The Stories: Part 5

Chapters 41 through 50

"And that's just about it," Ronette finishes, and sips her soda. "I decided to come out here mostly because you were here, and I knew you made it kind of big."
"Mmm-hmm," Laura nods, stirring her hot chocolate lazily. "Really big." She smiles. "I do have a good job, though. And a...husband--"
"Do I detect some problems in this marriage?" Ronette asks innocently.
Laura sighs. "Sometimes he's just such a jerk. Emily hates him. She really does. He's been doing coke off and on for a while, and I hate that. What a coward." She samples her steaming cup of cocoa. "I guess I don't regret marrying him, though."
"You never wish you were...available?"
"No, not really. Well, once, maybe. See, Dion's got this brother--" Ronette leans in, interested. Laura looks up at her and laughs. "That was a long time ago, when I was available. Before we were even married." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "What about you? Do you have a 'significant other'?"
Ronette's eyes drop to the cocktail napkin under her soda. "No...but...I met someone a while ago that I'd really like to get to know better."
"Oh yeah? Do I know him? I can set you two up."
"Oh, I don't think you know him. He's...oh, maybe you'd call him 'dangerous', I don't know." She smiles wistfully. "But I think I'm in a position to become...closer." She looks up and winks at Laura, who giggles with her hand over her mouth.
"God, Ronnie, it's just like old times. Well, not just, I suppose. But I feel like a kid again. You know--"
She's cut off when Ronette suddenly looks up at a leaving customer, her eyes following him out the door. Laura turns around to catch a glimpse, but only notices his height and build in the split second before he's out on the street. She turns back to Ronette, who is simply captivated.
"Was that...him?" she asks.
"Uh-huh," Ronette breathes. "God, he's gorgeous! You should see his car. It's this cherry red Miata...I wouldn't mind being taken for a ride in that baby."
"Ronnie, sweetie, he was with someone," Laura says carefully.
"Yeah, I figured as much," Ronette admits, crestfallen. "He's gotta be real popular with the girls, looking the way he does."
"Where did you meet him?"
Ronnie becomes very shy. "Oh, you know...wherever you meet people," she shrugs, blushing. "It doesn't matter." She looks at her watch. "Oh, look at the time. We have work to do in the morning, don't we?"
Laura nods enthusiastically with the last gulp of cocoa in her mouth. She swallows and says, "We should do this again. Maybe next time we can bring dates." She grins, giddy. Ronette laughs. They hug, then exit to their respective vehicles and drive home.

David glances at his IV drip, then stares blankly at the institutional-white ceiling for a while and closes his eyes. He's scheduled to go home soon; it's the waiting that's the worst. And the pain...the aching pain of something missing. Something vital.
"Well, at least I could get some writing done," he mutters. He looks down at the legal pad--a while-you're-here-you-might-as-well-work gift from Meg--at his left hand, and half-heartedly picks up the pen at his right. He sits, pen poised over pad, but his muses appear to be just as ill as he is. David digs around, searching for even the slightest hint of an idea. Nothing. Frustrated, he leans over to place the pad on his bedside table, and the pen rolls off his lap onto the elaborately tiled floor. He sighs and closes his eyes again, utterly uninterested.
The door opens. Anders slides in without a sound. "David. I'm so sorry to see you... under the weather. How are you feeling?" He sidles up to David's bedside and pulls up a chair.
David is speechless with a kind of confused rage. "Wh-what are you doing here?" he manages. "You have some nerve! You almost killed me, you son of a bitch," he accuses hotly.
Anders looks surprised. "Really? I did? How?"
"The stuff...was too strong. It put me here...again. And I wasn't even trying this time." He looks away. "You screwed up my life. Now I won't ever see my niece again. Or my brother. Or, possibly, my sister-in-law. Or even my girlfriend. Shit." His eyes begin to tear up.
Anders smiles sadly, almost condescendingly. "I didn't do any of that to you. Apparently you were unused to the strength of my supply, am I correct? You should have cut it, David."
"I never do. It's never that strong."
"Excuse me for appreciating quality goods. I'll try harder to do worse next time," Anders says icily.
David is silent. Then: "No...no...I learned my lesson. Let's...let's just put all this behind us."
Anders shrugs. "Fair enough." He stands up. "You're in pain."
"Yes," David winces. "And Meg'll make me quit. I've been clean for, oh, about twelve hours or so, and I already feel as though I'm being slowly torn apart...can't wait to see what I feel like in a week."
"I've brought something for you."
"Oh yeah? If it's not a noose, I'm not interested."
"You will be." Anders produces a hypodermic syringe from his jacket pocket. "And I've cut it." He grins.
David is stunned. "How the hell did you get in here with that?" he asks wonderingly. "You're a goddam angel."
Anders laughs. "An angel? Two minutes ago you thought I was Satan himself. I guess I know now exactly how important this is to you." He uncaps the needle and flicks the syringe. "I think I should inject this carefully into your IV bag. That way, you'd get a slow stream of it in your system along with the glucose. And no one the wiser--no new tracks. What do you think?"
"Sure. Makes sense."
"Now. Are you sure you want this? I mean, twelve hours." He holds his hands out expansively. "You're well on your way to kicking your--what is it, ten-year addiction?" He smirks.
"Yes, of course I do--of course I want it," David whispers.
"Very well." Anders slowly inserts the needle, bevel side out, into the IV bag, right above the level of glucose solution. He presses the plunger expertly and removes the syringe. "Done," he says simply, and recaps the hypodermic. "You should be feeling it soon."
"Thank you...thank you so much," David says.
"Don't mention it. It's better than flowers, eh?" Anders smiles knowingly, and picks up the pen from the floor. "You, ah, you might be wanting this." He puts it on the bedside table. "Later, Spencer," he whispers as he backs out the door.

Anders closes David's door behind him and, after looking furtively down the hallway in both directions, heads out toward the lobby of the hospital. On the way, he passes an orderly wheeling a cart of biohazardous materials in the other direction--presumably down to the incinerator--and offhandedly deposits the syringe in the box emblazoned with !CAUTION! !BIOHAZARD!. The orderly does not notice. Satisfied, Anders continues to the front of the building.
"Mr. Nilsson." Anders looks up, startled, to see Meg, who has apparently just stepped out of her office and into Anders's path. "What a surprise to see you here, of all places."
Anders recovers quickly. "Doctor Wilson. And how are you doing this fine evening? Rather late to be working, isn't it? You should go home to...what's your sweetheart's name? David."
"David is not at home, Anders. He's here, in the hospital. And he says you put him here." Her eyes narrow. "Come into my office."
The two enter Meg's neat office. Meg sits down and gestures for Anders to make himself equally comfortable. "I prefer to stand, thank you," he answers.
"That's fine. But we need to talk." She settles into her chair. "First of all, Anders, you haven't been coming to rehab."
"Smart girl."
"May I ask why?"
"I've quit." He grins imperiously.
"No, you haven't." She sighs. "Look, your sister signed you up here out of a sincere desire to help you, and--"
Anders approaches Meg's desk, and with both hands on the edge nearest him, he leans across vehemently, his face inches from the doctor. "I do not want to talk about my sister. She does not want to help me. She is worthless and useless and certainly of no concern to you," he snarls.
Meg stands up, furious. "Then we won't talk about her. We'll talk about you, Anders." She circles around to the other side of the desk and approaches him with no fear. "What did you do to David?" she demands.
"Nothing. I did nothing to him."
"Why are you here?"
"I was visiting a friend."
"Who?"
"Doctor, that is not your business."
"Anders, you are absolutely hopeless. How do you live with being what you are?"
He laughs. "And just what am I, Doctor?" he challenges.
Realizing that they are dangerously close to blows, Meg stops and steps back. Anders looks at her expectantly; she takes a deep breath. "Maybe...maybe you'd better leave now, Mr. Nilsson. I have other, more worthwhile patients to tend to." She slowly walks back to her chair and sits down, picking up some records.
Anders shrugs, then bows. "As you wish, milady," he proclaims ostentatiously, then ambles out the door. His journey to the parking structure is henceforth unobstructed.

After putting Emily to bed and making sure she was asleep--finally--Dion settles down at the kitchen table with a cup of strong coffee and the case files. He opens one manila envelope to a bevy of lab tests, technical stuff that is not exactly his area of expertise. Dion sighs. He takes a sip of coffee and prepares to get to work.
The phone rings. Dion grabs the receiver before Emily wakes up. God, she's been touchy lately, he thinks. "Spencer," he says flatly. You know, Dion, a nice cheery hello would've been nice. You're not at the office, he reminds himself.
"Hello, Dion. It's Meg. Sorry I'm calling so late. Is Laura there?"
"Hey, Meg. She's not home yet. Went out for coffee with an old friend."
"How are you?"
"I'm stressed. I'm really, really stressed," Dion asserts. "What do you prescribe, Doctor?"
"Abstention from certain illegal and possibly job-endangering substances," Meg replies. She sounds tired--no, weary.
Dion sits up. "How did you know about that?"
"I was told."
"By whom?"
"I'm sorry, Agent Spencer--that information is classified."
"Meg--"
"Don't even start with me, Dion. Don't tell me how stressed you are. This is my day: Albert clips the fender on my new car; David refuses to speak to me; I find out about your...lapse; I nearly come to blows with an uncooperative patient of mine; said patient proceeds to give David heroin, practically killing him again and forcing me to keep him in the hospital for another night; and finally, I call you and get a big ol' sob story about how goddam stressed you are."
Dion frowns. "I'm sorry, really I am...What can I do?"
"Nothing," Meg grumbles. "I called for a reason, and it was important, too. Now I don't remember. If it comes to me, I may call back. But don't count on it." She hangs up.
Dion stares at the phone for a second, surprised. He hangs it up and gets back to work. Funny thing, he thinks, I bet I could use a certain illegal and possibly job-endangering substance right now. He picks up a pencil and taps it aimlessly on the table.
The phone rings again, and Dion picks it up. "Hello?"
There is a longish silence on the other end. "Dion? It's...it's David."
Dion says nothing.
"Don't hang up, please, please don't hang up," David pleads. "Just...just listen to what I have, uh, what I have to say." His words sound ponderous and deliberate, as though he's thinking carefully about each and every syllable. Probably the heroin, Dion reasons. That patient of Meg's must've given him quite the dose. Despite whatever feelings he has for his brother, Dion stays on the line.
David takes a deep breath. "I...just wanted to, uh, say, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for the, uh, the mis...understanding." He sounds a little choked up. "I love Emily...I would never, uh, never...do anything like, like, like what you thought I did with her, uh, in the room. Never. I don't even like people to smoke around her. She's...too precious. Very, uh, sensitive, you know, like when you...um..."
Dion clears his throat. David senses his impatience and attempts to tie up his weepy apology. "Anyway...as family, you, uh, you're all p-precious to me and I don't want to...to...lose that bond, or whatever. I would, uh, understand, of, of course, if you...didn't want me to, uh, watch her for a while or...or something...but please don't, like, forbid me from...from seeing her. It would kill me to be without her, Dion... really...I'd, uh--"
There is a loud clunk on the other end which makes Dion jump. "Are you okay, David? David?" he asks urgently.
A flurry of muffled activity greets him on David's end. "I'm okay, Dion...just, uh, dropped the phone," David replies. Dion rolls his eyes. "Well, uh, Dion...I gotta, um...I gotta go, but I'll, I'll...I gotta go," he whispers, and hangs up.
Dion replaces the receiver in its cradle. Boy, sure did get a lot of work done, he thinks, looking at the clock. Hope Laura comes home soon. After a few minutes of blankly staring at the file, which has lost any meaning it may have had before the telephonic ordeal, he decides to call it a night. He slumps off to the master bedroom and falls onto their bed. He's asleep almost before his head hits the pillow; Laura comes home a little later and joins him, quietly.

Albert stands in the parking lot of the restaurant, his hand still clutching the plastic bag containing the cocaine. "Damn," he thinks, "goddam bastard." At least he had enough stuff to make it through a few more days, but what a price he paid for it, he fumes to himself.
Going back to the restaurant, he enters through the bar and heads to the pay phones. Cab rides weren't his style, but under the circumstances--and the last thing he wanted to do was call an acquaintance. Too many questions to answer. He sure the hell had no intention of calling the local cops to report a carjacking. Albert gets the taxi dispatcher on the phone. "Yeah, I need a pick-up at..."
A half hour later, back at his place, he's on the phone again. This time to check in with the wireheads operating the tap he requested.

1. What have you got so far?
2. Usual personal stuff, boring as hell. There was a mention of illegal drug activity.

1. I need a transcript by tomorrow morning. No one else is to receive a copy. This is imperative.
2. You want us to keep up the surveillance?

1. Yes--
2. How long are we going to keep this operation up?

1. Until I give you the order to cease. Is that beyond your comprehension?
2. Well, it is tying up a whole team. Would you mind letting us know what we are looking for?

1. That would be a security breach...just send the information and all the tapes to my care...and only my care.

Wirehead emits a faint whistle under his breath: Yes, sir.

Carlotta

The next morning finds Albert on the highway driving into work a couple of hours late. The smell of new leather envelops him even though he has the windows down. He desperately wants the feeling of fresh air hitting him in the face as he drives. The hell with the air conditioning...That little s.o.b. of a drug dealer isn't going to get the better of him, he tells himself.
The people at the Lexus dealership were oh-so-happy to help him out. They even sent someone to his place to pick him up so that he could sign the lease papers for the new black Lexus. You know, they really are first in customer satisfaction, he muses. The two-year lease was quite reasonable and he figured he could break it when he gets his car back...
He guides the car into his usual space at work, gets out and locks the car door. He enters the building like any other day.

Carlotta

"I'll pamper you like a princess tonight," Thomas promises as he leads Rebekka into his apartment. "Wait here a sec." He leaves Bekkers in the front room as he bustles around back by the bed and bath area. She hears water running and, curious, heads back to investigate.
Thomas pops out of the bathroom and smiles. "No, Bekka--back to the living room!" He gently pushes her back out. "But, Thomas!" she protests, laughing. A while later the water stops running. Thomas comes back to Rebekka and takes her arm.
"Thomas, what's up?"
"I told you--I'm gonna baby you like you've never been babied before, Rebekka." He ushers her into the bathroom where a steaming bath awaits, crested with lavish bubbles and faintly scented with wildflowers. There is a thick white (expensive) terry robe hanging on the door, and dainty rose slippers beside the sink. Apparently he had bought both--and perhaps the bubble bath, too--with Rebekka in mind. A plush towel is folded on the sink.
She is stunned. "Oh, wait!" Thomas exclaims. "Almost forgot!" He dashes back out into the kitchen and returns with a flute of champagne on a silver salver, adorned with red rose petals. This he places gingerly on the edge of the tub.
Rebekka laughs and claps her hands, delighted. "Oh, Thomas! This is fantastic!" She throws her arms about his neck. Thomas grins and blushes. "It's nothing, really. Just thought you needed to be spoiled a little," he explains. "Now you take your time and enjoy yourself. Come on out front when you're done." He kisses her shyly and closes the door behind him.
Rebekka grins from ear to ear, truly flattered and thrilled that anyone would go to these lengths just to make her happy. It's so rare that someone considers my feelings, she muses as she disrobes, neatly folding her clothes. Good thing I put my hair up today, she thinks, patting her 'do.
She finally eases into the bath and relaxes. It is bliss--huge, frothy bubbles surround her, floating in a mist of heavenly perfume. She takes a careful sip of the excellently chilled champagne and revels in the perfection of the moment.

Some time later, Rebekka emerges from the bathroom flushed and happy, wrapped in the robe which smells deliciously clean. The slippers suit her just as well. "Hi," she says, beaming.
"Hi," Thomas answers. "Are you relaxed?"
"Yes, oh, yes," she replies. "Thank you so much."
Thomas escorts her to the couch. There are candles lit throughout the living room, and a platter of sweet grapes and various cheeses sits on the coffeetable, accompanied by two more flutes of fine champagne. Rebekka takes a place on the sofa; Thomas sits on the other end.
He clears his throat nervously and picks up a book from the table. "Comfortable, Bekka?" he asks.
"Yes, Thomas...I'm absolutely contented," she assures him.
Thomas seems heartened. He opens the book and begins to read her line after line, page after page of love poems--some naïve, some saccharine, some passionate, most sweetly romantic. His voice is strong and pure; he molds each verse into something living.
As Rebekka lazily listens to Thomas's rhymes and snacks timidly on grapes, her troubles seem to evaporate. She finds herself almost transported, to a place where time means nothing, where she is safe from all who would wish her harm, where she is in love. This is what my life should be, she reflects. Cherished and secure, being read poetry and not the Riot Act. She sighs and closes her eyes.
Thomas finishes with an appropriate stanza from Edward Fitzgerald's "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam":

Rebekka lets herself into the apartment and carefully closes the door behind her so as not to wake her brother. The lamp on the livingroom endtable is on. She frowns and walks over to turn it off.
"Where were you?" Anders asks suddenly from his place on the sofa.
Rebekka jumps, startled. "God, Anders! Don't do that!" She peers down at her brother, who is laying on the couch and staring blankly at the ceiling, quite still. "Still up?"
"Mmm-hmm."
She scans the coffeetable and notices a book with a razor blade resting on its cover. "Did you just...?"
"Yeah," Anders replies without much feeling. "I forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"Forgot not to." His eyes focus on his sister. "So where were you?"
"Out."
"Out where?"
"You know, I could ask the same question. You kind of ran out on me, remember?"
"Just answer me."
"Out on business."
"Yeah, right." Anders turns over on his side.
"No, really--here." Rebekka digs out some bills from the wad in her pocket and hands them to Anders, who eyes them suspiciously for a moment, then takes them and tosses them on the coffeetable. "Thanks."
Rebekka nods. I'm in too good of a mood to let his weirdness bring me down, she promises herself. "Anyway, I'm going to bed. Will you stay out here?"
"Yeah, until I feel sleepy...I might just sleep out here tonight, just for the hell of it."
"Okay. See you in the morning, Anders."
"Yeah."
Rebekka pads into the bedroom, changes clothes, and promptly falls asleep.

"I hate to say it, but I think it's time we put Em in daycare," Dion says as he straightens his tie.
"Really? I don't want to, but...you're right." Laura sighs. "Where else can she go?"
"Exactly." Dion backs away from the mirror and stretches. "There've got to be plenty of good daycare out there somewhere. I mean, we're not the only working parents in Philadelphia."
Laura cranes her neck and applies lipstick. "Well, we can sign her up at the little daycare facility at HQ until we find a place. Let's ask around."
Dion nods. "Sounds fair. Let me take her to HQ today."
"Okay." Laura puts her arms around her husband and rests her head on his shoulder. "I love you, Dion."
"I love you too. Say, how was your friend?"
Laura takes a step back. "Ronnie was fine. We had a lot to talk about." She walks out of the bedroom and stops just outside the open door. "You remember Ronnie. She was at the wedding."
Dion pauses. "Oh, yeah--she was one of your, uh, bridesmaids, right?"
"Yep. That's Ronette." Laura smiles. "I'm gonna go say goodbye to Em, and then I'll see you at work. Bye!"
"Bye!" Dion responds, and walks over to kiss her. Laura heads into the nursery, then leaves for the lab. Dion checks his suit, picks up Emily and all her baggage, then takes off for FBI regional headquarters--his office.

The phone rings, and David leans over in his computer chair to pick it up, still a little fuzzy from last night. "Hello?"
"David, it's Martin. Remember me?"
"Martin, yeah, hi. Of course I remember you."
"That was a joke. I haven't had any manuscripts from you in a while. What good is an editor with nothing to edit?"
David laughs softly. "I know. I'm working on a couple things now that may cheer you up."
"Good. I'm looking forward to seeing them."
"So am I."
"You know you're in the papers, David?"
"What?" David looks panicked. "Oh, no!"
"Yep. 'Author Spencer ODs, in ICU'."
"Shit!" David says with feeling, then heads out of his makeshift office to the kitchen table, where he picks up the morning edition and leafs through it frantically until he finds the article. Short but to the point, with a stock photo from the cover of one of his earliest works.
David doesn't say anything. After a few moments of silence, Martin points out, "At least it's a nice photo."
"Yeah, well...I wonder if they meant to leave in that comma in the headline..." He bites his lip and puts down the paper.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Martin, but..."
"Yeah, this kind of screws up your market."
"No, no, not at all."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I've been pretty upfront about all that, and..."
"Wouldn't this garner some sympathy? It happens all the time. Some artist gets totally screwed up and the public laps up their work like a starving stray. All in all, it was probably not a bad move."
David manages a sarcastic laugh. "It wasn't a move, Martin! My God!" He shakes his head. "I can't believe I know someone who actually thinks like you."
"Call it a gift." Martin chuckles. "Anyway, take care, and I'll be talking to you later, unless of course you call me first...?"
"I'll try. Thanks for calling." David hangs up.

When Laura enters the lab, Albert rushes up to her with a sly look on his face. "We got an ID on the body," he grins, holding up a FAX sheet. Laura takes it as Albert steps back and folds his arms across his chest, smug.
"Robert Emilio," she reads. "DOB 29 April 1958." She looks up at Albert. "He was an Agent? My God." Her face freezes in an expression of helplessness and shock.
"Yeah...worked in Ballistics," Albert reveals grimly. "Can't say either of us ever worked with him, though. We gave our evidence to his boss. Emilio was a gofer, and, well, you know how I run this place. Nothing but the best." He walks down the central counter. "The FBI connection is worrisome, I admit. Earle--I mean, if it was Earle, which it probably was--seems to be hitting close to home, most likely on purpose. You know, him and his messages."
Laura continues to stare at the report. "Robert...Robert..." She turns to Albert. "That's a message," she says in a very shaky voice. "That name is most certainly a message."
Albert walks back to Laura and plucks the sheet from her hand. "Robert...yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, that is. Hmm." He puts the paper on the counter. "Well, I'm still waiting on a couple tests. Meanwhile, have some coffee and try to relax. You're not his target, Laura," he assures her as he pulls up a stool and picks up his coffee cup.
"Who is?" she mutters. "I'm going into my office. I'll be out after I've calmed down. Thanks, Albert," she says faintly, then walks into her office as if in a trance and locks the door behind her.

After her morning shower, Rebekka wanders out into the kitchen area of the apartment in a robe, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. "I've gained some weight, Anders," she says, trying to sound casual.
Anders is seated at the kitchen table. "Mmm," he replies, and takes a pull off the cigarette in his right hand as he turns over the newspaper with his left.
"I mean, I'm not that worried about it...it's not a lot, but it does register on the scale. I should try to take it off."
"If you didn't eat like a goddam pig, you would never have gained the weight in the first place," Anders notes.
Rebekka begins to nod in blind agreement. "You're right. If I didn't..." She realizes what she's saying and her tone turns to pure indignation. "Wait a minute. I don't eat like a pig. I barely eat at all." She slides into the chair across from her brother. "I'm probably just saving up fat for the winter." She smiles cheerily, happy to have been able to convince herself of such an easy explanation.
"Mmm." Anders peers intently at the paper. Suddenly, his right arm begins to shake, almost as though it had been tensed for too long and its muscles were releasing their pent-up energy. Ashes flake off the tip of his cigarette and float to the table. Rebekka is astonished; Anders calmly straightens his right arm with his left, and the arm stops shivering.
"What the hell was that?" Rebekka asks, bewildered and more than a little apprehensive.
"A nervous tic or something. It happens once in a while. Nothing big. Anyway, it doesn't interfere with anything. Lucky I'm left-handed. Writing with this hand would be interesting," he remarks as grinds the cigarette into an ashtray. He stands up, flexing his right wrist back and forth absentmindedly. "So what will you do today, my darling, darling sister?"
"I'll probably go to the bookstore," she replies. "And you?"
"Oh, you know--I have some business to take care of," he says breezily. "Places to go, people to see, things to do." He picks up his ski jacket from the back of the couch and carefully fits himself into it. "We may be going south soon."
"Really?" Rebekka is disappointed. "But it's December. Don't we usually go west in winter?"
"Yes, we do," Anders explains patiently, as to a child, "but this year I want to go south. I love South Miami. I haven't been in ages. And besides, there are plenty of tourists there who would surely find my services beneficial." He heads for the door. "So I'll see you later."
"Sure," Rebekka says, trailing her brother to the front door. "Take care."
"Of course." Anders kisses Rebekka and leaves the apartment. Rebekka closes the door behind him.
Well, she thinks. Wasn't he in a good mood this morning? Must be his night on the couch. After a few moments of reflection upon the events of the morning--especially the strange arm tic (and what was that all about? she wonders)--Rebekka returns to the bedroom, puts on comfortable jeans and a deep fuschia sweater, then exits to her part-time job at the bookstore.

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Last edited on 4 June 2001 by N. S. Heath.
E-mail nora@heathens.co.nz.
Portions of the CYOA copyright © 1994-2000 by their respective authors.
Border background by N. S. Heath; may be used with permission.