Redemption

Six months later

I stood at the top of the stairs in front of the court house. There were always steps in front of court houses and public buildings, in real life as well as in movies. No one ever thought to ask why.

"Thank you," I said to my lawyer, a public defender assigned to me. A middle-aged man with three kids, a mortgage and an ex-wife. An ex-hippie with ideals he had to file away to make a living. That was another story. We shook hands as he reminded me to complete the court documents and to call my probation officer.

A hand snaked around my shoulders and I leaned into the body that a moment later was cushioned against mine. I closed my eyes and turned my head for a kiss. Never mind that we were in a public place, it didn't matter any more to me. Automatically I deepened the kiss, but she was too fast for me, I opened my eyes as her lips left mine but stayed close.

"Seeing that you are here walking free, I take it the judge forgave your sins," she said, trailing light kisses down my neck.

"Well, I don't think a suspended sentence and three years probation is exactly forgiveness. He was kind enough to take into account time served in remand, so yes, I'm grateful," I replied. "If you keep this up, we'll be struck by lightning," I joked, but I reached back and pulled her closer anyway. "I love you."

"Hmm, love you too," she was far too pre-occupied to fully communicate. I was getting used to this facet of my detective.

"Will, honey, let's go somewhere more private. You're going to get us arrested."

"I'll arrest myself, thank you very much," she gave me one last nibble and straightened up. "Alright, I'll behave if you promise not to later."

"Okay."

"We have about an hour, want to get something to eat?" she said, taking my hand and leading the way to her car.

Her grin was accompanied by a spark that made my breath hitch. I wanted to grab her and devour her, despite only a minute ago being too mindful of being in a public place. She was intoxicating. I detoured to a place where eating had much more pleasurable meaning than the mere consumption of food. This was very new for me, I'd never in my wildest dreams imagined that I was capable of being so insatiable for anything, anyone.

When I spoke, my voice dropped half an octave. "At a restaurant?"

She turned to me, surprise quickly followed by understanding at my not-so-innocently toned question. "That's what I thought at first. But I'm flexible," she said, the last few words slowly and boring into my heart.

We made it as far as her car, then she had me against the passenger door and I opened up to her willingly. The feel of her breasts against mine, even through several pieces of clothing, was making my nipples ache and strain. The feel of her thigh against my center was hard enough to cause my hips to rise and fall as my clit hardened. My conservative suit and skirt were fast becoming totally disheveled, yet I could care less.

A few more seconds and I would completely lose control. Both of us.

A tiny voice in my head said this was a special moment, and that we should stop. It would be too easy to give in to our desires and have fast furious sex against her car; or we could save it till we had more time later, to celebrate my freedom. To see out the end of the most awful chapter of my life and perhaps allowing me to enter a new one filled with hope.

"Sweetie," I whispered against her.

It took her several short moments to slow down. "What?" she mumbled, still distracted.

"Not here. I'm sorry, darling. We should do this at home," I said, trying to sound sensible.

She sighed, and nodded. "We make each other so crazy, don't we?"

"I'm sorry," I repeated.

She gave me one last kiss, warm but chaste. "Don't be sorry. I'm glad one of us has some sense left." She reached behind me to open the passenger door, and she took my hand and led me in as if I were a queen entering a carriage. "Okay, let's go to a restaurant. We could both do with some food."

Despite our resolve, we weren't entirely well behaved in the restaurant. We played footsie and she had one hand under my skirt throughout the entire meal. We fed each other, at first discreetly and then more boldly. There were vegetables, and pie, and some fries but I was so turned on that I had no idea what I ordered or ate. She laughed, and said that we seemed to be in a great hurry.

One more task, then back home where we could be naked and joined.

*****

We met Joyce and Dawn at the studio. We promised to let them know the outcome and what better than to deliver the news in person. I still felt wrecked every time I saw Dawn, I could never bring myself to meet her eye to eye.

She was withdrawn and unresponsive for a while after her ordeal, not leaving her room, only eating the bare minimum. I heard this all from Willow. Then one day out of the blue she dressed and made her way downstairs, asking to go to the studio. Her new dance routine was so astounding, so sensual and yet tinged with darkness, that had the entire art world buzzing with excitement. It was all the handlers at Disney could do to try to get her back to being a tween.

She cornered me one day, just before my trial. "I'm alright, Tara. My dancing feels so incredible, after...you're in my good books again." And that was it.

Joyce got over her avoidance of me. If Dawn was fine, she was fine, that was her mantra.

Buffy never spoke with me again. She refused to be in the same room as me. Willow said it would take her longer, but I didn't think she would ever forgive me.

My mother died. From a broken heart or an advancement of the cancer no one could tell. I had so much guilt and shame over this, but I didn't want to talk about it, it was too private and painful. I would withdraw for hours and days, thinking about her. Sometimes I felt as if the walls were closing in on me, or there'd be such a blinding white light that struck me from nowhere, I'd scream and scream and scream till I had no voice left. The time in remand and going through the trial was like going to the park compared with all the deep-seated regrets I had over how I'd disappointed my mother.

Willow and I were trying very hard. Loving her was the only thing that kept me going. Every day, every time I saw her, I wondered what it was that made her love me, and never gave up on me.

I live with the fear that she would find me inadequate and leave me.

She would always respond that she had seen me at my most inadequate, and her clothes were still in the closet.

And this thin hope of love, I had to hold onto.

*****

The End

Intervention

Present day, outside the abandoned warehouse, now

"Execute her."

His order rang sharply in my ears. A thousand thoughts pierced through my head at breakneck speed. He knew about Willow, that she was a cop. He was just cleaning up, dispensing of unnecessary complications. She was a problem that needed resolution.

He wanted to kill her.

He wanted me to kill her.

He had no qualms about killing, I knew that. Even back when I worked for him, I knew. I sensed that he had done it, more than once, some time in his life. It went against his personality, but he was smart enough to realize the consequence. It was something none of his staff talked about, I'd learned quickly what the taboo subjects were.

I gripped the Glock tightly in my right hand, I almost had to bring my other hand up to steady it but moving my left arm was impossible. He'd shot me in the fleshy part of my shoulder, which effectively disabled the arm. Blood from the bullet wound seeped through my clothing, my nerves were screaming with the pain.

I counted the guns in the room. Warren had one, Jonathan had the one he had from earlier, and Andrew was also holding one that presumably Warren handed him. Three against one.

"There's only one bullet inside, so don't even think about using it on me," Warren sneered.

There was no choice.

I couldn't help thinking that it was my life coming back to me. That I'd failed in my mission in life, yet again. Damn it, why was it that I could never get anything right? I was the younger sibling who followed her older brother around, and had to scramble to hold the family together when he was gone. Why couldn't the kidnappers had taken me instead? There was never any explanation about why Donny was targeted, and likely this would remain a mystery to the end of time. Why couldn't I be the one who got sick instead of my mother? Caring for her took a lot out of me, though I would do it all over again, it was not a question. Why did I have to be so attracted to Willow? Why did I keep pushing her away, using my other obligations as an excuse. It was so easy, being around her. She understood me. And I never did right by her. I never told her that I--.

Well, it was obvious, wasn't it.

And now, it seemed like I would never get the chance.

I struggled to stand up, ignoring the tremendous pain when I moved my arm. My legs felt like jello, and Willow had to lend me a hand. Warren didn't seem to be bothered by my action, even though I did have a gun in my hand. I finally steadied myself, and regarded him with open hatred. I hated him for taking away my chance with Willow. But mostly I hated myself for putting us in this position.

Redemption was a funny thing. Some of us want it, most of us didn't even realize we need it. I turned my head slowly toward Willow, and was relieved that she met my eyes. I could dance with joy at the glimmer of what I saw in those green eyes. It was enough. I took a deep breath.

"No."

"What?"

Warren looked incredulous. The expression of someone who had never had an order rejected. Come to think of it, he never had his orders rejected. It was a suicidal statement, what with three guns aimed at me -- he had given one each to Jonathan and Andrew, not that I was surprised that they flew back into the safety of his nest so soon. I could do the Pulp Fiction thing and point the Glock in my hand at him, and it would look a picture. I smiled thinly to myself, this was not the occasion to go all pop culture on people.

Willow stiffened next to me. She had her arms around my back, supporting me. I reached for her hand, entwining it with mine. I needed the comfort of the contact.

"No, I won't do it," I repeated. "I love her and I want to be with her for the rest of my life," looking round at the assorted weapons surrounding me, "However short that might be."

I had stopped caring about my impetuousness, nor did I care about the reaction of others. At this juncture? I was not sure I'd survive the day, so there was no point in doing anything but what I felt in my heart. I turned to Willow, "I'm sorry, Will, this is not the right time. It's never the right time for us, so I don't want to wait anymore," I said. "I'm sorry you found out this way."

She gave me a squeeze. "I'm glad," she said.

It was at times like these, when you didn't know if you would live or die, that you make a choice between the compromises that you had to go through all your life and what was truly in your heart. It was a choice between timidity and bravery. Courage came from unexpected places. Loyalty to family, belief in a system, or bone deep love for a person. Perhaps it was foolhardy, to gamble with someone who never lost, and with odds so highly stacked against you. There were no deus ex machina device parachuting in to get us out.

"This is the Las Vegas police department. We have you surrounded. Give yourselves up peacefully and we will not use force against you."

What was that about deus ex machina?

Warren whirled round at the sound of the announcement booming from outside. His jaws were set so stiff at the mere idea that he had been discovered. I could see his body tense up, his natural reaction was to fight.

Jonathan and Andrew were disorientated, panicking immediately. Their first instinct was flight.

In the scheme of things, it would have been the prudent and natural action to let the police do their work. My mind worked through the consequences quickly, before I could articulate or capture the thoughts. They weren't even thoughts at that point, more primal feelings. In that particular moment of surprise, as everyone were reacting to the announcement, it was the only time I could act.

My mind, my instinct honed in on Warren. Dawn was in the other room and safe. That left Willow, exposed. But if I drew Warren's attention, he wouldn't care about her. I had been the object of focus in his mind all along. Jonathan and Andrew, though armed, were no match for an unarmed Willow, I had to trust her ability on this.

With a loud cry, I rushed Warren, body checking him with all the force I could muster. I knew his reactions were fast, and I would not be able to best him physically. I came in too fast and too close to him for him to effectively use his weapon, but I was operating on pure adrenaline and momentum now. With the one single bullet that he gave me I pushed the gun against his chest and shot him in the heart.

The look he gave me as he faded away was such dismay. He still could not believe I was so immune to his power and ego. Then he stiffened, his eyes rolled over and he was gone. Gone from my life forever.

*****

Confrontation, Outcome

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

"I'll be there in half an hour."

Warren hung up as soon as he heard my "hello" and informed me of his time of arrival.

We got busy finding and fixing an arsenal of potential weapons.

I couldn't wait any more. I pulled Willow aside, keeping half an eye out for the boys. "Thanks for doing this," I said. I kept my distance, not touching her or attempting to touch her. We were only a foot apart but the distance was far greater than that.

"I'm not doing it for you, Tara. This is for Dawn, don't get me wrong," she said. She didn't seem as cold as before, there was some softening in her eyes when she looked at me.

"I know. I just want you to know that I will bear whatever the responsibility and consequence of my part in this. I'll turn myself in, anything. I was so wrong to do this," I said.

"I'll speak with Captain Giles. It's up to him and the DA of course. The hardest journey for you isn't that, it's explaining to Buffy and Joyce. Don't expect to be invited for thanksgiving dinner, like ever. Buffy holds grudges like nobody's business. She will likely never forgive you," she said.

I sighed. "I can live with that. I'll have to live with that," I said. Fixing a tentative gaze at her, I asked boldly, "And you? How long do you hold grudges? Tell me what I can do to get you to forgive me," I begged.

I could see the conflict in her eyes. She wanted to be tough and harsh, I wouldn't blame her for that. The conflict remained unresolved. "I don't know. No, not that I don't know, it's just I can't tell you right now. May be eventually. May be never. I need time, Tara," she said plainly.

"Is there a chance? even a very slim one?" I sobbed. "I was deluding myself that I could keep you away, and pushing you away was the hardest thing I ever done. If there is no chance, then let my heart die."

She closed her eyes and sighed. When she reopened them there was a reconciliation. She gently tilted my chin and brushed her thumb against my lips. Very very gently. Then again, only less feathery and her thumb stayed on my lips. I kissed it, just a quick brush. Her intake of breath was not because of shock or anger, my heart grew warm that it was her way of saying yes. A tentative yes with many conditions, but a yes nevertheless.

*****

The gears on the truck crunched loudly and the tires cracked against the cobbled tarmac leading up to the side entrance of the warehouse. We watched through a crack in one of the few eye level windows as Warren brought the truck to a stop loudly.

He jumped out holding a large duffel bag, and we scrambled like rabbits to our positions.

Jonathan and Andrew pulled on their ski masks and stood guard outside the storage area where Dawn was, Dawn started crying and screaming when she found out that she had to be tied up again, and refused to be left alone with them. There was no hiding place for Willow, who was the only person capable of soothing her, so Jonathan and Andrew took up stations outside while Willow hid in the bathroom, crouching on one of the less broken units in the stalls. If Warren asked, they would say Dawn was too hysterical and loud they got annoyed and moved outside. It was close to the truth. Since there were no other exit routes out of the storage area they could argue that it was secure.

I took up a position in the office. I would be the one greeting him at the side door, and he expected me to be there in the office.

We held our collective breaths as we waited for him to enter. The electronic beep of the door alarm resonated loudly in our ears, and then he kicked the duffel bag and stepped in.

I had never felt so much hatred for a person. Yet I plastered a neutral expression as I walked out of the office, two ski masks in my hand. The boys rushed to help him with the duffel bag but he waved them off. I handed him one of the ski masks.

"Any trouble?" he asked, putting the mask on. I felt inexplicably relieved when his face was covered, I didn't wish to see it any further. Talking to a black ski mask was preferable.

"No," we said together. Nervously. Far too nervously. I hoped he didn't pick up on that.

"Where's the girl?" he asked again.

I bit my tongue and allowed Jonathan and Andrew to lead him to where Dawn was bound to the chair. She was blindfolded, but when she heard footsteps she started screaming and crying and writhing. Warren moved toward her, I guess he was either going to check her ties or, worse, hit her. I quickly stepped in. "She's been like this constantly. I'm glad we don't have to listen to it much longer," I said.

"Why isn't she gagged?" he asked harshly.

"She choked on it. I think she has allergies and needs to breathe through her mouth. It's just screaming, she isn't going anywhere, no one else will hear her. I didn't want to risk her arresting or fainting on us," I said. "If I were you I'd just leave her alone," I added.

"Fine," he said curtly.

He told the boys to stay put and pointed me in the direction of the office.

The duffel bag he held firmly in his hands.

"Is that the money?" I asked.

He nodded. "All there," he let a salacious grin escape.

I regarded him with suspicion. "Are you going to go back on your promise? I had your word."

He laughed. "Oh no, you'll get your cut. Why would I give up my hold on you, my pretty. Just a few thousand bucks, and you're in my grip forever. Oh boy, that feels so...good."

"I thought we had an agreement. I'll get the money and we'll never see each other again," I said.

"I changed my mind. I'm keeping you around after all. I can do things like that because, you know what, Tara? You have no choice," he spat.

My entire body trembled. I knew he was serious and meant what he said. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. My hopes were pinned on the others now. I was alone in the room with him, I wasn't strong enough to overpower him, even with a gun. "No," I said through gritted teeth. "I guess I don't."

He continued laughing as he placed the duffel bag on the table. "Outside," he ordered.

I walked out first, him following closely. I didn't see, but rather felt, the whoosh of air of a hard object swinging towards me. I had just about enough time to duck but it hit me on the shoulder still. I uttered a loud cry of pain. The second swing of the plank was toward Warren, and I vaguely realized that he was the intended target in the first place. Must be the boys, I thought to myself. Why can't they get anything right? They must have thought he would exit first.

I tried to get on my feet but with the tremendous pain at my side it was virtually impossible. I collapsed again.

Warren was fighting with Jonathan. Andrew was on the floor, curled up in pain from a blow that presumably Warren managed to land on him. Warren was of course far better a fighter than us, even the boys combined. Jonathan was having a hard time, and a sharp kick in the shins brought him down.

I used all my last strength to stand up and pulled my gun out. My hand was shaking as I tried to steady it to point it at Warren. "Don't move," I shouted.

He took one look at my pathetic posture and the unsteady gun pointed at his chest. "Oh I see," he said, giving the boys a disdainful look. "The three of you are plotting against me now? You want all the money for yourselves? How greedy," he spat.

If that was what he believed in, that was fine. I said nothing. I had no energy to talk anyway. Every ounce of willpower was focused on making my hand steady and not a quivering mess. My shoulder was screaming in pain, and my left hand hung limply by my side. My shoulder was probably dislocated, the pain was so unbearable tears streaked down my face, covering my eyes. I had nothing to wipe them away.

"Have I taught you nothing?" he shouted. "There's 3 million in that duffel bag. Is that even enough for the rest of your pitiful lives? No, I revise my opinion. You're not greedy, you're just fucking stupid!"

Jonathan groaned and rolled over. Warren kicked him in the kidney and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

"Hey, I said don't move. Stop kicking him," I said.

He raised an eyebrow at me. "You're giving me orders now?" he mocked.

"I'm the one with the gun," I repeated Jonathan's power mantra.

Warren shook his head in pity and sneered. Then he drew a gun from his shoulder holster, and shot me.

*****

"Catch me if you can!"

"Oh, don't be so smart, Tara. You won't be this tiny forever," he shouted back at me.

*****

Pain.

Everywhere is pain.

Swimming.

Blood. Red. Everything red.

But pain.

Willow.

Banging. So loud.

"Hurts."

Sharp. Focused. Splatter.

Everywhere.

Heavy. I can't lift my arm.

"I know, sweetie."

There's Black. Come closer, Black.

Black chases the pain away.

Ah.

"Don't let mom die."

*****

I tried to sit up.

"Aaaaah." There was so much pain. All over. I couldn't identify a single isolated spot where the pain was. My entire body was on fire.

A soft hand stroked my face. And I realized I had been crying, my face and neck were soaked.

"Don't talk. Don't move," a soft voice whispered in my ear.

"Will?"

"Mmm."

"What are you going here? What happened?"

"Shhh. Be quiet. We have to talk quietly so he can't hear us."

Realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I forcefully ignored the pain in my body. I could feel the hard concrete floor under my feet, but someone was holding me in their arms.

"Will?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you here?"

I couldn't open my eyes, it took too much energy. It hurt too much. It was too bright. It was too heavy.

She stroked my face again. "I heard the shot. I couldn't stay in the bathroom. You were just lying there, bleeding." She shuddered, and I could feel it pass through my body too.

I tried to sit up again. "Warren. Did you deal with him? Am I under arrest?"

She sighed sadly. "No. He was too strong for me."

I opened my eyes then. We were on the floor of another smaller storage room. Willow was holding me, but she was tied to the wall, her hands were free but there was a thick series of rope around her torso securing her to a post. Her feet were bound too. As were mine, I discovered as I tried to move them. I was also elaborately tied to Willow, if one of us moved the other would need to follow.

My hands were free, though with the pain in my shoulder and side, I couldn't even move. "He shot me," I said, finally remembering.

She fingered the makeshift bandage on my arm. "Yes, non threatening, just a deep cut. The bullet went straight through you arm. You were bleeding like hell, took it a long time to stop. You were lucky," she said grimly. "You were just a few feet from him. I don't think he wanted to kill you, so he didn't aim for the head of body. But you need a hospital."

I gulped. "I had a gun pointed at him and he still shot me. Bastard," I spat.

She laughed nervously. "Now you say."

"You're not telling me everything," I said. I could see her more clearly now. She had cuts and bruises on her face, a very large cut on her cheek, and a black eye. "You! what happened to you?" I tried to reach up to cup her face, but my arms were like lead. I grimaced as pain shot up from my fingers and hammered me all through my body.

"I heard the shot, I knew I still had to stay put. But I peeked out and saw you in that pool of blood. I lost it," she snorted. "Why I thought I could match against a guy 80 pounds heavier, and armed with a gun, I have no idea," she said ruefully.

"So he took you down?" I teased feebly.

"Yeah, he took me down. But he let me fix you first. Does he have some sort of soft spot for you, unlikely as that may sound?" she said carefully.

I closed my eyes. Too tiring. "I don't know. May be. It's not reciprocal, please believe me," I said softly. I wanted to tell her that she was the only one, but it wasn't the right time. It was never the right time. We had lousy timing.

"I don't care. I just care that I could stop your bleeding. And I pushed your shoulder back, it was sort of dislocated. You probably don't remember it, you were passed out, luckily."

"Hmm," I was on the verge of checking out again.

*****

I must have become unconscious again. Next time I woke up it was because she was shifting and moving about. The pain in my arm as it inadvertently banged against her woke me up with a muffled scream.

"Well, well, well. So glad that you decided to join us," a nasty voice rang out.

"Leave her alone," Willow said.

"Oh my, how cute. The lovers," Warren continued.

I opened my eyes, ignoring the pain, and moved so I faced him. Willow helped me into a more upright position, and kept her hand at my back to steady me.

"What do you want?" I asked. "Where is Dawn?"

He stood up, using his height to impose his will on us.

"Everything so fucked up, and your first thought is the stupid screaming girl? Tsk tsk, and I spent so much time teaching you stuff."

I gritted my teeth. "As if I wanted to learn anything from you. I didn't even enjoy getting you coffee, you jerk."

"Yes, but you never forget do you? I like my coffee black," he snorted.

"Like your soul. How can I not?" I threw back a weak insult at him.

He ignored me. Jonathan and Andrew joined him, and he proceeded to direct them to untie both of us. We didn't attempt to struggle. I was too weak, and Willow chose not to because he had his gun trained on her. He waved it at us to indicate that we were to stand up.

"So, it comes to this," he said. "I'll be willing to forgive your betrayal to me, Tara. You know what I want from you, and when you recover you will do it willingly."

I was too weak to say anything.

"But I need a sign of your willingness, and something to prove that you will not betray me ever again. You will do as I say this time, because after this you are completely mine," he continued.

"What?" I breathed.

He handed me the Glock that I had earlier. It felt heavy in my hand, and I almost dropped it.

"Execute her."

*****

The Fog Clears

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

"What the hell? What the hell, Tara?"

She staggered and pushed away from me, falling against the opposite wall for support.

The fog in my mind was gradually clearing. And the enormity of what I had done crashed upon me like a giant sledgehammer of truth. The guilt and anguish I had kept hidden were unleashed with no barriers, and were suffocating me. I couldn't breath. Stars and light beams raged out of control, dancing, mocking in front of my eyes.

"Oh my god," I gasped. "What have I done?"

Willow was doing no better. From the relative distance of the wall opposite, she glared at me, a mixture of disbelief and accusation in her eyes. "What did you do to us?" she asked seriously.

Thoughts, feelings, memories were slamming back into my head like a shipwreck out of control, I was having a hard time processing it all. "No, no, no. It's some form of chemical poisoning, must be from the gas escaping from that cylinder. When you were fighting, the gunshot, it must have hit the cylinder. I didn't cause this, I didn't take our memories and made us all crazy," I said, more to myself.

"Never mind the gas, what the hell happened before that?" she asked again, more harshly. "Last thing I remember is driving Dawn home from her practice session. Buffy needed to take Joyce to pick up some artifacts and official letters of authenticity from the gallery so I offered to take Dawn. We were going to stop by the ice cream place on our way and pick up strawberry shakes. And then I got to the hills and there was this car in the middle of the road so I had to drive around it. There was a dip in the shoulder so I had to almost come to a complete stop. And then someone broke the window and attacked us. Two guys in ski masks. I fought one off, but hit my head and must have lost consciousness. What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Oh god," she gasped as she remembered. "You! You're one of them! You walked in just as I was trying to get the gun away from the guy. Right before the gun went off! Who are you?" She edged away from me as her recollection of events returned in further detail.

I could only look down at the floor, not able to meet her eyes. The reality was, I engineered an act that was against everything that she stood for, that caused distress to her friends, and put Dawn in mortal danger. And because of coincidental circumstances, she was caught up in it personally, and even got hurt because of it. It was also unethical and illegal. No matter that my intentions were honorable, to give my mother a fighting chance of surviving terminal cancer, kidnapping was going too far. If I were Willow, I'd never forgive me. I didn't blame her for looking at me like she didn't know me, even though she didn't know every detail -- she was smart enough to figure out most of it, I could see the wheels of her mind turning and disgusted at finally seeing my darkness.

"I should explain, I owe you an explanation, but I don't think it will help," I said, my voice tinged with regret.

"No, I don't think so," she said, turning away from me. After a bit, she reconsidered. "Tell me this, was Dawn the target? Why her? And what was my part in this?"

I took a deep breath. It was difficult to speak, I was still having difficulty breathing and the lump in my throat was so huge I felt like I was choking up. "Yes, Dawn was the target. Well, not the original target for me, but when Warren found out..." I stopped to recollect my confrontation with Warren. "I know I have no excuse, but you have to believe me, I didn't mean for this to happen."

"And what exactly is," she paused. "This."

I sighed. "In cop speak, assault, kidnapping, false imprisonment, reckless endangerment. Among others," I recited.

"You haven't explained my part in the scheme and why I ended up tied up like a turkey in that big room," she said coldly.

"You don't. I mean, you don't come into it. We were supposed to only grab Dawn. I don't know exactly what happened on the road, I was trying to move the car. Then we got here and those two boys outside had you in the van together with Dawn. It's 40 minutes back into town and I couldn't just abandon you in the heat outside in the desert. I couldn't tell the boys I know you, because they'll ask. They don't know you're a cop. I tried to think of some way to solve the issue, then we all got gassed," I said.

Too many words. She had too many words for me. But she kept it simple. "Why?" she asked in anguish.

She wasn't asking why I didn't find the solution. Or why a kidnapping. She wanted to know what changed me. What made me turn into, in her eyes, an unacceptable species of human being.

"Long story. I don't want to you feel like you need to be sympathetic," I said.

"I don't think it's possible at this point," she said tersely.

I tried to explain about Mom's illness, the procedure in Switzerland, my initial plan to grab Warren's daughter, his discovery and how he blackmailed me into this scheme with Dawn as the victim. I kept it short and factual, not wanting to elicit her pity. I knew I would be lucky to get even her acceptance.

She was quiet for a long time after I finished. She opened and closed her mouth, starting to say something, but didn't while she thought of what she wanted to say. I waited, immobile, filled with shame.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked eventually.

"Which part?" I supposed I should count my blessings that she was still talking to me, still engaging with me.

"All of it, any of it. For starters how seriously ill your mother is, and about the treatment in Europe. I was there in hospital, I was right there. It was that day, wasn't it? When I visited. You found out about the treatment that day?" There was so much hurt in her voice.

"Yes," I said in a small voice. "I found out that morning."

"And you said nothing to me. You let me joke with your mother, giving her encouragement, convincing myself that she will be better soon. And you sit there not letting anyone help you? What does one need to do to get you to let them in a little?" Her voice was accusatory, harsh, uncomprehending.

"I hadn't told mom then, or anyone else. I wasn't going to tell anyone without telling her first. Besides, if I recall correctly, we had a fight in the cafeteria," I pointed out, perhaps unwisely arguing with her.

"I saw you when your mom was released from of hospital. Have you told her by then?" she countered.

I nodded as I dabbed at the tears at my eyes with my sleeves. "I wanted to tell you, it was at the tip of my tongue a few times. But I couldn't. I couldn't open myself up so much to you, it would have made me too vulnerable," I explained.

"I want to be in your life, Tara. I thought I made it clear over the last 3 years. I think what we did just now here in the bathroom, when we were not ourselves, without the complicated history between us, shows how we can. Shows how much we want each other," her voice lowered to a tense whisper. "But it's obvious you don't care even for my friendship. Or anything."

There was very little I could say. I wanted to fall on my knees and beg her. There were so many things I wanted from her. Her understanding. Her forgiveness. I wanted to tell her how hard it was to keep her at arm's length all these years, when all I wanted to do was smash my lips against hers, mold my body into hers and feel her inside me all the time. I now realized I had my priorities wrong. That it could have been possible to have a relationship with her and still deal with the other things in my life. That with her by my side the shock of Donny's death, Mom's illness, my lack of future, our debt situation, and all the bad things in my life, could have been more hopeful. That even as I kept pushing her away, I had come to rely on her being around. It was a convoluted kind of selfishness. I wanted her to keep coming to me so I could push her away. How large an ego was that?

"No, Will. I'm sorry, I'm sorry for everything. If I can undo every time I hurt you or pushed you away, I'd do it now right away. I've been so unfair to you, you've been so patient with me. I do want you. How can I fix things?" I pleaded.

"Well, for starters, I need to trust you. That you're going to work with me and not betray me to the kidnappers. You'll turn yourself in, and I'll do everything I can to put in a good word for you with the DA. I don't care about your pact with Warren Meers. I'm getting Dawn out of here with or without your help. After she is safe and Buffy has chosen how to deal with you, then you and I will talk. We may not have a future because what you did is really too hideous, and it's up to you to fix that between us," she said, a chilling authority in her voice.

"Yes," I said meekly. "Yes, of course. Anything you say. I'll do anything you tell me to."

She took a deep breath. "Right, then we focus on Dawn. If even one hair gets out of place, you're going to regret it."

And then we both realized where Dawn was. Alone in the office. So vulnerable. So close to the boys.

"Dawn!" We both shouted at the same time.

There were no regards for our deep insurmountable differences. We ran as one towards Dawn.

*****

We found the boys in the act of subduing her and tying her to a chair.

"What the HELL do you think you are doing?" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Willow simply took three steps into the room, shoved Andrew away from Dawn and took the hysterical girl in her arms. "Dawn, Dawnie, do you remember? How is your head?" she was asking and trying to ascertain Dawn's condition.

"Willow? I'm so scared," the young girl said between brawling.

"Get those two out of here. Now," Willow ordered. "Into the storage room. I'll be there in a minute."

I turned to Jonathan and Andrew. "Let's go." At their startled looks and before they could argue, "don't argue with me. We're all in this mess together. Leave the girl alone and do as Willow says," I said assertively.

"Since when did she gets to call the shots?" Jonathan questioned petulantly.

I fixed him a hard stare. "Since I say so," I said. I literally stood behind them and shoved them out of the office. I could tell they were not happy, but I was taking advantage of everyone's still confused state, hoping to reassert my authority over them. What would happen next was absolutely critical.

I made sure they entered the storage room first, fixing myself a position between them and the doorway. Jonathan stormed inside, stomping over to the upturned chairs that we used earlier to secure our captives. I flinched as he kicked one of the chairs very hard so it flew across the room, one of its legs broke off under the assault. I studied Jonathan carefully. He was mad, and unpredictable. He was always the more dangerous one, with more potential than Andrew to get angry and impulsive. I hadn't had much chance to think about it, it was the first time I noticed his stature. Or lack of it. He was short, very short. That, unfortunately, was his only distinguishing feature. I suppose his height had defined him all his life. I wonder how it would feel in his teenage years when all his compatriots were growing and shooting up, and he remained the same height as he was pre-puberty. It would account for the insecurity and inferior complex. It would also account for his anger and propensity to not think before acting. He wanted so much to prove to the world he was beyond just a short guy, that he had power, strength, presence. It wouldn't surprise me if he often acted out his anger, taking it out on weaker people and objects. He was the sort of person who would be very dangerous if in possession of power, which he had now. I hadn't forgotten that he had a gun, I had no doubt that he wouldn't think twice about using it if he thought he was under threat. He was self-centered enough to think of only himself in this regard. I had to be careful and not reveal my hand, that I too was armed, until the appropriate time.

Andrew on the other hand, was meek. That was my first impression of him when I met him for the first time, and the impression hadn't changed. He didn't have the physical disadvantages of his friend. He was average height, average weight, with dirty blonde hair and a face that can be mildly pleasant. He could be a computer programmer, or a sales person at an electronics store. I wondered what caused him to turn to the dark side, a phrase he used liberally. There was no love lost between him and Jonathan, the constant bickering reminiscent of couplehood but I didn't get such vibe from them. His hero worship and crush on Warren was obvious though. It was what Warren had to hold onto him, I would guess. The perfect fall guy. I would use Andrew in the same role. The nice, naïve guy who blindly believed in me, who I could easily manipulate. So easy to set him up as the front man and so easy for him to be the one taking all the rap should anything happen.

While Jonathan continued his rant against the furniture, Andrew merely sat slumped on one of the many crates that littered the storage room. He rubbed his hands across his eyes in defeat. "What next?" he directed at me.

I shrugged. "Let's wait for Willow," I answered.

"What's with the chumminess with...Willow, is that her name? She one of us now?" Jonathan questioned.

"Things have changed," I said.

"Tell me about it," Andrew muttered.

"I still don't see--" Jonathan protested again.

I stopped him sharply. "I don't care what you see, we have to figure a way to get out of here," I said.

"So we do as planned. We still have the girl. When Warren comes back with the money, we split it up like we were promised, then the girl gets released. We can fix things up the same way as before, what's wrong with the plan," he said.

"And how do you plan to explain about Willow?" I asked plainly. "Did you think about it when you so wisely decide to bring her along for the ride? Warren won't like it. And I'll make sure he knows that. Then you'll have some fast talking to do."

He didn't care. "Who says we need to explain? We hide her somewhere out of the way, pretend she isn't here," he said.

"And then? It's not so simple. You forget both of them have seen our faces. I don't know about you guys, but my cut isn't big enough for me to split and go to another country," Andrew interjected.

"We get rid of the redhead, and scare the fuck out of the girl," Jonathan said.

"Get rid. Get rid how," I asked, though I suspected I knew his solution. My heart sank.

As if to confirm my suspicion, Jonathan took out his gun. "Simple," he said coldly.

"Killing me is one thing, do you propose to kill the girl too? You can't scare her forever, she has seen you and you'll be looking over your shoulders all your life," Willow said quietly from the doorway. My first reaction to run to her was abruptly halted by the realization that she probably wouldn't want to be associated with me at that point.

Jonathan turned and raised his gun at her. "I'll deal with it one at a time. I'll still kill you first," he sneered.

She was so calm under pressure. Her eyes never left his gun as she moved closer. "Use your brain, brain trust. There are too many unknowns. You can't kill Dawn before your accomplice returns. The cops will be all over you. Your leader will be back soon. What are you going to do with my body? Can you really trust these two," she indicated Andrew and me, "to go along with it? Kidnapping is one thing, but most people don't go as far as murder."

"I don't care. Everyone does as I say. I'm the one with the power, I'm the one with the gun here," his voice raised and he started waving his gun around wildly.

Willow saw my hand edge toward the small of my back where I had my gun hidden. She stopped me with an imperceptible shake of the head. We still had our differences and so much to work through, if only. But our communication had never faltered.

She sighed loudly. "Okay, okay. You're the one with the power. You're the one with the all-powerful gun. But let's think about this in a rational way. You can do rational, can't you?" she asked.

Jonathan was still blubbering and not ready to stand down. It was Andrew who stood up. "Jonathan, she has a point. We're in more shit than we can deal with," he pleaded. "Put the gun down and listen to her."

"No."

"Oh for crying out loud, Jonathan," I exclaimed exasperatedly.

"Keep the gun if it makes you so macho, Shorty," Willow said. "Just answer me this, how much do you fear this leader of yours?" she looked around the three of us.

Andrew visibly gulped. Jonathan tried to look defiant but I could see the trepidation in his eyes.

I gave my answer first. "He blackmailed me. I did something that was, could have been, bad. For him and for me. He found out and used it against me. That's how he got me to participate in this scheme. He is a powerful individual in the community, and he's brutal and calculating. I take his threat seriously," I said.

"He promised me lots of money and I can work for him in the quality control department. It's in the same building as him," Andrew said sheepishly. Giant crush, oh yes.

Jonathan shrugged. Not wanting to reveal his reasons.

"Let me ask again in a different way. What do you guys think this Warren will do when he finds out about this litany of cock ups after cock ups?" Willow asked. "It's Warren Meers, right? Even I have heard of his name."

Jonathan bluffed. "What cock ups? Nothing we can't cover up," he bluffed.

Willow started counting on her fingers. "You kidnapped one additional person. You allowed your face to be seen by your victims. You are busy fighting each other. Is that enough?"

"So what's your suggestion?" I asked.

Willow continued as if she had not heard me. "Let's say you manage to kill me and dispose of my body in an hour. And let's say you manage to tie Dawn up like before and convince her never to reveal that she's seen you. Let's say Warren comes back here with the money and you divide it up. Everything goes according to plan." She paused for dramatic effect. "How do you make sure the other two won't rat you out one of these days? Do you have enough of a bond to trust each other forever? I'm thinking not," she said.

She had a point. I could see how she worked mistrust and fear and doubt into the minds of the unsuspecting. I remembered how good she was at her job. The boys didn't know her true genius.

There was a lengthy silence. None of us knew what to say, the seeds of doubt were certainly growing thick in our minds. For myself, I knew I was done with the situation. I had to find another way to help my mother. I had done enough to jeopardize her already, by being reckless and unthinking. I already decided to turn myself in, to ask Willow to take me back to the station, for my part in the crime. I would have to deal with the consequences. It pained me to know that it wouldn't help my mother, that my actions did worse than if I had done nothing. Perhaps I could gain some of Willow's trust back, I wasn't hoping for much of that to happen.

But now we had to work together to get a satisfactory ending to this dire situation.

"I don't get it. What are you driving at?" Andrew asked at length.

Willow paced as she explained. Jonathan kept his gun trained on her, but she took no notice of it.

"We work together to get out of here. Start a new life. It's not worth trying to second guess Warren or continue with the case. By letting us go, or actually even helping us to escape, you've exonerated yourselves. You don't get the benefit of the random money, and I will forget about your assault on me. Dawn will chalk it off as a bad experience. If neither of us press charges there is nothing against you. Warren, on the other hand, is left holding the money but the police can trace that. I, um, know people in the police and they can trace money. He won't get away with it. This is your best course of action, believe me," she said.

It was a hard sell, to Jonathan especially.

"I just want to get out of here," I said.

"But what about Warren? He'll come after us," Andrew said.

"Not if we make it convincing. Any of you ever acted in a play before?" Willow asked cheekily.

It took some further convincing but the threat of reprisals were too great. We were all able to come to a compromise after some heated debating.

We were setting the scene back to normal. Willow went to Dawn and explained the situation to her. She was very reluctant to be bound again but Willow did the tying herself and left the bonds loose. She reassured Dawn that she knew what she was doing and would explain in detail when they got out.

"Promise?" Dawn asked.

"I promise," Willow said. looking around to check the boys were out of earshot she continued, "I'm sure Buffy is on her way. I can't see her not being involved in this."

Dawn visibly relaxed and even managed a small smile at the mention of her sister.

Time to wait.

We were so keyed up, we all jumped when the phone rang again.

*****

Slowly Coming

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

We retreated to the bathroom again. After the unnecessary and stupid discharge of the gun, a huge shouting match enshewed. The blonde boy yelled at the short guy using all manner of Star Wars analogy, which under other circumstances would be hilarious in a warped sort of way. Short guy started insulting the other boy using other nerdy insults, some of which whizzed above my head. When one of them accused the other of being something called a federationless nerf herder comfort droid, they started punching each other. They were not graceful fighters, there were indiscriminate kicking, body checking and even hair pulling. The redhead and I tried to pull them apart, with limited success. When we started shouting at the boys for their stupidity, the level of noise was at an incredible level. We were all taking this opportunity to vent and let our frustrations at the situation blow up. Sometimes you need to let off steam, otherwise it stays blocked inside too much and does more harm than good.

The whole farce ended up with the young girl screaming at the top of her lungs, "get out, get out, GET OUT!!!" at all of us. She collapsed in an ugly, sorry heap, sobbing wildly. When my redhead knelt down to try to take her in her arms, she pushed her away violently. Then she jumped up and ran into the office, slamming the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. We glanced at each other and decided to leave her be to let off steam.

We didn't care where the boys ended up. It would be our lucky day if they started fighting each other and ended up knocking each other out. That would solve our problem.

Instead, my redhead took my hand and dragged me into the bathroom. The horrid filthy place was fast becoming our hideout, where no one would disturb us. She locked the door this time, having found that the latch still worked. For good measure, she violently tore the garbage bin from the wall and wedged it against the door. Anyone who managed to unhook the latch would have to push very hard to open the door. And with the bin wedged tight, they would only be able to open a crack before it couldn't open any further.

I watched as she paced furiously, nervous energy washing off her in waves. Up and down the narrow space between two rows of sinks. Her footsteps echoing around the bare space. She looked pissed, angry, wild, and very very attractive in an untamed way. I watched, riveted, at her pacing her anger off.

"Stupid. Everything is so stupid," she repeated.

I didn't try to interfere. Nor did I try to be small and invisible so she wouldn't notice me. I just stood there, knowing that she was aware of my presence, but not rushing her, not crowding her.

Eventually her footsteps slowed and her excess nervous energy mostly dissipated. She finally stopped and looked me in the eyes. "Sorry, I was a little out of it. That shot startled me, I had a vision of it heading straight toward me. Or worse, right at you. I need you so bad. Need you around," she said.

For a minute the air crackled. I felt an eerie calm, but I was anything but calm inside or outside. I was trembling, I could feel my teeth chattering and a cold shiver resonate through my shoulders and my chest. "What need?" I managed to croak out.

She closed the distance between us, leaning against me so our breasts were barely touching. Another half step and her hand hooked around the back of my neck, her other hand spread where my heart beat wildly. For her. Solidly, she rubbed that hand up at my collarbone while her other had slipped underneath the collar of my shirt.

"Just need. I have no reference point in my world right now, you are the only thing I'm sure of," she said.

"Me too," I said, my senses and thoughts so addled by her proximity and overwhelmed with my own need that I wasn't making much sense.

She sighed, tilted her head and our lips met.

The kiss was hard. Hard as our mutual need for each other, to share, to connect. Tongues and teeth met. I pulled her hips closer and pushed her thigh between my legs, it helped relieve the need a little.

But not enough.

"Oh god, I can't have enough of you," she groaned.

I laughed. A little out of control until the laughter turned to tears. "I think, I think only you can help," I sobbed.

"Don't cry. Baby, don't cry," she said. And kissed me again.

It was the wrong place, a ridiculously decrepit bathroom. It was the wrong time, we had lost our memories and were faced with unknown danger. Guns were in the proximity. A threat was returning in a few hours.

Yet it couldn't have been more right, more spontaneous, more deep, this our need to kiss, to touch, to reach inside each other.

The situation was desperate but there was nothing desperate or rushed about what we were sharing. Although we had acknowledged that there was a connection, that we were together in some way perhaps as a couple or not yet a couple, this was something new. I felt that we had yet to become intimate in our relationship outside. Kissing her was intense, yet it felt new enough to suggest that we hadn't shared many till then.

I pushed her backward until we hit a solid object. My hands slipped down to her waist, roughly grabbing at her shirt. She hooked one arm around the back of my head and jammed our lips together, easily bruising them. The coppery taste of blood on my tongue only made me crave more.

I tore her shirt out of her pants and bunched the material up to expose her breasts. I was not gentle, she cried out when I bit down on one of her nipples, then the other. But when I tried to move to another spot, she pushed me back, holding my head in place. I was choking under the intensity of our passion, I could not stop if I wished. Instinct took over, the need to obliterate everything, to push out the torment and the dread of our situation. That if I heard and felt and joined her, trembling and coming, it could bring an end to our despair.

She was crying. Her tears had not abated, and now it was a heady mixture of agony and pleasure. I pulled away from her breasts and found her lips, silencing the sobs.

"Tell me what you need," I growled.

Her reply was an incoherent jumble of yes and no and you and now. I laughed. I understood. I kissed her again, a little gentler, then harder, then claiming her mouth with my tongue and teeth. I was sure I was never this confident, this bold. I felt as if I had been held prisoner by my circumstances all my life, that there had always been something, someone, some situation, that demanded a specific role from me. I felt as if I'd never had a chance or met a person that I could be just myself.

Until this moment.

She was kissing me back. No doubt about it, she wasn't a pliable object of desire in my hands, our need was shared. She tried to nudge her hand between us, to reverse our position, but I had the advantage that I had her pinned against the wall. I was not done with her, I squeezed her tighter backwards.

"Don't fight me, let me," I said.

She hesitated, then relaxed, giving in.

With a triumphant grunt, I moved my hands, fast and hard, down the length of her torso. She had her arms around my neck now, like a compliant dance partner. I had no trouble with her pants, with one easy movement, I forced it off together with her panties. The material fell and bunched in a tangle at our ankles. Even before I pushed my knee out, she'd opened her legs to let me in automatically. I cupped my palm against her sex, and had to force myself not to immediately indulge in her heat, her wetness, her scent. My breath was taken away.

"Tell me what you need," I demanded.

"Whatever you need," was her reply.

I curled my fingers hard into her, pressing until my wrist strained. And then I pushed in another centimeter. The heel of my palm ground against her stiff and swollen clit, smoothly gliding with the wetness. I grunted throatily with the effort, she held back whimpers and screams.

It didn't take long. I felt her walls contract and clench my fingers. I tried to withdraw, but she squeezed me some more, and I was reluctant to break contact. My hand was flooded now, and I knew I myself was in the same state. I jammed my own sex against my hand, feeling the urgency through the pressure and the seams of my jeans. It was already enough.

She was shaking, teetering at the edge of her orgasm. "Come on," she charged.

I held her up and she bore down and I thrust against her wildly and we came together. It was messy and wet and at one point I didn't know which way was up or where I began and she ended.

It was enough.

*****

She collapsed against me, totally spent. Her arms circled tightly around my shoulders, her head resting against my cheek.

"You're so good," she breathed into my neck.

"You too," I smiled, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her up. I was still impossibly throbbing and hard, I steadied my breathing, she had no energy to do anything but lean against me then.

"It felt, I feel like the first time," she whispered in wonder.

"Sweetie, it is. We didn't get this far last time, remember?" I said.

We gasped, and sprung apart as if an electric shock passed through us. I was right, we hadn't gone all the way, that time at my place, during one of my weaker moments. I had been avoiding her, avoiding giving her the wrong message, avoiding leading her on for three years. Since my brother died. I held her responsible.

My mother was dying. There was a risky, expensive procedure that gave her a slim chance. I would stop at nothing.

Warren.

Dawn.

It was all slowly coming back to me.

*****

Following the Suspect

Present day, outside, meanwhile

"Can't you drive faster?" Buffy Summers shouted, trying not to give in to the temptation of pushing the uniformed officer out of the driving seat and taking the wheels herself. The patrol car was a standard issue beat up Ford, it shouldn't have substantial trouble following another beat up Ford, this time an ancient, dirty truck. Buffy concluded it was the driver of the police vehicle, whom she gathered was officer Xander Harris from the canine unit. When asked where his dog was, seeing that he was from the dog unit, he replied tersely that his previous partner had to be put down because of cancer and he was in the system, processing for a replacement dog. He seemed very attached to Spike, as apparently the departed dog was called. Buffy didn't care much for animals or policemen who weren't completely devoted to fighting crime at its grassroots. Canine units were essential, especially for drug heists or to search for missing persons, but the police officers who worked in that unit, those who Buffy had dealt with, were a little odd. They seemed to spend so much time with their dogs that they had no patience or understanding of how to interact with humans. Or perhaps it was down to one particular experience in Buffy's books.

"I'm going as fast as I can," Officer Harris responded. He had been placed at the perimeter of the downtown bus station, as a backup. He wasn't particularly happy about the assignment, he knew it was a high profile case involving the family members of one of the detectives, and that the police department was out in force as a show of strength. But being confined to the sidelines for the sole purposes of making up the numbers rankled him. He was an experienced officer, a specialist in the canine unit, and there he was -- no more than filler material.

He was nevertheless alert and ready for any problems, as was his training. No matter how intelligent dogs were, they weren't humans and there was no leeway when it came to using emotions. You had to be the one giving instructions, always. With a human partner there were down time, jokes, arguments, the whole spectrum. With a dog it was so much simpler. Each partner did their part, there was no second guessing. No falling down on duties if you were having an off day, or your wife left you, or the weather was lousy. Yes, Xander Harris much preferred working with dogs than humans.

He was therefore surprised and had very little time to react when the detective jumped into his undercover vehicle and screamed at him to follow the truck. He recognized her as Buffy Summers, petite, blonde, All American, athletic but also very tough and single minded. She was also the detective whose family was the case. Xander wondered, but didn't think too much about, why she was allowed to be part of the operation. Surely she was not able to be objective. He shrugged it off, it wasn't his place to question the chain of command.

"Are you sure?" Detective Summers said. "You have to floor these vehicles."

"I am," Xander replied. "Flooring it. I won't lose him, there's too much traffic out ahead. Ah, traffic lights," he said to himself. Quickly he took out the radio, found dispatch and reported his location. He then proceeded to request red lights at each intersection that the truck was heading toward. The police had surveillance cameras that were already tracking the truck, it would be possible to time the lights so they turned red just as the truck approached the intersection.

Buffy listened, impressed with the officer's quick thinking. She rubbed her hands over her eyes, suddenly feeling the tiredness creep up on her. She wished Willow were there, she needed her friend and partner's solid presence. Her thoughts drifted from Willow to Dawn, and she gritted her teeth in frustration and anxiety. Her mother would be freaking out, or worse, by now.

"Sorry, Harris," she apologized. "It's just, it's getting to me. That was smart thinking, getting the red lights to hold him up."

"How are you doing?" he asked sincerely. "I hope you don't mind being forward, Detective, but the stakeout? That's your sister who was kidnapped right?"

Buffy sighed and nodded. "Yeah, she was just getting a ride home. We didn't know what hit us."

"Any theories about why her?" he followed up.

"Well, you know she's starting to get into acting and stuff," Buffy explained. At his lost look and shake of his head she continued, "She dances. Very well. So somehow she's gotten herself a Disney deal. I may end up having a really famous celebrity sister one day." If she comes back alive, the small voice in her mind said. She pushed that thought away. Far far away.

"It's going to be fine. We're catching up to the truck, look," Xander nodded his head at the truck they were following, now only a few car lengths ahead and tucked behind a tour bus and a billboard van. It would have trouble getting out to wherever he was going. "Who are we following? The perp?"

"Yes, I think so. That's the guy who has the ransom money. It's really important, Harris, don't lose him. You'll have to account to me if you do," Buffy said with such cold calculating calm that Xander could only imagine her fury if anyone crossed her.

"I'll keep at his tail, Detective," he replied.

Buffy took out her cell phone and started reporting to her captain. She gave their position and that she was in a police vehicle tailing the suspect. The license plate on the truck was fake, as they suspected. There was nothing else to go on.

Giles dispatched another unit to cover them, but advised that they might be on their own before the other units reached them. In the effort to lock down the bus station, the authorities had blocked themselves. Other units not immediately involved in the kidnapping were at the scene of a huge fire at the Excalibur. There were reports of civilian casualties and it was shaping up to be a nightmarish day.

"We're on our own for a while," Buffy advised Xander. "More important that we don't lose him now."

Xander kept their vehicle way behind the truck, following it out of town. Even as traffic thinned, he kept his distance. Far enough not to be suspicious, but close enough to not lose sight of him in case he made a sudden move. Buffy regretted yelling at Xander to drive quicker when she first got into the vehicle. When she tried to apologize, he waved her off, saying it wasn't needed. Buffy was beginning to appreciate the quiet unassuming young man who usually worked with trained police dogs. He had an inner calm and discipline about him that was helping Buffy deal with the insane situation.

They jumped when Buffy's cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller display and at once grimaced and looked tender.

"Hi Mom," she greeted her mother.

"What's happening? Have you caught the guy yet? Do you know where Dawn is?" Her mother's anxious voice rang out, even Xander could hear her via the handset.

"Mom, we're still in the middle of the operation," Buffy explained. "I'll give you an update when I can." She considered telling her mother not to call again, because she was interfering with a police operation, but thought better of it. Instead she switched her phone to silent vibrate mode. It wouldn't do, if they had to trail the suspect on foot or if they were trying to be stealthy, for their position to be revealed by the ring of a cell phone. Joyce knew that, but Buffy didn't fault her mother for forgetting. Her mother was a little, no, a lot out of her mind with all this.

The truck continued northeast toward the interstate highway. After about 20 minutes the truck turned into a rest area that was very crowded with tourists. Buffy and Xander debated whether the suspect had stopped because they had been spotted, or whether he stopped for all the reasons people usually stopped at a rest area. Fearful that he would disappear, Buffy finally agreed to let Xander follow the suspect inside. There was too much of a risk for Buffy to be seen. Not knowing how the kidnappers targeted Dawn or why, she had to assume that they had been followed and she would be recognized instantly.

"I see him, boss," Xander reported when he called her cell phone.

Buffy smiled privately at his deference. There was no need, since she wasn't his boss, they weren't even in the same division. But he was just following the tradition of many uniforms, treating detectives with respect. There were very few uniforms who didn't covet the gold shield, and from her brief experience with Officer Xander Harris, Buffy wanted to help him reach his goal, if that was his goal.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"In the Panda Express, with this ginormous plate of fried oily goodness," Xander said. "I feel my arteries clogging up just watching him eat that stuff," he added.

"Good. Can he see you?" she asked.

"Not unless he cranes his head and can look past a group of loud toddlers," Xander answered.

"Okay. Can you describe him," she directed.

"Uh, white male, mid- to late twenties. Medium build, dark hair, baseball cap so I can't see his features. Wearing a navy blue track jacket and black pants. Jittery sort, he's not exactly deliberately looking around for people following him, but he fidgets all the time, and jerks his head all over the place like he's expecting someone to jump him. Sits with his back to the wall, very defensive and like I said, jittery," Xander recited.

"You're doing really well. Go get a tray or something, look like you're eating," she said.

Xander laughed. "I won't be seen dead eating the food here. Wait, that doesn't make sense. I think I'll die an unnatural death if I ate here. Don't worry, I got myself some egg rolls and a coffee. I'm blending in, boss," he said. How he wished he still had Spike. He would have gobbled down the egg rolls like there was no tomorrow, he missed that dog.

They spent the next 15 minutes waiting for the suspect to finish his dinner. To Xander's amazement, the guy devoured the whole plate of three entrées with fried noodles and gulped down a large soda. His own egg rolls were hardly touched though he had finished his coffee as well as the refill he got from the counter. Buffy sat outside trying to keep cool in the stifling desert heat. Xander had pulled into the most convenient parking space, but when it got too unbearable for Buffy, she had to move the vehicle to a shaded parking space. She was careful, however, to ensure they could pull out easily, and the parking space was between the suspect's truck and the exit.

Her thoughts meandered to Dawn again. They had a large age difference between them, not long after Dawn was born their parents were divorced, so Buffy helped her mother take care of Dawn when Dawn was young. They fought a lot, like all siblings, but they were close and had a good relationship. Dawn looked up to Buffy, Buffy knew that. And how proud she was when Dawn started winning dance competitions and was spotted by a talent agency. Buffy wasn't jealous of Dawn's achievements and potential fame. She was her little sister, and would always be her little sister. No one, not even evil, conniving, idiotic kidnappers would take her little sister away from her.

Her increasingly furious thoughts that were racing dangerously toward emancipation of the suspects when she caught them were interrupted by the opening of the car door.

"Rock and roll, boss," Xander said as he dumped himself in the passenger seat of the car, Buffy having remained in the driving seat after moving the vehicle. "He talked for a few minutes on his cell phone and he's hightailing it out of here, look," he pointed at the departing truck.

Buffy started the police vehicle and was soon in hot pursuit.

He wouldn't get away from her, she would not allow it.

*****

I can hardly trust myself

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

We ended up in the bathroom, where I have since dubbed our 'meeting place'. I was leaning against the wall, watching her. She had her back against the sink, facing me. We were three feet apart, the closest we could bear without heart palpitations.

"This whole place looks deserted, but it's been well selected and subtly redone to add in security reinforcement. Nothing fancy that can't be put in quickly, but thorough. Like the placement of the windows, all above reach even with the stacks. The access point to the outside world, the side door, is electronically controlled. It's like a well designed fort bunker disguised as wreckage," she observed.

"Or a high security prison disguised as wreckage," I said.

"That too," she agreed.

"You sound like you know what you're talking about. Security reinforcements, the way you handled the door alarm," I mused.

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I do now I think of it. I could be a master criminal," she laughed bitterly. "Or an electrician. Then again, I could be one of those sad old maid who stays home all day and read mysteries."

"You don't look like a sad old maid," I said. The heart pounding need to touch her, to kiss her, resurfaced. I clutched the slippery, dirty bathroom wall to prevent me from launching myself at her.

She said nothing. Her eyes turned a darker shade of green and she pivoted round to look at me in the mirror. Perhaps the artificial distance would dampen the burgeoning desire that was sparkling between us.

She took a deep breath, and the spell was temporarily broken.

"I don't feel like I'm a bad guy, you know," she started, changing direction suddenly again. I was getting used to the way her attention jumped quickly to other matters. "It just seems to me that if you have bad intentions or are prone to not obeying the rules of society, you have to have a certain personality type. I feel like I'm the sort of person who follows rules to the letter."

"Always the good student, eh?" I teased.

"Yeah. Like not stepping outside campus until I get to senior year. I have some vague inklings of my friends having to physically carry me off the pavement the first time I left school grounds during school hours," she laughed. "And I was protesting all the way. It's such a trivial memory, but that's comforting right now."

I processed those thoughts. She was right, which meant... "So that probably means I'm the bad guy in this situation," I said grimly.

She turned sharply around and grew agitated. "I can't believe it's true! Do you feel like you can be someone who does something like that?" she asked sharply.

I looked away, then down at the floor. "I-- I-- I'm not sure," I stammered. I had absolutely no idea.

"Try this. Imagine forcibly grabbing that young girl sitting right now in the office. Imagine covering her face with a chloroformed cloth, tying her hands, pushing her hard into the trunk of a car. Imagine hitting her when she cries or screams or makes any noise that may cause her to be discovered. How does it make you feel?" she asked pointedly.

I smiled thinly, "You sure know a lot about how to kidnap someone," I said.

"I'm pretty sure that's books or TV talking," she rejoined. "Don't change the subject. How do you feel deep down inside? Can you be violent and uncaring?"

"It makes me a little sick. But if I were desperate, or pushed, yes I could be capable of being violent, may be," I shuddered. "But mostly, I feel sick to the stomach about it."

"Exactly! If you were part of the gang that took her, you won't feel any regrets. Definitely you won't be throwing up about it," she said triumphantly.

"Doesn't mean anything. We lost our memories, remember? May be we lost part of our personality too," I said.

"I'm pretty sure my instincts are intact, and they tell me you're a good person," she said.

I sighed. I wasn't so sure. "I have a bad feeling I won't come out of this in a good way. Think about what is in the big room. There was another person tied up, so another victim or potential victim. If that is you, what does it put me? I'm probably in cahoots with the boys," I made a face. "Though I can't even imagine being in the same planet with them, let alone plotting some evil scheme."

"I think you're making too many assumptions. May be, may be you're the good guy too. There is a perfectly good explanation, but we can't figure it out. I feel, no, I know, we are together. So if I'm on the side of the good, then you are there with me," she said firmly.

"I want to," I whispered.

We were going there again. The attraction that was undeniable. She even said it, we were together in some way.

Again, she was the one to snap out of the spell. "So, what are we going to do with the boys?" she asked.

I brought my focus back to important practical things. "What do you mean?"

She looked at me intently. "Since we made the conclusion that we are the good guys and they are the bad guys. We have to stick together. Try to get the gun from the short pouty one. He waves it around far too readily. If he's not careful, if we're not careful, someone is going to get hurt," she said.

It wasn't hard at all to make the decision. I had to trust someone in this screwed up situation, and my redhead, as I had begun to think of her, I trusted her.

I turned around and lifted my shirt to reveal the gun tucked inside the waist band, snugly against my back.

She made a surprised sound. I turned around and tried to explain. "When that guy on the phone called first time, he told me about it. I had no idea what to do, it was right where he said it was. But it seemed to be a good idea to keep it. You know, just in case," I said.

"Is it loaded?" she asked.

"Oh," I said sheepishly. "I didn't even look."

"All the more reason to believe you're not a felon," she grinned.

I closed the bathroom door, wedging it shut with bits of concrete and tiles that were lying on the floor. Gingerly I took out the gun, remembering to point it away from the body. It felt alien in my hands, like handling guns wasn't an everyday occurrence in my life. On the other hand, an unknown voice inside my head recited the details of the weapon in my hand. Somehow I knew that it was a semi automatic, a compact .45 caliber Glock pistol, one of the most popular types of semi automatic weapon in the United States. It was standard issue for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the criminal investigation division of the Environmental Protection Agency as well as numerous police forces including the New York Police Department. Either I knew about guns, was a gun bluff, or I was a dork who read Wikipedia in my spare time.

Catching the enthusiastic and interested look in my redhead's face, I handed the weapon, handle first, to her.

"Here, you look," I said.

Thinking back, it was an act of supreme trust, to give up an ace, a trump card, a gun to a stranger. While in a dangerous and potentially violent situation. Trusting her when I could hardly trust myself was unusual to say the least. It just went to show how much I wanted to trust her, that she would not turn around and use the weapon on me. At the time, it never occurred to me that she would have any ulterior motive other than to relieve me of my discomfort, and to answer our joint question on the usability of the gun. Worst case scenario was, she was only saying that she had no memories. Perhaps it was all an elaborate trap for me, down to the details of proving an innocent victim, two shady characters, and a good cop type of person to gain my trust.

My brain was definitely addled from whatever was happening to me. I was fantasizing, making up scenarios that were weirder and weirder.

No, she didn't point the gun at me. She didn't threaten me, or turned around to hurt me. She, unlike me, handled the gun like a pro. Like it was a part of her, an extension of her arm. It made me wonder. perhaps she was the gun buff. Or someone in the security forces. Or she was one of the bad guys and was used to guns. I put these thoughts away as I watched her disable the safety, slide the chamber and with one swift efficient action, dislodged the cartridge from the gun. She looked down the barrel to check that the was no round already inside and then turned her attention to the cartridge.

"A Glock like this usually holds 15 rounds, let's see how many we have to play with," she explained while she peered at the cartridge and poked at the top column. "Full. 15 rounds. Remember that," she looked at me to get my acknowledgment. "Oh wow, I know all this. Amazing. Must be a special skill," she remarked.

She expertly slid the cartridge back, cocked a round into the chamber and set the safety. I could see her debate silently with herself who would carry the gun going forward. A part of me wanted her to hold onto it. I wanted no part to such deadly force, and she appeared to be more an expert. If the need arose, how would I use the gun? I was convinced I knew how to operate it, how to squeeze the trigger and not jerk it. How to aim. How to compensate for the backfire. I wasn't sure of my ability as a marksman and how good my aim was. Even I knew there was nothing worse than a gun in the hands of an amateur who didn't know how to aim or shoot. Especially in this situation where we had limited ammunition. On the other hand, I was sure she would be the better shot. From her confident matter she would probably hesitate less if we were faced with the need to shoot someone.

Then again, I found the gun. Possession was, what, nine-tenths of the law. In this situation every little advantage would help. I didn't know I would ever need to use it, but I had it, and I should be the one with the protection in case something happened. I was on the verge of telling her to give it back to me, not caring if she refused or tried to argue or finagle her way into keeping it for herself.

She assuaged my fear by returning it to me, handle first, in the same way I handed it to her. "You should keep it. You're the one who is supposed to have it, according to the guy on the phone," she explained.

"You only have my word that he said that," I tried to think of ways to disparage her action.

She shrugged. "There are so many what-ifs and unknowns right now, it's hard to tell. I trust you. I have no other choice, and even if I did, I would still trust you," she said.

I smiled sweetly at her, and we stared at each other for a long time again. The urge returned, very fiercely. I would have moved forward a fraction, and she would have reached for me. It was so easy.

A loud banging on the bathroom door was our saving grace this time.

There had better be the right time and place for a kiss soon.

*****

"Hey! Are you in there?"

It was the young teenager yelling through the thick bathroom door.

I quickly put the gun back in the waist band of my jeans and smoothed out my shirt as my redhead opened the door for the young girl. I didn't think about it then, but I was adjusting my clothing when she came in. With both of us flushed with the onset of attraction, it could have been misconstrued that we were making out.

Oh I wish. I really did.

"Are you okay?" my redhead asked the young girl. I did a quick assessment. Her eyes were still puffy from crying, her mouth set in fear. But she was otherwise unharmed, and not at that moment worried about her own physical well being.

"What? No, it's not me. It's those two boys. Can't you hear them?" she almost shouted.

We glanced at each other quickly, a little guilty and a little regretful.

"No, we were, um, talking," I said.

"Talking about what? Tying me up again? Plotting something awful?" she was screaming now.

"Hey, calm down," my redhead said. "We were talking about getting out of here, that's the most important thing going on right now. What's this about those two boys?" she directed the conversation away from us and what we could possibly be doing behind the closed door of the bathroom.

"Oh, they're banging around. May be they found something. It's very loud and I don't know what they are doing," the young girl said.

"Okay, let's go and see," I said.

"Yeah," my redhead agreed.

I marched out of the bathroom, leading the way of my redhead. I looked back to see the young girl rooted at the spot. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

Tears came to her eyes and she sniffed to stem the flow of tears. "I'm scared," she whispered.

My redhead extended her hand, which the young girl took after a moment's hesitation. "Stick with us. I know you're scared, I'm plenty scared too. But if we girls stick together, we can do this," she reassured.

"Don't leave me," the young girl sobbed.

"No we won't. You can trust us, you know that don't you?" my redhead said.

The young girl sniffed and nodded. "I do. I feel like I know you, both of you. But I don't know why or how. At least you are better that those two," she said.

We found the two boys shifting all manners of crates, boxes and large objects in the main area of the warehouse. At regular intervals they would look up, do some measurements and gesture with their arms.

"What did you find?" I asked as we went up to them.

If they were startled they didn't show it.

"That window up there looks like it's kinda loose," the blonde one said helpfully. "I threw some bits of wood at it trying to break it. It's probably bullet proof glass," he said with admiration (not sure for what) and awe. "The wood bounced off, but the frame rattled like it was coming loose," he explained.

"Ah, and so you're trying to climb thirty feet up to it?" my redhead said.

"Yeah," the short guy said. "Then may be we can push it open and we can crawl out."

I looked at the hotch potch of items they had gathered and were building a makeshift ladder. The concoction looked like the haphazard climbing apparatus that were used by circus acrobats to illustrate their climbing and balancing skills. Skills I was sure none of us possessed.

"So we are being all Cirque de Soleil. Who is going up?" I asked.

The boys looked at each other. "I am," the short guy said. "I'm shorter so it's easier to balance on these crates. He looked at the young girl. "May be she should do it, she's much lighter," he said.

The young girl looked like she was going to be sick or burst out in tears again. This time I could envision that she wouldn't stop.

"No," my redhead and I said together. "It's too dangerous for her," I said. "What if she falls?" I pointed at the hard concrete floor. "She'll be on the losing end if she collides with the concrete floor," I said.

"But we'll all of us be there catching her if she falls," short gun guy protested.

"We're not firemen, and we have neither a trampoline nor those blankets the fire department uses to catch people jumping out of burning buildings," my redhead explained. "The risk of her getting injured, or worse, if she falls is too great. You go."

"And it's okay if I go up? What happens if I fall, you stand over there with your hands crossed and not helping?" short gun guy said. "Besides, my left arm hurts."

"I'm saying you're an adult and you'll be more careful than a young child. She doesn't have the strength to push the window," my redhead clarified. "Look, I'll climb up if it's an issue."

"No, no. I'm not chicken," short gun guy backtracked. "I'll do it."

We watched, holding the unsteady structure as he scrambled up toward the window. There wasn't a lot of leverage and he was perched precariously at the top. He pushed hard, but nothing happened. The window continued to be stuck and lodged shut. It was a disappointment.

"What does it look like, can you move it?" blonde guy chipped in.

Short guy grunted. He was pushing hard until he was red in the face. "Nope, but the hinge looks rusted. May be I can work on that bit. Hold onto the base, I don't want to fall."

"We got you," blonde guy said.

But the action was not successful. The window remained closed, mocking us.

"I'm gonna try to shoot it," he announced, taking out his gun.

"No!" we all shouted.

Luckily he only took one shot. It ricocheted off the frame and then off somewhere. He was so surprised by the impact that he promptly fell off, hitting blonde guy and me. We lay there in a heap.

"Are you crazy?" blonde guy shouted. "Did you not remember the part where Luke, Han and Princess Leia were stuck in the garbage chute? Shooting at bulletproof objects will only cause the bullets to bounce off. Into you! You're lucky you weren't shot."

"First of all, it was a blaster not a gun. Second of all, a window is not the same as metallic walls of a garbage incinerator. Third of all, you're talking complete crap," short guy argued.

Blonde guy was about to shoot something back when I intervened. "Oh you two, just shut up. Bicker bicker bicker, that's all you do," I said. "Now, aside from this window, did you find anything else? I can tell you now that we," I nodded at my redhead, "we found nothing. This place is like Fort Knox in reverse."

"How the hell are we supposed to get out of here," someone cried.

No one could answer that.

*****

A Promise and a Connection

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

We stared at one another as the phone in the office rang and rang. Then as one, we raced toward the sound, jostling with each other in the confined space.

Since I had the advantage of prior visits, I was the first one to reach the phone. I picked it up without hesitation.

"Hello," I said breathlessly, holding the phone away from my ear so the others could hear a little of the other caller. The redhead busied herself in trying to figure out if the outdated office phone had a speaker function.

"Don't tell me--" it was the same caller as before.

"Sorry, yes," I replied. The others looked at me in new light, their surprise at my ability to converse with the caller apparent.

"I have the goods," he added succinctly. It was becoming obvious that the caller was the mastermind, or at least leader, in the kidnapping. He was the one calling the shots and making the decisions. It was also clear that he was being careful in using coded words. The 'goods' he referred to was probably the ransom money, or other item important to the crime.

"Was there any trouble?" I asked innocently. This elicited a glare from the short gun guy, a 'are you crazy trying to engage him' type of glare.

There was hearty laughter from the other end of the line. "Trouble? The cops don't know trouble if it stared up their asses," he snickered. "I'm on my way, get everything ready," he directed.

"Okay," I replied, remembering to keep my end of the conversation light. I was fairly convinced that he recognized my voice, which gave me chills I did not want to think about. Then again, there was sufficient crackling and outside noise for sounds to be indistinguishable.

"Don't let me down," he said. It sounded more like a threat than instruction.

The minute the line went dead there was pandemonium.

The long and short of it was, I was obviously one of the bad guys since the caller didn't question my answering the phone. The same fear in my head, even though I did not voice it. I emphasized my own observation, that the line was bad and he could just be expecting a female voice, not necessarily mine. This meant that either the redhead or I was a member of the criminal gang. The young girl too, though by mutual unspoken consent, it was generally agreed that she was too young to be anything but the intended victim. Or one of the victims. That, and she was the one tied up at the beginning of these adventures strongly suggested it.

I confessed that he had called before when I had just woken up and was incoherent. What I remembered of the conversation was that he would be back by four. It was now just past noon. The reaction to the confession was just as vehement and accusatory.

"Don't try to deny it, you even look guilty," the blonde guy accused me.

"Exactly how do I look guilty?" I retorted. "For all we know, we are all the bad guys."

"What? No!" the young girl cried. I could see how that thought completely freaked her out. The possibility that she was trapped here, wherever 'here' was, with four adults who may or may not mean her harm, and had in fact tied her up to a chair, was likely to be out of her realm of reality. I would be a blubbering mess if I were her. Instinctively, because she was the first person to offer comfort, the young girl moved closer to the redhead, who put her arm around the girl's shoulder. Oddly, I was glad that the young girl did not flinch.

It seemed that the group was at an impassé. We none of us had any idea who we were. We each could be criminals, victims or even innocent bystanders. Aside from first impressions, it was impossible to ascertain who was trustworthy and who was not. We had no prior experience or interaction for reference. In short, we were in a vacuum that was sucking our emotions and logic from us.

The redhead, who had seemed most practical and level-headed up to now, as if she had related experience, was the first to suggest an alternate course of action than what we had followed. "I think it's pointless for us to be sitting around trying to second guess each other. Personally, I know that I can't trust any of you, and I say this with sincerity rather than in a personal attack sort of way. I think we should work together, at least to get us all out of here. That's the best suggestion, if you asked me."

Short gun guy snorted. "Nobody asked you, Red."

"Hey, don't be rude," I interrupted. "I agree with Red. We have to get ourselves out of here. The guy on the phone is coming back. I don't know about you guys, I'm scared of him just by listening to him speak. Right now, I don't care if I'm the bad guy or any of you are the bad guys. We have to start again, assume nothing, assume we are all on the same side in this."

"Who says I want to be on your side. You don't get to decide," short gun guy continued his protests.

"There are no sides here anymore. We've lost our memories. We have no choice but to work together. And we each have an equal vote," the redhead said. I shot her a brief thin smile to thank her for her support. My heart beat faster when she returned with a smile of her own.

"That seems fair," the blonde guy agreed.

I could tell that short gun guy wanted to argue further, but it appeared that it was four against one, so he reluctantly shrugged. He didn't seem happy about it at all. I suppose he could impose his opinion on the group; after all he was the one with the gun.

That was agreed. We split up to explore the building and to find any way out. The young girl we left in the office where it was relatively safe. She didn't argue, too tired and too scared to do anything other than what the adults told her. By unspoken consent, the remaining four paired up. The two boys in a team and I went with the redhead. I felt comfortable with her, there was not the conflict with short gun guy, or the indifference with the blonde guy.

We worked our way around the external walls of the building. It was soon clear that it was a warehouse, and that it had been abandoned some time before. Any equipment or tool that might have been useful for escape were long gone or rusted to uselessness. The remaining items, mostly furniture, large cylinders and crates, were heavy enough to possibly form a barricade. I filed that thought as we moved on. There were no windows, at least not at eye level. We found what used to be the main door, it was wedged or stuck or rusted shut. No amount of bashing or pushing would budge it even a millimeter. A side door was secured by electronic lock, which looked newly installed. It went without saying that no one knew the code. It was frustrating.

As the hour dragged by frustration level rocketed. At different points one of us would breakdown and ended up crying or screaming. The redhead and I left the boys to their own devices and staked out a secluded area behind the lockers. The space was narrow, though somehow comforting. We squashed together, shoulders and thighs touching, oddly seeking out the personal contact. For a while we just sat there, idle, with no thoughts.

"I feel like I know you. You know, outside," she said suddenly, her hand making a sweep to indicate the external unknown place that was not this nightmare.

"Yeah, I get that feeling too," I said softly. I looked straight ahead, not trusting what I would do, or revealing too much.

We sat in silence, trying to articulate our next thoughts.

"Do you think that we're --?" she asked, again out of the blue. It was as if her thoughts went too fast for her, and she had to catch up and say the words.

"You mean?" I asked.

"Yeah, I mean," she confirmed.

While it may sound incomprehensible to others, it made perfect sense to me. And here we were in this alternate reality, to all intents and purposes having only met an hour ago. She made sense. I knew what she meant. Without thinking.

"I think so," I whispered.

I turned to look at her. Really look at her. I caught the softness in her eyes and I wanted her to see the hopeful desire in mine. I felt like we had done this many times before, I felt like I had held her gaze a million times, and I would not tire of it. I wanted more. We were already side by side, I shifted in the small confined space so we were even closer, our faces barely inches apart. Her lips oh so close. Somewhere in this or another universe, we had kissed before.

She placed her palm tenderly on my cheek. Everything grew still. "I feel like--" her voice was barely above a whisper, low and husky.

"I know," I leaned into her touch, wanting to close my eyes to savor the sensation yet not wanting to break eye contact.

"Do you think it's safe?" she asked. "God, you feel so good."

"Safe for whom? Safe how?" I said.

"I am having feelings. Feelings that are I'm unfamiliar with, yet know very well. This is the wrong place or time," she sighed.

"I know." That was all I could say. I didn't want her to take her hands away from me. I didn't want her to move away. I didn't want to have to face the nightmare scenario we found ourselves in. It was a respite, an escape, the brightest thing that had happened to me that day. Somehow, I knew she was always my brightest spot.

"Should we be doing this?" she asked tentatively.

I brought my hand up to hers, sandwiching her hand against my cheek. "I'm almost certain not. Like you said, it's not the right place or time. But I don't want to stop," I said.

"But we should wait," she said.

"Yes. We should wait," I echoed. "It doesn't mean we can't store this, these feelings, this closeness, for when the time and place are right," I offered, more to reassure myself.

She slipped her hand from my grip and stroked my face gently. She pulled me close for a small, feathery kiss on my forehead. "There'll be another time." It was a statement and a question.

"Yes," I said with conviction. "Come on, let's go back to finding a way out."

We were hand in hand as we continued the search.

A promise had been made, a connection forged.

Things felt better.

*****

The Ransom

Present day, Las Vegas, meanwhile

Joyce Summers looked around nervously as she stepped off the taxi. The instructions did not specify how she was to get to the bus station, and it was generally agreed that it would not seem out of place if she took a cab. Even in the intense Las Vegas heat, she had put on a light cotton jacket, she couldn't feel the heat. All she had felt since this morning when the call came in was utter chill and numbness.

The caller was male, she was sure. Even with the electronically scrambled voice she could tell. She hated that voice already, the way it was distorted made it sound not only robotic, but calculated and unfeeling. She shuddered at the words, words she would never forget even if she was struck down by amnesia.

We have your daughter. She is unharmed now. If you want her to come back to you alive and with all her parts intact, do as we say. Three million dollars. One million in small denominations, no larger than tens. The second million in twenties. The last million in hundreds. Don't tell us you can't afford it, the girl just signed for three Disney movies. She's going to be so rich. You will agree that we are being extremely reasonable, one million per movie is a tiny sum to pay. Just think about it as community service. Such a small price, considering what you would get if she were lost to this world forever. Bundle up the bills in three black garbage bags, then the whole lot in two black garbage bags, double bagged. Everything in a green and beige duffel bag. Get the duffel bag from the luggage section at any Target. It must be that particular color and size. Tie a red ribbon on the handle. You have three hours. Everything good comes in threes. We know you can't help but get the police involved. If they interfere in anyway or try to intercept the money or have anyone followed or set anyone up for arrest, your daughter will come back to you, gradually, in pieces. We are being very generous and understanding here, don't make us regret it.

The instructions were so precise, and precisely timed to be just under the limit for tracing the line. The police speculated that there would be a bait and switch. Joyce recalled the police captain listening to the voicemail. Captain Giles was a dashing, smart looking by-the-book police officer in his fifties. He was also Buffy's superior. Of all the professions, her elder daughter had to be a police officer when her younger daughter was kidnapped. Joyce was too weary to reflect on that irony.

Buffy's reaction was no surprise. When Joyce called her about the news, the silence was frightening. The fury that exploded was, like Buffy, concise and precisely focused. A single, body blowing, intense, fist on the wall. So intense that the paint and plaster broke under the pressure. That, and two of Buffy's fingers. She refused to have them attended to, until Captain Giles gave her a direct order. Captain Giles also tried to order Buffy to stay away from the case, but Joyce knew her elder daughter would never accept that order. Her argument that she would be involved, whether Captain Giles liked it or not, and hence it was more beneficial to have her on the team rather than a rogue member, was grudgingly accepted by Captain Giles. Nevertheless, since Willow was also missing, Captain Giles insisted on assigning another senior, well respected officer, to partner with Buffy.

All who listened to the voicemail agreed that it was odd that the kidnappers did not forbid Joyce to call the police, only to warn against interference or subsequent investigation. It was standard for kidnapper speak, as anyone who had watched any amount of television or gangster films would know, that the calling of the police was forbidden. It was also standard practice for the victim's families to ignore that piece of instructions. Or at least engage the police or security discreetly.

Captain Giles postulated that the kidnappers had some knowledge of either police operations or the psychology of victims and their families. Joyce was actually even encouraged to report to the police, and the kidnappers were in a way thumbing their noses at the police, that they would not catch the culprits. Buffy called them supreme arrogant bastards and as soon as Joyce got over her daughter's language, she had to agree. She thought about getting Dawn's management team involved, but she barely knew those Hollywood types and she was afraid of publicity leaks. They might want to spin it in a way that was harmful to Dawn. The police were vehement in their veto of getting anyone else but the immediate family involved.

Those were Joyce's thoughts as she entered the bustling bus station. She had not had much opportunity to use the bus, and was unfamiliar with the layout. How she wished she had visited the bus station before, she wouldn't be so disorientated. She felt like every eye was on her, clutching the awkward and heavy duffel bag. Normally it was designed for dragging but she didn't want to do that. This was the largest size available without wheels, and she was bemoaning the lack of wheels. Who would have thought three million dollars was so heavy?

She stopped to take her breath, panting out of exhaustion both physical and emotional.

"Mom, are you alright?" Buffy worried voice rang out behind her.

"Oh," she jumped. Then realized Buffy was not behind her. It was the transmitter they had placed behind her ears, hidden by her hair. Such high tech gadgets. "I'm fine. The bag is heavy, that's all," she replied in a whisper.

"You don't have to turn your head, just speak naturally. otherwise you look like you have uneven shoulders and a problem with your neck," Buffy directed.

"Oh," Joyce said again. "Oh well, here I go again." She picked up the heavy duffel bag and proceeded through the waiting area of the bus station. She walked past families having an impromptu picnic, couples teary eyed as they said good-bye, homeless sleeping on the hard benches, young people on their way to riches, hopefuls coming into town to find their destiny. None of the denizens of that Las Vegas bus station would know that the impeccably dressed middle aged mom with wavy blonde hair and tired eyes would be taking three million dollars to ransom her teenage daughter while her oldest daughter the cop monitored her progress in a control van outside. "I can go without all this excitement thank you very much," she muttered. She followed with a silent prayer that Dawn was alright and would be reunited with the rest of her family soon.

A few years ago Buffy had told her of the story of Tara's brother's kidnapping and how it went wrong. Joyce broke out in cold sweat thinking about it. That Buffy, Willow and Tara seemed to have become somewhat acquainted was quite surprising, given how they met. Well, Joyce thought, Buffy didn't really fraternize with Tara, their paths seemed to cross once in a while that was all. It was Willow who was closer to Tara, and even so whenever Joyce was in their presence they seemed to be each off in their own little worlds, with their own thoughts. She wondered why, that they could sit next to each other for a lengthy period of time, not talking, not interacting, not appearing to even acknowledge each other's presence. Yet it was so obvious that they were linked somehow.

It was Dawn, sweet Dawnie, who was the one particularly taken with Tara. Ever since Dawn discovered dancing, which was as soon as she learned how to walk, she had danced, and flitted about everywhere. The studio was a good place for her, the instructors and staff were friendly and the principal, Mrs Lanoir, Juillard and Royal Ballet trained, a great teacher and influence on Dawn.

The thought of Dawn brought fresh tears into Joyce's eyes. Please god, please don't let anything happen to my baby daughter. I want to see her dance and bow and happy and smiling again. I'll do anything, just bring her back, she prayed again.

After what seemed like a long trek she reached the left luggage locker area. As per instructions she scanned to the far end for a locker with a partially scratched off Grateful Dead concert sticker. She placed the duffel on the floor, stretching her shoulder muscles in relief, but keeping it between her feet for security. At first the locker would not budge and she was overcome with panic. They had been assured that this was the locker and it would be empty and available. The 'vacant' dial was showing so it must have been true. With shaking hands she tried again, and finally the door opened.

The locker was large but it was a tight fit for the duffel bag, Joyce had to use all her meager strength to push it inside in order for the door to close properly. She dug around her pocket for a quarter to deposit as usage fee. There was one moment when she thought she had forgotten to bring change, and especially to ensure she had quarters, digging deep beyond the keys and tissues she found a quarter. It slid into the slot with a final sounding click.

And her job was done. It was up to Buffy and Captain Giles now.

*****

"Will you stop fidgeting and sit still," Captain Rupert Giles admonished his best detective.

Detective Buffy Summers stopped her body from rocking with conscious physical force. She had no idea she was doing that, she knew it was due to nerves. And anger. And helplessness. Some cop she was, allowing her own kid sister to be kidnapped. Last she heard, Willow was taking Dawn to lunch after coming off a 36 hour shift. Her partner must have been with Dawn when the kidnappers ambushed. There was no word from Willow, an experienced cop, which gripped Buffy with so much anxiety that she had no words. Buffy knew Willow would protect Dawn as much as she was able to, and more; she trusted her partner and if she had to choose who would be Dawn's protector she would not hesitate to pick Willow. She wasn't sure if Willow had her off duty weapon with her, it wasn't mandatory although most detectives did. She knew that sometimes Willow didn't, especially if she was going straight home, or going out to an establishment where there might be security checks. It wasn't the hassle of proving they were police officers, it was the discomfort that the proprietors of those places displayed when they became aware that someone was carrying a weapon inside. Even though the weapon carrier was with the police. Buffy understood. Police officers were not all angels, the stress of the job and the ugliness they saw pushed a lot of officers over the edge. In a town such as Las Vegas where there were far too many temptations, it was so easy for officers to get into trouble way over their heads.

Still, if Willow had been carrying her off duty weapon, she was probably in a worse position. The kidnappers would certainly be heavily armed and would search Willow and Dawn. The consequences of the criminals discovering that they had kidnapped a cop would be dire. Willow's life would be at risk.

What was additionally troubling was the ransom demand made no mention of Willow, only Dawn. Buffy's heart sank at the thought, because the only possibility was that they had gotten rid of Willow somehow along the way, and she was injured, or dead, in some back roads in the desert.

"What do you think happened to Willow," she asked Giles.

Giles' expression was grim. "I don't even want to give thought to the worst case scenario. I have Wesley Wyndam Pryce and Charles Gunn working on it, they are canvassing the area we found her car, and searching through the nearby areas. She hasn't used her cell phone since this morning, but that can mean a number of things," he said. "The minute you feel it's too much, you need to tell me. I can't have you go all kitty bonkers on me, Summers."

"No sir. I want to be here. I need to be involved," Buffy said grimly. "I want to be there when we take them down."

"If there is to be a rescue operation, you cannot be in the team. You owe it to your mother and your sister not to go in," he emphasized.

"But sir--" she protested.

"No. There is no discussion on this, Detective," he said with finality.

Buffy bit her tongue. She was super emotional, but was rational enough, and had been a cop long enough, to recognize the chain of command. If she were not to jeopardize her career, she had to obey her captain. "I understand, Sir."

"Let's focus on the task at hand," he ordered.

They watched on the monitor as Joyce struggled to open the locker, push the duffel inside and their hearts went out to her to see her use her whole body to push the door shut. She was obviously under a lot of strain, even more so than them.

Joyce exited the bus station. She was advised not to acknowledge any of the undercover police officers Giles had planted all over the station and its surrounds. Not to look at the surveillance vehicles. And definitely not to check with the control van Giles and Buffy, together with other communications officers, were sitting cramped inside. She was to take another taxi and go home directly. Buffy would call her and keep her updated on the situation. They could not afford to have her give away the locations of the police presence at the bus station. Joyce had protested, wanting to at least go to the station house to be appraised of the situation first hand, but Giles patiently explained that they were working on the assumption that she would be followed, and heading to the police station was a very bad idea.

"Nothing happening," Officer Winifred Burkle reported. Officer Burkle, Fred as she was known to all her colleagues, was a communications expert. She had gone into the bus station earlier under disguise and set up various surveillance audio and visual equipment.

It was a waiting game.

Several times, individuals came close to the 'hot' locker and the officers came on full alert. But it were all false alarms. After September Eleven the majority of bus, train and transportation stations had discontinued offering left luggage lockers for security reasons. Las Vegas bus station was one of the last remaining. There were proposals in the town council to get rid of them, but the proposals were delayed due to political wranglings on other matters.

"Alert. Hispanic male approaching," one of the undercover officers inside the station reported.

"Switching to full visual on locker area," Officer Burkle responded.

A Hispanic male in workshirt and carrying a broom and pail of water was cleaning the floor. He slowly worked his way into the locker corner and toward the locker in question. Every single police officer in situ knew that posing as an ordinary worker and cleaner was one of the most effective disguises. They watched intently as the man came closer and closer to the locker.

When he stopped just along that particular bank and leaned his mop against the wall, Giles was already on the speaker getting his entire team ready. When the man placed his hand on the locker door adjacent and patted his pocket, Giles shouted an order and within seconds the man was surrounded by armed police officers and pushed against the wall with his arms pinned against his back.

Giles and Buffy flew out of the surveillance van and were at the scene within ten seconds.

The man was yelling. "What's going on, I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

"What were you reaching for? Search him," Giles ordered.

The officers retrieved a bunch of singles, a half eaten stick of chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes and a bic lighter. Nothing else.

"Look, I was just about to sneak a smoke. No one can see me here and once I clean the smell of bleach covers up the smoke," the man tried to explain.

They had the wrong man. He loudly protested that he had no idea what they were talking about when interrogated about the locker contents. He didn't care about the 'stoopid lockers' as he described it. A check with transportation department human resources department confirmed that he had been an employee for two years and no disciplinary records.

Frustrated, Giles sent his team back to cover. He was just about to return to the surveillance van when something caught his eye. Buffy watched interestingly as he shook and rocked the locker. She was even more surprised when he called for a locksmith to force it open. She wanted to warn him that they were causing too much ruckus and whoever the kidnappers had watching the locker would have been scared off by their activities.

"I think we've been duped," Giles said. "The money is already in the kidnapers' hands."

"How can it be? We didn't see anyone come near it, except for the cleaner," Buffy disagreed.

"Watch," Giles said.

The locksmith arrived presently and was ordered to open the locked locker as quickly as possible with carte blanche to destroy the lock, it only took him a few seconds.

Giles yanked open the locker to find the money was gone, having disappeared through a false bottom.

Disbelief painted across their faces. The link to the kidnappers was gone.

"Captain Giles! I see the duffel, some guy has it, I'm trying to follow him," the excited shout from one of the undercover officers suddenly came through.

Buffy sprinted though the throngs and outside the station. The other officer pointed out in the direction of the car park. Buffy was able to catch a glimpse of the duffel bag and its handler. She could make out a Causasian man wearing a Red Sox baseball cap and white t-shirt. She reported to Giles while running in full speed, but lost sight the man climbed into a truck. She turned abruptly and headed toward the nearest police vehicle parked just outside the parking area.

She must not lose him. Time for a chase.

*****

Who is the bad guy? Who is the good guy?

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

"Was that--?"

"Yeah, from the room."

We rushed as one out of the office, toward the sound of incessant screaming.

We found the young girl sobbing uncontrollably, screaming at the top of her lungs.

My new comrade reached her first, and wrapped her arms around the frightened girl.

"Help me!" the girl continued screaming as she struggled against her bonds.

The redhead started untying the ropes from the girl, I went over to help. Our fingers were swollen and trembling. It was bordering on impossible to loosen the knots. We worked together in silence, the older woman turning to comfort the girl once in a while.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." We stopped at the sound of another voice. Turning, I saw that it was the dark haired young man in the polo shirt. He was struggling to stand up, his left arm hanging loosely by his body, as a result of his shoulder wound. In his right hand he held a gun.

The redhead and I both gasped at the sight of the gun, dropping the rope in the process.

The young girl screamed again.

The young man yelled back at her, a gutteral scream of nonsense, dangerously waving the gun.

"Hey! Stop pointing that gun at us," the redhead shouted.

The young man screamed even more, and I joined in the shouting. Soon the yelling reached astronomical levels. Everyone was out of control, I did not care about the gun, all I wanted was to scream at the young man, at the other people, and at the insanity I found myself in.

And then we just stopped and stared wearily at each other.

"Help me," the young girl implored in a small voice.

The redhead ignored the young man and his gun, and proceeded to work on the young girl's knots again.

"I said, don't do that!" the young man shouted.

"Why?" the redhead yelled. "She's obviously scared and frightened and tied up. And not going anywhere. I'm going to untie her. Now shoot me if you want, but you have to be sure that's really what you want," she said evenly, as she deliberately turned away from him. That was the bravest thing I have ever seen, I was sure of it.

"Who the fuck are you? What's going on? Who the fuck am I?" It belatedly hit him, that he didn't know who we were. I watched the now familiar realization hit him, like how it hit me and the redhead, that he didn't know who he was. He stumbled backwards, and dropped his right hand. He still held onto his gun, but it was harmless for the time being.

We all turned as the last member of the 'cast' groaned loudly. There was a clatter as he rolled the cylindrical object off him, and a muffled grunt as he tried to sit up. The scene that he saw must have been some sight -- a young man in a blood splattered polo shirt, a disheveled woman, another woman in the act of untying a young girl from a chair.

The dark haired young man pointed his gun at the guy in the ski mask. I didn't blame him for that, if I had a gun I would have done the same. Then I remembered, and when I put my hand at the back of my jeans I felt the hard metal biting against my skin. I swallowed hard. This was a secret I had to keep from the group as long as possible.

"Whoa," the guy in the ski mask said. "Are we being punk'd?"

"No, asshole," short gun guy shouted. "No one knows what's happening. We all lost our memories."

"What?" ski mask guy sure was slow. He clutched his face in pain, and yanked off his face mask. I was surprised. He looked so young and fresh-faced in an all American nerd sort of way. Except for a large angry welt on his cheek, probably from being hit with the portable cylinder. If he wasn't in a ski mask, I wouldn't have thought he was capable of anything unsavory.

"Don't move," short gun guy ordered. "Okay everybody, I'm the one with the gun so you all have to do what I say. First someone figure out what's going on."

The redhead sighed. "Look, there are four of us," she said as she undid the last of the young girl's ties. "You can't control all of us at the same time, not if we all rushed you." She looked at me, "why don't you tell us what you think happened."

I recounted my own experience, and my theory that this was a kidnapping that had gone wrong. With four pairs of eyes staring at me, I was embarrassed, wanting to hide or not be stared at. I kept looking at the redhead for reassurance, it was like I have always done with her. I was convinced, that the redhead and I have some sort of history.

"So you're saying some of us were kidnapping the others?" short gun guy said slowly after I finished.

"Yes, that's what I believe is happening," I replied.

"So, who is who?" blonde guy asked.

"Well, you're obviously the bad guy. And girlie is too weak to be a kidnapper," short gun guy said.

"Now wait a minute, why am I the bad guy?" blonde guy pouted.

"Duh. You're the one in the ski mask," short gun guy said smugly.

"You're the one with the gun!" blonde guy accused. "Who's to say the kidnappers didn't put ski masks on their victims so they can't see?" He asked, looking around the room for affirmation.

Apart from the fact that you can see out of a ski mask. But who was to know? The fact was, none of us knew who was who, and who was what. I hadn't told them about the phone call and I wasn't sure if I wanted to. That the person on the phone recognized my voice and started giving me instructions suggested something that I didn't want to believe. Like the gun tucked uncomfortably into my back, I held those aces as reserves.

We circled around each other in confusion and uncertainty. Every question and suggestion was met by an objection from someone and ended with another shouting match. The young girl spent all the time crying in the redhead's arms. Short gun guy was persuaded to put the gun away. He refused to give it up to someone else, but agreed to tuck it into his pants instead of brandishing it about.

At one point we were all so angry at each other that we each retreated to a corner of the room. There was silence for a few moments as we were each consumed with our own thoughts.

The silence was broken when the phone rang again.

*****

One of us is the victim; the other a kidnapper
Notes: I suppose you can say that was 11 chapters of prologue

Present day, abandoned warehouse, now

I watched her wake up. The sound that first alerted me that there were other people in the building brought me back, to wherever here was, to a plain storage room. I was surprised, and intensely frightened at the scene that greeted me when I tiptoed inside.

There were signs of a struggle. Chairs and crates were overturned. Several metal cylinders were lying haphazardly on the floor. Storage cabinets were out of place.

I stopped short and studied the human occupants with increasing dread. I did not recognize any of them. That discovery was no longer surprising, but still disturbing. In the few minutes since I woke up, I'd come to the conclusion that I had been infected with amnesia, or been transported into some weird bizzaro alternate universe where I had absolutely no memory whatsoever of anything. I frivolously thought that perhaps it was a game of some sort, a realistic enactment of some adventure or other. Or it was a reality tv program. Then my headache returned and I concluded that no corporation would take the medical risk of causing innocent people to lose their memories for the sake of a game or a tv program.

There were four people, all in various form of unconsciousness and even injury. Immediately inside the door was a man in a ski mask, wearing a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt, torn jeans and scruffy Adidas sneakers. He was trapped underneath a gas cylinder a bit larger than a large fire extinguisher. It looked like someone threw it at him, may be they were having a fight. I wasn't sure.

In the middle of the room was a dark-haired man, quite short and young looking. He was wearing a polo shirt, khaki pants and similar Adidas sneakers as the other person. I gasped as I saw blood oozing out from a wound in his shoulder. I was too scared to go near him. I stared at him for the longest time, watching his chest rise up and down. At least he was alive and breathing. I knew that to be a good citizen I should be helping him with his injury. I wasn't sure if I knew how. I watched in fascination as the blood circle grew slowly, but I couldn't bring myself to go near him.

Tied up in a plain wooden chair was a young girl, may be thirteen or fourteen. Her long brown hair was in disarray, and she was slumped forwards, straining against the rope that was wound tightly across her torso and in a tangle around her arms. Her feet were also bound tightly to the chair. Unlike with the injured man, my instincts were to help the young girl. I took one step forward, and stopped myself. Did I want to help her because there was a flicker of recognition, or was it general wanting to help a helpless child? Upon visual inspection, she didn't look hurt. I decided to leave her be for a moment.

Looking at the fourth person in the room gave me a completely different reaction to the other three. I felt a tug of recognition just beyond my consciousness as I drank in her features. A red-headed young woman, in her early to mid-twenties. Wearing a yellow t-shirt, green casual pants and orange sneakers. A part of me grinned at the total lack of color coordination, yet the combination seemed to fit well on her. She was lying face down on the floor with her head twisted to one side. I couldn't see any visible injury aside from a gash on her forehead. The bleeding had stopped so I wasn't faced with the dilemma of whether to help her.

While I was watching, she groaned faintly. I recalled my own reaction when I woke up and wondered if she was feeling the same. The gash on her forehead would give her a mother of a headache, if other things did not. I retreated back toward the bathroom, hiding in the shadows of the lockers just outside. It gave me a view of both the storage area, the bathroom and the woman.

I watched her wake up. The first thing she did was to bring her hand to her head, and she moaned again in obvious pain. I watched as she struggled to get to her feet, holding back my natural reaction to reach out when she fell a couple of times before finally able to stand up. She swayed, and then her eyes widened as she retched. I watched her look around the storage area and then ran out toward me. She pushed open the bathroom door with a loud bang and I heard her throw up. This was so familiar, exactly what I did when I woke up. Was she going through the same reactions as I did? Would she splash water on her face, wash out her mouth and then look at the mirror? What would she see? Would she recognize her own reflection?

A muffled scream a few minutes later was the answer. Wearily I pushed myself away from my hiding place, my feet automatically bringing me to the bathroom. I placed my hand on the door, hesitated for one second, then pushed it open quietly.

She was staring in disbelief at her reflection in the mirror. Her face had gone a deathly white, in stark contrast to the redness of her eyes.

"You don't know who you are. You don't know where you are and what you are doing here. All you feel is panic and the uncontrollable urge to go crazy. Screaming helps," I said quietly. "A little."

She jumped at my voice and looked panicked like a wild, untamed animal. Whirling around and backing up against the sinks, she held out a finger in warning. "Don't come any closer. I'm warning you," she said, her voice unsteady.

"Don't worry, we are in the same boat. I can't remember who I am either. I woke up, and I was sick, and then I'm lost," I said, trying to sound unthreatening.

"Who are you?" she mumbled.

I sighed. "Did you hear what I just said? I can't remember my name. That's why you're freaked out, am I right? You looked into the mirror," I nodded at the cracked dirty mirror on the bathroom door, "And you had no idea who is staring back at you."

"You say it happened to you too?" she asked. At my nod of agreement she made a sickening face and turned back to her reflection. "This is unreal. Are you sure you don't know what's going on?" she asked again.

I laughed. "Are you always this annoying? Oh wait, don't answer that," I paused, then tried to reassure her but my words came out bitter. "Yes, I'm sure. I have the blackout spells and the giant headache to show for it."

"Have you looked around? Tried to figure out where we are?" she suggested, all business.

"Not really, only the big room where you woke up. I'm sure the others will be coming to soon," I said.

"The others?" she exclaimed.

In answer I beckoned to her to follow me. She was as surprised as I was when she saw the other three people unconscious in the large storage area. I watched as her eyes roamed over the man in the ski mask, the dark haired man with the injury -- his bleeding seemed to have abated, to my relief -- and the young girl tied up in the chair. I watched as she tried to make sense of a situation that was a complete blank, and I watched as she visibly suppressed another urge to throw up.

We retreated to the office, neither of us in any state to do any more exploration.

I sat at the desk while she paced. She was the type to pace while she thought, I was certain. I thought it was odd how well I seemed to know her and her personality. Our automatic familiarity, together with the unmistakable affinity I felt toward her, it all suggested that we knew each other outside.

"What are your theories? Do you have any?" she stopped her pacing and asked me directly.

I thought about it. "I think there's been a kidnapping. The young girl in the chair, she's probably the victim. Or one of the victims. you saw the other chair with the loose ropes?" She nodded. I was impressed at her powers of observation. "So there was another victim, probably. And probably it's you, me, or the short guy with the polo shirt," I postulated.

"Not the other guy?" she asked.

"I suppose he could be too. But he's the one in the ski mask and, well, in most books and films about good guys and bad guys, the good guys don't normally wear ski masks," I said sheepishly.

"Yeah, that's probably true. Then again, a part of me is warning me not to take anything at face value," she said.

"The other guy, in the polo shirt. you think he's the victim or the kidnapper?" I asked.

"No clue. They have the same shoes on, but that could be a coincidence," she said. "Ah, hell. There's no such thing as a coincidence."

"That leaves you and me," I said plainly. A thought, a very bad thought, was crystallizing in my mind. I tried to push it away but it grew and grew until I could no longer ignore it.

"One of us is the victim; the other a kidnapper," she said, exactly the thoughts in my mind.

We looked at each other, cold realization snapping in place.

Someone screamed.

*****

The Kidnapping

Noon today

"It's all your fault."

"What the hell do you mean, it's all my fault? Whose idea was it in the first place?"

"She was right there!"

"You couldn't have clubbed her over the head or something?"

"Are you kidding? You whack someone on the head, they might die!"

"Then why did you have to take her with us? What the hell are we gonna do with her? It's not a buy one get one free deal at Radioshack! Look what happened to them!"

"Me? We are so gonna get killed. What do we tell Tara?"

"Nothing."

"We can't tell her nothing. She's got eyes. She'll see."

"Well you should have thought about it before you bundled her in here with the girl."

"Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck."

*****

Tara yanked opened the driver door of the van and climbed in. She barely took one look at her two accomplices before she pushed the ignition key of the van. "Keep your masks on," she directed. She was on an adrenalin high, and didn't trust herself to speak too much. She was in the car that blocked the road so that Dawn's vehicle had to swerve into the secluded lay-by. And then when she tried to move her car, so as not to block other traffic, the old rental would not start. She swore it was whoever it was up there sending her a karma message. Brushing that thought aside, she finally got the car started and moved off. By then Jonathan and Andrew had done what they were supposed to do, and she had no part in it. She had to trust that the two of them did it right. The road was narrow and full of bends, so she could only afford a brief glance at the back of the van. It was dark and her view was partially obscured by the boys, but the inert bundle she saw covered with a rough gray blanket meant that they had Dawn.

The drive to the abandoned warehouse she had identified earlier took an hour, and it was all in silence. Jonathan and Andrew glared at each other as if waging a silent war of words. Tara saw nothing of that, focusing her energy on driving, keeping to the speed limit and with half an eye out for trouble. She would not put it past Warren to double cross them in some way and have them arrested so that he could be a community hero.

She knew that there was no way that she could have refused Warren. She was guilty of plotting to kidnap his daughter, and although the anecdotal recorded conversation between her and the boys was probably not sufficient to bring a conviction, she was sure that Warren could pay off one of the vast number of judges and law enforcement personnel to make it stick. At least make her life miserable by drawing out the process. She went along with his scheme, not altogether unwillingly. As a gesture of supreme goodwill, as he phrased it, he even agreed to cover her mother's medical expenses. So much for doing anything, at any cost. Tara didn't want to dwell on whether she would ever regret her actions, at this point she had no ethics left.

That she did regret, was that Dawn was the victim in this. Her personal friendship with the girl made her doubly determined that no harm would come to the innocent teen. If it came out that she was involved, she knew no one would forgive her. Not Buffy, not Mrs Summers, not her own mother, and definitely not Willow. Buffy and Willow would likely go through all channels and make sure she was punished to the maximum extent under the law. She didn't care. She was at a point where her opinion of herself had dropped to rock bottom that she even believed that she deserved to be punished and ostracized by her friends forever. Still, ensuring her mother's health was above everything. She made Warren promise that if the operation went according to plan, and even if Tara got into trouble, that he would continue helping her mother through her illness. In turn, Tara gave her word that she would never implicate him. He knew her well enough to trust her word; but she made him swear on his daughter's life that he would keep his. There was a surreal sense of thieves' honor in that. She hoped he understood. He probably watched enough mobster movies to have a rough idea.

She slowed the van as she approached the abandoned warehouse, coming to a complete stop a few yards from the entrance. If anyone was following her, they would have to either stop also, in which case she would spot them immediately; or they would have to drive on and pass her van. They would not be able to stop somewhere further along the road and turn back. One of the reasons she picked this building was that it was situated along a straight road with nothing at the sides. There were no other buildings in the immediate vicinity -- only derelict plots and another warehouse that had partially burned to the ground. It was far enough out of town, almost at the desert, that traffic was plenty scarce. There was no cover for any following vehicle or person.

Satisfied that there were no threats in the area, she pulled out into the road again and drove up to the side entrance of the abandoned warehouse. The main doors were still in place, but the hinges had gotten stuck and the metal doors too heavy to move. Tara thought they might crumble to pieces if anyone managed to move them. The side door was unlocked when she found the place, she had since installed a bolt and an electronic numerical lock for security. She unlocked the door by punching in a series of passcodes then turned her attention to the van and its occupants. Frowning that her accomplices had not exited when she did, she muttered a curse and wrestled with the side door of the van.

It opened just as she was pulling at it. Andrew and Jonathan were obviously arguing, she had never known two grown men bicker so much -- well, except if they were a couple -- and frankly she was tired of it. The tone of their argument was less frivolous than usual, even sounding urgent.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

They clammed up as if by unspoken agreement. More curious and angry now, she noticed that they were trying to shield their bodies so that she couldn't see into the van interior. Something was wrong. With a hard stare, she pushed at the nearer of the two, Jonathan she believed, and climbed in. Pulling at the large gray blanket that had covered what she presumed to be an unconscious Dawn, her jaw dropped as she took in who was actually laying prone on the hard floor of the vehicle.

"Uh," Andrew made a gurgling noise.

"What the freck?" she demanded.

"She, she was with the girl. Wouldn't give up, was fighting us like a maniac," Andrew started to explain.

"Yeah, so this idiot decides to give them both a shot and bring her with the girl," Jonathan said in disgust.

Willow. The two clowns brought Willow, together with Dawn. The two were tied up and unconscious. There was an ugly gash in Willow's forehead. Tara's heart cried out. She wanted to scream out. Or hit someone.

What was the term for assaulting and kidnapping a police officer?

And one she had feelings for?

"You couldn't have just left her in their car?" she asked.

"It happened so quickly, we weren't thinking," Andrew tried to explain.

"No, you weren't thinking. I had nothing to do with it," Jonathan pouted.

Tara made a decision. It complicated matters, and she had to somehow keep the information from Warren. "Christ, we don't have time to drive her back and dump her in her car. And she'll die of heatstroke or exposure if we leave her in the van or out there in the desert. Bring them both inside," she instructed. "Take the girl first, both of you."

When the boys were busy transporting Dawn, she patted Willow down for weapons. She couldn't do it in front of the boys, because it would signal that she knew Willow was a cop. She didn't find a gun, but she took Willow's ID and wallet so that she could not be identified. She pocketed the ID and wallet and jumped out of the van to wait for the boys' return.

In short order they had their prisoners in the storage room she had designated as the holding area. The warehouse was originally a chemical storage facility, she thought, as they had to move several heavy tanks to accommodate Willow, the additional prisoner. Throughout, neither Willow nor Dawn stirred, and Tara was relieved. She checked on their breathing and pulse after they had them tied up in chairs, they were a bit short but seemed to not to have been harmed.

"Alright, you two stand guard. I'm going to the office to call Warren, tell him we're in place," she said.

Jonathan nodded to Willow. "What about her? Are we telling him about her?" he asked.

"He'll annihilate us," Andrew interjected, obviously frightened. He obviously hadn't thought anything through when he pushed Willow together with Dawn into the van. Tara sighed. He probably saw all the blood pouring from her head and all rational thought escaped him. Andrew was afraid of many things in life, she wondered how he was ever going to grow up.

Tara considered her options. "You know he will be very pissed at us for the addition to our party," she said. At the boys' exasperated nods she continued, "We don't tell him yet. He has so many other things to worry about now. We'll cross that bridge when we get there, he'll know what to do." One thing she realized, was the extent of the two boys' hero worship of Warren. It was very transparent. In Jonathan's case it was admiration of Warren's power, wealth and ability to manipulate anyone and everyone. In Andrew's case it was simple lust. If she said they could trust him, they wouldn't question her. This also placed her in their good books, to give the illusion of her respect of their leader. No use rattling the troops just yet.

"Yes, yes," they agreed without hesitation.

"Make sure you have your masks on at all times," she reminded them.

Once in the office she opened the bottom drawer of an old metal filing cabinet and placed Willow's ID and wallet in a dusty old leather folder. This she hid underneath a random stack of papers, carefully arranged to be messy and untouched for years. She patted her pockets, making sure they were empty. It provided a good cover in case they were caught. It would take the police some time to identify them if they had nothing on their person. The van's keys were still in the ignition.

Now she really had to think about what to do with Willow. If Warren found out, and he would as soon as he returned to the warehouse, he wouldn't hesitate to get rid of her. He could ill afford any stray loose ends. The only saving grace was that Tara was sure he knew Willow was a cop. If he knew so much about Tara's life, and she was now sure he had her followed, he would know about Willow. If only she could persuade him that harming a police officer would not even give him immunity regardless of how many crooked people he had in his pocket. May be he would agree to just leave her there in the warehouse. And then Tara would tip the authorities anonymously.

What a day.

*****

Willow fought against the fog that was in her brain. She tried to open her eyes but they seemed to be superglued tightly shut, no amount of willpower could budge them. She heard a moan from behind her and then realized it came from her. The sound from the back of her throat was like the rumble of a broken down train in the night.

Her head hurt. Oh boy, did it hurt. Vaguely she remembered the gash forming when she hit her head on something. What? she struggled to remember. She remembered the blood dripping into her eyes, but by then she was unable to wipe it with her hands. Why? she remembered the screech of tires as she maneuvered the car pass the obstacle. When? Everything was so unclear, and mixed with so much pain.

"--trust him. He'll take care of us."

She heard voices. From nearby. To her left and slightly ahead. Male, in his twenties. Her cop's instincts and training came through again, and she wanted to smile but her facial muscles hurt too much for even a millimeter of movement.

"I wish I were more like him," a second voice rang out. Also male, in his twenties. More whiny than the first one. From approximately the same location. They were probably having the conversation next to each other. From the way the voices sounded, the lack of ambient or external noises, and lack of general disorientation and movement, she concluded that she was indoors. She was not good enough yet to tell the size of the room or other factors.

"Someone has a crush," the first voice said mockingly, a little sing song accompanying the good-natured ribbing.

Then some mumbling that Willow could not catch.

By then her arms were screaming out in pain. Through careful exploration and slow movements, she quickly concluded that she was tied, her arms twisted awkwardly, hence the pain. The rope around her wrists wound haphazardly so that each movement tightened it further. She tried moving other parts of her body. Her feet were bound too, though there was some leeway for which she was grateful.

She was finally able to open her eyes. But she could see nothing. Blindfolded. Some light filtered through the cloth, but just barely. She closed her eyes again, there was no point to keeping them open. Closing them brought a very slight relief to the headache she was experiencing. The pain from coming from both inside her head and outside. Inside was a throbbing that was like the techno beat of a nightclub, taking turns hammering the top of her head, then the side, then the back. She could also feel a different type of pain above her right eye. The type that went with an injury. The cut felt deep, and she was sure she had been bleeding. Hopefully the scab had formed and the bleeding stopped by now.

Bits of what happened came trickling back. She was driving Dawn. A car was parked horizontally across the road, the driver slumped over the steering wheel. She pulled into the small area next to the road to avoid the obstacle and to offer help to the driver. She told Dawn to stay put. When she opened her car door she was overpowered by an unknown assailant in a ski mask. Another assailant was roughly pulling Dawn out of her car. Dawn was screaming. She struggled against her assailant, managing to jam her elbow against his side. She heard him grunt in surprise, then he shoved her against the car. She was too close to avoid the collision, last thing she remembered was hitting her head against the sharp corner of the car door, Dawn's shrill screams filling her ears.

Dawn!

Where was the girl? Was she also tied and blindfolded where Willow was? What happened? Was the other car a distraction? Some cop she was, to be overpowered by just one person. She should hold her own well against just one person, male or female.

There was no sense in thinking of things outside her control. She strained her ears, trying to check if the two men were still in the room. All she could hear was her own panting and the drumbeat of her heart. She figured out that she was in a sitting position, with her arms tied across the back of the chair and her feet bound to the legs. It felt like a movable chair, rather than a heavy armchair. There was potential there. She experimented with arm and shoulder movement. If she ignored the pounding pain in her head, she could move her shoulders quite a bit. With that good news, she bent her neck and worked the blindfold partially off with her shoulder. Not enough to see through, but if she lifted her head there was a small gap at the bottom she could see her surroundings. As she suspected she was indoors and looking in the direction of the two men, she could just make out two indistinct shapes. Difficult to see more due to her restricted movement and the placement of the blindfold.

Taking a chance, she hopped a little, trying to make as little noise as possible. It proved too difficult without drawing attention to herself. She turned her focus on the ties around her hands. Though the rope was biting hard into her wrists, the knots were actually not impossibly tight. She patiently and very slowly worked them off, grateful for anti-terrorism training that her captain made the entire squad attend. Having slender and flexible wrists helped somewhat too.

It took her hours, or so it felt like. It was probably close to half an hour, even 20 minutes. Her guards weren't doing such a good job, she could hear them arguing, or talking about the latest video games, or doing nothing at all. They never came near her to check on her. A blessing in disguise, she concluded. She bit her lips hard in reaction to the pain as she wrestled her hand out of the last tangled bond. Once her hand was free, her fingers slipped through with ease. Carefully moving to avoid sudden movement, she loosened the rope on her other hand. She kept them in place, behind the back of the chair and rubbed her chafed hands in relief. After a few seconds of rest, and feeling the blood flow through her hands again, she slowly brought one hand up to her face, keeping it close to her body and moving an inch or so at a time. She didn't remove the blindfold altogether, as it would be suspicious. She levered it up so that she could see her surroundings clearly, but from a distance hopefully it still looked like she had the blindfold on.

Moving her head infinitesimally, she took in each aspect of the room. No windows. A large store room of some kind, the type found at the back of a store, or in a warehouse in an industrial complex. No sign of recent use, the furniture was old, some even broken. There were a bank of heavy cylinders against one of the walls, and warning posters suggest that it was a chemical facility at some point. It was obvious to her now that it was no longer in active use. She gasped softly as she saw Dawn, trussed up and blindfolded as she was in a chair a few feet from her. Too far away to reach, or to call to her. Besides, the girl was still unconscious. A pin prick at her neck suggested to her that they were drugged.

Carefully she turned her attention to her two captors, in the middle of looking through what looked like a comic book. What inept idiots. As she suspected from their voices, young, in their twenties. May be even mid- to late twenties, around her age. One taller, the other extraordinarily short. With their ski masks on, she couldn't tell anything further. It was the shorter one who had the dominant personality though, the taller one deferring to him on several occasions.

Willow brought her hands back to the tied position behind her chair and plotted her next step. She had to assume that the two captors were armed, even though she could see no weapons around them. They were a good ten, twelve feet away, ruling out any surprise attack. Besides, her feet were still tied to the chair, making any surprise impossible. She would have to bide her time, try to loosen her feet at some point. She figured there were other accomplices elsewhere; those two were bottom of the pile of whatever criminal outfit responsible for holding Dawn and her, Willow could not imagine either being the leader or planner in such activities.

Her chance came sooner than she thought. The short one stood up and stretched himself.

"I gotta take a leak," he declared.

"Oh, now you've done it, cuz I need to too," the taller one said. "Let's go."

"Are you sure you're not a girl inside your boxers? I'll go, then you go after me," the short one said.

"What's wrong with going together?" the taller one argued.

Willow stilled, closing her eyes as the short one nodded in her direction. "Because one of us needs to stay here and guard them, you dipshit. We're not here on vacation, there's stuff to be done," he said.

"But I gotta go. And look a them, they're both out like sleeping beauties. Didn't she say they should be out for a couple of hours at least?" the taller one insisted.

"No. Okay, you go first, then I go," the short one said in frustration.

"No. either both of us go, or we both don't go," the tall one insisted.

Willow wanted to shout out to them just go already, it was getting petty.

With a dramatic sigh the short one took off. "Do whatever you want, dude," he declared.

With one last look at her, the taller captor ran after his companion.

Willow wasted no time in loosening up the ties on her feet. She yanked off her blindfold and gathered the rope in her hand. As she ran the few steps towards the door she was already eyeing the room for possible weapons.

There was a gas cylinder at the side of the door, larger than the usual fire extinguisher. She didn't care if it was empty or full, even empty the container had enough weight for her purposes. She hefted it in her hands, grinning at the satisfying weight. She knew the men would return quickly, and took up a position immediately next to the entrance.

She started counting. It was her usual method in a stake out, to keep her mind focused. Her head was still spinning but counting gave her focus. She was barely at twenty when she heard footsteps approaching. Two sets, good. They were coming back.

As soon as the door opened she shoved the metal cylinder hard at the first person who entered. He gave a surprised grunt and fell back against his associate. Willow instinctively threw the cylinder in his direction, blindly hitting her target again. She was sure she hit him hard enough to hurt a great deal, hopefully it knocked him out too.

Any second now, his associate would be at her. Before he could scramble over the prone body, Willow loosened the rope she had wrapped around her hand and whipped at him. Her luck ran out as he grabbed a hold of the rope and pulled back at her. She fell against him, kicking and lashing out. They struggled, fighting evenly. Willow did not even have time to figure out which of the two captors it was, all she wanted was to get an upper hand in the fight. Although small, she was agile and well trained. He grabbed her hair; she pulled off his ski mask to reveal a pudgy Caucasian male, mid-twenties with dark hair and brown eyes. These details embedded in her brain automatically, and didn't detract from the fight at hand. They threw punches and blocks for a few rounds before she managed a particularly vicious kick that fell him. As he rolled away, she followed up with another kick in his kidney. He grunted in pain but managed to push her away, making her lose her footing. She staggered backwards and managed not to fall over completely. When she righted herself they were both standing, panting at each other.

Willow froze, fear creeping up her spine. He had a gun in his hand.

"What's going on?" The door banged open and an authoritative voice demanded. "Jonathan, shit! You have a gun."

Willow froze again. This captor didn't have a ski mask on, and she could see clearly who it was.

Tara.

Tara stared at Willow, then gasped in realization as she gazed down at the ski mask she held in her hand.

Before anyone could say anything, Jonathan shouted something incomprehensible and aimed his gun at Willow.

Through years of training and instinct, Willow dived. The bullet grazed her arm and she cried out. It didn't stop her, she thundered towards Jonathan and tackled him with a full body blow.

She grappled with him, grabbing his gun arm and forcing the gun away from her body. A barrage of shots rang out, she jerked her body in subconscious response to being shot, but felt no pain.

Vaguely she registered that the ping of the bullets hitting the large cylindrical canisters along the wall, and the hiss of gas escaping.

Then a sweet smell and everything went black.

*****

At All Cost

One month ago

Tara ducked her head behind the steering column as Warren's car left the underground parking garage with a screech. She didn't know why she persisted, sitting in her car watching the office building after she left. The personal assistant and, outside in the corridor, the security guard following her out were a sure sign that she was not welcome to return.

She walked the streets of the business district with a dagger in her heart and lead in her foot. She refused to give thought to the possibility that her mother would be gone in months, leaving her alone in the world. She had never known her father, he walked out on her mother before Tara was born. Donny, who was three years older, had no memory of him either. Her mother kept one or two pictures of him, hidden where she thought her children would never find them. But Tara and Donny had figured it out when Donny was ten and Tara was seven. Even at that age the young kids knew to keep a secret and returned the pictures to their hiding place after staring at them for what seemed forever. Over the years they came back to look at them occasionally. Tara for one could feel no connection or emotion towards the thin, gaunt man with pursed lips turned downwards and a sour expression that seemed to be his norm. She was glad that Donny had not inherited the dourness.

She walked around aimlessly, not knowing where she was going or what she was doing. She bumped into business people, tourists, families, lovers, always shuffling on with a muffled apology. It was a hot, hot day and soon she was drenched with perspiration. When it started dripping down from her head through her face she did not even have the presence of mind to wipe it off. Soon tears joined until at one last, desperate moment, she found herself back at the Big Industries building looking like a mad woman with disheveled hair, an avalanche of sweat and fists clenched in frustration.

She found her car and parked it across from the underground parking garage entrance, waiting.

Waiting was an endless game. She knew a little of it when she was Warren's do-everything girl, his enabler. She had been in countless same positions before, camped out in a waiting vehicle outside hotels, houses and clubs while he was conducting whatever...business...he was conducting inside. She refused to participate, which irked him. But since she turned out to be very good at building connections, organizing his social diary and keeping his activities quiet he found other distractions and hangers-on to take with him.

As she watched the Red Ferrari accelerate down the street, she hastily started her ancient Honda. It only occurred to her as she pulled out that there was no way in hell she could follow that 6-speed, 5.7 liter V12 monster as it roared and devoured the tarmac. She was never in the same class, she had to remind herself. Luckily it was downtown traffic, and not even 6-speed 5.7 liter V12 monsters driven by an egomaniac could get other vehicles to get out of the way. Tara kept her eye on the distinctive red chassis, grateful for once for Warren's extravagance, and eventually caught up. She kept several car lengths behind, not sure if he remembered what car she drove. She suspect not, since it would be beneath him to even notice, but she did not want to take the chance.

The drive took them to the part of town where houses were not big enough. Houses had to be mansions, or castles, or towers. Carriage drives and high security fencing were the norm. Tara grew self conscious passing each house, afraid to be discovered or stopped on suspicion.

At the end of a cul-de-sac Warren pulled into the largest mansion in the area. Tara slowed down and stopped, hiding behind a row of other cars and some trees in the road. It was the same house he stayed in when she worked for him. While surprised that he had not moved, she realized that he was already in the biggest, most expensive, most fitting house in the area. There was nothing to move into, short of building his own palace. Perhaps he was doing just that.

An hour went by with no activity. She began to have second thoughts about what she was doing. Observing him drive from the office back to his home was pointless. She would only arouse suspicion. What did she expect to do? Accost him at a traffic light and plead her case again? Stupid.

She wished she had brought some food, she was beginning to get hungry. The cream cheese bagel with Willow at the hospital was a long time ago. She stopped. Willow. She had not told Willow about any of her predicament, although the redhead had sussed onto some of it. It felt wrong to have told Warren first rather than Willow. Every instinct in her warned her against confiding in Willow, because that signaled that they were closer than she was prepared to handle, that there was a possibility of increasing intimacy.

That was not the train of thought she wanted to get into. Thinking about Willow always made her confused. Unwittingly, she remembered every touch, every conversation, every fight. It stirred her but it shouted warning bells so loud she could not ignore them. As per usual when thoughts of Willow took over everything, she forced herself to look at her current surroundings and what she was doing. It didn't reassure her. She was still sitting outside Warren's house with no plan. She might as well be swallowed up by the earth that same moment.

As she slumped her shoulders and began to think about leaving -- she was due at the hospital -- the front gate opened and a late model SUV exited. She didn't see too clearly who was driving but it was a woman, with another shorter, smaller passenger. Not Warren. Debating briefly whether to follow, she decided that since she was about to leave the area, she could follow this car to see what and who it was. If they were heading the same way, it would just be her driving away.

A few minutes later her curiosity was satisfied as the SUV pulled into a park that had a number of softball fields. The car stopped and Tara slapped her head. She should have remembered. Something so basic had slipped her mind. She had banished all thoughts and information on Warren Meers to the great archive of her mind.

Katrina Silber married Warren when she was seventeen, and for whatever reasons the marriage had lasted. Surely Katrina knew of Warren's exploits, and Tara could not fathom the reasons why the woman stayed with him. Money, perhaps. He had something he held over her, also likely. The product of the marriage was a daughter, Janice. As Tara watched the girl in softball uniform join her friends on the field, she thought to herself how quickly the girl had grown since she saw her last. It was unlikely the girl would remember her. A quick mental calculation put her at thirteen. And Tara immediately thought of Dawn and how teenagers changed when they reached that age.

She stuck around in a secluded spot watching the softball game. Janice was good, a good team player who contributed both in terms of running and fielding. She must take after her mother; in Tara's mind there were no redeeming quality about her father that was worth passing to the next generation. She turned her attention to the woman married to a monster. Katrina was older now, and the botox treatment and plastic surgery she had undergone subtly but obviously visible. It was debatable whether she initiated the treatment or whether her husband mandated it. She was a gracious host, and with her minor socialite background she was the perfect trophy wife to hang on the arms of a wannabe industrialist. The fact that the marriage had lasted this long -- over ten years -- Warren could also use it as a propaganda for his success.

After two innings she had had enough. She felt like a stalker, but one without purpose. She still had not worked out the conundrums in her head, and they became an interlocking mass of swirling, raging noises each clamoring for her attention. But when she tried to focus on one it quickly slid away. She was getting a massive headache.

She spent the rest of the day with her mother, who was exhausted from the morning's exertions and a series of tests in the afternoon. Tara spent most of her visit sitting vigil beside the older woman's bed, listening with heavy heart to her mother's labored breathing and intermittent moans of pain. She tried to find Dr Lee but he was at another hospital. There was nothing she could talk to him about anyway. He had not signed off on Mrs Maclay's release so she was set to be there another night.

*****

Four days later Tara exhaled violently as she pushed her mother's wheelchair up the sloping garden pathway leading to their front door. She had had very little sleep or respite from the gnawing demons invading her thoughts constantly. She was visibly pale and, it seemed impossible, had lost even more weight. Even the nurses at the hospital commented on it. It was in their nature to be caring, so Tara accepted their good-natured and well meaning nags with good grace.

Willow had visited once more, and they sat outside in the hospital garden for a little while. There was still so much tension between them. Several times it was on the tip of Tara's tongue to tell Willow about her plight. Each time she clamped down. Her mood was sour, and when Willow tried to inquire about it, she had gone off on Willow. This time they parted angry and when Tara stormed back inside Willow made no attempt to follow. Willow didn't visit again, nor call to ask when Mrs Maclay was due to be released.

"Tara honey, you don't need to do this, I can walk up by myself if you let me lean on you and we do it slowly," Mrs Maclay said. She was very weak, but she had not missed her daughter's increasing physical and mental deterioration. Not for the first time she was furious at how life had ended up for her and her children. Her daughter was literally buckling under the strain, but she refused to talk to anyone about it. It was disheartening.

"It's only a short way, I don't want you to get out of this wheelchair," Tara insisted.

By the time they traversed the short few feet, Tara was in short breaths. She tried hard not to let her mother notice, breathing in long breaths to try to slow down the hammering of her heart and the ache in her lungs. Her hands shook when she opened the front door and she almost dropped the key. Eventually she managed to get her mother, the unwieldy wheelchair and her mother's large overnight bag in through the door. She leaned on it as she closed it, eager for a small amount of support.

She had rearranged the living room so it became her mother's new bedroom. The rented hospital bed cost a great deal, but was absolutely necessary to help her mother get in and out. She arranged basic personal items in the cabinet next to the bed, and had brought in some cut flowers from the yard that morning. All to make the temporary room look less like one designed for an invalid.

"Oh, you got me flowers," Mrs Maclay exclaimed. "You're so sweet." she reached out and touched Tara's cheeks, noting that they were both wet with tears. "Sweetheart, don't cry," she pleaded.

"How can I not," Tara sobbed. "There's so little time!" she shouted in frustration. She had finally asked Dr Lee to tell her mother about his prognosis. It was unfair to her to hide the length of time she was expected to survive. Perhaps it would be the jolt needed and she would fight. Tara didn't know. All she knew was that she could not lie to her mother, and that included keeping truths from her. They also talked about the controversial treatment by the team in Switzerland. With cost being prohibitive, and time running out as Mrs Maclay's health steadily declining, it was obvious that this was not an available choice for them. They held onto each other and cried through the night when finally it became clear to them. This was the beginning of the end.

*****

Things settled to an illusion of normalcy. Tara took a second job at a call center to make ends meet. Her mother thankfully was still covered under the pittance of medical insurance at her company, though she had entered long term disability and her pay had been cut.

Tara didn't give up her job teaching dance at the studio. She needed the escape, the connection with her students and most of all, she needed the music.

It was at the studio that she had the brainwave of her life.

As if by coincidence, she was exiting the premises after the end of her classes when she spied, of all people, Katrina Meers bringing Janice in. Her curiosity piqued, she followed them back inside and busied herself with chores behind the counter to eavesdrop on what they were doing. Who would have thought that Janice was a big fan of Dawn's and wanted to start dance lessons, to be the same as her idol. As it happened Dawn was arriving at the studio and the scene of meeting, greeting and two teenagers screaming excitedly as they began a friendship was the stuff of legends.

Over the next few days Tara watched as Dawn and Janice grew inseparable, doing everything together, pouring over magazines, ooh-ing and aah-ing over boy pop stars. Tara deliberately kept a low profile, making an excuse when Dawn insisted on her meeting her new friend. Watching them, she had images of her and Donny close together as children, not leaving each other's side unnecessarily.

Oh why is life so unfair? Why did he have to get inexplicably kidnapped? No one has ever been able to give us a good reason. Those kidnappers, how do they pick their targets? It's not like he was rich -- oh fuck.

She reeled as the thought came to her mind, a dark, dark thought. She felt blackness wash over her, and shruggled to cast it off.

At all cost, she remembered promising herself.

Tara the good, dutiful teacher receded into the background. Time for Tara the Enabler to take over.

She studied the two girls with renewed interest, for a different purpose now. It was a no brainer to pick Janice. She smirked evilly at the thought of ransoming Warren. Anything to hurt him was good, in her new universe.

It was surprisingly easy to get back into the swing of things. Old contacts had mostly faded, but there were a few loyalists who were willing to help. She dug up old friends, ones she couldn't call for help in cash when needed, these were people who walked more comfortably in the dark, who operated in the underbelly of society. People she never thought she would seek out again. She was careful, never telling the whole plan to anyone. It took surprisingly little time to assemble a small team of two -- a driver and a weapons person. She did most of the planning and reconnoitre herself, observing Janice's routine through school, dance lessons and softball matches. She gained access temporarily to an abandoned warehouse at the edge of town for a hideout. It was all or nothing. She wasn't afraid of getting caught, she couldn't afford that fear.

And so only one week after Warren rejected Tara's plea for help, she made plans to kidnap his teenage daughter.

*****

It was her final day of observation before going ahead with the deed. She sat in her car at her customary position outside the Meers mansion. Janice was at school, and would be home in less than 20 minutes. One thing Tara had to praise Katrina about, was how organized she scheduled her daughter's day. It was a godsend for Tara, already not having sufficient time.

It was Wednesday, so it was softball. Janice would return home, change and Katrina would drive them over to the softball fields. Tara observed that sometimes the teenager would be munching on a snack as they left, so there wasn't much time between returning home and having to head out.

The softball fields were situated at an artificial green park -- everything in Las Vegas that was green or had vegetation was artificially planted -- that was in a secluded area. The drive to the park passed through some of the most sparsely occupied parts of the city. At a blind curve away from the sight of nearby houses, Tara had planned to place a distraction and stop Katrina's car. She and her accomplices would overpower them and hustle the teenager in a nondescript van. It would take just a few seconds.

She was sure the girl would be frightened and possibly scream. Reluctantly she included in her planning a mild anesthetic to sedate the girl. Being in and out of hospital made it easy to lift the syringe and drug from the supplies room. Her mother had grown worse, and was back in hospital. Tara's heart tightened at the thought that she might never come home again. It made her resolve to go ahead with the kidnapping even stronger.

A tap on her window made her jump. Her heart sank when she saw Warren. Shit. Shit shit shit.

She was about to start her car and drive away when he yanked the passenger door open and next she knew he was inside her car. She tried to glance at his suit to see if he was armed, she didn't see the tell tale bulge but he could be wearing the holster elsewhere. Or had a switchblade in his pocket. Or some other heinous implement on him.

She didn't say anything. Let him talk first.

And he did.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" he demanded. "You think I'm stupid? You've been sitting out here for days. I thought I told you to fuck off."

She continued to stay silent. She couldn't admit to anything. She didn't know how much he knew, or if he guessed what she was up to. Her safest course of action was not to say anything.

"Oh, the silent treatment. Let's see how righteous and silent you are when I call the police," he threatened.

"It's a free street, I can sit in my car anywhere I want," she muttered.

He stopped in the act of taking out his cell phone. "She speaks! Hallelujah!" he said mockingly. "Now tell me what you are doing here before I break every pretty bone in your pretty body."

She could tell he meant it. Still, they were in an enclosed car, she had the ignition key. He could do very little if she drove away. "Look, I was just wanting to speak to you. Beg you to change your mind," she concocted a reason for her stalking his house.

He snorted. "You'd be camped out outside my office if you really were looking for that. Watching my wife and daughter? That's not your reason. What is it?" he yelled.

Tara sighed, her brain working furiously. Would the plan still be feasible now that he was aware of her presence? Or should she up the timetable to today, so as not to lose time?

"Please get out of my car, Warren. I'll go away and never come back. You'll never have to see me again," she said.

He suddenly reached out and gripped Tara's arm tightly. So tightly that she cried out in pain. She didn't have time to squirm out of his way. "I'm not asking you twice. What's going on?" he squeezed. "Tell me!" he screamed in outrage.

She was crying with the pain now, but she knew she couldn't let him know anything.

He laughed loudly. "Okay, if you won't tell me. Let me spell it out for you. You've been ogling and following my daughter. And here I thought I was the pervert, at least I stayed away from under-aged girls."

Tara was outraged at the accusation. "That's not true!" she protested.

Warren laughed again. "Of course it's not true. you may be a disgusting dyke, but you're too goody two shoes. No, the real reason you're pinning your eyes on my daughter is you're trying to do the same to her as what I did to your brother," he sniggered.

The truth suddenly dawned on Tara. "What? you were behind..." she could no longer continue. The world as she knew it had definitely fallen apart.

"Yeah. Young guy like Donny should really stay away from older women. Especially married older women. And especially if she's married to powerful, jealous men," Warren mused.

What he was suggesting was totally preposterous in Tara's books. "I don't believe you. You're saying that Donny and, and your wife?" Despite her impending insanity, she had the wherewithal to ask the obvious question. "It's ridiculous."

"SILENCE! I will not hear of it again. He got what he deserved. As for her, I made sure she never look at another man again," he shouted.

Tara was growing more and more frightened by the second. May be she should take her chances, start the car and drive off. May be it would surprise him enough for her to push him out.

Warren continued his mock musing. "You know something else, Tara? You should never trust short people and geeks," he said. Tara started having a sinking feeling again. "And here you were, thinking that Jonathan and Andrew are working for you," he laughed evilly. Jonathan and Andrew were the two people she hired for her plan. Now it became painfully obvious why they were so willing to work with her. They accepted her terms readily, almost too readily. At the time she thought it was because they were out of work. How wrong she was.

Some master criminal. She was reminded painfully that she was the enabler, not the planner. So transparent.

What would he do now? That he was sitting in her car, all reasonable like, was frightening. The Warren Meers she knew would probably have put a bullet in her head already for just thinking of harming his daughter. Wisely she decided not to speculate further or to open her mouth more. She knew begging for her life would fall on his deaf ears, she only hoped that he made it quick. Her heart cried out for her mother, who would most likely not survive another tragedy like this. As for Willow...she tried hard not to think of Willow, of not seeing her, hearing her, touching her. They had not reconnected after their fight, she knew Willow was waiting for her to make the next move. She had thought that if she did nothing, eventually Willow would fade out of her life. That thought, even more so than the thought of Warren hurting her, was even more hurtful.

Warren continued, "since you've done so much of the work already, it seems to be a waste to abandon the plan, no?" he said, as if marveling at his cleverness.

"You want me to continue with--" she asked stupidly. "What for?"

"Oh no, I have another target," he said smugly. "And before you get on your high horse and say no, let me remind you that I have evidence that you planned to kidnap my daughter. Hmm, I wonder what the sentence is for conspiracy to perform a felony."

"You have nothing," she tried blustering.

In response, he took out a small digital voice recorder and replayed part of a conversation she had with Jonathan and Andrew. It was incriminatory but still circumstantial, perhaps in the hands of the right lawyer she could argue her case.

His next words scuppered her hope. "Don't forget I have every single judge in the city in my pocket. These judge types, you can't believe how many vices they have. If not gambling it's whores, makes my life so easy," he said.

"So if it's not not daughter--" she asked.

"It's someone you have access to. I want Dawn Summers."

*****

Like attracted like

One month ago

All Tara wanted to do was to fall into a hole, curl up and cry for a century.

She re-arranged her classes, swapping with other instructors so she only had morning classes. After the last one ended at noon she quickly showered and changed. In the privacy of her car she proceeded to call in every favor and marker she had ever held. Explaining about her mother's illness was painful, but as it was no secret, she could build on a story for her pleas.

It was humbling, to have to ask for money. She made promises, she cried, she was calmly reasonable.

Four hours later she was exhausted emotionally, her throat hoarse from talking and crying. And all she wanted to do was to disappear from the world.

Her friends were sympathetic, but she could feel most of them were hesitant to help financially. It strained the boundaries of friendship when one party brings in such source of potential conflict and discourse. She wondered, even after politely accepting stuttering, embarrassed rejections, how many of those friends she could retain after this.

She knew that. But she had no choice. Her single focus was to ensure her mother had every chance known to humankind, no matter the cost. The loss of her mother was the highest cost of all, that she could ill afford to handle.

She was never going to be able to raise enough cash. They were never going to be rich, living paycheck to paycheck, struggling to make ends meet. Furthermore they never recovered financially from Donny's kidnapping. Although the government uncharacteristically fronted the ransom, the funeral expenses were theirs to pay. Her mother's illness, well, no need to talk about it, it was obvious how draining it was in all respects.

It was no stretch to believe that their friends were in the same boat, especially with the current economic situation. Everyone she knew was in debt, their jobs in danger. The arrival of new bills chilled her to her bones. It was the way of their lives. Like attracted like. They were never going to befriend people who had that amount of cash hoarded away for a rainy day, or to lend to a needy friend. There was no sense in Tara dwelling on the unfairness of this. It was a free society; there were rich people, financially independent people. And then there were the middle class and poor like her. Those classes were never going to meet, their worlds and expectations so vastly different and sometimes in conflict.

At the back of her mind she knew, as she knew from the moment she heard about the financial need from Dr Lee, what she needed to do. Or rather, who she needed to approach. She had avoided it because she was genuinely disgusted and in a small way fearful of her life and her sanity. What was the price she would have to pay this time? Would she come away with her integrity, her body, her soul intact?

She thought of her mother, laying helplessly in a hospital bed with cancer cells raging through her. She recalled the agony, the screams of pain as she lay writhing as the chemo drugs attacked her body. She captured in her mind's eye the scene from this morning, of her mother laughing with Willow.

There was no other choice. No matter the cost.

She picked up her cell phone and called a number she had vowed never to dial again.

*****

"He's in a conference call with the fund managers, you'll just have to wait," the secretary -- no, executive personal assistant, informed Tara curtly. Tara expected the barely disguised brush off aimed at conveying to her just how important she was in the scheme of things. It was modus operandi, after all.

She sat straighter on the hard plastic chair in the waiting area, trying to find a comfortable position. Who knew how long she would be made to wait. Unwilling to touch the outdated magazines scattered around the area -- too much dust, too many people having handled them -- she turned her attention to the décor of the office. It had been renovated, the decoration seemed to be no more than six months old. Outrageous, gaudy and in-the-face were the main themes. There was nothing subtle about it. Everything was oversized, over loud and over ego'ed. From the glass fronted reception counter to the phallic symbol that was the company logo to the portraits and pictures of the incumbent Chief Executive Officer, it was one big Mahler symphony in praise of said Chief Executive Officer. There was no question who was in complete charge there.

Tara worked at Big Industries for almost a year, first as a secretary and then she was promoted into the executive suite. She was not told the reason, only that she was expected to "act your pretty self and do everything the big boss says." When it became clear that "everything the big boss says" was mostly made up of non work related tasks, she was this close to walking out. Only the over-riding need for a job trumped her personal standards. She got to be very, very good at her job, as her ethics became increasingly gray. Until one day when she turned around and realized it was all black. The incident that caused her to finally leave was one of the darkest episodes of her life, including her brother's death and her mother's illness. She later heard from ex-colleagues and friends inside that she was the only one who had ever had the guts to resign from the coveted executive suite. Women, and it was always women who worked in the exec suite, were only fired, transferred out or mysteriously disappeared. They were not supposed to leave on their own accord.

She wondered if that reckless action would be of her benefit or detriment now.

She was idling between thinking of her mother, thinking of nothing at all, and thinking of Willow when she heard her name called. Immediately she snapped her head up towards the receptionist.

"You have three minutes," the woman said, leading the way to the inner sanctum of the executive suite. Tara had forgotten the layout, intentionally banishing every recollection of Big Industries from her mind when she left. She grimaced as all those memories came flooding back.

"Well well well, look who has come crawling back. Want your job back, doll? You know you have to fall on your knees and beg for it," the oily distasteful man in a big leather chair sneered.

"Whatever you want, Warren," Tara said, not flinching from his eye contact. Warren Meers was a bottom dwelling scumbag and a bully with no imagination, she had seen through him early on. His rise to the top of the pile at Big Industries was not an illustrious one. It was an open secret that he had unsavory connections and he had gotten rid of his father using those connections. That he was willing to stoop so low against his own father was why Tara could not muster any respect for him. She wondered if that was why, unlike all others in the company, she was never afraid of him. For some odd reason being near him made her brave, she was willing to meet him eye to eye. She also wondered if he recognized that she could see through him, and for some perverted reason, kept her around as a challenge. Theirs was not a pleasant relationship, but there was some mutual...something there.

He made a show of lighting up a fat cigar. Tara inwardly snickered. Yet another show of "I big, you small" that he delighted in. It was wasted on her. She knew the extent of his power, and that she was at risk of pushing him over the thin edge that he inhabited. She would have to be careful.

"Whatever I want?" Warren repeated. "You know I have very deep tastes." It was a statement, not a question.

"You're talking to me, Warren. I know exactly what your tastes are. Or have they changed?" Tara countered.

Warren smiled a satisfied smile. "Oh, I've missed you, my little enabler. No one ever came close to your ability to understand me since you left. Which, by the way, I haven't forgiven you for," he said, then turned serious. "My tastes evolve all the time. You'll find that they have gotten more, shall I say, demanding as I grow in power and stature."

"I'm sure," she muttered. She guessed that in some deep recess of her soul, she was capable of being very dark herself. Like attracted like. She knew she couldn't go there, but a tiny devil whispered to her that if she did, he was the one to bring her there.

"Enough about me," he grinned dirtily. "I am capable of not talking about myself for a few seconds. What do you want, and why are you here?" he demanded.

She knew only the harsh truth would suffice. "I need money. My mother is dying." It pained her to say that out loud. "There is a procedure that offers her a chance, I need cash to make it happen," she said. Deflated, after she said it out.

He looked at her expectantly for a second, then burst out in maniacal laughter. "Your mother is sick. Okay, that's sick," he said. "No."

She looked at him with defeat in her eyes. "No? just like that? No conditions? No angle to get me into your bed?" she said truthfully.

"You'll get no money or help from me. And yes, I want you so bad, I've always did. But willingly. Not because of some humanity saving martyr sacrifice deed you always feel you need to do," he snorted.

This is not the moment for him to turn all lecturing on me.

"Please. I don't have anyone to go to," she begged. He was her last chance. She didn't want him to know that, but there was nothing after this. She knew what she had to give up. She knew as soon as her last call was made, and no inroads were made, and she decided to call him. There was nothing left to give up. At all cost for her mother. She considered more begging. She considered showing him how much she was willing to do now to get what she wanted. On some level, he would know that, and would certainly derive his usual perverse satisfaction knowing that she came to him, willingly. But his words stung. That was the problem with unlimited egos, he knew it was not consensual. She said no more.

He was already punching his phone to get his assistant to kick her out of the building.

*****

Encounter. Some memories were best left untouched

One month ago

Willow was in the middle of listening to a joke from Mrs Maclay when a voice rang out and obliterated every other noise surrounding her. She had not fully analyzed her reasons for visiting Mrs Maclay in hospital, she went at her earliest opportunity as soon as she heard. She knew that deep down, if she thought about it really hard, her motive was painfully clear.

There was no question about it, even though she was relieved to see Mrs Maclay looking better than she expected, and she was happy to share laughs and jokes with the woman who was usually so sad-looking, the real reason for her early morning visit to the hospital was to see Tara.

Tara, who was standing framed at the doorway of a plain hospital room, looking angry, wild, scared and oh so beautiful. Willow felt a tug every time she saw Tara. It took a while, but she had finally identified the feeling for what it was almost three years ago. But Tara never returned the feeling. Almost three years of very gentle pursuit, so slow and subtle that at times Willow thought she was not projecting any intention at all. So often she felt discouraged, even pissed off at how dense, intentionally or unintentionally, Tara was. And then they'd meet, or talk, or Willow would just see Tara doing something mundane like crossing the street, and every single negative thought got thrown out of the window.

"What are you doing here?" Tara asked rather bluntly. Willow supposed she should feel encouraged, that Tara never put on a mask in front of her. She would mostly act annoyed at Willow's presence, but she never blatantly chased her away. And Willow held onto that thought, to justify her continual presence in the life of the Maclay family. Bordering on lame, Willow ruefully told herself. Then shrugged it off.

"I heard Mrs Maclay was in hospital, I wanted to visit," she explained.

"You're disrupting her. She needs to rest," Tara said tersely.

Willow wanted to protest that Mrs Maclay was resting when she came in, and they had only been talking for a few minutes before Tara barged in. It was not as if Mrs Maclay was mad or angry that Willow came, they were sharing a few interesting anecdotes. If anything, Tara's entrance had changed the whole mood in the room to decidedly cold and uncomfortable, she was the one who was disruptive. Willow was about to point all that out when it was Mrs Maclay who came to her defense. "Don't be rude, Tara. It's very considerate of Willow to come visit, lord knows I could do with a few distractions and good company during the day," Mrs Maclay said.

"I keep you company," Tara sounded hurt by her mother's words.

"Of course you do, darling. You do so much for me. But it's nice to have other visitors. I want Willow to stay. You can stay a while right, Willow?" Mrs Maclay asked sincerely.

Willow could no sooner deny the motherly figure than eat her shoe for breakfast. "Yes of course, I have plenty of time," she smiled.

"Don't mind my ungrateful daughter. She can sit over there and glower while we catch up," Mrs Maclay grinned.

Confined to the sidelines, and so desperate to talk to her mother about the meeting with Dr Lee, Tara did end up glowering for the half hour that was Willow's visit. On her way back from Dr Lee's office she had made up her mind to tell her mother about the possible treatment in Switzerland. She had been raised to tell her mother everything, this was not the time to change a lifetime's habit and upbringing. Besides, her mother had the right to know and make decisions about her own health. Tara believed that it was wrong when family members kept vital information from the patient for their own good and vowed never to follow that path.

As she sat, fidgeting, at the chair her mother had forced her into, she tried hard not to pay attention to what Willow and her mother were talking about. Her anger at Willow was automatic, it had become her natural state toward the detective. Ever since the day that she had to follow Willow to the morgue to identify her brother, her resentment against life's injustice had amalgamated and become personified into a smart, earnest redhead. Intellectually she knew it was unfair on Willow, she was one of the officers involved but from reports that Tara had read and scourged, she was not to blame for Donny's death. Yes, she was on the roof when Tucker Wells lost his footing and fell, thereby sealing Donny's fate; but how could she have acted otherwise then? Allowed Tucker Wells and his accomplices to get away with millions of dollars? There was no guarantee of Donny's safety even after the ransom was delivered. The police did the best they could, if anyone were to blame it was the criminals.

Then again, Willow elicited such controversial feelings in Tara. It was unusual for police officers to maintain contact with victims or victims' families after a case. But Tara was out in the grocery store a few months after Donny died and ran into Willow. The officer said hello, and joined Tara in their shopping trip around the store, asking about her, making inquiries about her mother's well being, and generally trying to be friendly. Tara's first reaction was to push her away, or punch her, or ignore her. In spite of herself, some part of her reacted to Willow. She felt a pull, an unknown acquiescence to the other woman's presence, it was as if she couldn't help but to allow Willow into her life. Something in Willow's presence, her voice, her smile, they all made Tara respond in places she knew were trouble. It took her some time to realize it, and even when she did she refused to think about it or give it name because she was in complete denial over the fact that there was a huge amount of attraction between them. All it would take was a small gesture, an absentminded touch, a tender word, and it would all manifest. She resisted, for three years she resisted; it was a wonder that Willow hadn't given up in disgust. Tara was so conflicted. She had become used to Willow occasionally being in her life, but the longer it went on the more she knew she was setting the redhead up for a long fall and heartbreak. She didn't know what to do.

Watching Willow effortlessly interact with her mother pained her. Willow had such an easy-going charm about her. Not classically good looking in a film star sort of way, though rakishly attractive in Tara's books, she made up for it by an openness that made people trust her. It was a great asset in her job as a police officer. She was deceptively astute; suspects opened up to her, victims trusted her, other cops saw her as a team member. Tara knew that she was about to take her sergeant's exam, in the police world making sergeant in her mid-twenties counted as fast track. Tara sighed. Here she was again thinking about Willow. The moments that she was not worried or taking care of her mother, secretly she thought of Willow constantly. It would last brief moments before she forcefully yanked her thoughts and feelings away. She remembered times when she physically dragged her mind away from Willow by making herself do something for her mother. Sometimes she felt she was hovering and smothering her mother with constant attention; other times she was so ready to walk away especially when her energy was sapped. Worry and guilt, it was the perpetual conflict.

"--should take Tara to the cafeteria, I'm willing to bet she hadn't eaten anything."

She caught her name being mentioned and turned to see her mother gesturing towards her. They had obviously been talking about her.

"Well, Tara, have you had anything to eat?" Willow grinned at her. "You heard your mom. She knows you so well. Wait, I could have said that you hadn't eaten anything this morning, probably nothing since, oh I don't know, lunch yesterday. You're so predictable."

"I had coffee." Tara had no idea why Willow always put her in a huff.

"Coffee is not food. Except if it's mocha, then the chocolate just about makes it sustenance," Willow said with a straight face.

Tara wished Willow would not be forever cheerful and able to be so funny and serious at the same time. She put her hands up. "Alright, you win. I had a carrot and pumpkin muffin yesterday at around two," she conceded. "Happy now?"

"It's not an interrogation. I'm not accusing you of anything," Willow said gently.

Tara glared at her. Willow returned the stare steadily. Presently it was Tara who broke eye contact, no longer able to stand Willow's expressive eyes that told of possibilities...if only, and do you remember.

Mrs Maclay seemed otherwise oblivious to the tension between them. With the amount of time they spent together, and the heat that always simmered between them, Tara wondered why her mother would be so unaware. Perhaps she was affected by her illness. Perhaps she was too concerned with her own well being. Perhaps she knew but didn't want to accept it. Or perhaps she knew but didn't want to intrude. Tara never formally came out to her mother, not in the form of an official declaration. But she had never hesitated to bring dates, few that there had been, back home. She had never substituted pronouns, if she was going out with a girl she would say so. Her mother in turn never talked to her about it, it was as if they had implicitly agreed that her sexuality was not a topic for concern. Tara was just glad her mother hadn't made a fuss. She wondered if Donny would have been supportive. He was too much of a maverick, too anxious to please, it would have depended on his friends.

Thinking about Donny made her morbid, and her mood darkened as she was reminded of her mother's terminal illness and the futility of grasping at any glimmer of hope. Two hundred thousand for the Swiss procedure, Dr Lee said. That was for starters, she should add on another hundred for follow up and other expenses.

"Tara, are you okay? You look like the blood just drained from your face," Willow asked.

Tara realized that the dark thoughts had invaded her mind. She took a deep breath to center herself. "I'm fine. You're right, probably dizziness due to lack of food." She turned to her mother, "I'll grab something to eat, then I have to go to work. I have class till three, then I'm free the rest of the day. I'll come by straight after," she recited.

"Why don't you take a little time to rest, my sweet girl. I'll be here, not going anywhere yet," her mother declared.

Tara swallowed the tears that threatened to erupt, and looked away to hide her emotions. She was sure both her mother and Willow saw it, and was grateful they chose not to comment. With all her effort, she brought her emotions under control and even managed a thin smile.

"It's fine, mom. I'll take it easy. I'll bring something with me, we can share our dinners," she said.

Her mother laughed. "You'll need to stop me from picking at your food, what they give us here is doesn't even look like food. I don't even want to start about how tasteless it is. I'll be glad to go home," she mused.

Tara fought another bout of overwhelming emotions by taking very deep breaths. She carefully kept her face neutral. "Well, what they don't see, they don't know," she stated.

"And talking about food, it's time for you two to get out of here. Willow, make sure my wayward daughter has something decent in her stomach before she starts her day," Mrs Maclay directed.

Tara didn't want Willow to go anywhere with her, but she wisely decided to leave that discussion after they said good-bye to her mother. She kissed her mom tenderly on the forehead and gave her a tight hug. Willow gave Mrs Maclay a squeeze on the arm and a peck on the cheek.

And then they found themselves waiting for the elevator by the nurses' station. Willow rocked nonchalantly on her heels as she waited, while Tara surreptitiously edged away, purposefully standing just beyond Willow's personal space. To the casual observer they could be two strangers.

She pressed the button for the cafeteria floor, and then after a moment's hesitation, the ground floor. Willow looked at her with one raised eyebrow.

"Look, you don't need to come with me to the cafeteria. I don't need to be checked on or chaperoned. You should go on to work, aren't you late already?" Tara said determinedly. She focused her gaze on the indicators at the side of the elevator car, not wanting to look at Willow.

Willow sighed loudly. "Why is it so hard for you to accept that I don't mind being with you. That I want to spend time with you?" she asked exasperatingly.

"Will, don't," Tara whispered. "I can't do this. Not now," she added.

"You've been saying 'not now' for the last three years. When is the timing ever going to be right?" Willow asked.

The elevator reached the cafeteria floor and Tara stepped out. She wasn't surprised when Willow followed her, and she had no energy to fight. They didn't exchange words until they had selected and paid for their food. Tara, knowing that it would be the only food she would have until dinner, took a large bagel with cream cheese, a peach yogurt and a large coffee. Willow opted for a fruit salad and a cappuccino. They brought their trays, as if by unspoken agreement, to a quiet table near to the corner.

Tara ducked her head and focused on spreading the cream cheese on the bagel, painfully aware of Willow's eyes on her. She took several bites from her bagel, while Willow picked slowly at her fruit salad.

"I'm sorry if I even misled you in any way into thinking something may happen," she said evenly.

"Something has happened. Something did happen," Willow countered.

Tara blushed. Some memories were best left untouched. "One time. That doesn't count," she insisted.

Willow choked and almost spit out the fruit in her mouth. "What? Jesus, Tara, you're unbelievable," she slammed her hand angrily on the table.

Tara didn't want to argue. She had convinced herself of so many things that the line between real, memories and her made-up memories were blurred. She continued with her bagel, not knowing what to say. She knew she hurt Willow. Belatedly she thought it might be what would drive Willow away. Relief was mixed with a big smattering of regret, and it got confusing again. "I--" she tried to say something, but she could not find the right words.

"Fine. Fine. Fine," Willow murmured. "I said I'd be patient. You won't believe how patient I can be, Tara. Or how persistent."

"I have to concentrate on Mom, she's the one and only important thing in my life right now. There is no room for anyone else," Tara said resolutely.

Willow conceded. "I understand that. But it doesn't mean I'll go away. Even if there weren't this thing between us, I'd want to be there for your mom. So count on me being around from now, and there is nothing you can do about it," she said smugly. "Once she gets better, you and I need to talk. Honestly. No ifs and buts."

Tara froze at Willow's "once she gets better" -- Dr Lee's words echoed loudly in her mind. It was more a case of if she gets better, the when was no longer in the equation.

Willow caught her change of mood, and leaned in with care. "Something is on your mind. It's not just the latest round of tests. What is it?" she inquired gently.

Tara sniffed. She looked at the half-eaten bagel with distaste and put it back on her plate. "It's nothing. No more than the usual bad stuff. She's been in and out of hospital so much, there's too many tests, it gets tiring." She thought it was the best solution, to stick to the truth as much as possible. She wanted to share her burden with someone, but there was no one. Not even Willow. Especially not Willow. Willow would try to help, and Tara knew she couldn't bear to have such a great debt hanging over her.

"Are you sure that's the only thing? You look really sad, like there's no hope." Willow thought Tara was over analyzing, or she was heading toward a mood where she expected the worst of every situation. With all that Tara had been through her young life, Willow wouldn't be surprised if she became deeply depressed. It was up to her to watch out for Tara. With everything she felt for the blonde, there was no way she would forgive herself if she didn't watch carefully and was prepared to intervene as necessary.

"Yes I have a lot on my mind," Tara said loudly and harsher than she intended. "What do you expect? That I'm cracking jokes and have a shit-eating grin plastered on my face at all times? I'm sorry if I'm a disappointment. I have to go."

With that she stood up quickly, grabbed her bag and stumbled toward the exit.

Willow rushed and caught up with her in the elevator. "I don't want us to fight. I won't push anymore, okay?" she said.

Tara knew she would never fool Willow, it was better to compromise. "Okay. Sorry I lost it," she said.

At least they parted not mad at each other.

Tara returned to her car and sat without switching it on for a long time. She had to think of a way, any way. What could she do to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars?

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

She took out her cell phone and systematically began calling.

*****

Bad News

One month ago

Tara found her mother in the same position as when she left her, uncomfortably asleep in the hospital bed. As luck had it, the other beds in the multi-occupation room were empty, giving them the illusion of a single room. Tara would have preferred to have her mother in a single room at all times, but that was an impossible cost to bear.

As she had done so many times over the past two years, she dropped her bag by the bed and sat at the chair at the end of the bed. She was too tired to read, too worried to do anything but sit there and fret. At least her mother seemed to be sleeping.

Not long after, a flurry of activity and sound from the door signaled the entrance of the medical team. A nurse quietly pulled the curtain around the bed automatically, even though there were no other occupants in the room. She quickly took pulse, blood pressure and checked the levels of the lines seemingly permanently attached to Tara's mother's arm. When she was satisfied, she entered the readings to the chart and handed it to the doctor who had entered at the same time.

"Hello Tara," the doctor greeted Tara quietly.

"Dr Lee," Tara responded.

"Did you just get here?" Dr Lee asked.

"Yes, I had a class this morning. I came straight away," Tara said. "Thanks for shifting your schedule."

"It worked out fine, actually," he said. "I have to get ready for an internal meeting."

"Thanks again," Tara repeated.

Dr Lee studied Mrs Maclay's chart, making certain notations regarding medication. He listened to her lungs, felt her pulse and checked on his patient. All through the examination, Tara's mother never woke up.

Tara let him do his work. She had a million questions, but knew she had to wait for the right time to ask them.

Dr Lee finished his examination, and then regarded Tara steadily. "How are you feeling, Tara?" He had treated Mrs Maclay for several months, ever since her illness became more serious. Her daughter Tara had been constantly by her side giving support. He could see the strain and sacrifices the young woman was under. As a specialist in terminal cancers he had seen countless family members buckle and give up under the stress of the terrible situation, it was detrimental to both the patients and the family. Often it was the surviving, or healthy, family who took the most of the pressure, in their unconditioned love for the patient. It was just as important to care for the care givers as the patient.

Tara shrugged, smiling thinly. "As well as I have been lately, doctor," she said.

Dr Lee looked at his patient again, concluding that she would not wake up during his examination. He had given her a sedative after nurses reported that she had become agitated during the night. He beckoned to Tara. "Do you have a moment to come to my office? I'd like to speak to you about the current regime and some other thoughts I've had," he said.

Tara was torn between staying with her mother and talking with the doctor. He saw her hesitation and reassured her, "she will be sleeping for a while. It won't take long, but I prefer to confer with you in private. I'll tell the nurses to page me if she wakes up before you come back," he said.

Tara shot him a grateful look and followed him out to his office on the next floor.

He settled her into a chair facing his chair, then made his way purposefully to the credenza. "I need coffee. Can I get you one? Or something else to drink? I have water, tea, sodas," he offered. When Tara indicated no, he insisted, "Tara, drink some juice. You look like you're dead on your feet. I understand the need to be strong, I really do. But strong means emotionally and physically too. You need to save some of your energy to take care of yourself," he directed.

Tara sighed, too exhausted to argue or defend herself. On an intellectual level she understood every word of what Dr Lee said, but it was easy, with everything going on in her life and nothing going right, to let the Taking Care of Tara Maclay part slide. She moved back to an easier topic. "I know, doctor, I know. I'll have some juice, as you said," she smiled.

She found that she actually enjoyed, and savored the large glass of orange juice the doctor offered her. She was grateful that other people cared enough about her to give her advice and guidance.

But they were not in the doctor's office to talk about her, or chit chat over juice. The mood turned serious as soon as Dr Lee lee took a sip of his coffee and placed the cup deliberately at his side. He wasted no time in spelling out what was on his mind. "I don't know how to start, Tara, so I'll be direct. Your mother's cancer has gotten worse, the last course of chemo worked some, but not enough. She is very weak and any more chemo will do a lot of damage, I don't know if her body can stand another course," he said as compassionately as he could. "There are virtually no options left," he concluded regrettably.

Tara felt like the bottom just fell off, the sinking feeling that she remembered twice before in her life returned. If she hadn't been sitting down she would surely have fallen down. As it was, she gripped the sides of the chair tightly, not wanting to let go.

"How long?" Tara choked out. "How long does she have?"

Dr Lee contemplated going the diplomatic route. How many of his patients' family had not wanted to hear what he had to say. Anyone would hold onto any lasting hope, no matter how delicate, no matter how improbable. A declaration of time remaining was never useful, often it signaled to the patient and the family to give up. The patient might not even survive that long. It was a rare, strong, tough person who fight and win against the ravages of cancer.

He thought about the young twenty-something woman in front of him. He wanted to protect her, by not telling her the stark truth. He knew that the Maclay family had experienced tragedy a short few years ago, that Mrs Maclay's son had been murdered. It was hard enough for a parent to have to bury their children, but to lose them as the result of a violent crime, he could not fathom the depth of despair that would bring. He thought about his own children, and he was sure neither he nor his wife could survive or remain sane if they had to go through the same ordeal. He knew that the onset of cancer in Mrs Maclay was the worst possible news, that the family did not need one more bad news after what happened, and he promised to himself that he would do all he could do professionally to help the mother and daughter. In time, he had began to view Tara Maclay as a daughter. His children were younger, he having married late, and if they would grow up to be as strong and responsible as her, he would be ecstatic.

In the face of such bad experiences, he could take the easy way out and said he could not tell, or concoct some medically accurate picture to avoid telling the truth. But after everything the young woman had endured she deserved the truth.

"Not long. Three months possibly. Six at most," he said.

He saw as Tara visibly paled, and wanted so much not to have given her the pain. He also saw her valiantly try to gain control of her spiraling emotions, to rein in the panic that was surely overcoming her. And he watched as the control finally snapped into place. "What then do we do? Does she need to stay here? I want to take her home," she said.

"We make her as comfortable as possible," he said. "If it were up to me, I'd keep her under observation for longer, but I understand your wish to take her home. Let's evaluate again tomorrow?" he offered.

"Does she need to know?" she asked in a small, worried voice.

This was a difficult question for him. Some patients wanted to know, so they could make plans and say their good-byes to friends and family. Others crack at the knowledge and never recover at the emotional shock. Some decide that the time remaining was too short, and their bodies go into rapid deterioration and they die shortly after gaining the information. Dr Lee considered his patient and what he knew of her emotional state. "It's up to you. But knowing your mother from treating her for so long, I would say that she would want to know," he postulated.

"Will it be such bad news that she gets really depressed?" Tara asked. "Even more than now. She used to be so cheerful, so positive. She's never been the same after Donny..." she interrupted herself and sobbed.

He let her cry for a while, remaining quiet and supporting yet not intrusive. In his 30 years of practice he hoped he had mastered the art of empathetizing with the patient and family. Some doctors never learned, but he believed that it was not merely skills and technical knowledge that made good doctors, knowing how to put the patients and family at ease played a vital part. He turned his mind to the other matter that was on his mind. He had not been sure if he wanted to discuss with Tara, he was truly uncertain of her reaction.

When Tara's tears abated, he handed her a tissue. Then as she gathered herself, he cleared his throat to get her attention. "There is, well, there's this procedure, I only became aware of it recently, it's new and only just came out of clinical trials," he stuttered uncharacteristically.

Tara stopped in the act of blowing her nose. "A procedure?" she repeated. "I thought you said there are no more options," she was almost accusatory.

He picked up a pen and nervously tapped it against his desk. "I said virtually no more options. This procedure is revolutionary, very new. Developed by a team in Switzerland, only they can perform it at the moment," he explained.

She was silent, subconsciously following the tapping of his pen. "I hear a but," she observed.

He nodded. "A very big but. Actually two very big buts," he explained. At her expectant look he explained further, "It's very expensive, because it's such a pioneering procedure. It won't be covered under any medical insurance for the same reason." He watched as Tara became utterly deflated at this statement. "Look, Tara, I'm not being arrogant or ribbing you at your financial situation. I'm just pointing out that it is potentially financially draining, because there is the after care to think about, not to mention the flights, hotel and incidentals," he tried not to be presumptuous.

"I understand," Tara said. "But if there is a chance, I'll move mountains to raise the money," she said with determination. "How much?"

The doctor hesitated, then told her the rough estimated amount. "Here's the other but," he continued. "There is only a 30% chance of success, and that is for patients who have been cross-matched and carefully selected. It's risky."

"But her odds right now is zero. 30% is already better," Tara said.

He wasn't sure if she was grasping at straws in desperation, or convinced that her mother would recover. He rummaged through one of the piles of papers and documents that covered his desk. "Well, tell you what, I'll find out some more information and let you know. Hmm, I can't seem to find it, I'm sure I printed it out. Anyway, I'll get more information to you, and we'll make the decision, alright?" he asked.

"Okay," Tara was still numb. There was a glimmer of hope but at a huge financial price. It was beyond what she could earn, sell or borrow in a lifetime. She felt like someone had given her hope, then abruptly pulled it away. Her instincts were to shout at the doctor for giving and taking away her hope, but she knew it was unfair, he was only doing his job and trying to help her mother. If he had withheld information because he thought she would not be able to handle it, then he was truly in the wrong. "I'd like the information, doctor. Cost is obviously a tremendous concern, but I don't want to be obsessing about it until I've read more about this procedure and the Swiss team. More importantly, I need to assess if 30% is acceptable," she said.

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Yes of course."

"Don't tell your mother yet. Not before you have come to an informed decision."

"Yes, I agree. Thank you, Doctor."

He watched her take his leave, and wondered if he would ever see her again.

*****

Tara was three steps from the door of her mother's hospital room when she skidded to a halt. She immediately stepped back and slid against the wall outside the door, out of sight of the room's occupants.

Her mother was talking and laughing with someone. Her mother, laughing. Tara had not heard her mother laugh so heartily for so long. Perhaps weeks, months, even before...Donny. The joyful laugh should be music to Tara's ears. Instead she leaned wearily against the wall for support. It wasn't hearing her mother laughing that was causing her the emotional distress. It was the other laughing voice. The one voice that made her heart flutter and sink and skip and melt. She knew that laugh, that voice. It was the voice she most wanted to hear; it was the voice she least wanted to hear.

She spun, propelled off the wall and stood in the doorway waiting for attention to turn to her.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded of Willow Rosenberg.

*****

Alone in the World

One month ago

Tara folded her street clothes carefully, making sure they were not wrinkled, and placed them on the shelf of her locker. She then took off her shoes, socks and underwear. Her socks and underwear she stuffed into a small handy cloth bag which she then placed inside her gym bag. Her street shoes she placed at the bottom of her locker. Although completely naked now, she was neither self conscious nor proud of her trim figure. She set about her preparations without any heed to her state of undress. It was a ritual she followed every working day. Taking a towel with her, she made her way to the tiny shower stalls at the other side of the changing room. Her shower was quick and efficient, since she would be taking another one at the end of the session she merely wanted to clean herself of the dust and pollution from outside. Wrapping her wet hair in the towel, she padded back to her locker where she proceeded to get dressed. Unlike the others she chose functional sports clothes rather than skimpy costumes designed to show off bodily assets. In no time at all she was tying up the shoelaces of her sneakers and she was ready.

As was her ritual every day, she brought the tips of her fingers to her lips, then touched them onto a picture taped to the inside of her locker, of a young man in his twenties with a broad grin on his face, holding a three foot long fish at the side of a lake. "I love you, Donny. We miss you every day," she said to the picture of her brother. Even after three years, her eyes welled up at the memory of her loss.

She closed the locker door with a quiet slam, leaning her head against the metal surface to gain a moment's relief and support. Then she turned around and silently appraised herself in the mirror at the opposite wall, noting that she had gotten thinner again. Her shorts seemed to be loose about her hips, and she remembered how her trousers always seemed to need a belt. She looked like she had no hip, and her shoulder blades were sticking out. Her blonde hair was more dirty brown, it had lost so much of its luster. Her blue eyes were a listless shade of gray. She didn't keep eye contact with her reflection, knowing that it would only show a face that was haunted and sad. The weight of the world's worry seemed to have descended on her.

Trying to shake herself out of her stupor, she began by squaring her shoulders and ensuring she had the correct expression on her face. For practice she smiled, a toothy smile that never reached her eyes. Taking a deep cleansing breath she closed her eyes to center herself. When she opened her eyes again she looked like a different person than she recognized.

"Hello Mrs Edwards, how nice to see you. You look fabulous! Have you lost weight? You're so toned," she squealed, her voice an octave higher than her normal speaking voice and speaking much faster too. Inwardly she shook her head in disgust at the bubble gum, fake happy personality that she could scant recognize.

But it was necessary.

She gathered the rest of her equipment -- her white plastic MacBook, small towel and a bottle of water she had brought from home. She was the first into the studio, and she proceeded to plug the laptop to the speaker system. She selected a song with a soft beat while she warmed up in the corner. Gradually her students filtered in, singly or in small groups, scattering around the studio getting ready or chatting. This was a class she enjoyed, unlike the classes in the middle of the day full of ladies who lunched and second tier celebrities, this class in the evening had more "regular" people, stopping to exercise on their way home. She adjusted the session accordingly, mixing gentler workouts with bouts that pushed that little bit extra.

She knew she was lucky to have the job as fitness instructor at the health club. She was never able to truly get into the profession she really wanted, dancing. Jobs trickled in, but were never regular enough to give her any sense of career security. And over the last year or so, it became absolutely necessary for her to earn a steady income, and one where there were some benefits. A part of her felt that she should have gotten an office job, with more regular hours and more benefits, but she tried it for a few months and had to quit. She couldn't face the prospect of wearing a suit each day, to try to please people she didn't care about, and being on the receiving end of endless abuse. Or how good she got at doing a job no one wanted. And how is it different here? You still need to put out your fake face.

She shrugged away the dark thoughts and concentrated on the lesson. As always, once she started, her focus turned to the movements, the music and to helping her students. The hour passed by quickly. She exchanged small talk and gave encouragement to the few students who stayed behind afterwards, and then started gathering her stuff.

On the way to the locker room, she slowed her steps as she heard the whiff of soft jazz. Smiling privately, she pushed open a crack to the door of the other studio and slipped quietly inside. The room was dark, unlike the setting when a lesson was conducted. In the center of the room was a tall teenager, her eyes closed, moving to the music. But it was not simply moving. Her movement was like liquid, swaying and melting with the rhythm. Her head lolled loosely, as if completely immersed in the story. Her arms perfectly and precisely placed. And when her feet moved, they took over the music, stamping their soft authority as if the music belonged to them. Tara was mesmerized. Here was the epitome of genius at work, and she felt at once privileged and on the other hand unworthy to be witnessing it.

The girl glided effortlessly across the wooden floor of the studio, her treads never making a sound. It was like watching a bird fly. Round and round, more and more furious she became. And when the music stopped, she was curled up in a ball, tensed with the climax.

Tara knew she was holding her breath. She didn't want to exhale, the need for silence so great. It was staggering.

"Was it okay?" the breathless graceful dancer jumped up and morphed back to a girl. An awkward teenager who was too thin and too tall for her age. A teenager who regarded Tara with an unabridged openness and simplicity.

"Sorry, I didn't think I'd distract you," Tara apologized.

"You didn't distract me. You were quiet as a mouse," the teenager giggled. Again Tara was struck by the contrast of the dancer she witness just now, mature beyond the giggling fifteen year old who was moving about with the unlimited energy that teenagers inevitably had. "Well? You didn't answer me," the girl persisted.

"Answer you what?" Tara asked.

The girl blew out a lungful of air in exasperation. "Was it okay? What I just did," she asked again.

What can I say? It was perfect. I can't find enough words to articulate it. "It was really good, Dawn," she said with a big smile.

Dawn grinned, the grin of a young girl who had just entered a candy shop. "If you say so, it must be okay. They're filming a new musical soon, you think it'll be as big a hit as High School Musical?" she said excitedly. She proceeded to name drop a few of Hollywood's biggest teen and tween stars who she regularly rubbed shoulders with.

Dawn was one of the biggest up and coming child stars in the country, but to Tara she was just the same girl who befriended her three years ago in her darkest hour. "I'm sure it will be. When does it start filming?"

Dawn shrugged. "I dunno."

"When is your mom coming to pick you up? Or are they sending one of your staff now," Tara asked, eyebrows raised in jest at the mention of "staff."

Dawn stuck her tongue out. "Blah. I hate those people. They're always hanging around. May be I should get Buffy to arrest them," she declared.

The mention of Detective Buffy Summers always brought a sense of dread to Tara. The shadow of the events of three years ago would not go away. She supposed she could cut ties with Dawn, and then she would be done with the Summers family and not have to relive the horrors of her brother's murder again.

Then again, she built ties to more than the Summers family, after that tragedy. That other tie would be impossible to break.

"Mom is coming," Dawn's answer brought her back to reality. "Actually, she's probably outside now. Want to say hi?" Dawn asked innocently.

"Sure," Tara answered amicably.

Sure enough, Joyce Summers was in the reception area chatting with the other staff. She gave Dawn a kiss and Tara a hug when she saw them. Slipping an arm around Dawn's shoulder she turned to Tara. "Tara, how is your mother?"

Tara visibly slumped. "She's...there's no change. They have her in for a couple of days for tests," she said, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

Joyce's eyes narrowed. Tara know she was too astute, had known Tara for too long, to be fooled. "What sort of tests? Why are they putting her through more tests again?" she asked out of concern.

What Tara heard was why she was putting her mother through more tests again. She rubbed her fingers against her head, trying to exorcise the guilt that was not forthcoming. She looked at Joyce with barely disguised fatigue. "The doctor said there may be an operation..." she left the sentence hanging, not wanting to explain further. "Actually, I'm on my way to see her. Please excuse me," she said as she backed away.

*****

Joyce watched the young woman walk away. They met in the dance studio where Dawn practiced. It was a shock to her when it turned out that Tara was in a case of Buffy's that ended badly. But by then Tara and Dawn had developed a friendship that neither party wanted to break. Although things remained tense between Tara and Buffy, there was never any awkwardness between the sad young woman and her feisty younger daughter, Joyce watched as Tara became the solid rock that Dawn could rely on, especially with the teen's increasing fame and exposure.

*****

Tara showered and dressed quickly, her emotions all over the place after the conversation with Joyce. She allowed herself a good cry in the shower, where no one could see her. After packing up and changing back to her street clothes, she made her way to her old Honda and was at the hospital in 20 minutes.

She found her mother asleep in her room. Even in slumber, she kept the grimace that had not left her expression since her son was killed. Tara knew she never recovered emotionally from Donny's passing, and it seemed nothing would ever cheer her up.

She carefully negotiated around the wheelchair, placed her bag quietly on the floor and took up the chair at the end of her mother's bed. She was tired, very tired. But too upset to rest. She tried to calm down, forcing herself to stay seated in the chair. It was hard.

"What time is it?" she looked up to see her mother awake, barely.

"Seven," Tara replied.

"Have you eaten anything yet?" her mother asked.

Tara was silent. She tried to remember when her last meal was. Probably the toast and apple from breakfast. She didn't recall lunch. "I'll have something after I leave," she tried to deflect the answer.

"Oh Tara, you need to take care of yourself. Don't let me worry so much about you," her mother cried.

Tara took her mother in her arms, too tired to argue or explain.

"I have an extra class at nine tonight, so I can stay another hour and a half. Has the doctor been to visit yet?" she changed the topic.

"That's very late. Why are they making you work so many hours?" her mother asked, clearly upset.

"I asked for it, mom. Evening classes are usually full, and we get paid extra for good attendance," Tara explained.

"I don't know why you are doing this. Look at Dawn. You have as much talent as her, and look at where you compare," her mother admonished.

"It doesn't work that way. I can go to audition after audition and not get picked. At least with this job I have a steady income," Tara said. "We need it," she added quietly.

Her mother was quieter. "I'm sorry," she started. "I'm so sorry I got sick."

"Mom, don't cry," Tara sniffed. "We'll get through this. With this teaching job I get flexible hours so I can spend more time with you. I can't go back to being a secretary again..." she shuddered at the memory of her last 9-to-5 job. Her boss was a complete sexist jerk, imposing an unreasonable dress code so he could ogle the women in the office. He took liberties, and his language was full of sexual innuendos. He was smart enough to only hire women who were desperate for a job, so they would tolerate his behavior for the pittance he called pay. As the owner of the company, he was also a bully and untouchable. He made things very difficult when Tara handed in her resignation. At the end she had to walk out on the same day, losing even her two weeks' notice pay.

"You're better than all of them combined," her mother said fiercely.

Tara wanted to deflect the conversation away from her. She had other worries. "Has the doctor been to check on you yet," she asked again.

"No, not yet, I don't think. I can't remember," her mother said. "I don't remember much. May be he did. Or was it the nurse?" she grew troubled at her inability to remember, and Tara had to quickly calm her down by reassuring her that she would check. Her mother was becoming a little unstable, and prone to getting worked up over the smallest thing. Tara had learned the art of diffusing the tension by staying calm on the outside.

She finally got her mother to fall asleep. With a kiss to her forehead she said goodnight for the day and went to check with the nurse's station on the timing of the doctor's visit. It turned out that the doctor had been due to visit but was held up in surgery. He would need to be in surgery all night. Tara made an appointment to see him the next day.

Her mother had fallen ill two years ago, she never recovered from losing Donny and her health steadily deteriorated. The extent of her illness was something Tara did not want to face. She knew it was terminal, the cancer, but somehow she needed to hold onto hope, however tenuous.

She didn't know how she could deal with losing her mother. She felt so alone in the world.

*****

The Phone Call

Present day, abandoned warehouse

I froze when I heard the phone ring. It was a standard landline phone, not the articifial or fancy ringtone of a cell phone. My feet betrayed me and I could not help but follow the sound of the ringing. The bathroom led to a short dimly lit corridor full of abandoned lockers. Behind one line of lockers against a wall was an opening, the door to that room having fallen off a long time ago.

I had no time to assess what was obviously an office. The phone was at its expected place on a nondescript wooden desk that had seen better days. It was a standard business type telephone with buttons for various functions and ten small lights for different lines. It was the top left light that was blinking red at me. I stared for the longest time at the phone, mesmerized by the rhythm of the ringing tone and the frequency that the red light blinked.

Each and every one of us had some weird conditioning programed into us from an early age. Conspiracy theorists might even go as far and say that the government, or whomever, put something into our mother's food when they carried us so that we are so conditioned. What am I talking about? The urge to pick up the phone and answer it whenever it rings. Unlike letters or emails or most type of communication, we usually know or have a good idea who the sender or originator is. A letter may have a sender's name and address, an email certainly has the sender's details. Even people knocking on our door unsolicited, we can tell by looking through the peephole, the windows or the security cameras. And yet for the longest time before caller ID was invented, there was no way of telling who the caller is when the phone rang. Hence the urgency to pick it up, to answer it, to find out who was the mysterious caller at the other end of the line.

Stupid, if anyone cared to ask me.

I was stupefied at my vehement reaction to a ringing telephone. As if the experience just now, waking up covered in vomit, in an unknown place, filthy, hurting everywhere and not knowing my name was not enough, I had to get worked up over a telephone. Perhaps by nature I was an agitated person? I was learning things about myself every minute of my new life.

I didn't know how long the phone had been ringing, it must have been ten, twenty rings by now. Surely whoever was on the other end of the line would have hung up in frustration. But no, that person was persistent. The ringing and the blinking light continued, as if mocking my inaction.

So I picked it up. I gingerly placed the handset against my ears, listening for the slightest sound. But I did not say anything in greeting or acknowledgment.

At first all I could hear was static of an outside location. May be they had the wrong number. I was too afraid to speak.

"Hey, it's me," a voice suddenly came through. A male voice, rough and impatient. "Where the hell were you?"

"I--" I cleared my throat, trying to clear the ugly squeak that came out of my mouth. "I was in the bathroom," I said.

"Jesus. You scared the shit out of me, don't go too far away from the phone next time, you hear me? How many times do I have to tell you to be close by so I don't have to bust a gut trying to get a hold of you," he yelled, obviously impatient. I blinked. He was talking to me as if he recognized me. Alarm bells started ringing. Red flags started waving. Did I know this guy? Were we connected in some way? Was I expecting this phone call?

"Sorry," I muttered, hoping to sound suitably chastised and subservient. His tone indicated that he expected to be above me in whatever pecking order we were. He also sounded like he would not be nice to people who disagreed or acted against him.

"Forget it. I don't have much time. Give me a status report," he barked.

I baulked. Status report on what? The only thing I was able to report on was my status of lack of any identity. He didn't sound like the sort of person who cared about that. "Everything is fine," I choked out.

"No problems transporting the girl?" he asked.

I almost dropped the phone. Girl. There was a girl here in the building somewhere.

"No," I said. There was nothing else I could have said.

"The next few hours are key. Too much depends on everything, we have to make sure there are no surprises. Don't fuck it up now," he said.

"No," I repeated. "I'll be careful," I added, hoping that it was the right words.

"I'll be back in," he paused. I had a vision of a thick wrist with a thick wristwatch. "Four hours. I'll head straight back after I get the money," he said.

I scanned the room. Found a clock that said twelve. The second hand was moving, so I presumed it was a functional clock. Whether the time was correct I would have to find out later. I had no idea or concept of what time it was. Neither the room I woke up in nor the bathroom had windows and I had not been in the right mind to look for, or find out the time. At least if the clock in the office was working I could use it to countdown the four hours.

I remembered belatedly to respond. "Okay, four hours," I said.

"You know where the gun is, right?" he said.

It was definitely more than I could take. One surprise after another. I hurriedly looked around, moving the chair away from the desk to try to find the elusive gun. "Um," I hesitated.

"Bottom drawer," he hissed. "Stupid bitch," he said under his breath but loud enough for me to hear.

He hung up without another word, and I was left holding the handset with a disconnected tone. I replaced it automatically like a robot, my mind elsewhere.

I took out the gun from the drawer, not dwelling on how natural I was handling it. I must have held or even fired guns in my previous life.

I stared at it.

*****

"This is the biggest cock up in the history of things cocking up"

Three years ago, on the roof of the Aladdin Hotel, Las Vegas

It was like a Tarantino movie. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The hotel setting seemed like one of those expensive Hollywood film sets that were built according to exact scale. Any moment now the director would shout "Action!" and the director of photography would arrange it so that the scene was backlit by the glare of the desert sun, to give it an overexposed effect.

There were no sound, no ambient noise, no sound of traffic or machinery. The choppy buzzing of the helicopters faded to the background. There was just a muffled, surprised gasp and then the trailing scream downwards. Willow and Buffy watched helplessly as the young fugitive took the one fatal step backwards. Whether or not he did it on purpose was no longer relevant. Willow would never forget his facial expression as his foot failed to find a solid footing and slipped on the edge of the wall he was standing on. His legs gave out and for a brief moment he seemed to be suspended in mid air. His left arm still clutching the canvas bag full of money tightly against his chest, his right arm stretched out in the detectives' direction, as if imploring them to reach out, grab him and return him to safety.

They were never going to make it to where he was, they were too far away. As he fell into the void his eyes met Willow's and there was so much questioning. What could have been his thoughts during these last seconds as he fell off the roof of a high rise hotel? Regret. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Fear.

It was over quickly. The sound of his body hitting the ground was a sickening thud followed by a bone breaking crack that made Willow want to retch. It was followed by loud screams from the passers-by who had the misfortune to witness the shocking event. Willow and Buffy carefully peered over the wall barrier onto the street below. The angle of the body, the rapidly seeping blood and the fast convergence of police personnel all but confirmed that the young fugitive was dead. The canvas bag had split open when it left his hand, and during his fall some of the cash had fallen out. Green paper money was scattered and floating everywhere. Willow watched in fascination from way above as people ignored the grotesque spectacle of a broken, dead body in order to fight and grab at hundred dollar bills flying freely in the air. The police could hope to recover whatever remained in the bag, but the spilled cash was a write-off now.

"This is the biggest cock up in the history of things cocking up," Buffy remarked. She pushed herself away from the wall and started to make her way downstairs. "Let's go, Will. There's gonna be hell to pay."

*****

Willow had been on the job for only a few months, and she was still getting used to the spectacle of dead bodies in all forms of decomposition, disintegration and disembodiment imaginable. Her experience so far in another jurisdiction, and at LVPD, was in Violent Crimes. It had prepared her for the ugliness of the aftermath of a crime, but her victims in those cases were mostly alive. There was always hope for recovery and a return to normal life. Mostly, it was Homicide that dealt with death.

With the complications with this case, it was rapidly becoming a battleground between Homicide and Violent Crimes. Internal affairs would shoulder their way into the investigation in some shape or form eventually. It would become the proverbial bureaucratic snafu.

And then caught in the middle of the mess was the family.

Willow swallowed hard and gripped her folder tighter against her chest as she approached the family. She knew that nothing she could say would console them or give them back their son, their brother, their loved one. She dreaded the confrontation, secretly wishing Buffy had volunteered for The Talk. But her captain specifically asked her to handle it personally, citing her higher level of empathy versus Buffy's. Willow did not think she was particularly empathic, although she grudgingly agreed with her captain that with her specialization in psychology she was in a better position to deal with the grieving family.

They look so forlorn. So devoid of...any emotion.

She stayed out of sight range to observe the mother and the daughter. The daughter had her arm firmly around her mother's heaving shoulders, trying to give some comfort, no matter how small, to her inconsolable parent. It was the worst thing that could happen to anyone, to lose a child. Nature simply did not intend for parents to lose their children, and it had not given humans any emotional preparation or support to deal with tragedy of this magnitude.

Especially not this way.

Her heart went out to the lonely duo. She felt an inexplicable need to rush to them and engulf them in her arms, letting some of the pain come to her. Whatever she could to help. She knew she was entering dangerous territory. Police officers who became too emotionally attached to their clients often ended up with trips to the departmental shrink, such was the stress and burden they took on.

The younger of the duo, the daughter, chose that moment of contemplation to look up, catching Willow. Their eyes met across the stark, cold room. Willow felt an unexpected jolt. It was as if the emotional turmoil inside her suddenly snapped to order, and things became so much clearer. One look, from a young woman she had met only briefly before, one look said yes, I know unlike any other looks Willow had ever encountered. She staggered with the knowledge as something greater than her, greater than the young woman, greater than the sum of all parts, suddenly came together like the interlocking of puzzle pieces.

She knew the young woman felt exactly as she did, because she shuddered and blinked at the same time. A look of recognition was immediately shadowed by sadness, and she turned her attention back to her mother.

Willow walked up slowly until she was just two feet from them. She stood awkwardly, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Detective Rosenberg," she was finally greeted.

"Mrs Maclay, I'm so sorry for your loss," she said sincerely.

"I can't believe he's not coming back," the mother cried.

There was nothing Willow could say to help, so she chose to stay quiet.

As another crying fit abated, the daughter looked directly at her. "Can I take her home?" she asked quietly.

Willow knew her next words would cause inevitable pain. She took a deep breath. "There's one more thing, and I don't know how to say it without making things worse," she started. At the young woman's gentle expectant look, she found courage to continue. "We'll need to identify the body."

She tensed, to prepare for the onslaught. The hoarse cry from the mother was not unexpected. The expressionless silence from the daughter was not.

"I'm sorry," Willow apologized again. "I don't want to ask, but it's probably better done now rather than, rather than, you having to come in again."

"Does it need to be Mom?" the daughter asked.

Willow shook her head. "No, any member of family will do. Failing that, friends even," she answered.

"She is in no shape to do it," the daughter stated. She was not, nor did she need to be, apologetic. "It'll have to be me."

"I'm so sorry," Willow repeated. She had no doubt that she would say those words over and over again before the day was done.

The daughter whispered some words to her mother, eliciting another round of tears but also a grateful nod, then she carefully extracted herself from her mother and stood up. "Now?" she asked. At Willow's nod, "will you come with me?" she asked. "Can you take me there?"

Even if Willow were not supposed to, nothing would take her away from staying with the young woman through the next few minutes. She knew that she had to offer any help she could, to help the woman endure the ordeal.

"I won't leave your side till you leave the building, I promise," she declared.

She led the way to another part of the police building, a part that no sane person would want to enter or linger. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the elevator button for the morgue, and inexplicably she felt her companion give her unspoken strength. I can feel it, she knows it's hard for me too, though obviously incomparable with what she is feeling now.

They completed the procedure for registering for the morgue quickly. Willow had heard that some police officers deposited their weapons at the entrance out of respect for the dead. She had no such superstition, or strong feelings, and the process of leaving her weapon would be time consuming. She did not want to prolong the wait for the young woman next to her.

The morgue technician led them to a small room. It was cold. Not because of the temperature -- the chilliness came from a room reeking of death, and bone chilling horror. She let the young woman step in first, suppressing a primeval urge to stand in front of her and shield her from the horrific spectacle. This young woman stirred all sorts of emotions and reactions from her. She wanted to protect her, she wanted to hold her, she wanted to ask to be let in. It was the wrong time for these emotions, and Willow put them away to sort through later.

They were standing too close. Even three feet was too close to the gurney. The unmistakable shape of a human body lay underneath a crisp white sheet.

"Take your time, let me know when you are ready," the technician said matter-of-factly but not without patience. Willow wondered how he could stand it, spending most of his waking hours among the dead, most of whom met their fate unexpectedly, some of whom violently. What were his dreams and nightmares made of?

The young woman was trembling, and Willow finally gave in to the action she had wanted to do since she walked up to her in the waiting room. She allowed herself to touch the fragile, small woman. She tentatively placed her hand at the top of the young woman's arm, to offer support, friendship. The woman instinctively moved closer and they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

"I'm ready," the woman said in a small quivering voice.

The technician lifted the sheet just enough to expose the face. Willow knew from being at the scene and reading the file where the injuries were. She fought hard not to remember the clinical words of the autopsy report.
The woman uttered a heart wrenching cry and fell against Willow. "No!" she wailed. Willow threw her arm around the slim shoulders, pulling her tighter. Somehow the woman found strength to stand up, Willow could feel her gather her energy.

"Can you identify him?" she asked roughly.

"Yes. That's him," the young woman stuttered.

Willow nodded to the technician, who let the sheet fall back to its original position. She wanted desperately to take the anguished woman away from the terror. "Please come with me, Ms Maclay," she said formally. "There's just a little more, some paperwork. I won't take up even more of your time."

"Tara. Please call me Tara," Tara said.

They found Tara's mother sitting expressionless in the same position as they left her. Tara went to her immediately and hugged her close, nodding imperceptibly when her mother asked the inevitable difficult question. Tara left her there for more minutes while she and Willow sat at some chairs in a quiet corner. Willow took out her notebook to record the identification.

"What was his name?" Tara asked suddenly.

"Who?" Willow asked without thinking, only after she blurted out her rejoiner that she realized how abrupt she sounded.

"The guy with the money. The guy who fell off the roof. And because he fell off the roof and didn't return to the planned location his buddies killed my brother in retaliation. That guy," Tara's voice grew louder with each sentence, in agitation.

What was left unsaid was the accusation that the police's actions had caused the fall, and were indirectly responsible for Donny's killing. Willow knew that. She recognized the tone and the anger. She didn't know how the case would get resolved, she knew that she would devote all her energy to making sure that justice was served. She also knew it was in vain. Tara's brother was gone forever. Mrs Maclay would never see her son get older, or have a family, or any of the mundane but fulfilling activities that made up life. The kidnapping itself was stubbornly unsolved. They were still unable to determine the reason for why Donny Maclay was kidnapped in the first place. After the crime was reported, the department had mobilized to guide the Maclay family. The decision to follow the kidnappers' demands and to pay the ransom was taken by her captain, the Department having unusually stumped up the money -- it was the first time she had heard of that happening. The plan was to follow the messenger to the lair and for the SWAT team to perform a hostage retrieval operation once the location of the victim was known. Decisions had been taken by the Department, and gentle pressure put on the family to comply.

Like Buffy said earlier, it became the biggest cock up in the history of things cocking up. Willow had feigned shock at Buffy's crudeness when she said it, but it seemed now that the statement was appropriate and indicative of how things had ended up.

In theory she had to be circumspect when telling Tara about aspects of the case. There were departmental guidelines regarding flow of information to the victim's family, because in their hour of pain, nobody could predict what reaction or course of ill advised action they could take. There were the extremes from going to the press, suing the government to taking the law into their own hands.

Somehow, Willow could not see Tara Maclay as an out of control vigilante.

"Tucker Wells," she said. She knew the name would mean nothing to Tara but she could see in Tara's eyes the need to know.

"Why?" Tara asked, tears streaming down her face.

Willow had no answer to that.

*****

The Unthinkable

Three years and 3 days ago, Las Vegas

Tara Maclay deftly manoeuvred her Honda into the driveway, narrowly avoiding grazing her mom's car. With two small cars, it was a tight fit into the driveway designed for one car. She switched off the engine, gathered her bag and shoes, and was out of the car in three seconds flat. She made her way quickly to the house, grateful for the air conditioning. Central air conditioning was the only luxury her family could afford, and she was glad that they did.

"Mom, I'm home," she shouted as she closed and latched the front door. "Mom?"

She threw her bag and shoes on the staircase and went looking for her mom. Usually her mother would be in the kitchen, so she made the sun-filled room her first port of call. A perturbed frown broke out in her forehead when she found the kitchen not only empty, but with no signs of recent activity. No casserole bubbling away on the stove top, no brownies baking in the oven, no used pots and pans in the sink or on the drainer next to the sink. The kitchen looked like the state it was when she left after breakfast that morning -- all cleaned up, ready for the next meal preparation.

Strange, she remarked to herself.

"Mom?" she repeated, but there was no answer. She scanned the counter top and fridge door for any note for any clue about the absence of her mother and the lack of cooking activity in the kitchen. There were none.

Mentally she ran through her mother's schedule for the day. Her mother only worked in the mornings, taking the early shift of 6am to 2pm at the 24 hour convenience store where she doubled as cashier and part time book keeper. She sometimes took a nap in the afternoon, but was rarely still in bed by the time Tara or her brother returned home from work. In fact, Tara could only remember it occurring once, when her mother was sick with stomach flu, that she could not physically get out of bed. Her mother had strong work ethics, which she instilled in her children; all the more odd that she was not around. Her car was in the driveway, so she could not have gone far. Unless she was in someone else's car. Again, she would have left a note if that was the case.

Tara went through all the rooms downstairs -- the living room which was never used unless there were guests, the dining room which was also never used even when there were guests, the spare room they used as a storage space, the garage, the garden -- there were no traces of her mother. She was still very puzzled when she climbed up the stairs to the upstairs portion of the house. She made her way first to her mother's bedroom, knocking quietly and entering without waiting for a response.

"Where are you, Mom?" A cold chill, then annoyance, crept over her. Quickly she covered her own bedroom and her brother's bedroom, neither of which were occupied. Nor was the bathroom. Every room looked clean, as usual. She returned to her mother's bedroom, for want of a place to sit and think. She walked purposefully to the window, pushed the curtains aside and looked out into the street. There was nothing to see, she did not know what possessed her to look out in the first place. The street was mostly empty, it was too narrow and the neighborhood not safe enough for the children to play around. As the street was off the Strip and the main roads, the few cars that came into the street were of residents or people with genuine business. This was the part of Las Vegas that was outside of the realm of tourist maps.

Tara sat heavily in the chair next to the window, stumped at the whereabouts of her mother. While there was nothing particularly sinister about her absence -- in all probability she was with a friend or co-worker and had neglected to tell Tara, Tara was still worried. Her mother had mobility problems after a bout of illness several years prior and could not move about for any length of time. Belatedly she thought of her cell phone. Duh, how can I be so forgetful? She ran downstairs to retrieve it from her bag. Flipping it open she speed dialed her mother's number. Star-1, the most important number on her speed dial.

It rang and rang and rang. Sixteen rings later she hung up in resignation. Her mother did not have voicemail, not having the confidence to set it up and continue to use it. Tara dialed again, this time letting it ring for twenty rings before giving up. Next she tried her brother Donny. He worked in one of the casinos on the Strip, and was probably still at work. Tara was not surprised that he did not answer either.

She was out of ideas. There was an early suggestion of panic, of not knowing where her family was. But she did not feel a clear and present sense of danger. Her mind tried to come up with a variety of good reasons. The house was not disturbed, there was nothing out of place so the thought of foul play was far from her mind. She was an avid reader of mysteries and adventures, but this did not feel like one of those situations where Miss Marple or one of the famous literary detectives needed to become involved.

Her mind slightly better adjusted, she made her way to the kitchen to fetch a beverage. Not having dinner already prepared and ready needed an adjustment, and her mind turned to the thought of food. Her mother, as was her nature, had plenty of prepared meals frozen in the freezer, for occasions when she did not cook. Tara pulled open the freezer compartment and mentally took stock of what was available. They would not starve tonight. There were roast chicken dinners, her mother's special spaghetti sauce, vegetable curry, plus all manners of frozen soup. If she were feeling hungry, she could have her pick of delicious homemade meals. But she had no appetite, and wanted to wait for her family to come home before eating together.

Resigned to waiting the evening out, she retrieved her bag and shoes from where she dropped them on the stairs and brought them up to her room. She took her wallet and keys out of the bag and placed them in their usual position at her bedside cabinet. Her shoes she carefully inspected for damage and dirt before wiping them briefly and placing them into their storage box. The box she carefully stowed away in her closet. These were her dancing shoes, the tools of her trade as an apprentice dancer, she had to take good care of them.

She must have dozed off because she was abruptly woken up by the slam of the front door. The next minute she heard her mother call out to her. "Tara! Are you home? Please come now!" There was something urgent and heartfelt about her mother's voice that had her scrambling to run downstairs as quickly as she could.

What she saw startled her. Her mother looked terrible, leaning against the wall. She looked as if she'd collapse any minute. Beside her, Tara recognized her mother's co-worker, Anya, who was closing the door with one hand and supporting her mother with the other hand.

"What's going on?" Tara asked.

Her mother burst into tears and would have fallen down if not for Anya's support. Tara quickly joined the other woman in taking her mother's other arm. Together they half carried, half propelled the weeping woman to the family room and to the nearest armchair.

"It's all my fault," Tara's mother cried, in between sobs.

"Mom, tell me. What's the matter?" Tara asked gently. When she was only answered by more cries, she turned to Anya. "Is there something wrong? Something is wrong isn't there?" she asked, swallowing the fear and the sinking feeling in her stomach. Was her mother sick? Was there a relapse? Something bad happened? The questions flew through her mind out of control.

"I only got part of it, she wasn't very clear," Anya replied. "All I got was a frantic phone call this afternoon, and your mother wanted me to drive her to the bank."

"The bank? What on earth?" Tara muttered. She took her mother's hand and tilted the older woman's chin so she could look at her. "Mom? What do we need the bank for?"

It took several sobs before her mother could control herself. Snd even when she spoke it was barely a hoarse whisper. "It's Donny. He's been taken."

"Taken? What do you mean taken?" Tara gasped.

"Kidnapped. Someone kidnapped him. And they want money."

"What?" It was all Tara could do to remain standing. Illness, car accident or redundancy she could, at a stretch, handle. Anyone who had family and friends knew that they could be faced with those life-sapping events without warning. Kidnapping was something she saw on tv or in movies; it was so completely unthinkable in her world. They were neither rich nor connected. What could anyone possibly gain from kidnapping a poor twenty-three year old maintenance worker who stayed home with his mother for financial reasons?

*****

The ride to the police station was a harrowing one. They switched to Tara's car, piling into the tiny Honda with Tara's mother riding at the back due to her unresponsive state. Anya kindly decided to stay with them for the duration, insisting that they needed a third person to take care of Tara's mother while they reported the kidnapping to the police station.

Tara found a parking space at the back of the station, in the area reserved for the general public. It was all she and Anya could do to walk her mother into the station. Once there they had to find their bearings -- not having the need to be inside a police station before for any reason, it was difficult to find exactly where they should be. The hustle and bustle of activities in the entrance area did not help. Tara chastised herself for not being more prepared. What did you expect it to be like? Like a hotel with clearly marked counters for checking in or booking local tours? Don't be so naïve, she said to herself.

At long last they found the correct desk, all the way to the side of the entrance hallway. The so-called reception area was teaming with people, mostly in groups. They all seemed to want something from the harassed looking desk sergeant, who was trying his best to be polite and to the point.

Tara didn't know what to do. The shock of her mother's revelation was finally hitting home, and it was all she could do not to collapse where she stood. Her mother had found the nearest empty chair and collapsed onto it. It was Anya who fought her way to the front of the crowd, waving at the desk sergeant to get his attention.

"Hey! We need some help here. Local residents! Our tax money pays your salary! A boy has been kidnapped. Need some police action right now," she yelled.

"Slow up, young lady," the desk sergeant admonished. "Everybody gets equal treatment at the Las Vegas police department."

"Yes but we want to report a kidnapping. My friend is distraught, her son is missing and now the bad guys are demanding more money that she has or can possibly earn in her lifetime. That's so unfair, that she has so little money," Anya said.

The police officer looked at her with a quizzical expression, not quite understanding the nuance in her obsession with money. He was experienced enough to take a kidnapping seriously, though. Most of the people clamoring for his attention were tourists, and most of them were there to complain about missing wallets, or car accidents, or being jilted by their beloved at the altar. He waved Anya to one side, and Anya quickly grabbed Tara and Tara's mother. He led them past the front desk area through a doorway into what looked to be the main squad room.

"Sit here," he said, indicating a set of rickety chairs surrounding a plain gray metal desk that had seen better days. "I'll get a detective to get your statement. Don't go anywhere," he reminded them.

Tara pulled out one of the chairs for her mom and eased herself into another one. Anya took the third. The desk sergeant had placed them in an area away from the craziness that was the "front desk" -- presumably where the real police did their work. The squad room was a prime example of controlled frenzy. Uniformed officers and detectives in casual clothing walked about with purpose. Others were sitting at their desks typing up reports, on the phone or talking to one another. Some were less productive, reading the newspaper or drinking coffee from styrofoam cups, but in general work was being done there.

"What's happening?" Tara's mom asked suddenly. She had been quietly sobbing throughout the ride and wait at the police station, and Tara was wary of causing her additional distress, so she had not tried to get her to talk.

"The police will take care of it," Tara replied.

"Are you sure?" her mom asked tentatively.

Tara had no reason to believe the police would not do their best. "I'm sure. I promise. Everything will be fine," she said with assurance.

About five minutes later a short young blonde approached and stretched out her hand. She was dressed more stylishly than the other officers in the station. A white halter top underneath a short leather jacket and skinny jeans with shiny metallic belt was not the uniform of a typical police detective. Add to the combat boots and the whole image oozed beauty and strength.

"Hello, I'm Detective Summers. I understand you are here to report about a kidnapping?" she asked, directing her question to all three seated, not sure who was to be the spokesperson, and wanting to be inclusive without knowing the group dynamics. Tara felt her appraising gaze on her. Not judgmental, rather a trained assessment of strangers. Tara was not sure whether she should speak up or let her mother do the talking. She knew that Anya would defer to the two of them since it was their family matter, she would only add her piece if and when asked.

"My son. Someone's taken him. Bad people," Tara's mother started.

"I see. Why don't we start from the beginning, Mrs..." Detective Summers left the question hanging to get an answer.

When her mother did not answer, Tara interjected. "Maclay." She made the introductions and waited till Detective Summers entered it in her notebook.

"And your son's name?" Detective Summers asked.

"Donny. Donny Maclay. Donald, but we call him Donny," Tara answered dutifully.

"And how old is Donny?" Detective Summers asked.

"Twenty-three."

Detective Summers then proceeded to ask several general personal questions about Donny, Tara and her mother. Where did he work? Did he have a routine? What were his interests? His friends?

"I know this may sound cold-hearted but how do you know he has been kidnapped? Sometimes there is another explanation when a family member doesn't come home as expected. Especially if he's over eighteen," Detective Summers said.

Tara could not answer that question. There was no accusatory tone in Detective Summer's voice, though she could feel her mother becoming increasingly agitated.

"Um, I'm not sure. That's what Mom said when she got home. She's usually home when I get back from work, so it was unusual for her to come back after me," she rambled on, not making complete sense.

Detective Summers looked at Tara's mom gently. "Mrs Maclay, please don't mind me asking. Do you have any proof that Donny has been kidnapped? Did you receive a phone call? Was there a note?" she asked.

Tara's mom's hand shook as she opened her purse to take out a crumpled piece of paper which she handed solemnly to Detective Summers. The three of them, plus Detective Summers, peered at the words as Detective Summers flattened the sheet on the desk with her palms.

"When did you get this?" Tara asked her mom.

"When I got home. It was shoved under the front door. I remember thinking how rude that they didn't use the letterbox," her mom answered.

"And then she called me," Anya added.

"Why didn't you call me first?" Tara asked, bordering on irritated. No offense to Anya, but this was a family matter. Why her mother chose to call a co-worker rather than her own daughter when this type of emergency happened made her angry. Did her mother not trust her? Or did she still think of Tara as a little girl and incapable of taking or making adult decisions?

As if admitting guilt, her mother was silent. Tara began to think that she was right, and her own mother really did think so little of her. "I didn't want to worry you," her mom said, in a small voice.

Tara sighed. It was not the right time or place to be arguing about this. And she said so, "okay, let's not argue about this now. Did you check with his work?" she asked, not realizing from Detective Summers' smirk that she seemed to have taken over the interrogation.

"Yes of course. I called his supervisor. Oh, he's the one with the funny name. What's his name? Woot? Wool? oh, Woon. Woon. I called this Mr Ian Woon. He was mad that Donny hadn't showed up for work without calling in sick. I had to tell him that Donny wasn't home, wasn't slacking off. I didn't tell him about the note, he doesn't need to know," Mrs Maclay huffed.

"What time did you get home?" Detective Summers steered the conversation back to the gathering of facts.

"My usual time. My shift ends at two o'clock. It only takes me half an hour to get home."

"And you found the note under the door when you walked in?"

"Yes. Like I said, I thought it was really rude to not use the letterbox. I almost threw it away without reading. It was just this one piece of paper. I thought it was a flyer."

"Did you see anything or anyone that's suspicious outside your home today? I'll go canvas your neighbors but I want to check with you first. All of you."

"No," they all answered in the negative.

Detective Summers went through a whole list of detailed questions. And then the interview turned to possible motives. Both Tara and her mom were adamant that there was no good reason why Donny would be kidnapped. They were not rich, not famous, not connected as far as they knew to any of the criminal elements in the city. They were a typical suburban family, trying to make ends meet, struggling to pay the bills. They cared about the environment, gas prices, had a peripheral interest in politics but were not vocal about their views. In other words, they should be invisible in the eyes of any criminals. Aside from rare parking tickets, they had not been in contact with the law.

Tara voiced out the thought on everyone's mind, "I think it's a case of mistaken identity."

"We're trained not to believe in coincidences," Detective Summers said. "But I agree this may be true. Now we need to figure out the next steps. I didn't say this earlier, and I apologize for it, but I'm glad you came to the police even though the note said not to. There is no way you should have to deal with this on your own."

"There is no way we can get two million dollars, not even if we sold everything. Our family and friends aren't rich, they can't spare any money to lend to us," Mrs Maclay said. "Oh god, what am I supposed to do? What's gonna happen to Donny?"

The thought was chilling. There was a real threat to Donny's life, Tara's first instinct was to get the money somehow somewhere, even if she had to sell her body and soul to get it. Anything to get her brother back home safely.

"Let me talk to my partner and captain to get them up to speed. We'll take care of it, I promise," Detective Summers said confidently.

Oddly, Tara heard herself say the same words to her mother earlier. She did not feel comforted by it.

*****