden.   He shot everybody.
He killed Kimmy and Libby...Gordon...Eddie, and Mom.  Why couldn't the
bastard just kill himself?  Why'd he take them?"  Melvin's eyes filled
with tears that overflowed down his face spilling onto his shirt.
     "I never could get it right after that.  Didn't fit in.  Didn't
want to be alive, and too scared to kill myself."  Melvin cried
tonelessly between the words Nick compelled from him.  "People felt
sorry.  Tried to make it up.  How could they make *that* better?   How
do you fix that?  Sorry kid, your Dad was a psycho who went off the
deep end.  They said I was lucky.  Lucky!"  Melvin said the word like
it was a disease.  "Finally got smart and left.  I thought it would be
better here.  Be diff'rent.  But it wasn't.  He's always in my head
taunting me.  Calls me a coward. Every day.  He just wouldn't go
away."
     Nick listened to the agony spilling out of Melvin in silence.
     "I never had a life.  I never had a girl.  I never had anything,"
Melvin whispered.  Despite the mental pressure in his head, the words
were tinted with sullen anger.  "Then I met Sherry, and she wanted me.
Somebody wanted me, and I couldn't do it...I couldn't even do that.
It's his fault.  He just wouldn't leave me alone.  And the others
couldn't.  Calling out for me to save them.   So, I killed him.  I
killed him once for each of them, and set them free.  Now he's paid
and he can't laugh in my face.  He ain't never gonna laugh in my face
again."  Melvin laughed tonelessly.  "I freed myself.  I freed them.
For the first time in my life, I don't wake up screaming..."  Melvin
stared up at Nick, his face streaky with tears, his nose running.
"He's dead.  He's paid for what he did, and I'm glad."
     "Why the roses, Melvin?"
     "For Mom.  She loved roses, but he never gave her any.  Nobody
did.  And nobody ever put any on their graves.  They deserved to have
some roses..."
     Nick abruptly released Melvin from his mental stranglehold,
understanding exactly how Melvin felt, remembering a room full of
fire, rushing and staking LaCroix--exultantly freeing himself.  He
shook the memory away, refusing to acknowledge any similarity, as
Melvin gasped and pushed himself back into the corner.  He wiped his
face with his sleeve, and stared up in mute fear at the thing in front
of him.
     Nick stared down, his fangs suddenly visible, his eyes glowing a
dull, sickly copper.
     "The only problem with your solution, Melvin," Nick hissed at
last, "is that your father died a long time ago.  You tortured and
killed five people, and not one of them was your father.  Not one of
them.  Didn't you notice that?"
     "They were like *him!*" Melvin shrieked.   "THEY WERE JUST LIKE
HIM!!!"
     Nick stared, unmoved.
     "They were scum and bastards.  They beat people, they lied and
they cheated," Melvin sobbed from his corner.  "They deserved it."
     "Maybe they did," Nick said finally, his voice dropping icily
into the air, "but that didn't give you the right to decide.  They had
lives and family just like you.  Maybe somebody loved them.  How do
you think they feel?"
     "Glad," Melvin whispered.  "I was glad, and I bet they were,
too."
     "And that gives you the right...," Nick hissed, suddenly on the
offense.  Melvin scrunched himself fearfully into a tighter,
protective ball, but it didn't help.  Moving faster than Melvin could
see, Nick pulled him up from the floor, letting the rage flow freely
between them.
     Melvin found himself held tightly, his back pressed against
Nick's body, as Nick slowly, tantalizingly and inexorably, pulled his
head to the side.  Melvin couldn't fight it, or the evil that seemed
to sizzle through him like angry lightning.  All he could feel was
Nick's hunger, crying for his blood, his death...
     Nick stared at the pulsing vein in Melvin's neck and let desire
flare up into a raging fire.  Hunger overwhelmed him.  "You chose
death for them, and I choose death for you...," Nick whispered, his
breath a cold icy wind on Melvin's neck.
     "Don't," Melvin croaked,  "please, God, don't..."
     "You showed no mercy.  Why should I?"  Nick jeered as his finger
traced the vein.  "You deserve death, you want death's cold embrace so
that you can be with your family--I'll give it to you."
     Melvin screamed as Nick licked his neck.  His heart struggled to
leap from his chest, and fear consumed him... something sharp grazed
his neck...and was suddenly still.  Gasping for air, he waited,
wanting it to end, needing it to end.   And then, somehow, he was
facing Nick, staring into those yellow eyes.
     "You will remember nothing..."
     Melvin found himself lying on the floor.  He picked himself up
and discovered his face wet with tears and snot.  In surprise, he
looked down when he felt a cold wetness at his crotch.  His heart was
racing, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.  He felt sick.
Stumbling into the bathroom, he managed to reach the toilet before he
threw up.
     Outside on the balcony, Nick pressed himself against the wall,
feeling the rough texture of brick bite into his back as he stared up
into the moon's sallow glare.  He'd come here to get evidence, a
confession.  Or so he'd thought.  It had taken so little for the beast
to take control.  When Melvin had touched him, it was as if a circuit
had been completed.  His senses had overloaded.   Then the scent of
fear, the heady sense of power and bloodlust had swirled around him,
and all his noble ideas had come tumbling down.
     Without any doubt, Melvin deserved to die.   And Nick had come
very close to being his executioner--for all the wrong reasons--for
the sheer love of killing, for the blood.  The vampire had broken free
of its bonds and nearly destroyed all of Nick's hard-won control.  For
the *blood*.  For *sport!*  Nick closed his eyes in agony.  He
listened to Melvin's beating heart and wanted it still.  He wanted it
so much...
     "Hypocrite," Nick whispered.  He had done far, far worse.  Melvin
had killed five people, Nick had killed countless thousands...  He
closed his eyes as the bitterness of his life overwhelmed him.  And
then he flung himself into the air and beat himself against the winds
and clouds.  Natalie's words thundered around him.
     "...leave Melvin to God.  Don't be his judge and jury ... have a
little faith.  Trust your humanity ... without your compassion, your
humanity, you could be human, and it wouldn't mean anything, Nick.
Look at Melvin or Gault, or any one of these other killers.  They are
far less human than you are..."
     He broke through clouds and tried to leave his thoughts behind.
He'd so nearly lost everything--in his anger--all for his love of
killing.  At that moment, he felt no hope, no faith, and no humanity
within him.  He barreled through the sky and whipped past a jet on
landing approach.  The pilot rubbed his eyes and looked out the window
wondering if he'd seen a large dark blur, or just imagined it.
     Miles away, on the shore of Lake Ontario, he finally dropped to
the ground and wept.  He wept for his hopes that were in ashes, he
wept for his lost faith.  He was no more human now than he had been a
hundred years ago.  Natalie was wrong.  There was no evidence of
humanity in him.  There was only his desire--his foolish, hopeless
desire.  There was no way back...  There had never been any way
back...
     And yet...
     He lay there in the sand and dirt, letting silence wash over him.
He'd been there, in that room, a hot and angry heart.  Revenge, as
LaCroix liked to say, would have been sweet.  LaCroix, he thought,
would have reveled in it.  Nick knew he had been very close to taking
his revenge.  He had certainly wanted it.  Every drop of blood
spilling into his mouth would have been delicious.   But he knew as he
suddenly sat up, that it would have turned to ashes in his soul.
Closure?  No.  Justice?  No.  It would have been vengeance, but that
is all it would have been.  Revenge.  It would have brought no
release, only guilt.  And he had more than enough of that.
     A couple of hundred years ago, he would have thought nothing of
it.  Melvin would have been left dead, and Nick would have been
satisfied, and never looked back.  A hundred years ago, he would have
taken Melvin's life as justice, grimly and distastefully.  Now... now
he could not, because it was not his place to decide.  By mortal law,
it was a judge and jury and due process; by God's law, and Nick
squirmed at the thought, it was God's right to take justice.  When and
where he would.  If there was a God.  If.  Nick devoutly hoped there
was and just as devoutly feared there was.  He bowed his head on his
knees and wept bloody tears.  God would surely judge him and cast him
into a lake of brimstone and fire.
     And yet...
     The thought slipped into his heart, like a thief in the
night...And yet, how far had he come?  He had resisted.  He had
stopped.  He didn't know where the strength had come from to stop, but
he had.
     Melvin was still alive.  He was guilty as hell, but he was alive.
His arrest was doubtful.  And Nick had let him go--because it wasn't
his place or right.  He knew that now.
     Maybe he was more human.  Maybe there was evidence.  It just
wasn't what he was looking for.  He cared.  And it *hurt*.  Humanity
hurt.  It was hard.  So damn hard.  And suddenly he knew he'd rather
feel such pain than live with a vampire's cold heart.  He'd made his
choice long ago, and now he could not, would not turn back.  He had no
idea how long the road was, or where it would end, but it was his
road, and he would take it.
     Nick rose to his feet and stared up at the moon.  "Do you hear
me?" he shouted shaking his fist at the heavens.  "As long as it
takes, I'll keep trying.  As long as it takes!  Whatever the price!
WHATEVER THE PRICE!"
     An odd acceptance--peace, slipped over him as he stood there,
fist in the air, defiant.  He would succeed.  No matter how long it
took.




Epilogue

Yes.  I alone came here and felt your pain.
  -- Electra

     Nick listened in silence to the music washing through the loft.
Chopin's Nocturne sent a modicum of serenity through him.  Silently he
stared out into the dregs of the night as he drank from the bottle.  A
ruffling of the air told him he was not alone.
     "Nicholas," LaCroix said calmly behind him.  "So nice to find you
at home."
     Nick stared at LaCroix' reflection in the window.  Their gazes
met and locked in the window's distorted image.  LaCroix turned away
first and sat down at the dining table.  Idly he played with the
architectural centerpiece.
     "Your emotions, lately, Nicholas...have been intriguing.  So
high, so low.  If I'd known you would broadcast your feelings with
such turbulent violence, I might have had second thoughts about
bringing you across."
     Nick didn't answer.  He knew LaCroix was merely pushing buttons,
trying to determine what exactly had happened.  He smiled at the
thought.  He'd forgotten that LaCroix would have had to deal with the
backwash.  Served him right for eavesdropping.  Maybe LaCroix would
learn to keep out of Nick's head.  His emotions had been so out of
control that Nick doubted there had been any coherent understanding.
It had been pure emotion.  Nick realized it must have made for an
interesting monologue tonight.  Maybe, he thought, LaCroix had
suddenly started shouting on the radio.  Nick would have loved to have
heard that.
     "Nicholas...," LaCroix said, suddenly serious.  "Is everything
all right?"
     Startled, Nick turned.  "You know the answer to that," he said.
     "You cannot survive like this, Nicholas.  This imbalance I sense
in you...you must come to terms, somehow."
     Nick walked over and sat across the table from LaCroix.  "Oddly
enough, I think I have."
     LaCroix tilted his head.
     "Do you remember when Janette killed Gian Maria?" Nick asked.
     "Yes.  An idiot.  A vile idiot.  Worthy of death."
     "Do you remember that I could feel him?"
     "I remember you saying that you could," LaCroix said, intrigued.
     "I met another man, another killer, whose heart is full of rage.
And like Gian Maria, I could feel him."
     LaCroix leaned forward. "Really?  How is it that you can feel
them? They are mortals, Nicholas."
     Nick stared into LaCroix' unfathomable eyes.  "I don't know.  I
didn't know then, I don't know now.  I just 'feel' their presence--
almost like another vampire."
     "And?"
     "Janette found revenge that night, remember.  It
was...exquisite."
     "Ah, yes," LaCroix said with a smile.
     "But it didn't change the fact that Virginie was dead."
     "No, but Janette had great satisfaction knowing that princeling
paid for his sins."
     Nick stared at his hands for a moment. "Tonight, I let this man
go.  Mortal law will probably not catch him.  Only I know for sure he
is guilty--and I let him go," Nick said softly.
     "Nicholas!  Why?  What is the purpose of this?" LaCroix asked
disturbed by Nicholas' foolish behavior.  "Isn't that why you became a
'cop'?  So that you could stop them?  Lock them up and let them rot.
Which is an intolerable waste of blood, I might add..." LaCroix
stopped at Nick's look.
     They measured each other in the silence.
     "Why play at mortal games, otherwise?  Why did you not simply
take your own justice, your own revenge?" LaCroix asked finally.
     "Because, revenge cannot change what has happened.  Janette still
missed Virginie.  The men who died at this man's hand are still dead.
His death won't change that.  If the law can convict him, then his
victim's families can have satisfaction and closure.  If I kill him,
they will never know, and nothing is solved."
     "And if he's not caught," LaCroix pointed out acidly, "they still
won't know.  Your logic is perverse."
     "Perhaps," Nick said.  "But oddly enough, revenge is a bitter
drink.  It is almost as poisonous to the one who administers it as it
is to the one that drinks it.  It's destructive to the soul.  And the
corrosion never ends."
     LaCroix snorted.  "That's ridiculous, Nicholas!"
     "Is it?" Nick asked, meeting LaCroix' eyes.
     They were so clear, that for a moment LaCroix thought he could
see into infinity--or eternity.  He closed his eyes briefly,
unsettled.
     "What I found tonight was something different.  I think I found
... peace," Nick said quietly.
     LaCroix opened his eyes and stared at Nicholas with disbelief.
"I really doubt that, Nicholas.  Your emotions were completely out of
control."
     "Yes, they were, but they aren't now."  Nick looked at him
serenely,  "I finally understand that it is not my place to judge.
It's God's."
     "God's?" LaCroix laughed.  "There is no God, Nicholas."
     Nick looked at him.  "So you say."
     LaCroix stood and stared at him in puzzlement.  Nicholas seemed
to be in such an odd mood.   "I don't understand where you are going
with this, Nicholas."
     "I'm going where I've always been going.  I'm in search of my
humanity.  My mortality."
     "Your death," LaCroix said angrily, hurt.
     "My life."
     "There is no life but the one you have.  The one I gave you."
Anger edged the words with venom.
     Nick looked up at him, not defiantly, but with compassion.  "Oh,
but there is.  Piece by piece, I am finding it."
     An odd silence stretched between them.  Nicholas watched LaCroix
calmly ready to accept whatever LaCroix dished out.  LaCroix felt pain
stab through him at Nicholas' rejection of his precious gift.  But
Nicholas' peace pervaded the room, and stopped his arguments.
     "Why can't you accept what you are, Nicholas?" LaCroix asked,
finally.
     "I don't know.  I tried.  Truly I did.  But I can't," Nick said
as he rubbed his neck wearily, regretting the pain his tortured
existence caused his master.  "I'm sorry, LaCroix."
     LaCroix looked down at Nicholas, and touched his head lightly,
treasuring the feel of his crisp curling hair.  He caressed him
gently, feeling Nicholas' pain as his own.  He had lost, it would
seem, his fallen crusader to the light--at least for now.
     In his mind, a hundred thousand images of Nicholas coalesced and
shimmered--the angry crusader, the passionate lover, and the violent
inventive vampire that had lived in every exultant moment. LaCroix
missed him and the passion he'd exuded for the hunt, for the kill.
Now Nicholas spent it all searching for redemption--for a soul he
didn't have.  Or perhaps he did.  At that moment LaCroix wasn't sure.
The clearness of Nicholas' eyes had been...so very, very clear.
     But LaCroix loved him still, and his heart still wept for his
treasured son...
     "So am I," LaCroix said softly.  And then he was gone.
     Nick sighed and stared at the bottle.  He was still a vampire.
But tonight he'd found precious evidence that he might have a soul.
He was determined to never give up, no matter how long it took, no
matter the cost.  He had peace with that choice.  He had hope--and
faith.  For now, it was enough.

                             ...Fini...


**  Poetry from "The Lyrics and Melodies of Gace Brule," edited and
    translated by Samuel N. Rosenberg and Samuel Danon.  Gace was a
    poet of the late 12th century.

*** Reference from Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street,
    by Stephen Sondheim

    All Act/Scene quotes are from either Electra or Iphigenia in
    Taurus by Euripides, with two exceptions of Electra by Sophocles.