The Stories: Part 6

Chapters 51 through 60

Laura sits at her desk, dazed and shaky. She takes a few deep breaths and closes her eyes. "BOB?" she whispers. "I thought you were through with me. I was certainly through with you...Why now? Why are you back?" She puts her head down on her desk, not out of despair, but out of a desire to pull herself together.
There's a tentative knock on the door, and Laura jumps out of her seat. "Y-yes?" she asks, sitting up straight in her chair.
"Spencer, your, uh, brother-in-law is here," Albert says through the frosted glass of the office door. "Says he wants to apologize." Then, his voice turned away from the door, plausibly toward David: "Again?"
"Okay," Laura replies, and gets up to unlock the door. She opens it to a gloomy David.
"Good morning, Laura. May I come in?" he asks.
"Sure," Laura responds coolly, trying to regain her composure. She moves away from the door and allows him to enter the observation room cum office.
"How are you?" he begins carefully.
"Not too good, David," Laura sighs. "We have a body, and we think Earle killed the guy, and the man was an Agent--the dead man, not Earle, but Earle was an Agent, too--and his name was Robert." The words come out in a rush. She stops to catch her breath. "And I've probably told you too much. I'm so scared...I don't know what to do."
David gently puts his arms around his sister-in-law, and Laura accepts his comfort. He holds her as he holds Emily: sweetly and without words, reassuring. Eventually Laura calms down, and extricates herself from David's arms. He smiles and heads to the back of the room.
"I just wanted to apologize for the recent...incident," he says. "It was really all a big misunderstanding, Laura. You know I would never...Anyway, I already apologized to Dion--not that he accepted my apology; nothing new there--and I felt I should try to make amends to you." He clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.
Laura can't help but smile. He looks exactly like a boy who's being forced to apologize for breaking the neighbor's window, she thinks. He almost reminds me of Bobby...so cute. "I accept your apology, David. I don't know why...but I know you're sincere."
David brightens a bit. "Thank you, Laura. I really appreciate it." He walks over to Laura's desk and leans on it. "Where will Emily be going now?"
"Daycare, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry we have to do this to you, David...but you understand why."
"Yeah, I guess I do," he admits glumly. "Promise me I'll still be able to see her?"
"I promise," Laura assures him. "Now go on back home and do some work, okay?"
"Okay. And thanks again." He walks over to the door. "See you later."
"Take care of yourself, David," Laura reminds him. She stands on tiptoe and kisses David on the cheek. He smiles and leaves the office.
Laura stands at the open door, contented. Amazing how David can cheer you up, she muses. He just has a way, sometimes, of comforting you when you need it most. Even when he's the one you need comforting about.
Albert walks by. "What the hell was he doing here? Looking for a handout or what?"
"He was here to apologize, just like he said. Stop worrying about my life and get on with the pitiful thing you call yours," she smirks.
"Touché," Albert admits.
"That reminds me. Where's your beloved BMW?" Laura asks.
"Oh, I got tired of it. Bought a Lexus. Best thing I ever did," Albert explains hurriedly. "Are we going to work, or are we going to talk about the wonderful world of auto sales?"
"Work, I guess," Laura frowns. They meander over to the lab counter, pick up some paperwork, and begin reviewing the case files.

Anders is at the local health club, doing a little working out just to keep in shape. While doing a few reps for his back muscles, he spots Lydia, who enters the large gym all decked out in a Spandex leotard with a cropped tee-shirt coverup. She's obviously looking for Anders, and once her searching eyes train on him, she makes a beeline straight for the guy. Anders smiles.
"So," she begins cheerily. "What are you doing here?"
"Janitorial services," he quips. "What does it look like?"
"Don't get smart with me. You don't want to work too hard," she warns him in a playful tone. "Wouldn't want to strain your heart."
"Now, who told you I have a heart?" he asks in all seriousness. He disengages himself from the machine and wipes his face with a towel. "What do you want?"
"You're going south soon."
Anders looks up, suspicious. "Who told you?"
"No one. I kinda figured it out, all on my own."
"Rebekka told you."
Lydia laughs derisively. "When the hell could I have talked to her, Anders? I'm telling you: I just figured as much. Anyway," she continues, trying to get his mind off of his sister, "you're taking me."
"What? Oh, no, I'm not," Anders says, shaking his head vehemently. "You are not coming with me anywhere. Period," he emphasizes.
"Yes, I am," Lydia insists. "You will take me to Florida. We'll have a simply lovely time."
"Lydia," Anders whines, "you are not invited. Not to be rude, but you just wouldn't work out."
"I wouldn't work out?" Lydia repeats, enraged. "I wouldn't work OUT? Give me a freakin' break, Anders! You will do what I say and take me to FLORIDA!" She glares at him and practically stamps her foot like a spoiled child.
Anders eyes her cautiously. "Fine," he allows quietly.
"So! You'll let me know when you're ready to leave?" Lydia asks brightly.
"Yeah," Anders mumbles, amazed at his powerlessness. His beeper, placed under his seat, goes off. He fishes around for it, checks the number, and looks up at Lydia. "I gotta call on this. I'll see you later." He stands up and kisses her, then goes off in search of a telephone. Having got exactly what she wanted--again--Lydia grins like a Cheshire cat and bounces off, out of the gym.

On his way back from leaving Emily at the Bureau's child care facility, Dion stops by his secretary's desk. "Hey, Sandra. Could you ask around and get a few names of daycares? Laura and I have to find a permanent daytime place for Em, and pronto."
"Sure, Agent Spencer. I'll get right on it," she nods, and heads out of the office. Dion gets into his trench coat and leaves the building.
A short and uneventful drive later, he pulls up across the street from David's place, intent on getting information that could seriously incapacitate his brother. It doesn't look like David's car is around, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Dion runs through his excuse if David is home: "Just thought I should check up on you. I've been worried." He says it a few times to make sure it sounds convincing. Dion approaches the front door warily and rings the doorbell. After a few jabs at the button, he calls, "David?" No answer. He pulls his keyring from his pocket, locates David's key, and lets himself in. Nice to have a brother that's so trusting, Dion smiles.
A quick look around affirms that David is, indeed, out of the building. "Good thing, too--I don't think I could have reeled off that excuse with a straight face," Dion mutters to the empty room. He ambles into the bedroom and goes straight to the top dresser drawer, grasping the wooden drawer knob and pulling it slowly. Amid a shambles of heroin and various paraphernalia, he spies a slip of paper bearing the name "Nilsson" and a phone number. Jackpot. He grins and carefully extracts the small creased paper, then slides the drawer shut.
Dion walks back out to the kitchen and picks up the phone. He punches in the digits on the paper and gets a standard beeper message. Leaving David's number, he pulls up a chair and waits for the callback, which arrives only a few minutes later.
"You rang?" the voice on the other end says, bored.
"Is this Mr. Nilsson?" Dion asks.
"Yes...why are you even asking?" Anders responds a little testily. "This isn't David."
"No. This is Dion. I'd like to set up a meeting."
Anders laughs. "Um, okaaay...Dion, huh? Emily's daddy. David's little brother."
"'Little' is relative. I'm only five years younger than he is," Dion says defensively.
"Making you...twenty-four. Not so young after all. I'm only twenty-three, myself."
Dion feels a tiny surge of power. I'm older than this guy, he thinks. He therefore comes to this gradeschooler conclusion: I can kick his ass. He clears his throat. "Enough small talk. When can we meet?"
"Well, I'm awfully busy, Dion. Is there some incentive for me to shove you into my hectic schedule?"
"There may be," Dion says enticingly. "I could become your newest--and best--customer."
"Hmm. How about...look, I'll call you when I'm available for a--a 'meeting', okay? What's your number?"
Dion gives Anders his beeper number. "I'll be hearing from you soon?" he asks.
"Soon. I promise. Later." Anders hangs up.
Dion replaces the phone on the hook and smiles to himself. This is going better than I had planned, he thinks, and leaves David's apartment to go back to the office.

"Anything come up?" Albert asks, taking a sip of coffee.
Laura shakes her head. "Nothing important, I don't think. I've analyzed the paper. Acid-free Hammermill Bond. Pretty high quality, but nothing out of the ordinary. You can do the ink." She holds out the three evidence bags, each containing one of the three messages left on the body of Robert Emilio. Albert disdainfully takes the bags and heads over to his microscope across the room from Laura.
Laura jots down a few notes on the report, then picks up the bag with the gold coin. She carefully opens the bag and shakes the coin out onto the counter. So far, this coin simply could not be identified; it provided no clues. God, this job sucks sometimes, she sighs. I hate when nothing gives anything away.
She tilts her head and absently taps her finger on the coin. She examines her fingertip out of sheer boredom and, to her surprise, notices a tiny fleck of gold. "Albert!" she calls. "This coin is plated."
"Plated?" he asks, turning from his ink analysis. He approaches Laura's working space. "It was originally...?"
"Looks like silver," she remarks, examining it closer. "We have a bath that'll take this off, right?"
"Try that," he suggests, pointing to a flask on a shelf behind Laura. Laura promptly brings down the flask and prepares a bath for the coin, dropping it into a glass beaker of solution. The gold plating dissolves, leaving only the original silver coin beneath. She fishes out the coin, blots it carefully with a thick wad of paper towels, and places it underneath a magnifying lens.
"Konungariket SVERIGE. Krona," she reads haltingly, sounding out the unfamiliar words. "Krona," she repeats. "Krona. Isn't that like Norwegian or something?"
"No, that's the kroner," Albert corrects. "'Sverige', eh? Sounds like this is a Swedish coin. Earle probably gold-plated it in keeping with the gold-coin-under-the-tongue tradition."
"So the fact that this coin is from Sweden must mean something, or he would have used just any old gold coin," Laura continues.
"That's my guess." Albert picks up the report and scribbles a few notes regarding the coin. "Good work."
"Thanks, Albert," Laura smiles. "But shouldn't you be doing your ink analysis?"
"Don't remind me," Albert groans, and returns to his microscope. A Swedish coin, he realizes as he sits at the counter. Something big may come of this. Something very big.

Meg sits down at her computer and shuffles a few files around. Time for some updating, she decides. She pulls up David's file for modification, adding a record of his latest visit, checking his charts thoroughly and including the whole Anders incident. She sighs as she clicks on the Save button. Everything's gone from bad to worse, she thinks. Might as well work on Anders's file while I'm at it.
She moves out to the main menu and scrolls up to NILSSON, A., then clicks on it. The file unfolds itself below his name; Meg clicks on the COMMENT section and begins to fill it out carefully.
Suddenly, the lights dim and brighten, as if a huge bolt of lightning was coursing through the power lines, and the computer winks out. Baffled, Meg stares at the dead screen for a moment before snapping out of her daze and hitting the ON button again. She goes through the whole rigamarole of login, passwords, and authentication--all of the hospital's files are very well safeguarded--and pulls up her database program. She clicks on "Open File" and silently prays the program did a backup of the two files she had modified. The computer blows a raspberry and this message pops up on the screen:

"Any luck?" Dion asks his secretary as he returns from his solo outing at David's.
"Actually, yes. I found a fantastic little daycare-slash-nursery school that would simply love to have Emily," Sandra replies proudly.
Dion nods. "Tell me more."
"It's called 'Forest Friends Nursery School', it's got a great location, caring staff, and one of the best pre-primary education systems in the state."
"Wow," Dion murmurs.
"And it's not even that expensive. I've spoken to a few people around here who use Forest Friends and they've said it's quite the bargain, considering the extent of the services offered. I mean, you are paying for daycare and some actual education, so--"
"Great. Sounds great," Dion interrupts. "When can I sign her up?"
Sandra smiles awkwardly. "Well, that's the only problem. This place is so popular that there's a waiting list to get in, especially at your daughter's age level. I can make a few calls and get her on the list, though. The sooner, the better, after all." Sandra reaches for the phone.
"No, that's okay--I'll take care of it," Dion says, and takes down the school's phone number. "You've been a great help, Sandra. I mean it. Thanks a lot." He forces a smile and walks past her into his office.
"Oh, no problem, Agent Spencer! Any time..." Sandra calls after him.

Dion barely has time to relax when the phone rings. "Agent Spencer," he says as he cradles the receiver against his shoulder.
"Yes, Agent Spencer, this is Stacy at Forest Friends. It so happens that we've had a sudden cancellation, and we'd love to have Emily here."
"Oh. Oh, really?" Dion is taken by surprise. "Oh. Oh, that's great." I sound like an idiot, he realizes, and shuts up.
"You may bring her in right now, and we'll take care of the paperwork," Stacy continues cheerily.
Dion checks the clock on the wall: 11:16 AM. "Yeah, I'll be right there."
"We're looking forward to having Emily join our group," Stacy bubbles. "See you soon, Agent Spencer!"
Dion grins. There are times when being in the FBI has certain merits. He heads down to the Bureau's facility to collect his daughter and escort her to Forest Friends.

The phone at the lab rings, making Albert jump. Laura peers at him curiously. "I'll get it," she says, peeling off her gloves to pick up the receiver. "Agent Laura Spencer. How may I help you?...who may I say is calling?"
"One moment, please." Laura looks over at Albert. "An Anders?"
"Give me that," Albert snaps, and grabs the phone from Laura, without stopping to take off his rubber gloves. "Hold on," he barks at the phone, then presses the HOLD button and slams the receiver into its cradle. "I'm picking this up in your office," he says over his shoulder as he briskly walks to Laura's room.
Laura shrugs. "Okay, whatever."
Once in Laura's office, Albert takes a deep breath and picks up the phone. "What do you want, you brazen little punk?"
Anders laughs softly. "Relax. I'm calling to--"
"Apologize for commandeering my vehicle? I swear I'll--"
"--to invite you to a party."
"--I'll--what? A party?"
"Yes. You've...been to a party before? Or am I assuming too much?"
"Of course. I don't like them. I won't come."
"Oh, cheer up. If you come to this gathering--tonight, in a magnificent penthouse, formal dress, bring a date if you can--I promise you you'll get what you need."
"What I want."
"What you need. So: What do you say?"
Albert considers it for a moment. This could be the perfect opportunity to check out Anders's operation, to find his fatal flaw, to bring him down. I have that tuxedo from Laura's wedding, and I don't need a date, so...why not? Besides, I definitely have something to gain. "Fine," he replies at last.
"Wonderful. Let me give you the specifics." Albert studiously takes down the info for the get-together. "See you tonight, Agent Rosenfield," Anders says, and hangs up.

"So what's the definition of 'literature'?" David asks, tossing a piece of chalk into the air. He replaces the chalk in its tray and turns toward his class of eleven students, leaning lazily on the back of his desk chair. "The dictionary defines it as 'writings in prose or verse, especially writings having excellence of form or expression and expressing ideas of permanent or universal interest'."
He leans more heavily on the chair and checks his watch. A few of his students glance at each other. "So, uh, so the author has to strive to create not only excellent work, but work that's eternal. Of, of course, the dictionary also says that, uh, that basically all 'writings in prose or verse' are literature. That's debatable."
He scans the room. Silence. "And that's what you're going to do now. Debate." His students groan slightly and David smiles. "Oh, quit yer whining. Get in, in groups, or...whatever..."--he gestures vaguely--"and discuss. Is Austen literature? Is King? Is your average romance novel literature? How about Sandburg? How about the verses you've read scrawled on the bathroom wall? Talk about permanence." He grins. "I'll be back in a bit," he adds, and heads out into the hall.
David checks his watch nervously as he heads into his tiny makeshift office. He slides into his chair, picks up the phone, and dials Meg's number at work. After a few minutes, a voice comes over the line:
"Hello, you've reached the office of Doctor Margaret Wilson. If you'd like to leave a me--"
David bites his lip and depresses the receiver button before replacing the handset. "Damn," he whispers, head in his hands. "She's ignoring me." He sits at his desk, profoundly alone; his head and arms slowly slide down to his blotter.
He's nearly asleep in this comfortable position when the phone rings right next to his head, jerking him out of his stupor. He fumbles with the receiver as he brings it to his ear. "Hello?"
"Ah, David. Good morning. Sorry to call you at work," Anders says brightly.
"'S no problem, really," David manages.
"Anyway, I'm having a get-together tonight and was wondering if you could make it. Are you free?"
"Yeah, um, sure," David answers. "Can I come stag?"
"Oh, you won't be bringing Dr. Wilson, then? Too bad. Is something wrong?"
"I don't know. Probably," David sighs.
"Well, you might meet someone new there. Anyway, it's formal dress. Take this down, would you?" He proceeds to read David directions to the penthouse, which David scrawls down onto a Post-It note on his desk. "Gotcha. I'll be there," he affirms.
"Looking forward to seeing you there," Anders replies, and hangs up.
David hangs up as well, and checks his watch. He hurriedly grabs the note from its pad and practically runs down the hall to his class, where he closes the door behind him.

Rebekka closes the door behind her. "Anders?" she calls out. "I'm home." She steps in a few feet and stops as though she had reached an invisible barrier. Anders is sitting at the kitchen table, doing some paperwork. Rebekka sees his face in profile.
"Mmm," he replies, and taps the end of his pencil pensively on his lower lip. Rebekka shrugs her purse off her shoulder, down her arm, and into her hand, then hangs it on the chair near the entry. She then stands stock still, like a maid on inspection day. Occasionally, she finds herself holding her breath.
"I'm having a party tonight," Anders says.
"Oh?"
"Yes, oh. I assume you have something appropriate to wear."
"I'll find something." She shifts her weight to one foot. "Why are we having a party?"
"We're not. I am," he replies. "I fell into a bit of money and decided to have a little mid-winter get-together before we went South."
"How did you get this money--or should I even ask?"
Anders writes a few more figures. "You're a nosy one. I sold the Miata."
"Oh, Anders, no! Why? It could have been fixed! It could have been repainted, or buffed, or--"
"No. It wasn't perfect anymore. I didn't want it. And I was just sick of it," Anders interrupts.
"Anything like me?" Rebekka shoots back. "I've gained a little weight. Now I'm not perfect anymore. Will you get sick of me? Will you get rid of me? Am I just another object, a plaything?" As soon as the words spill out of her mouth, Rebekka thinks, Oh, God. That's it. He'll kill me for sure this time. He's right--I'm so damn stupid.
Surprisingly, Anders doesn't even look up from his papers. "Who said you were ever perfect? And who says I'm not sick of you already?"
Rebekka's eyes grow wide; she's unable to speak without squeaking in rage. Two minutes pass, a short interval which seems eternal, Rebekka shifting from one foot to the other, Anders's pencil scribbling across a worksheet.
Rebekka breaks the silence first. "Your nose is bleeding," she points out.
Alarmed, Anders touches his upper lip. His finger comes away bloody. "Aw, shit." Anders jumps up from the table and runs to the bathroom for some Kleenex. As he returns, tightly pinching his nose, he sees his sister for the first time.
Her hair.
Her long, beautiful blond hair that reached almost to her waist is gone.
Rebekka is sporting a stylish 'do that, while not as short as it conceivably could be, is still above her shoulders--the shortest it's been in five years.
Anders runs into the same invisible barrier Rebekka had, and stares at his sister, absolutely not believing what he sees. "Whad the FUG did you do do your HAIR?" he screams, nose still firmly pinched to staunch the bleeding.
She takes a step back. "I got it cut."
"Why the FUG did you ged id cud? Whad is WRONG with you?"
A few more steps back. "I felt like it. I felt like a change."
"DJEZUS!" Anders is incomprehensible with rage. He stands right where he is, clenching and unclenching the hand not pinching his nose, breathing heavily through his mouth. After a few moments of this, he twirls around on one heel and stomps into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him and making the plates clink in their cupboards.
Trembling, Rebekka makes her way to the couch and gingerly sits down on the edge of the cushion. "No way," she breathes. "No way he'll let me get away with this. I've gone too far this time." She buries her face in her hands and waits for her punishment.

"God, I'm terrified," Rebekka breathes as she clutches Anders's arm.
"Why?" Anders snorts. "We're the ones throwing the party. What have we to worry about?"
"You know I hate crowds." Rebekka closes her eyes tightly for a moment, then smoothes out her dress. "And they don't like me, Anders."
Anders just rolls his eyes. They approach the door and stand there for a moment, taking the last deep breath before swimming across the pool. Anders opens the door and the two take one step inside the lavish penthouse.
All conversation stops; everyone immediately fixes their eyes on their host and his sister.
The women gape at Anders, slim and debonair in his sharply-creased tuxedo, grinning magnanimously through a haze of cocaine. He exudes an air of wealth, elegance and power, and acknowledges the attention he receives with the slightest smile.
The men gaze at Rebekka, still holding on to Anders for dear life, stunning in her bottle-green, crushed velvet gown--long-sleeved, high-necked, almost floor-length--hiding more than it shows and yet still insanely seductive. The way the fabric caresses her curves and twirls softly around her long legs makes every male in the room long to be a size 8, bottle-green Galliano original.
While the men remain fixated on Rebekka, the women eventually turn their attention in that direction as well. They all, as if by some unspoken signal, take one step away from their escorts and toward each other, and begin whispering amongst themselves. The murmur, full of "did you hear?"s and "isn't she?"s, winds through the room like a wisp of smoke.
Rebekka gulps. Anders leans over to whisper in her ear. "They love us. They can't help but talk about us." He kisses her gently and adds, "Why did you have to be the only woman here to wear a floor-length gown, for Chrissakes?" He looks her over critically and adds, "And your hair. Jesus." He frowns. "I'll never understand your sense of style."
Rebekka just sighs and shakes her head. Anders leads her into the suite.

David takes a sip of punch and looks out over the crowd.
"Lot of beautiful women here tonight," Albert notes for David's sake.
"Prostitutes," David answers. "All of them."
"What?"
"That's right. All except...that one," he says, indicating Rebekka with a nod of his head. She's never more than two steps away from her brother as he makes the rounds, glad-handing the crowd.
"Anders's girlfriend."
"Girlfriend? Are you sure? I thought she was his sister. They look an awful lot alike to not be related, Albert."
"They seemed pretty damn friendly to me, last I saw them together."
"Mmm," David answers, in hopes of ending the conversation. It works. Albert says nothing, just glares at the throng with his arms crossed over his chest. He glances over at David. "Better take it easy with that punch. This party is bad already without me having to drag your dead, overdosed ass out of here."
"Thanks for your concern, Albert."
"Don't get sentimental."
The two watch Anders have an earnest, animated conversation with a rather portly older man. Anders looks up and around the room as if to ascertain someone's location, and smiles as his eyes lock on Albert and David by the back wall.
Albert turns to David again. "Why did you come here?"
"Me?" David shrugs. "Something to do. I haven't been to a party in a while. What about you? You're definitely the last person I'd expect to see at a place like this."
Albert scowls. "I have my reasons for being here. I only wish Nilsson would get his act together." He faces the room. "I mean, let's go! Why am I even here if he's not going to follow through? Why?" he asks, gesticulating grandly.
Anders comes breezing up with Rebekka in hand and older man close behind. He deftly places an oversized mug of sweet, hot, milky coffee into Albert's outstretched hand and smiles. "Albert. How are we enjoying the evening?"
The agent stares at the steaming cup in his hand, then at Anders. "Doing well," he mutters, and takes a sip.
Anders grins. "Let me introduce you to an important person." David and Albert both smile awkwardly at Rebekka, awaiting the formal introduction. Instead, Anders turns toward the older man as Rebekka automatically takes a few steps back, removing herself from the circle. David glances at her and offers a tiny, friendly smile. Rebekka returns it, shy, then scans the room nervously, waiting for Anders to finish his introductions.
"This," Anders begins, arm around the portly man, "is Dr. Petrov. We're in his penthouse now, can you believe it?"
"Nice to meet you," Petrov says with a grin and a slight bow. He's rather short and wears glasses over his piercing eyes.
"Really beautiful place you have here, Doctor," David remarks.
"Yeah, uh, really nice," Albert adds as he turns his attention back toward his coffee.
"We met in university, in New York. He was the faculty moderator of the Chess Club. Now, I wasn't in the Chess Club, but I had played a bit, and when I heard this guy was a real wizard or something, I decided to give it a go and play a game or two against him." He pauses and watches the Doctor as he readies his next remark. "Checkmate in five moves."
Albert suddenly looks up at Anders. "Isn't that the smallest number--"
"Yes," Petrov says. "The first time--and only time--I was ever defeated," he admits with an uncomfortable laugh.
"Wow," Albert nods.
"Yeah," David echoes. Anders grins, absorbing the adulation as if he were a cat soaking up the sun.
"Well," Petrov interrupts, "I'll leave you young people to your party. I'll just collect my little girl and be on my way."
"Sure thing, Doctor. Thanks again for letting us use the place," Anders replies.
"No problem," Petrov calls back as he makes his way through the crowd to the other side of the room.
Anders shakes his head in amazement. "What a guy. Well, we'll be off now. Enjoy your evening." He collects Rebekka and begins to move back off into the crowd.
"Wait!" David exclaims. Anders turns back around. "Um...I don't believe we've met," he says, indicating Rebekka.
"Oh." Anders sniffs. He brings Rebekka around next to him. "Gentlemen, this is Rebekka. Rebekka, this is Albert and David. I believe you've seen Albert before," he remarks.
Rebekka nods and smiles demurely. David smiles. His eye suddenly catches Doctor Petrov carefully carrying a baby out of the suite. He blinks, and turns back to Rebekka.
"It's nice to meet you both," she says. The two men nod and mutter similar phrases.
"We have to get back to our guests. Have a great evening, and, Albert? Enjoy your coffee. If you'd like a fill-up, just see me." He grins and leads Rebekka away from the two.
"She got a haircut," Albert notices. "She's really beautiful."
"Mmm," David replies.

Halfway across the room, Anders stops and turns to his sister. "I have some stuff to do. Be a dear darling and mingle." He gives her a quick kiss and a condescending pat on the rear, then fairly shoves her toward the center of the room before he heads off toward the back rooms.
Rebekka throws a slightly dirty look over her shoulder, and makes her way to the edge of the crowd. She spots a lonely-looking waif of a young woman perched delicately on the edge of an expensive sofa against the far wall, and approaches her, hoping against hope that she may actually be able to make a friend of her own.
"Hi," Rebekka begins, and holds out her hand. The girl on the couch looks up, startled, and shakes it shyly. Rebekka smiles. "I'm Rebekka. You look like you could use a friend."
The girl finally returns Rebekka's gentle expression, and begins to introduce herself, but her words rasp in her throat. She coughs discreetly, swallows, and begins again: "I'm Ronette. Hi." She scoots over to make room for Bekkers, who sits down beside her. Her skimpy, sexy red minidress slides up a couple of inches on the way to the other side of the couch, and she carefully pulls the hem down again when she reaches her destination.
Ronette has her mouth open to speak when Anders, on his way past the sofa, stops abruptly before the two of them and says, "There you are. Rebekka, Ronette. Ronette, Rebekka. Rebekka, this is the new girl. Have a good conversation." He nods and continues briskly on his way.
Rebekka closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before turning to Ronnie again. Ronette is spellbound by the brief, almost illusory appearance of her crush, and Rebekka breaks the spell by asking, "You're the new girl?"
"Yes, hello. I'm the new girl, yes," Ronnie replies, still dazed.
"Oh, I see." Rebekka politely nods.
Ronette gapes for a second longer, then laughs lightly. "I'm sorry. It's not very polite of me to be so obviously in lust with your boyfriend. You two seem so special to each other, so close. I mean, you're always together, arms around each other...you must have a great relationship. I don't have a chance, right?"
Now it's Rebekka's turn to be speechless. Her mouth hangs open for a split second, then closes with an audible snap. "He's my brother," she says, the words tinged with disgust.
Ronette stares for a moment, then laughs nervously. "Oh, God, I'm sorry! It's just that you two are always so...so...affectionate..." She swallows, noticing the rather ill look on Rebekka's face. "Uh...does this mean I can go out with him?" she asks hopefully.
Rebekka nods, her face ashen. Ronette regards her curiously, then stands up. "It was nice meeting you, Rebekka. Let's talk again." She grins, waves, and wends her way through the crowd in search of her blond dreamboat.

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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.