Dying For a Cigarette, Part 3

    Notice: This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, graphic violence, and explicit smoking. If you're not
sure you want to read it, think again. It's a corker.

    Copyright 1996 by G. M. Sullivan. All rights reserved. This story may be
copied and distributed for the unrecompensed amusement of others only.


    "Dying For a Cigarette" Part 3 of 4


    Part Three: Chrysalis Breaking


    13. 23 December, East 68th Street, 8:59 AM

    "Good morning, Starshine. Sleep well?" Marcia was smoking, of course, and
picking at a bowl of dry cereal at the breakfast table.

    "All right, I guess," Natalie answered her sister. She felt awful. She had
awakened twice during the night, and each time had smoked a cigarette to calm
down. This morning, her mouth tasted like an old alkali pit, and the champagne
and manhattans were pounding at the back of her head. She also, though, felt
calm and centered in herself. The previous day's work had not been undone.

    Natalie was still in her nightgown. She had not yet attempted to get
cleaned up or dressed. Still, she had been pleased to see in the mirror that
she looked very young and innocent in a way she hadn't since her mid-teens.

    Natalie sat at the table, setting down her pack of Kents and lighter.

    "Hungry, kiddo?"

    "Ghod, no. I think I'd just like a cup of coffee."

    Natalie took a cigarette from her pack. Marcia, fetching coffee, stopped
and said, "just one minute, kiddo. That's a very important cigarette you're
holding there. I've seem them fall fast, but none as fast as you. If you light
that, it may just be the end of your days as a non-smoker. Are you really
sure...?"

    "I'm sure," Natalie said, cutting her off. "And I hope this one hooks me
good." In fact, Natalie thought that a smoke would taste terrible just then,
but somehow it was important, it was integral to her new self-image. She would
preserve her momentum. She compromised only by taking a few sips of coffee
first.

    "Okay, then Nat...alie, let me be the one to do the honors." Marcia
circled the table and lighted her sister's first cigarette of the day. Natalie
dragged with determination, finding the coffee provided a good buffer between
the smoke, her open-pit mouth, and her pounding headache. This must be part of
what coffee's for, she thought. She inhaled the first puff and began another
immediately, as she'd seen Marcia do when particularly desperate for a
cigarette. Her delayed exhale came in a dense plume which threw a shadow
across the table. And, Natalie was pleased to note, small nostril exhales
accompanied her next three breaths.

    Marcia, exhaling her own, smaller cloud, wondered if she should comment on
this display. Nattie...Natalie certainly was a different woman, and smoking
was only the most obvious sign. Marcia hoped all this sudden change was for
the good. Instead of commenting, she said "take a look at the papers. It seems
your boss is not the only one who has it in for smoking."

    Natalie examined both morning papers as she smoked, letting her exhales
pool among the pages, sometimes hiding the words.

    "It's probably him, you know. Mr. Stephanson, I mean. I think he's the
killer."

    Marcia listened for the sound of humor in Natalie's voice, but there was
none. "You're kidding, right?"

    "No. Why couldn't he be? He hates smoking, and he likes to hurt people.
And I don't see here where they suspect anyone else."

    "Listen, kiddo, before you go dialing 911, maybe you should have just a
little more to go on. Better still, leave the whole thing to the police."
Marcia paused, exhaling smoke. "One thing I know is that while this goes on,
I'm not smoking on the street or near any outside windows! And neither should
you."

    Natalie inhaled a last time and let smoke curl out with her words. "And
let this psycho run my life? I'm tired of letting people do that. No one runs
my life, not even you!" Natalie, surprised at the intensity in her voice,
caught herself. "I'm sorry, Sis, I didn't mean to say it that way..."

    "No problem, kiddo, you've been through a lot, I know." Marcia meant it,
but she was still concerned. "Speaking of Stephanson, did you want to call in?
It's after 9:30."

    So it was. Natalie felt no urgency about it, which amazed her. "I think
so," she said. "But I also think I'm not going to work there anymore. I'll
save my resignation, though, for an in-person visit." She smiled wickedly at
Marcia.

    Back in her bedroom, Natalie punched Stephanson's direct-dial number.

    "WESLA, Stephanson speaking."

    "Mr. Stephanson? It's Nattie, Nattie Kelly."

    "Well, Miss Kelly! When 9:00 o'clock came and went, I'd thought maybe
you'd flown the coop. I was just writing the want-ad when you called."

    Natalie bristled, but this was not the time. Instead, she lit a cigarette.
"No, Mr. Stephanson, I still want this job. It's just that I have the flu."

    "I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Kelly. Well, we'll keep your desk warm for
you until after Christmas. If you're not better by then...we'll have to see."

    "Thank you, Mr. Stephanson. I'll call you again tomorrow if I'm not coming
in." She hung up.

    On the telephone, Stephanson had quite clearly heard the soft click, the
audible breaths. He knew what they meant. Action would need to be taken.


    14. 23 December, Columbus Circle, 12:52 PM.

    The killer walked among the lunch hour crowds, feeling quite pleased with
himself. This morning's papers had been everything he had hoped for and more.
The message was out, and would spread as his program continued.

    Even more pleasing than the press coverage was the fact that very few on
these crowded sidewalks were daring to smoke. On the steps of office towers
where wretched masses of smokers could usually be seen, very few were out
today despite the milder weather. Almost like Spring, the killer thought, and
the air is so clear and fresh.

    From portable radios among the throng, the killer could hear live coverage
of the mayor's and police commissioner's press conference. It should have been
over by now, but the press clearly saw through the bland words and false
promises to the truth beneath. They were pressing the officials hard. The
authorities clearly knew nothing. And would continue to know nothing, he was
now sure.

    The killer had fully expected to be apprehended at some point. That would
not be such a bad turn, for he would then have the opportunity to speak to the
nation from a court of law. Some, he knew, would even defend his actions.
Convicted, he would be a martyr to his cause. Freed...but no. The world would
not be enlightened so quickly. Still, imprisonment would be a small price to
pay for such a forum.

    Now, seeing the impotence of the police, he was no longer sure they could
stop him. He had one more outing planned, for Christmas Eve. Then he would
cease for a time, until he saw his message was being forgotten. He had few
illusions in that regard. In a month, perhaps two, he would begin again, and
so the cycle would continue until he was caught.

    Now, he wondered if he might not enhance his initial program a little.
Perhaps he would seek a target of opportunity...

    The killer stopped before a new 60 story building, Three Columbus Circle.
Its grounds were nicely landscaped, with planters of trees and bushes flanking
each side of its multiple revolving doors. On one side of the doors, behind
the planters, was a small grouping of outdoor tables and chairs. For the
convenience, among others, of smokers.

    On such a nice day, those tables should have been filled. Today, they were
empty, at least of smokers. The killer waited, loitering beside the planters
on the opposite side, across the line of doors from the tables.

    Two young women approached the area and sat at a table down, dropping
shopping-bags full of brightly wrapped and ribboned packages. One, an
attractive blonde, produced a pack of B&H Menthols from her purse.

    "Alice, what are you doing?" her companion said. "Haven't you been
listening? What if..."

    "What, what if some mysterious killer pops out and shoots me on a crowded
street in broad daylight? I don't think so. Anyway, I'm dying for a cigarette,
and I refuse to wimp out like all these others, Janet." Defiantly, she applied
flame to her cigarette, inhaling with gusto. Her exhale shot up above the line
of bushes. "Take that, asshole!" she said.

    Far more heads turned at the sight of Alice's smoke than would have just
the day before. Janet shivered. "Those cigarettes run your life, you know."

    "Better them than my ex-husband," said Alice, exhaling again at the
cowardly throng.

    The killer could not make out all the words, but the smoking was quite
clear. His erection became a nuisance. The woman thought she was safe out
here, surrounded by protectors of every stripe.

    The killer was not wearing his night clothes, and his face was bare of
concealing paint. The Ruger, however, was concealed behind his back under a
slightly over-long suit jacket. The risk would be extreme, the shot very
difficult despite his long months of training. The rewards, though...

    He evaluated his shot. Approaching closer would be a mistake. Attention
would automatically focus on the target, and he wanted to be as far away as
possible. The shot would need to travel across the long line of revolving
doors and another twenty feet or so to the target. The angle would prohibit
his usual rear head entry, and it was somehow distasteful to him to shoot a
woman in the face. He would need to find the heart, and on the first try. Not
that he could risk a follow-up shot in any case, but he would not compromise
his rule against causing undue suffering. A clean heart-shot would produce a
slight sting, maybe some vertigo before death. That was acceptable.

    He examined the greenery beside him. The planter was only a foot or so
from the building's sandstone wall on his side. Room enough for him to hide
there, but he would still be visible and in a highly irregular spot, his
getaway unlikely to succeed. He would need to use the greenery only to conceal
the weapon and the hand holding it. The rest of him would have to remain on
the street side of the planter.

    Moving very carefully, he removed a handful of his stickers from a pocket
and dropped them under an evergreen. They would certainly be found later, but
for now were invisible. He must have full credit for the deed.

    Turning his back to the chosen hemlock, he withdrew the Ruger. In the
noontime crush, it would be nearly inaudible. A clean miss, and no one would
be likely to notice at all. He didn't intend to miss. Turning back toward the
target, he moved his gun arm around the bush, keeping it hidden from any easy
view. Quickly, he ducked his head around the hemlock, lined up the gunsight,
then straightened up. His only suspicious move was now past. No one was
watching him.

    He had to keep the gun arm rigidly still. The slightest tremor would bring
disaster. Quickly, he checked the doors. No one was in the line of fire. The
woman was taking a last drag from the cigarette. He squeezed the trigger, and
the silenced Ruger coughed quietly. No heads turned in his direction. As
quickly as discretion allowed, he turned his back again to the evergreen and
returned his gun to its place of concealment. Then, he walked away in the
opposite direction, joining hundreds of others equally anonymous, equally
unaware. He knew the shot had been good.

    "One last puff," said, Alice, "then back up to work." She dragged on her
cigarette.

    "Alice," Janet started, then stopped. A red blob had appeared on Alice's
dress, directly between her breasts. A sudden ketchup spill. No.

    Alice opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a horrid, dry
rattle. Smoke escaped with the sound. Somewhere nearby, a camera motor
churned. Someone had noticed this Kodak moment.

    Janet watched, paralyzed, as Alice's eyes rolled up into her head, going
almost all-white. Then her friend seemed to change into a loose bundle of
dishrags, sliding from the chair, slipping under the table to lay face-up on
the concrete. Through the mesh tabletop, Janet saw blood pump thickly but
weakly from Alice's breast; once, twice, twice-and-a-half...then nothing. More
blood appeared from beneath the body.

    Janet found her voice.

    The killer, along with many others, turned to look at the source of the
scream. Also in concert with the others, his eyes widened in shock and horror.
When he was sure attention was fully elsewhere, he slipped away and returned
to work.

    In his mind, he was already reading the evening Post. "No One is Safe,"
the headline read.


    15. 23 December, Fifth Avenue, 7:35 PM

    O'Rourke's Bar, despite the old-country name, was not Flinn's kind of
place. It was a little too slick, a little too yuppie-choked for him. Right
now, he was in no position to be choosy. He needed a drink. Several drinks.

    Flinn's chief had been furious. Another killing by the "ASK-man," or so
the Post had dubbed the anti-smoking killer, right out in public and during
the mayor's press conference, for Christ's sake! The embarrassment to the
department was monumental, not to mention the city administration, the
uniformed city workers, and everyone else down to the commissioner's aging
Aunt Hilda

    Flinn had visited the scene of course, along with about a thousand boys in
blue, a massive show of force that wasn't fooling anybody. He had personally
interviewed at least 50 eyewitnesses to the event. No one had heard the shot.
No one had seen anyone who looked suspicious. No one had seen anyone running
from the area.

    Oh, a few people claimed to have noticed some unlikely thing or other, but
their stories were obviously intended only for sale to "Hard Copy." Nothing
was confirmed, nothing checked out. One lucky photographer had grabbed some
shots of the dying victim, exhaling smoke no less. That image, in living
color, had decorated the front page of the evening Post. If that didn't put
the final kibosh on smoking in New York, Flinn thought, nothing ever would.
The photographs had not proved helpful to the investigation, though. The
shooter had been too far away from the victim. Helluva shot.

    After his dressing-down at HQ, Flinn had been ordered home to get some
sleep, which God knew he needed. There were eight other senior dicks on the
case now, and he wouldn't be missed for a few hours. But tired as he was, he
needed to drink more. Less than halfway to his uptown flat, he had found
himself in this joint.

    Colored lights blinked on several small, plastic trees around the bar.
From somewhere, Nat King Cole began singing.

    "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."

    Flinn had to dig very deep to find any holiday spirit. And the way that
barmaid kept staring at his cigarette...! He was ready for a change of luck.

    Natalie entered the bar, which was only a block from her sister's
brownstone. She was wearing another new dress, this one a green,
off-the-shoulders number from Marcia's agency. Her makeup and hair had, with
Marcia's help, been restored to almost peak condition. Her entrance was
noticed.

    Just two days ago, the idea of going to a bar alone would have paralyzed
her for a week. Now, it was just another step on the road to her new persona.
And a very intermediate step, at that. Many other unthinkable barriers would
need to be crossed before she was done. She had not discussed these things
with her sister. Marcia had been at the agency when Natalie left.

    Flinn hadn't seen her enter, but he quickly caught up when she took a
barstool next to his. His first thought was "good-looking babe." His second
was "and a smoker too! With guts!"

    Natalie looked straight ahead and ordered a dry manhattan. She removed
Kents and lighter from her new Gucci bag and laid them on bar. She had not
heard about the afternoon's killing, but it would have made no difference to
her. These were all-important steps. First, to be seen by strangers in her new
guise. Second, to smoke in public. She removed a cigarette and placed it in
her mouth. Third...

    Flinn's lighter was out faster than he had ever drawn his service
revolver. "Allow me, miss..."

    She turned to look the detective. He was older than she, but he had a
thick head of blonde hair and a friendly, open face. He looked like hell,
though. Eyes red and bagged, whiskey heavy on his breath, suit looking
slept-in. She thought she could see some sort of leather harness under his
jacket. A cop?

    Still, this was step three. "Natalie," she smiled. "Natalie Kelly." She
accepted his light.

    This would be her 14th cigarette of the day. She had practiced through the
morning and afternoon, trying to develop some style and technique. Marcia had
helped until noon, when she left for her agency. Natalie had pressed on alone,
ignoring dizziness and an irritated throat, finally soothing the latter with a
little left-over champagne. She was prepared for this moment. No one would
think her a novice.

    "I'm Flinn, Jake Flinn." He omitted the title. It wasn't usually helpful
in these situations. Flinn watched as Natalie dragged deeply and removed the
cigarette. She opened her mouth to show him the smoke curling thickly within
and inhaled. Since he was a smoker like her, she wasn't too careful to miss
him with her exhale, giving him just a slightly profiled view. The air clouded
around them. The barmaid was shaking her head.

    Natalie smiled. A smoker like her! It was a strange but pleasant thought.

    What the hell am I doing, Flinn thought. It had been 15 years since he'd
spoken to a strange woman in a bar, yet alone one young enough to be a
favorite niece. Still, the moment seemed right. He needed a brief distraction,
and this lovely woman was nothing if not distracting.

    Natalie and Flinn made small talk for a few minutes, smoking and drinking,
but the conversation quickly turned to the topic of the day. Flinn reluctantly
filled her in on the Columbus Circle shooting. Watch, now, Flinn thought,
she'll stub out that butt real quick.

    Natalie didn't. Instead she took another long, slow drag, letting the
smoke drift out quietly from her mouth and nostrils. She was thinking.
Columbus Circle was not far from the WESLA offices on West 57th. An easy
lunch-time walk, in fact.

    "Jake, are you...investigating the case?" she asked, some smoke remnants
still escaping.

    "Yeah," he admitted, "actually it's Lieutenant Jake, homicide, and I've
done nothing else for three days straight. I'm sure the wear-and-tear shows."
He kept his voice low. The last thing he wanted was a crowd of listeners.

    Natalie took a fresh cigarette and Jake lit it for her. "I think I know
who the killer is," Natalie said through her exhaled smoke. "It's my boss at
work."

    "Whoa, Natalie, just a moment! Lots of people don't like their bosses. He
may be a real rat's ass, but that doesn't make him a serial killer."

    "I think he's both," said Natalie. She inhaled once more, blowing the
smoke coyly at him.

    Jake cursed his sexist tongue. He didn't want Natalie to think he wasn't
taking her seriously. "Look, ah, what's the guy's name? I'll admit the suspect
list is pretty lean at the moment."

    "Bradley J. Stephanson, at the West Side Lung Association, WESLA for
short. He's the General Services Manager there. My boss."

    "Stephanson, eh?" Flinn made a note. "I'll run a check on him, at least."
And he would, too. He couldn't afford to overlook anything at this point.

    When Flinn looked up, Natalie was exhaling a small flood from her
nostrils. "Natalie, I should run. I've got my Camaro outside, and I'd be happy
to drop you off anywhere you want. Smokers have to stick together these days."
Flinn chuckled at his own wit and gave Natalie his card. "Maybe we could get
together sometime for a drink, maybe some supper..."

    He hoped she would write her phone number on the card. Instead, she asked,
"where are you going?"

    "Home," he said. "I've still got a few hours to catch some winks, which I
sorely need."

    Natalie took a long, fortifying drag on her cigarette. This was step four.
"Then I have a better idea," she said. "Take me home with you. I could use a
nap, too."


    16. 23 December, FDR Drive, 9:13 PM

    As they drove north, Flinn phoned Mendoza and asked for the background
check on Stephanson. He didn't say why he wanted it. Mendoza told him that
other than this, there were no new leads on the case.

    Flinn thought that Natalie would believe he had ordered the check only
because she was with him. It didn't seem to matter, though. Natalie looked
pleased.

    Flinn wasn't sure if he was pleased or not. It had been a long time for
him, and there was something odd about this lady. Still, he wasn't one to
dodge a treasured fantasy when it put on flesh and jumped into his car, almost
unasked-for...


    17. 23 December, East 147th Street, 9:45 PM


    The best thing that could be said for Flinn's studio was that it wasn't
too filthy for a bachelor's pad. A sixth floor walkup in an un-gentrified
neighborhood, it was small, lightly furnished, and dark even at noon. It
wasn't cluttered, but only because Flinn was so seldom at home. He could
certainly afford better now, but why bother? He was comfortable enough here.

    Natalie was a little put off by her first look at a man's apartment, but
she hid it behind iron determination. This was a long way from her small but
carefully maintained and decorated flat, and light-years from Marcia's
brownstone. Still, step five was close now, very close, and she couldn't
afford to let herself hesitate.

    Flinn helped Natalie remove her coat and kissed her tentatively on the
neck. Natalie raised a hand and stroked his stubbily cheek.

    Flinn felt suddenly awkward as a schoolboy, unsure of what to do or say.
Should he offer her a drink? All he had was a bottle of Irish whisky and no
ice. Or glasses. He tried to remember the suave, sophisticated things he used
to say (he thought) when bringing a girl home for the first time. He couldn't;
it all fled away down a long corridor of time. If the guys back at HQ could
see him now, standing like fool in front of a beautiful women, he would be a
dead man.

    Natalie decided the issue for him when she began undressing, a slight
flush of red on her cheeks. At least the kid's human, Flinn thought when she
blushed, and he slowly began following her lead.

    If Flinn was at a loss, Natalie was in a total no-woman's land. She had no
idea what the rules were for this ritual, so she had proceeded to direct
action. This was by far the most difficult step. No man besides her father had
ever seen her naked. Her imprisoned fear beat against the barriers she had
erected, threatening to break out and flood her. If she let it, she knew she
would run screaming. She couldn't afford that. It would only get easier, but
first she had to start.

    Natalie's resolve was aided by other long repressed feelings and desires
which she now freed. Watching Flinn undress was exciting her. Despite the
shabby surroundings and Flinn's age, he seemed to be kind and considerate. A
long-imagined moment was about to become real. She needed a cigarette.

    Natalie finished undressing first and retrieved her Kents. She found a
semi-clean ashtray on the sole nightstand, took it, and sat nude on the bed.
She lit up and drew in smoke, letting in sit in her lungs for a long while,
soaking through, relaxing her. It was indeed her reminder, her new symbol for
herself. She let the diluted smoke escape as she asked, "What's keeping you,
big fellow?"

    Old reflexes were kicking-in for Flinn now, and he soon found himself
beside her between the sheets, condom in place. She did not discard the
cigarette immediately but continued to draw in the reinforcing vapors,
exhaling while they caressed with increasing excitement. Flinn was reminded
again of his dead partner-lover. Uncharitably, he now wished he could be seen
back at HQ.

    Cigarette gone now, Flinn's hands and mouth explored Natalie's smooth
body. He felt the tensions of the past few days draining away, forgotten for a
time. This was better than sleep, this was better than a whole vacation in the
Bahamas. This was...

    Flinn's wandering fingers had at last reached Natalie's pubes, and there
encountered a most unexpected impediment. "Jesus God!" he almost said aloud.
His caresses stopped.

    The ghostly arms of ten thousand Catholic ancestors rose from their
graves, encircling him, pulling him away. "This is no fallen woman," they
said. "No casual whore. She is still honorable, still marriageable. She is not
for you. Not here. Not now."

    Flinn groaned audibly. He didn't buy all of that double-standard crap. He
hadn't been his long-ago ex-wife's first lover, nor anyone else's, ever. He
didn't think any less of those women for it, either. But this...? This was
crazy. He had to stop. "Look, Natalie, I didn't know you..." he began.

    Natalie was beyond thinking. Relaxed by the smoke, driven to frantic
excitement by years of pent-up frustrations, only instinct drove her now.
Angered by his sudden hesitation, she rubbed her body against his, seeking,
demanding. Her fingers found his erect penis and squeezed none too gently.
Flinn would need his cuffs to stop her.

    Flinn, who would never make saint, could not withstand this assault. He
responded. Mounting her, he hesitated one final time as the tip of his penis
touched her hymen. Then Natalie's hands were on his buttocks, pushing down,
hard. The resistance was slight.

    Flinn saw Natalie's eyes close, tears starting at the corners. That had to
hurt like a bitch, he thought, and slowed his strokes, becoming gentler and
more rhythmic. He didn't want to think about what might be mixed in with her
natural lubrication. The bed would look like a crime scene. Maybe it was.

    He didn't expect her to climax at all, but she did, clutching his
shoulders, kissing him, tears flowing, her body trembling all over. His own
climax followed instantly.

    Some uncertain time later, as they lay wrapped together, Natalie felt
contented. Step five was accomplished, and despite the brief pain had proved
far more pleasurable than she had ever imagined. She had no idea if Flinn was
a good lover or not, but he had been gentle and kind. She felt a warm
affection for him. Now for step six. She asked Flinn for a cigarette.

    Flinn, dazed and confused, gave them each a Marlboro. As she dragged, she
found this smoke harsh and strong, without the minty sweetness of her Kents.
The smoke was richer and creamier, though, and she found she could play more
tricks with it, almost like Marcia. Their mingled exhales were pleasant and
comforting. On impulse, she inhaled a lung-full and kissed Flinn.

    Smoke-exchange had been a special ritual between Flinn and his partner,
one they were prone to enact in the car, a restaurant, the squad room, or
anywhere else when they were not the center of attention. Flinn wasn't sure he
was quite ready to do this with Natalie, not yet, so he drew some smoke
lightly from her mouth, letting it slip out from his nostrils. The rest
escaped as their lips parted.

    Flinn thought he might even come to love this strange girl, who was now
stretching sensuously like a cat beside him. If, that is, he ever really got
to know her. He was debating whether to discuss what had just happened when he
heard the annoying beeping from his trousers across the room.

    "Jesus! Sorry, Natalie, " her said, getting up. She continued to stretch,
smiling contentedly, blowing smoke, paying him no mind.

    It was Mendoza, of course. Flinn called the station. The mayor was
demanding another report, and Flinn was the only dick on the case who could
write well enough to make nothing sound like something.

    "Natalie, I've got to get back to HQ. You don't need to rush out. Stay as
long as you want, but I can't say when I'll get back. It could be days." He
found a spare key and tossed it on the bed. "Help yourself to anything you
want." As long as it's Irish whiskey straight from the bottle. "Just lock up
when you go. You can get a cab easy on Lex. You need the fare?"

    "No, Jake," she replied languorously. Marcia had given her a generous
allowance.

    Flinn wasn't worried that she'd clean him out. He had nothing worth
stealing.

    Flinn finally got Natalie's phone number, and told her to call him at HQ
anytime she wanted. "I'll be in touch," he said, and was gone.

    Natalie continued to bask for a while, smoking one of her Kents, enjoying
the nude decadence of it all. She liked Flinn, and hoped they would make love
again. Then she took a look around, curious about how a man lived alone.

    In the drawer of the nightstand, she found a .25 caliber Baretta, clip
loaded, and a few loose bullets.

    Perhaps, she thought, there were still a few more steps to be taken before
her transformation was really complete.

    She took the gun and bullets with her when she left.

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