Precursors, Part 4

Notice:  This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
sexual content, graphic violence, and explicit smoking.  You have been
fairly warned.

Copyright 1998 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may
be copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others
only.

Author's note:  This story is the next in the series begun in "Hybrid
Vigor" and continued in "Eschaton Boulevard" and "Absolute Power."  Its
action brackets two earlier stories, "Dying for a Cigarette" and
"Phoenix Ascending."  If you have missed any of these tales, they are
all archived at
"http://www.cs.brown.edu/people/lsh/stories/byname.html."   I recommend
them to your attention for a fuller enjoyment of what follows.

Dedication:  To the first smoking woman who will E-mail me after she
reads this story.


"Precursors," Part Four of Four


17. West 89th Street, New York, New York, January 14, 1999, 3:35 PM EST

New York had proved stranger than she ever imagined.

Shelly and Jimmy Jr. were spending a quite afternoon in their studio
apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan, she with the evening
Post and he with a rerun of "Gilligan's Island."  The Post did not have
the journalistic reputation of the Times or even the Daily News, but
Shelly enjoyed reading the stories by Persephone Jones.  A confessed
and unrepentant smoker, Jones often wrote on topics related to the
oppressed habit.  There had many such topics lately.

In December, an anti-smoking killer had pursued a brief vendetta
against female smokers in New York.  He had killed three and wounded a
fourth before being brought down by a police detective, though Jones
hinted broadly that someone else had actually ended the career and life
of the ASK-man.

The surviving victim, 13-year-old Dorothy Risling, had become a
celebrity in New York.  She was called the "Christmas Miracle Girl,"
since she had escaped the killer's kind attentions under highly
mysterious circumstances.

During the murder spree public smoking had decreased dramatically in
New York, especially by females.  Dorothy and a woman involved in
trapping the ASK-man, Natalie Kelly, had helped reverse the trend.
They had even held a benefit just four days ago in the Javits center,
celebrating the freedom to smoke and revealing strange prophesies by
Dorothy concerning the coming of the "Millennium," now less than a year
away.

She wondered briefly if the girl really knew something was brewing.
Unlikely.

Shelly had certainly not curtailed her smoking in the past month...but
then, she didn't go out much.  She lit a cigarette, took a leisurely
puff, and bathed the newsprint in exhaled smoke.

A powerful bomb-blast had ended the Javits center rally.  Incredibly,
Dorothy had survived again despite being very close to the bomb when it
exploded.  This second "miracle" had created a nationwide sensation and
prompted a smoking renaissance of sorts.  Public smoking in New York
was once again restrained only by law, and sometimes not even then.
Jones also reported that a charismatic freshman at the University of
North Carolina, Melissa Schwartz, had successfully campaigned for
smokers' rights at that school.  Even the staunchly anti-smoking CDC
seemed to be loosening up.  Strange days had found them all.

Shelly took another long puff on her cigarette and blew a thoughtful
cloud of gray-white smoke at the inane TV show.  She passed the paper
to Jimmy, who could read it at least as well as she could.  Though only
six months old he appeared to be a toddler of three, though he never
"toddled."  Jimmy was the bread-winner for their modest household.

They had been living in New York for four months.  On first arriving,
Shelly had thought about getting a job but hated taking the risk.  Her
old, fugitive identity had been thoroughly altered by using her HSC
talents, but she had no supporting documentation for the new one.
Jimmy had supplied a solution, eliminating any further money worries.

The child would enter a store, sometimes with his mother in tow,
sometimes not.  Either way, he always obtained the needed supplies for
free and gained some cash besides, more than enough to cover their
ridiculous month-by-month rent.  There was never any outcry, never any
pursuit.  Shelly knew it was crime, but what choice did she have?  Poor
Jimmy, forced to a life on the immoral fringe at such a tender age!
She rationalized that these "fine" points would soon be irrelevant,
anyway.

Jimmy found it no trick to read the paper and follow the TV show
simultaneously.  Nevertheless he surprised her when he piped up at
something he saw in the Post.

"Mommy, I'd like to play with Dorothy."

"Dorothy?  You mean the 'miracle' girl?"  Shelly took another puff and
sent a smoke plume toward Jimmy.  He didn't smoke yet, but she would
never object if he wanted to.  Health problems and child abuse were
terms which would never apply to Jimmy.  "Isn't she a little old to be
your playmate?"  She laughed.  He couldn't be thinking...no.  Not even
Jimmy.  "Besides, she's a famous kid.  It says in the paper that she's
in 'seclusion.'  How would we even know where to find her?"  This was a
lame excuse.  Shelly could think of many ways to track her down if it
became necessary.  Jimmy could undoubtedly think of more.

"But I know her, Mommy!  We're already friends.  I met her in the big
park last month."

"You did?  You never told me."  It was hardly the first time he'd kept
secrets from her.  He never spoke of the death of Adam Dhalgren, though
she prompted him frequently for an explanation.  Sometimes she wondered
who was the child and who the adult.  She exhaled a last puff in
annoyance.

"If I tell you where she is, will you take me?"  Jimmy was not allowed
to ride the subway alone.

"It's a deal."


18.  East 74th Street, New York, January 21, 12:03 PM EST

The posh townhouse had been a wedding present.

Detective-Lieutenant Jake Flinn, NYPD Homicide, and Natalie Kelly,
media sensation and rising star, had been quietly married on January
13th, shortly after the Javits bombing.  Flinn's title was the longer
of the two, but he had no illusions about whose was the more
important.

The brief ceremony had been performed by a judge standing next to
Natalie's hospital bed, where she was recovering from shock and
hypothermia.  Their relationship had nearly ended before the blast, but
then Natalie had professed love for him before a live crowd of 40,000,
many more watching on public access cable, and later millions on the
network news.  Both wanted to strike while the iron was hot.  It was
well that they did...perhaps.

Later that same day, the NYPD informed Flinn he was back on suspension,
and this time facing disciplinary charges as well.  He might be a hero
for helping limit casualties at the rally bombing, but his earlier
actions had contributed to the death of a SWAT officer and enabled the
bomber, Iranian terrorist Ahmad Rachmani, to escape.  The Israelis, who
had held off acting only on NYPD's assurances that the terrorist was
about to be apprehended, were outraged.  Washington had suffered a
great embarrassment.  Someone had to answer for it, and that one was
Flinn.

He couldn't dispute the justice of it.  He had fucked up.  Jealousy had
led him to tackle Rachmani alone, and he had been outclassed,
outthought, and only luck had prevented him from being killed.

Flinn sat on "his" white-leather living room couch and tried to rise
from his depression.  It was a losing battle.

He was now dependent on his new wife for everything.  She was rapidly
becoming wealthy in her own right, as her sister Marcia already was.
Marcia had given them the townhouse.  It didn't bother Natalie, whose
participation in her sister's fashion agency had generated more than
enough money to buy it.  It only bothered Flinn.

He could remember his father saying, "being dependent on the charity of
women is a disgrace for any man."  Well, color me disgraced, he
thought.  Flinn was 48 years old.

Then there was the matter of Natalie's association with Dorothy Risling
and the quasi-religious movement growing around her.  It had made
smoking acceptable again in New York, which Flinn applauded.  It was
also tied up with strange prophesies and superstitious hogwash, which
he didn't.  It had almost driven them apart once before but Flinn had
lost that battle too, as he seemed to be losing them all lately.

Still a man could get used to this life, he tried to believe.  All
luxury and no responsibilities beside making love to his beautiful,
young, rich wife.  The departmental charges he faced were unlikely to
land him in prison; at worst, his career as a police officer was done.
He could just cruise into early retirement and never have to sweat a
single bill payment or collar a dangerous perp again.

Fuck that.  It would be the death of him.  All his friends were NYPD.
The thought of facing those guys now...

Natalie appeared on the couch beside him and took his hand, her eyes
soft and accepting.  She had grown sensitive to his moods and had some
vague understanding of his current dilemma.  However, her generation
(hell, she was young enough to be his daughter!) had different notions
of male and female responsibilities.  How could she really understand?

Natalie, though, seemed to know well enough what he needed just then.
Still holding his hand, she rose from the couch and led him upstairs to
the master bedroom.

Flinn admired the hell out of his wife.  She had her own problems, he
knew, and had somehow remade herself in just the last few weeks to
become this radiant figure, a woman who could face death without
flinching, who fought for her beliefs against enormous pressure, who
could address crowds that would reduce him to jelly, winning their
admiration and perhaps more.  He was damned lucky to have her, and
ought to stop moping over what couldn't be changed.

No words were spoken and none were needed.  It was a slow and gentle
process this time; the mutual disrobing, bodies meeting under thick,
warm blankets, the gliding caresses and kisses, leading gradually to an
urgency that never quite became frantic.

In only a short time together, Flinn and Natalie had learned a
lifetime's worth about how to pleasure each other.  After penetration
Natalie liked to be on top.  Flinn had found this a strange novelty at
first, but had come to prefer it.  Plus, it made it easier for her to
smoke.

Having a cigarette during lovemaking was more than just a sexual
enhancement for Natalie.  It seemed almost a lifeline that kept her
anchored to herself, lending her a focus she feared to lose.  In any
event, it certainly did not get in the way of their mutual pleasuring.
Flinn found the sight of smoke cascading from his lover's lips
entrancing, uplifting, and just a little threatening to his
self-control.  She lowered her mouth to his and they shared the smoke
between them.

Natalie's series of orgasms were prolonged and intense, sending visible
shudders all down the length of her, and at some point during that
endless time Flinn joined his wife in climax, his soft moans echoing
her own.

For a long while after they lay side by side, still embracing, sliding
toward sleep in the mid-afternoon twilight.

And why not, thought Flinn as he drifted away.  It's not like I have to
be anywhere else...

That was not such a bad thought after all.


19.  CDC, Atlanta, Georgia, January 23, 9:44 AM EST

It was a phone call that finally broke Rebecca's paralysis.

"Engleman, EIS."

"Hello, I'd like to speak to myself, please."

Rebecca paused  "Melissa?"  She had done it again, damn it.  She had
showered this woman...now girl, with promises to write, call, or visit,
and had done none of these things.  Rebecca could feel a new asshole
coming on.  She lit a cigarette to steady herself and bathed the
mouthpiece with audibly-exhaled smoke.

"Who else but your alter ego and erstwhile lover?  Or is secret
identity the right term-of-art?"  A pause.  "That sounded good, hold
on..."  Rebecca heard the click of a lighter over the phone.

Rebecca was never at ease in situations where emotions came easily to
the surface.  It was so easy to make promises and pledges when
face-to-face, and so easy to forget them when apart.  The result was
always embarrassment and guilt for her, anger and feelings of rejection
for her partner.  That had been the death of every relationship she'd
had in her previous life as James Ryan.

She had intended that her relationship with "Melissa," one time owner
of Rebecca's current face and career, would be different.  Now the same
old patterns were re-emerging.  She drew deeply on her cigarette,
asking it for guidance and reassurance.

However, Melissa sounded neither bitter not accusatory.  "So how's it
hanging, 'Becca?  Been to shul lately?"

Rebecca laughed through her awkwardness.  Melissa had hated the
nickname "'Becca" when she'd been subjected to it.  And her religious
practice was one aspect Rebecca had not adopted, nor planned to.  Ryan
had been born a Catholic but had rarely seen the inside of a church.
She could just see herself adorned in kipah and tallus...but then
weren't they worn only by Jewish men?

Disarmed, Rebecca said  "Don't call me 'Becca!  And things have been
tough...I'm sorry..."

"Can it."  Melissa might look 18, but her speech patterns had been set
years before her apparent  date of birth.  "I figured you were swamped
with all this weird smoking shit going down.  So I took the initiative,
this time.  Been reading about me?"

Rebecca had.  Any news related to smoking was of interest to the CDC in
general and her in particular.  "Yes, you've been stirring things up
very nicely at UNC.  What's the latest?"

"Let's see.  Smoking rooms in the Student Union and Library, lounges in
the non-smoking dorms, three new points-of-sale on campus...just some
small blows, compared to your mighty strokes."

Mighty strokes indeed.  "Melissa...I've made some bad mistakes."

"So?  Which are you now, the pope or God?  Want to compare fuck-ups?
I've got a million of 'em."  Another snick from a lighter came over the
connection.

Rebecca was a little bit annoyed at this flippancy.  She took a last
puff and blew out the smoke explosively.  "You really don't know what's
at stake here.  If I can't handle the details-"

"Honey, details were never your problem.  Nor ideas.  If you have a
problem, it's your insatiable need to be perfect.  I'm like you now,
remember?  Wonder Woman.  No, Supergirl.  And guess what?  I'm still
me.  I still fuck up.  I just fuck up more gloriously now."

"Have you shared the wealth?" Rebecca temporized.

"Naw.  No one here's worth it."  Rebecca found herself strangely
relieved at Melissa's words.  Jealously, of all things...?  "Anyway,
you said that soon it wouldn't matter."

A sense of urgency was returning to Rebecca.  Good god, it was late
January already!  "Melissa, listen. You may need to lay low soon..."

"Lay low?  Did you forget who's on the other end here?"  There came the
sound of exhaled smoke.  "If there's going to be a front line, dear,
you can always phone me there."

"Just be careful..."

"I will if I can't be good, and I usually can't."  There was another
pause for an inhale/exhale.  "Look, Rebecca, I don't know what's
happening down there, or what you have or haven't done, and I don't
really care.  Forget it and move on.  You're the Man," she giggled, "or
were.  We need you.  Just be there and the assholes will tremble in
fear.  I know you.  What's more, I love you."  A longer pause, the
sound of a cigarette being ground out, a long exhale.  "Sorry, 'Becca,
gotta go.  French Lit exam, can you believe it?  Will you be staying in
Atlanta?"

"Look for me in New York if you can," said Rebecca.  "And Je t'aime,
also."

Rebecca lit another cigarette as she hung up.  She wrote some fast
E-mails to Peters and Maasha, requesting a meeting "soonest."
Long-made plans needed to be set in motion, and time was short.


20.  West 44th Street, New York, January 28, 11:57 PM EST

Old habits die hard sometimes.

Flinn and Natalie were walking west on the darkened street, having just
exited the Majestic Theater.  Natalie loved "The Phantom of the Opera,"
and Flinn found it exiting enough that he had not objected to this
third viewing.

The theater district was not one of New York's safer areas after dark,
flanked by Times Square on one side and Hell's Kitchen on the other.
Flinn had no fear of the streets, though, especially when he was not
looking for trouble, and Natalie...well, she didn't seem to fear
anything.  Both enjoyed the walk in the mild winter air.

They stopped to light cigarettes gratefully, having gone without during
the long second half of the show.  Flinn played the gentleman and
Natalie cupped his hand as he offered her the light.  Natalie showed
him the smoke ball in her mouth before inhaling, then favored him with
a billowing exhale.

They were approaching Eighth Avenue when they reached a darkened area.
A Con Edison crew hovered near an open transformer vault.  Flinn knew
it must be a big outage for the crews to be working at this hour, and
indeed he could see that the darkness extended out onto the broad
avenue ahead.  Warning barriers and signs surrounded the open manhole,
and red flares bathed the area in a ghastly light.

The crew was behaving oddly.  They gathered close by the gaping hole,
talking nervously to each other in whispers.

Flinn approached the crew foreman.  "NYPD," he said.  He showed no
shield because he didn't have one, but his tone allowed no argument.
"What's the problem?"

"Something in that alley," said the man, indicating the north side of
the street.  His voice shook; he had been badly frightened.

"I'll take a look," said Flinn.  "Did you call it in?"

"No..."

"Then get off your ass and do it now!"

Flinn moved toward the alley entrance.  It was directly behind the
barriers shielding the open manhole, and Flinn needed to squeeze to get
by.  Natalie followed close behind.

Flinn bit off the automatic command for her to stay back.  She would
not, he knew.  Still, he made sure he led the way.  He felt something
hard and cold pressed into his hand.  It was Natalie's Baretta.  Good
girl!  He was so used to carrying a gun...

The alley was very dim, with only a little of the red flare-light
leaking in from the street.  Already looks like a bloodbath here, he
though, and was relieved to see no actual blood.  There were, though,
three figures near the dead end ahead, two standing and one prone.

Flinn's heart rate slowed, his hands steadied, his thoughts grew calm
and clear.  This was his element, what he did best.  How could he ever
give it up?  He approached to within 15 feet of the trio.

Or maybe, he thought, this is no one's element.  The prone figure was a
young woman, her clothes scattered and torn, her face marked with
shallow cuts.  She was certainly alive but nearly unconscious.  The
other two he took for a couple at first, since they stood so close
together.  But the woman had the man by the throat, and the man's feet
were a good 18 inches above the ground.  Flinn judged him at about 200
pounds, fit and well-muscled.  He was making weak, sputtering sounds.

The woman was...she turned toward Flinn.  Her eyes reflected the bloody
light with an unnatural glimmer.  When she spoke her voice was a
sibilant hiss.  "He was raping her..."

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!  "All right, ma'am, you did good to hold him.
I'm a police officer.  Just let him down, and we'll take it from here."
Flinn's calm, reasonable voice surprised him. The woman was a
looker...yes, her eyes seemed to hold him.  The gun was at his side,
and he hoped he'd be able to raise it.  "Don't worry, he won't be
hurting anyone now."

"How true," she said, and her hand flexed and squeezed.  Flinn clearly
heard the bones snap and saw the large man's body shudder
convulsively.  "Now I'll let him down."  The man slumped lifelessly to
the concrete.

"Jesus Christ!  Okay, lady, you're under-"  Some instinct prompted
Flinn to raise the gun and fire even as he began speaking.  The woman's
face was only inches from his when the bullet struck her open right
eye.

The woman's unbelievably quick advance stopped at once and her hand
darted to cover the wound.  She reeled backwards a step, and Flinn
waited for her to fall.  Christ no, I've killed her, he thought.  She
didn't fall...instead she screamed, a scream that grew into a roar.
Flinn clasped his hands to his ears and bent over, mouth open.  The
woman appeared to vanish.  Flinn was whipped around as if passed by a
tornado, a tornado that shrieked like some impossible colossus.  Behind
him Natalie gasped and fell, striking her head against the alley's
brick wall.

Lucy had never felt such agony.  Beneath the hand covering her eye was
something wet and horrible...and in the middle of it was a small piece
of lead.  Her other eye refused to focus properly.  She was almost
blind, vulnerable now.  She had to flee.  That she could still do.  The
blurred figures of the policeman and woman seemed to freeze in place as
she accelerated on by.

There was an obstruction ahead.  She ran through it, scattering tape,
wood, plastic, and steel across the street like shrapnel.  The impact
slowed her slightly, and suddenly she found emptiness under her feet.
She dropped a short way and struck something hard and metallic below
the surface...

Almost before he saw Natalie's plight, Flinn heard a loud crackle and
boom.  Smoke erupted from the manhole, underlit by incandescent white
light.  Then there was more light all around as the streetlamps burst
into life, much too brightly.  Several burst explosively, then the
survivors settled down to normal output.  Something had closed the
circuit.  The power was back on.

Flinn knelt by Natalie.  She had a nasty bump on her head, but appeared
to be all right for the moment.  He examined the rape victim, found no
critical hurts, and balled up his jacket under her head.  The emergency
crews would be here for her in moments.  Flinn returned to Natalie and
helped her up, anxious to get her to a doctor but not wanting to deal
with the "real" police and the rescue squads.

He paused, however, when he reached the street.  Sirens echoed nearby.
The Con Edison crew, largely unhurt, were gathered around the manhole,
looking down, their faces stricken with horror.   Smoke was still
billowing forth, carrying with it a nauseating odor.

"Christ," said the foreman. "345kv...there'll be nothing left to bury."

Flinn hurried a weak but mobile Natalie along, already looking for a
taxi.

What the fuck was going on in this damned town?


21.  Lexington Avenue, New York, January 31, 6:00 PM EST

Lt. Kathy Breeling climbed from the subway, still limping perceptibly
but glad to be rid of those damned crutches at last.

Detective work was not her forte, but she pursued her investigation
relentlessly.  Armed with photographs of Shelly and baby Jimmy, she had
tried to establish a trail.  That woman had the secret, whatever it
was.  She had to be responsible for...improving that other woman who
had crippled her.  God knew if she would ever be able to run like she
once could.  Fucking bitch!

Breeling was in New York on the thinnest of leads.  The photographs had
at first led her in this general direction, but the trail soon faded to
nothing at all.  It was as if the pair had faded into ground somehow.
Yet anyone who saw the bitch said she was beautiful, unique,
unforgettable.  Well, she wasn't about to forget Shelly, that was
certain.  If she was in New York, Breeling would find her, however long
it might take.

The brass thought she was still laid up, as the doctors had promised
she would be long into the new year.  That was fine with her.  This was
definitely a personal mission now.  Find the woman, and find the secret
to her power, to immunity from harm.  That was worth a risk to her
career.  If she made it, she could have any career she chose.  She
might even let the bitch live.

Breeling opened her purse and cursed.  Damn, out of smokes.  Well, she
could spit from here and hit three places which sold them.  She chose a
small grocery.

She hoped they had her brand in stock.  They did, as it turned out.
They had just come in.


22.  Pierre Hotel, New York, January 31, 6:03 PM EST

"Now remember, be polite!" Shelly warned Jimmy Jr.

By some unknown means, Jimmy had located the Rislings and supplied his
mother with an unlisted phone number.  The famous family of three had
retreated to this upscale hotel from their high-rise duplex on Central
Park West, specifically to avoid the hordes of media people who
constantly hounded Dorothy.  There had no mention of this in any report
Shelly had seen, but Jimmy had his ways of finding things out.

Shelly had made the first, awkward call to George Risling, a wealthy
stockbroker, but soon after Jimmy had gotten on the line, talking to
Dorothy herself.  A dinner date was set.  In preparation, mother and
son had looted Bloomingdale's for nicer clothes.  Shelly was wearing a
modest but attractive cocktail dress, and Jimmy was resplendent in his
small sports coat and tie.

Two conservatively-suited men flanked the white-painted door on the
Pierre's fifteenth floor.  They had the look of bodyguards, possibly
off-duty police.  Shelly was sure they were armed and ready for
trouble, but they had been faultlessly polite to the pair.  After a few
confirming details were exchanged, Shelly was permitted to knock on the
door.

Nancy Risling answered and welcomed Shelly and Jimmy warmly.  From her
behavior one would have thought they were all old friends, never
guessing that there might be something out-of-the-ordinary in the
dinner-playdate.

The Pierre Hotel offered both traditional guest-rooms and residence
apartments.  This was clearly one of the latter.  A duplex at least,
the first floor offered a formal living room, dining room, and small
kitchen, the latter evidently little-used.  George Risling and Dorothy
waited behind Nancy, and it was only moments before Dorothy and Jimmy
disappeared upstairs with hardly a word of farewell to the adults.

Shelly was left with elder Rislings in the living room, but it was not
the awkward occasion she had feared.  The Rislings were accomplished
conversationalists who kept the discussion unerringly on safe and
pedestrian topics.  Even better both were smokers, George with his pipe
and Nancy with her Nate Shermans and Sobranie Cocktails.  At Nancy's
invitation Shelly tried both, though she was careful to keep her
smoking to merely human proportions.

Shelly's thoughts kept returning to the children upstairs.  What were
they doing up there?  Deciding the fate of the world?  It would hardly
have surprised her.

When the caterers arrived and dinner was served, the kids rejoined the
adults in the dining room.  The food was wonderful, far better than
Shelly was used to, but she was careful not to eat her fill.  If she
needed more nourishment later, there was plenty at home.

The children talked mostly to each other in the proper manner for
children (though Jimmy sounded more like 13 than three), for which
Shelly was grateful.  The adults largely ignored them, staying safely
focused on uncontroversial topics.  Shelly was of course not surprised
when Dorothy joined in on the after-dinner smoking, contributing to the
cloudy atmosphere like a ten-year veteran.  Even Jimmy indulged once,
which did surprise her.  No one was inconsiderate enough to comment on
Jimmy's tender age.  It seemed almost appropriate that he smoke in
these surroundings.

Despite her initial fears, Shelly discovered that she was having a good
time.  It showed in her smoking as she launched immense plumes across
the dinner table, exhales which Dorothy and Nancy were unable to match,
though Dorothy tried.

The evening came to an uncertain end when Dorothy became suddenly
sleepy and was forced to retreat to her bedroom.  A chill settled in
Shelly's stomach.  Had Jimmy...?  Shelly had not brought any hybrid
cigarettes to the party; that had been the furthest thought from her
mind.

After finishing their after-dinner drinks, good-byes were said, thanks
given, and promises made to meet again soon.  Jimmy and Shelly were on
their way home via subway before she could ask the question that had to
be asked.

"Jimmy, did you..."

"Yes, Mommy, and sorry I forgot to ask you first."

Forgot my ass!  "Jimmy, didn't you stop to think-"

"I did, Mommy.  Don't worry, I told Dorothy what to expect.  And I left
some for her Mommy, Daddy, and friends too."

"Jimmy...!"

"It's not really important, Mommy."  Jimmy paused and calmly turned
from side to side on the subway bench, as if sniffing the air.  "It's
started now."


End of Part Four

To be continued...

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