Venom:  Beautiful Killers.  Part 54

“…it's not uncommon to come away second best."

[Earlier, I had a separate dream that got in the way of my recurring visions.  It came with a caption that read “Pamila, ten years old."  It was like the introduction to a movie.  While it gives me a look at Pamila's family life, it doesn't really further the story for me. But at least I know more about her childhood, which makes her more personable.  Maybe.]

[It is day five of my sequestration.  It's been a long week already and the rest of the month will undoubtedly drive me crazy.  My ex-girlfriend has arrived to join me.  If she wasn't taken, I'd ask to go to her house.  She doesn't want to, but unlike my other friends, she cares enough about me to pay me a visit.  Nothing's on TV at ten a.m., so to pass the time, I've showed her my writings depicting my recurrent dreams.  The first ones aren't as coherent, so I'll work on them later.  I've showed her my latest one…after summarizing the story for her, of course.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There is a small coffee house just a mile outside the UCLA campus.  It is in a business district but it glaringly stands out since it looks like none of the other buildings.  It is a rustic, single story brick house with a roof of red tiles; it looks out of place among the more modern sites.  While the other shops and offices around it rise to the heavens, it remains small and lonely.  But because its looks seem to defy convention, it has become popular among college students and high school seniors.  Young adults make up its largest customer base. 

The coffee house is quiet now, having just opened its doors for the day.  There are three anthros inside, commiserating over breakfast.  They each look to have different levels of sadness.  The dog, sitting with her back to the front door, is wiping her round, wet eyes with a napkin.  The two cats seated in front of her watch on sadly.  One of them reaches out a consoling hand, patting the dog on the shoulder.  The other one is starting to tear up herself.  Nobody is around them at the moment, so they are free to cry in the open without judgment. 

Not many words are being said.  The silence further dampens the mood.  The front door suddenly opens, ringing a bell above it, creating a startling sound.  One of the cats stands.  In enters a man who is bound to cause conversation.  The standing cat yells, “Peter!" and runs to the man.  She is so quick that she wraps her arms around him before the door even closes.

Peter Petrescu raises his eyebrows in surprise and looks around the room.  His hands are too full to hug back.  The two girls sitting at the table watch him suspiciously.  He looks back at them and shrugs before dropping the black valise he is holding and returns the embrace.  She presses him tightly into her body and looks up into his eyes.  He still acts confused with her behavior, but before he can say anything, she gently pushes him away.  “Where've you been?  I kept trying to reach you."

“Sorry, babe, but where I've been, you can't follow.  Let's just say that summer vacation's over.  I'm back now."

“You look good," she says, clearing her throat.

Before she can walk back to her seat, he grabs her shoulders and pins her in place.  He leans down in to her ear and whispers, “So you missed me, huh?"

“Not now, Peter."  The cat fights to free herself from his grasp and returns to her seat.

“Hey, you hugged me.  Can't I return the favor?"  He picks up his black bag and walks to the table.  He now notices the sadness permeating the area.  “What's the matter?"

The girls look at him but say nothing.  The nervous dog looks like she wants to talk, but keeps her mouth shut and her head low.  The felines wipe their eyes and hesitate, drawing out the human's curiosity.  He grabs a nearby chair and sits at their table, sliding his valise next to him.  He is still concerned, but he smiles as he places his clasped hands on the table.  “Howdy."

The cat who hugged him reaches out and places her left hand on his right arm.  It seems they know each other intimately.  “You look good," she says.

Peter looks a little younger with his hair growing back.  He has on some snazzy getup—a blue three-piece suit with a red pocket square and gold cufflinks.  He nods at her and says thanks.  “Now, could someone tell me what's going on?  It looks like I'm at a funeral."

“Bess got raped last week.  She only just told us last night."

All three look at the dejected canine.  She tries to keep a strong appearance, but her posture folds in grief.  Peter's concern grows while he goads her to look at him.  “Wow.  I'm sorry."

She sniffs and tries to fight him off.  “So what?  You don't care.  No one does, so don't patronize me."

“All the same, I'm really sorry."  He calmly turns to the cats.  “You guys all right?  Fran?"

“We're fine, just a bit shaken."  Fran, the cat who hugged him, is an orange Tabby.  She is the spitting image of the cat next to her.  “But it's okay now.  We've gotten over the shock.  Now that we're calm, we're a bit scared."

“Where did it happen?  On campus?"

Bess tosses her handkerchief on the table.  “No.  At my house.  The guy's a Doberman, a senior.  He moved to L.A. with his folks on vacation.  He's going to college here on a football scholarship.  We met during orientation and hit it off the next day."  She sniffs and looks at the ceiling, calmer and more thoughtful.  “His family met mine and everyone got along.  I never would have suspected…."  She sniffles again and heaves a breath.  She notices the barista arriving from her hiding place and lowers her voice.  “I haven't told anyone until now.  I knew I had to sooner or later.  I suppose that time has come.  But I'm scared of what comes next.  I have to face…unthinkable things."

Peter raises his brow and shifts in his seat.  “You mean…like questions from the police?  Rape kits?  All that shit?"

Fran nods.  “Not to mention doubts from the public and facing the boy's family.  Bess is in for a few trying weeks.  We're going to see her through it as best we can."

The dog dries her eyes with her hands and tries to smile.  “My support is small, but formidable.  I'll need all the help I can get."

“No doubt," Peter says.  “The shame is bad enough, but the recriminations are gonna be hell."  He gets angry stares from all the girls.  “What?"

“What would you know about it?"

“Take it easy, Bess.  I know people.  You could even say I've…helped a few."

Fran chuckles.  “You mean you volunteered at an abuse shelter?  Or for some rape prevention program?  Is that what you did this summer?"

Peter reaches down to open his valise.  “I guess you could call it a program."

While the cats look at him with serious doubt, Bess sneezes and excuses herself from the table.  “I'm gotta clean my face.  I must look hideous."

The cats try to further console Bess as she leaves them.  She looks back at them and waves, feigning strength where none exists.  She leaves them with a hanging head and a confused mind.  Peter looks on squinty-eyed and uninterested.  When the canine leaves, he reaches back down to pull out a laptop computer.  His placing it on the table gets the cats' attention.  Fran leaves her seat and runs up to Peter, kissing his left cheek and draping him with a hug.  The man is caught by surprise.

“Whoa.  Hold on there."

She kisses him again.  “I missed you."

“Well…I missed you too."  He glares at the other cat.  “You and your sister."

“Don't mind Regan.  She'll come around."

“No I won't," the other cat says.  “Not as long as mom disapproves."

“What mom doesn't know won't hurt her."

“Once I tell her, it will."

“Well, then it would be you hurting her, wouldn't it?"

Peter clears his throat and frees himself enough to turn on the computer.  “Ladies, please.   You're both beautiful.  But you just gotta stop being jealous, Regan.  I chose your sister for a reason."

The aura of sadness that came with the rape news has gone.  Fran kisses the human on the cheek yet one more time and puts on a smile.  “So, classes begin on Monday.  You excited?"

“Meh."

“Aww, come on.  You're a senior now.  You've got the world on a string.  Your career path has been laid before you and you're about to ace all your tests.  Since I'm just a simple sophomore, you gotta tell me what to expect when my classes start."

“Except your major is nursing.  Could you give me some room?"

“Oh, sorry."  She releases him, allowing him to type the password and properly start the device.  “What you need that for?  You got homework already?"

“Nah.  Just bought this thing.  I'm gonna break it in early."

Regan sighs wearily.  “Is that what you said to yourself when you first saw Fran?"

“Knock it off!"  Fran clears her throat after the rebuke and sits lovingly next to her man.  “Sorry about that.  So, it's been two months.  What have you done while I was away?"

Pater laughs.  “Man, you don't want to know that."

“No, come on.  We're interested.  Well…I am at least.  What have you been doing while I was in the Bahamas?"

Regan lifts her coffee mug.  “Cheating on you, most likely."  She takes a condescending sip and looks out at the direction Bess went.  She has not returned.

“Well," Peter says, “if you two must know, I spent the summer working for an organization that gives you a healthy amount of money to kill people they put on a list.  The hours are hell, but the pay is to die for."  He says all this in a monotone voice, without pausing or flinching.  He then places some money from his pocket on the table and looks out for the barista.

The girls look at one another with a variety of faces.  Regan looked bemused, then horrified, while Fran smiled and scoffed the words off as a joke.  After seeing the look on her sister's face however, she turns to Peter with a sinking feeling on her eyes.  “You're joking, right?"

He looks at them one at a time, without much reaction.  The tone of his voice should have been a dead giveaway that he is quite serious.  “To date, I've killed four people.  I plan to join the organization full time."

At this point, Bess returns from the restroom.  Her face is in better condition now than when she went in.  The blush and eye shadow help to frame a positive exterior.  It looks like the Doberman is dressed for an elegant soiree.  She heaves a sigh of relief and retakes her chair.  “I feel better.  I want to thank you all for listening to me, even you, Peter.  I hope I didn't sound too much like a victim.  That's the last thing I wanted."  She puts a stained handkerchief in her small purse and looks up at her friends.  The cats are looking at Peter, who is typing something in the new laptop.  “What's up?"

Nobody looks at Bess.  Regan huffs in disbelief at Peter and asks, “What are you saying?"

“I just told you what I did over the summer."  The human is as calm as a cadaver.  “It's not a job for everyone, but once you get the hang of it, and once you take into account the wages, it's not bad."

Regan is again forced into silence.  Bess raises her brow and looks on in doubt.  “What's going on?"

Fran scoffs at him once again and gently rubs his back.  “Just stop it, will you?  If you don't want to tell me what you did over the summer, that's fine.  But don't kid me like this.  You're making me uncomfortable."

“Right!" Regan yells.  “Just say you slacked off all summer and leave it at that.  It wouldn't be surprising since slacking's in your nature."

In response, and with Bess looking on confusedly, Peter reaches back into the valise on the ground next to him.  With Regan laughing quietly, he comes up with a thick stack of bills.  Without batting an eye, he places the stack in the middle of the table and goes back to typing on the computer.  “Enjoy."

All three girls are entranced by the sight.  They look afraid to even touch it.  The money is a green, rectangular island surrounded by an empty expanse of oak.  It sparkles at them, challenging them to get closer.  Fran shifts her focus from her man to stare intensely at it.  Bess has stopped fretting over her woes and is just as transfixed.  Regan tries not to look, but her curiosity is at odds with her common sense.  “Who the hell'd you work for?!"

Peter is still typing away.  He runs his right index finger on the mouse pad and answers, “Let's just say that I've done more than my fair share of social work.  People love a hard worker."

Bess snatches the stack of paper before Regan can get to it.  She looks it over, putting it near her nose and sniffing it slightly.  The stack looks badly put together.  Most of the bills are crumpled; some of them have torn edges and folded corners.  There are a few on the bottom of the stack that are straight and new.  It is dingy-looking, but it is a handful.

Fran nervously approaches Peter and puts an arm around him.  She tries to laugh off the negativity in her surroundings and sidles near him.  “Sweetheart," she mewls, “please don't think of me as doubtful or even…fearful of your exploits.  It's just that…."  She gasps when he turns his to face her.  Now she looks scared of him.  Regan notices too and takes her eyes off the money out of concern for her sister.

“What's wrong?" Peter asks, raising his brows.  “Was it something I said?"

Fran takes a couple of deep breaths and stutters trying to form words.  She releases her grip on him and sighs with a shake.  Regan is not as worried.  She stares him down, even though he is not looking at her.  “So what's the deal?  How'd you get all that scratch?  And why even show us?"

Peter sighs and moves the laptop so that the screen faces the girls.  “Have you ladies ever heard…of the Dark Web?"

This time Regan gasps.  Fran keeps the same nervous look.  Bess is still counting the money, but stops when she realizes that nobody is speaking.  “What happened?" she asks.

“Hold on."  Peter ticks a few buttons and a computer screen turns black.  As the cats look on, a website pops up—a list of forums and chatrooms.  Peter scrolls down and points to one of the links with his finger.  “You've heard of the Dark Web, right?  I'm showing you a site from there."

Fran looks even more nervous.  “I have no idea what you're talking about."

“I do," Regan says cautiously.  “It's a section of the internet that gives people a place to hide their unscrupulous activities.  Really sick stuff."

“I don't understand.  What activities?"

“Any bad ones you can think of.  I mean, you got thieves, drug dealers, terrorists, separatists, child molesters…all kinds of sick shit.  It's a safe haven that protects the malicious from law enforcement."

Peter clears his throat.  “You sound like a lawyer.  Don't forget, that part of the web also hides dissidents, freedom fighters—“

“Whatever!  It's a place where crime is bought and sold.  Period."

Now he laughs in response.  “Now you really sound like a lawyer."

“Why are you showing this to us?"

“For the same reason I'm showing you the money."  He looks at Fran and strokes her left cheek, pulling her attention from the website.  “I'm telling you this because I finally found something I wanna do.  You see, I was robbed of some money and I wanted to get it back.  I followed the person who robbed me and accidentally ended up at this loan office.  You've probably seen it in the news because the Governor keeps mentioning it in his speeches.  Anyway, I thought she was an employee of the company.  It turns out though that inside the company is an operation that…."  He stops speaking when the door opens; another worker, dressed in uniform, enters and takes her place by the cash register.  “Excuse me.  I gotta keep her busy."

The cats eye each other with dread.  Bess notices and places the money back in the center of the table.  She then leaves her seat to look at the website.  Regan clicks on the link that Peter had pointed too.  What she sees makes her gently place her left hand on top of her sister's right.  “So," she gulps, “it turns out…your boyfriend's a hitman."

Fran gasps again.  “No, he's…."  She shudders as her sister scrolls the screen down, showing the numerous conversations in the displayed forum.  Most of them are cryptic, but one or two of them show the site's main goal.  “No way," she whispers.

Bess looks on with interest.  “So, what's this site again?"

Regan looks at the address window.  “Angry Furs."  She scrolls down further.  “Look at this.  'Please help me find a b-day present.'"  She clears her throat and scrolls down further.  “'Having trouble finding the perfect gift.  My old man's rich beyond belief.  He's got everything, which makes getting him a gift near impossible.  I need someone to show him an 'explosive' good time.  Call me soonest; birthday's October 1^st.  Let's go out with a bang."  She mumbles the rest of the message under her breath.  “This person leaves a phone number and a price."

Fran's curiosity gets her closer to the screen.  “'Please help.  Daughter in dire straits.  College fund stolen.  Police can't find the crook; too busy raiding bars.  Need a PI with a good head on his shoulders.  When you find the thief, give him the business.  Wolves only please.  Don't have much, but can give what I got.  Price negotiable….'"  She stops reading and shakes her head.  “Impossible.  This can't be a hub for killers."

Regan turns the laptop away from her.  “Maybe not killers, but people who want to hire them.  That last one you read sounds like someone who's hates police…or someone who's angry with law enforcement enough to use a hitman."

“But why not use police?"

“You just read why, didn't you?  They're too busy raiding bars.  That entry came from someone obviously angry at the pace of the investigation…or angry at police in general.  As a matter of fact…."  She stops to see where Peter has gone.  He is still standing by the register, talking to the servers.  “As a matter of fact, there's more mistrust of police now than ever before.  After that Italian restaurant blew up, they raided a lot of places, most of them furry friendly."

“I still don't believe any of this."

Regan looks at the money angrily.  “You gotta break up with him."

“No!"

“Please think about it, okay?  You're about to start school, you've got a bright future ahead in dad's company, you're gonna make a lot of money anyway...so why not?  You've got other guys chasing you so you've got a gallery of men to choose from."

Fran nervously taps the table with her fingers.  “They're only after my body.  Peter's different."

“Yeah.  He kills people."

“We'll talk later."

The conversation stops as Peter returns.  He smiles and rubs his hands as he approaches the three troubled girls.  “I ordered us all some lattes.  They'll bring 'em over eventually."  He watches them carefully.  Nobody responds, but Bess again picks up the stack of money.  “Again, something I said?"

“I don't have an appetite, thanks."  Regan is about to stand when she bumps into the chair Fran is sitting on.  She crouches to rub her left knee.  “We'd just better go."

“You wanna know why I showed you all that?  The money and the site?"  He returns to his seat and leans forward, stroking Fran's soft, confused face.  “It's because I wanna do this full time.  The money I made from—“

“You said that already.  Just tell me."  Fran swallows with muted fright.  “How many?  How many people?"

He nods and tousles her bangs softly.  “Four.  I made about eighteen thousand in less than three weeks."

“Jesus."

“I wanna make it a career.  I told you…and your sister...because I couldn't see a way to hide this from you.  So I've decided just to come out and tell you outright; to bring you in."  From the corner of his eye, he can see Regan shaking her head in disapproval.  “You can stop ruing my presence now.  It's too late for that.  You can't bring those guys back to life doing that.  Besides, they were all criminals.  If I hadn't done them in, you would have put them in jail…with all your lawyering."

Her knee still smarts, but she fights the pain to stand up straight.  “They would have gotten a fair trial."

“Well…I'd end up killing them anyway, since with you as prosecutor, they'd probably still be running free."

“Whatever.  So how'd you end up doing this over the summer?"

“I got stiffed of some money.  Days later, I followed the bitch who cost me and accused her in front of her coworkers.  I didn't expect the CEO to take me aside and tell me that they had a side business.  I was only expecting my money back.  In exchange for my not calling the police, she gave me a little money and told me I could work for the rest.  I'd either be a loan officer like them or a killer like their furry employees.  The rest is history."

“So you chose poorly.  Go figure."

Peter sighs and turns to Fran.  “Don't worry about her, okay?  Fact is there wasn't enough time left in the summer to make good money doing that loan bullshit.  Not before going back to school.  I made a bold choice, but I've no doubt now that it's the right one.  I know it's not the white collar job you're hoping for, but as you can see from the website, revenge killing is in serious demand."

Fran shakes her head and takes a breath.  “This is too much to take.  I can't…."  She grabs the hand that is trying to soothe her.  “So all those times I've been trying to call you, trying to ask you how you've been and what you were doing…all that time, you were—“

“No, not all the time.  Just four times."  He turns to Bess.  She had been listening intently, mainly with disgust, but she still has the money in her hands.  “I know what you're thinking ma'am, and I agree."

The scared canine quickly tosses the bills at the man.  “No!  No you don't.  You don't know anything!"

 “Keep your voice down, okay?  I'm just saying, ma'am, that instead of wishing you were dead, you could wish your attacker dead…and for an economical fee, someone could actually make it happen."

Regan huffs in disbelief.  “Don't listen to him, Bess.  He won't do anything.  Even if he was telling the truth about his summer exploits, there are other ways to get even."

“But none more satisfying.  Am I right, Bess?"

“Shut up!"  Regan points at the man's face while still looking at her victimized friend.  “Listen!  This, like all such cases, is still a job for the police.  Fran and I will help you through everything.  You won't be alone and we'll return to our classes with the school on our side."

“The school would protect its own, especially a pro football prospect.  Bess doesn't have a chance and you all know it."

“If she agreed to your offer, she'd be implicated if the rapist was killed."

Peter lowers his voice to a near-whisper.  “This place also protects its own.  No matter who kills him, nobody would know who did it…or that anyone hired him to do it.  Besides, even if I'm not the one Bess chooses, I've seen these hitmen.  One of them's a German Shepherd…and you know they're good police dogs.  From what the CEO has told me, everyone there hides their tracks very well.  They'd easily do it for you."

Bess calms everyone down with a quiet “ahem."  Her eyes are closed and her ears are erect.  She stands perfectly still, even while the server arrives with Peter's order.  Her meditative pose unnerves the girls.  They grab their drinks while still observing the dog.  Peter calmly grabs his latte as if the earlier conversation never happened.  He closes his eyes and inhales the steam from his drink.  Whatever Bess decides, it seems he will be okay.  His mind looks at ease after his confession.

Regan looks across the table at the canine, who looks like she is asleep.  She lowers her cup.  “Bess?  You all right?"

The dog opens her eyes and looks at Peter.  “His name is Doug."

“Bess!"

“He's a Doberman like me…but I've already told you that.  He's five-eleven, about one-eighty, plenty of muscle, and you'll usually see him wearing a Gaping Maw shirt.  It's his favorite band.  Normally, he wears blue jeans or black jeans.  He looks like a slacker…but he's really smart and devious--"

Peter gives an understanding nod.  “Save all that for the website.  Luckily, one of the execs told me how the whole program works.  Just enter your complaint on the website and one of them will contact you and set up a place to meet.  Then…I guess…another one will meet you at that place and you set up the hit.  Piece of cake."

“Couldn't you get me inside to see one of them face to face?"

“Don't do it Bess," Regan shouts.  “Please don't even consider it.  You're not that kind of person."

The dog stands and picks up her latte.  “I suppose I do need time to mull it over.  Excuse me."  She turns away from everyone, even her friends, and heads for a table closer to the barista's workstation.  As the cats watch on, looking shunned, Peter closes his valise with the laptop inside.  He stands smugly while watching the forlorn canine.

“Well, I gotta be going," he says.  “Fran, I'll see you tonight."  He gives his girlfriend a kiss on her worried forehead.  “Don't worry about a thing.  Nothing bad has happened."

“You wouldn't call that something bad?"  She points to the money on the table.  “That much money in one place is not a good sign."

“Forgot about that."  Peter chuckles as he reopens his case and grabs the stack.  “I'm finally gonna treat you to something you're only used to seeing from your dad.  I made the reservations to your favorite place last night.  Do me a favor and don't spoil your dinner.  I might order everything off the menu."  He packs up the money and kisses her again before waving goodbye.

Regan shivers as she watches him leave the room.  Her breath wavers inside her open mouth and forces a cough.  It startles Fran, making her drop her half empty cup.  Shivering along with her sister, she picks it up and takes a long breath.  This situation is unfathomably tense.  The sisters do not look at each other.  Nothing is said.  They only stare at the front door as customers mill in, out, and around the area.  They occasionally watch Bess drinking coffee feet away from them, but neither one moves anywhere near her.  If anything, she feels better than they do.

Five minutes later, Fran stops shaking long enough to reach into her shirt pocket and toss a couple of singles on their table.  “Well…."  That is all she can muster before the shakes resume.  Her sister looks at her and raises her brow, expecting a conversation.  After one more look at their saddened canine friend, she stands and starts to take off.

“Excuse me," Regan shouts.  “Where are you going?"

“I…uh…just need to go home.  Just—“

“We're still buying books, aren't we?"

“Not right now, please?"

Regan stands and forces an eye-to-eye dialogue.  “We've already put this off because of what happened to Bess.  We're real behind where we need to be."

“School hasn't started yet.  We'll be fine.  I just need to go home."

“We need to get them before they're gone.  I don't want to get stuck having to order them and waiting for them to get here!"

“Just go without me.  Get mine as well as yours.  Are you mad at me for something?"

Regan plants her hands on her sister's shoulders.  “Please end it with him.  There's nothing to think about."

Fran's lower lip quivers.  “We'll see.  I'll talk with him tonight.  I gotta go.  Just check on Bess."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Pamila's red sedan speeds through a residential area.  A wrought iron gate closes behind it as it turns left at a roundabout.  Two disregarded stop signs later, it stops fully in front of a two-story townhouse.  It has all the outside trappings and decorations of a middle-class life, complete with two cars in the garage.

Pamila she steps out of the vehicle and straightens her clothes.  She is wearing a black cocktail dress with black, lacy hosiery covering her legs.  Her black high heeled shoes look brand new.  She wears a small, pink bow by her right ear and a ring on each finger.  This is about as glamorous as she gets; it seems she is trying too hard.  Sure enough, she walks gingerly away from her car and toward the front door.  She almost trips walking to the stairs.

The black purse strapped around her left shoulder also looks new; it has the name of a world famous designer tattooed all over it.  It is bigger than anything she normally carries with her.  It is definitely more conspicuous than she would like.  She has trouble with the strap digging into her arm.  She struggles with it while she knocks on the front door.

There is no answer for a minute after using the door knocker.  This gives Pamila time to look around the neighborhood.  She whistles as her eyes take in the extravagance.  The surroundings are swanky and clean like most gated communities.  Every lawn is green; every brick house is a deep red; not one cobblestone is out of place.  The grounds are well-maintained.  The fox looks unimpressed.  She shrugs and spits on the lawn behind her as the front door is finally unlatched. 

The occupant on the other side of the door is laughing and talking to someone.  She swings the door open slowly, not even looking at who she is opening it for.  Once it has been opened all the way, she just stands there, holding it and speaking on her mobile device.  Pamila just stands there patiently, waiting for her to stop.

She eventually does, throwing the mini-tablet on the nearest couch and swinging the screen door open.  She spreads her arms and heads over to Pamila's direction.  The fox backs off, confused but ready to fight.  Once outside, the excited resident stops in her tracks, finally getting a good look at her guest.  “You're not Brice!" she yells.

Pamila clears her throat and tries to smile.  It looks forced and a little desperate.  She chuckles.  “No, I'm…I'm not.  You're Doris…I presume?"

She lowers her arms and squints.  “Who wants to know?"

“I'm…."  The fox coughs and clears her throat.  Up until now, she had been talking in a lighter voice.  She has been trying to sound friendlier than she usually does.  It instead seems to be making her uncomfortable.  She straightens herself and gets a good look at the feline in front of her.  “Excuse me, but I've been looking for you for over a week.  I'm glad I caught you before you left.  I really needed to talk to you.  Really, it could have been anyone who works at Tiger Tails, but you were the closest."  She is now using her normal voice; it is low and gruff, but more confident.  It even makes the feline take a couple of backward steps.

“Do I know you?  How'd you know I worked at that place?"

“One of the bouncers is my boyfriend."

“Ugh!"  The savannah throws her head back and slaps her forehead.  “I already told that asshole!  He shouldn't have…."  She stands bolt-straight and shakes her head.  “Let me tell you something!  Our bouncers are scum!  All they care about is looking good and getting laid!  They have no respect for our privacy! "

“Silas fucks anything that moves."  Pamila smiles and relaxes.

“He's the worst."  Doris scans the fox up and down.  “So what do you want with me?  I'm afraid I don't have any money.  I mean figuratively and literally…I've got no money to give you.  My fiancé has it and we're leaving L.A. in two hours."

“Oh, I don't want money. I'm looking for a job.  At Tiger Tails."

“So?  Go there and fill out an application.  Don't bother me."

“You don't understand.  I'm not talking about tending bar or some kind of deejay thing.  I mean the kind of work you're doing.  I came to seek your personal advice."

Doris sighs and hangs her head.  “Now why would you want to…."  She purses her lips as a car drives by right in front of her.  “Get in, okay?  It's bad enough Silas told you where to find me.  I don't need the neighbors hearing about what I used to do for a living."  She sighs with disappointment.

As she is allowed inside, Pamila gets a good look at what a savannah is.  Her fur is yellow ochre, dotted with black rings.  There are rings dotting her face too.  They might be all over her body, in fact.  She has a black nose, hazel eyes, and tufted ears.  She is wearing a low cut dress that shows off her prominent cleavage.  When she turns to lead Pamila to the nearest sofa, she exposes her back.  The backless dress shows more spotted, yellow fur.  “Well…you certainly look exotic."

“Thanks," Doris says.  She watches the fox take a seat but chooses to stand.  “Would you like something to drink?"

“No thanks."  She places her purse on her lap and widens her gaze at the orange dress.  “My, you're certainly going places.  Those clothes are unique."

“Yeah, I'm uh…."  Doris suddenly notices her cleavage and tries to hide it, scrunching herself as she sits across from the fox.  “Sorry.  I was expecting my fiancée.  He's taking me to his mansion in Florida, then a honeymoon in the Bahamas.  I dressed up just for him."

“Ronald Brice."

“Yes, that's…."  She stops scrunching and leans forward.  “Silas has a big mouth.  I can't believe he told you about me.  That's expressly forbidden."  She adjusts her dress until her breasts look more even.  “Oh well…it's a good thing I'm leaving then."

“Yeah, I was wonder if—“

“I'm very sorry, but you don't fit the bill."

“What's that?"

“The position you're looking for is not given to canines or their cousins.  Only exotic cats."

“I know that."  Pamila opens her purse and reaches in.  “I never said the job was for me.  I'm asking for a friend of mine.  I think you'll agree, not even seconds after seeing her, that she's got what it takes."  She pulls out a picture frame and proudly hands it out to her, like she is making an announcement.

Doris receives the picture distrustfully and looks at it, front and back.  It is a recent photograph of Pamila and Camille at a beach.  The cat is closer, happily mugging for the camera while the fox is distracted; her head is turned off to her right.  She is wearing a red, one-piece swimsuit while Camille has on a blue bikini that barely covers her.  Doris raises her eyebrows and gets a good look at both their figures. 

“She's not here to speak for herself," Pamila says, “but I hope that picture speaks for her.  It's the best I could find that shows off her body."

“Impressive."

“I think so too."

“She's definitely toned.  I'll give her that.  But she's…."  Doris tilts the picture sideways for some reason.

“She's what?"

“She's a domestic.  That's the name the ladies at Tiger Tails use to refer to housecats."

“That's crazy."

“Maybe, but she still doesn't fit the bill."

“But just look at her.  She's as exotic as any of them."

“The owner won't think so.  He's strict about that sort of thing."

“I'm sure what he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Doris closes her eyes and chuckles.  “Well, maybe, but even if he said yes, the other ladies would object.  They're quite competitive and won't suffer a domestic taking their clients and their money.  There'd be fights, things would get awkward…it would just be bad for everybody."

Pamila frowns at the cat's aloofness and delight.  She decides that Camille is being made fun of and responds by looking at the ceiling.  “That's funny.  I kinda thought all you whores would stick together, considering some of the sleazebags you must have as clients."

The statement has the effect the fox was probably looking for.  Doris frowns and throws the picture back at her.  “Sorry, I can't help you."

“Just like that, huh?"

“Yes.  Just like that."

“So how come you joined?  What's the difference between you and Camille?"

“I'm an exotic cat, dummy!"

“No, you're not.  You're a hybrid.  You've got some domestic in you and you still made it."

Doris' mouth blows a frustrated groan.  She wants the conversation to end.  “All right, fine!  I'm serval on my dad's side.  My mom's a Siamese…and I'm sure her side of the family's a mixture of other things.  But the serval still counts!  I was employed at Tiger Tails because I looked the part and the owners and clients couldn't tell the difference."

“Exactly!  So Camille's got a shot!"

“She'll never make it past the front door."

Now Pamila chuckles.  “But you did.  You're a savannah.  You're half Siamese."

“I'm also half serval."

“Good!  So since Tiger Tails' standards have clearly been lowered, then—“

“Watch it!"

Pamila clears her throat and pouts.  She is not helping Camille's cause. “I mean no offense.  It's just that I don't see why they wouldn't take Camille if they've already taken you.  She may not be the wild type, but an Egyptian Mau is pretty much the most exotic domestic there is.  Besides, you can mate a serval with Camille and they'll produce a savannah.  Did you know that?"

Doris scoffs and folds her arms.  “Wow.  Someone's into Wikipedia.  You must seriously be desperate."

The fox picks up the picture just left of her foot and reopens her bulky bag.  “You know what?  I think I will have that drink."

“You came for advice and I gave it to you.  There's no reason for you to stay any longer."

Pamila widens her eyes.  “But I came a long way and I don't know anyone else I could turn to.  Besides, it's not like the ladies of Tiger Tails are actively advertising their services."  She brings back her light, naïve voice.  “I could really use a cup of coffee before I go back to Camille with the bad news."

 The fox again looks pouty and sympathetic.  The emotion is totally contrived and would not fool anyone who truly knew her.  However, it is effective on the cat.  Doris sighs again and heads for the doorway behind the couch.  “Fine.  I guess I could use one too."  She enters her mostly bare kitchen.  Besides a refrigerator and a microwave, there is almost nothing there.  There is a coffee maker on the floor in front of the oven.  “You'll have to bear with me.  I've been packing for our trip.  I'll get things started in a moment."

“Take your time," Pamila yells.

“By the way, when you go back to Silas, you tell him I said he's scum!  And if ever I see him again, I'll pull his tongue out."

“Noted."

“That'll teach him."  Doris picks up the coffee maker and plugs it in, then searches the cabinets above and the drawers below.  She finds a few coffee mugs above her and grabs two.  Her breathing slows and her body relaxes.  Everything seems back to normal.  “Hey listen, sorry about your friend.  Matter of fact, since I left that life of pleasing men for money, I feel much better about myself.  I'd tell Camille to look for another line of work."

Pamila has entered the kitchen.  “Don't worry about it."

“So how'd you like your coffee?"

“Red."

“Huh?"

Suddenly, a projectile comes in, hitting the savannah just above the right eye.  The cat falls backwards; her back slams against the stove as she quickly slinks to the floor.  She has just been shot.  What follows is a quick, violent fall with a powerful impact.  Her limp body just smacks the ground.  The fox looks at the barrel of her weapon and sighs, dissatisfied about something.  She shakes her head and walks to her victim.

Doris is lying peacefully on the ground.  Her eyes are open and her mouth is making guttural noises, so she has not quite been offed.  Her pupils start to roll up as Pamila looks down at her.  The fox crouches to get a better view of her work.  The stream of blood flowing from her head gushes liberally under the table.  Despite the draining, the savannah still has something left in her.  She can still see and fixes her eyes on the one standing over her.  She opens her mouth wider and stutters.

Her killer chuckles.  “I know, right?  I mean…'Red?'  What a stupid thing to say!  You're right.  I should come up with a real catchphrase.  Something more fit for a hitman."  She stands and gingerly walks away, looking down to make sure no blood is tracked back to the living room.

She dangerously carries her weapon in her left hand.  It is her Glock with a silencer attached.  It looked like it performed admirably, but she grumbles with anger as she returns to the couch.  A crashing sound comes from the doorway behind her.  The coffeepot has fallen to the floor, most likely brought down by the dead homeowner dragging it by the cord.  The fox looks unfazed as she disassembles the weapon and replaces it in her bulky bag.

On one of the cushions next to her is her flip phone.  It lies there on top of the picture of her and Camille at the beach.  Still angry about something, she picks up the phone, presses a button and waits for an answer.  She starts rocking back and forth restlessly on the couch.

“Good morning, Silas."  A small smile creeps across her face, but her overall demeanor does not match.  “Guess where I am."  She stands and starts to pace the room.  “Yeah, I'm at Doris' house.  I got here just in time.  They looked about an hour away from leaving L.A. for good."

While listening to her part-time lover on the other end, Pamila periodically looks out the window, only shifting the curtains a little bit so she can see the outdoors.  “What do you think I did to her?"  She scratches her head in frustration.  “Well…I'm sorry. I didn't know how else to do this.  I didn't have time to get him alone.  This was the last day I could get him before they moved.  There was no way to get him without getting them both."

She returns to the couch, accidentally sitting on the barrel of her gun.  “Look, I'm almost done here.  Ronald Brice should be on his way.  After he's done, I'll spend the rest of the day with you and…yes, I'll get paid tomorrow."  Now she realizes she is sitting on something.  “Remember, you're getting half the money.  All you gotta do is keep your mouth…."

Silas yells out, causing Pamila to flinch and put the phone down for a couple of seconds.  “Don't get sore.  I'm sorry I keep repeating it, but you're so daft, I feel I have to.  Let me make it up to you.  Want me to buy you something on the way back?"  A noise attracts her attention and causes her to bolt to the window.  He sees a car approach and apparently recognizes the man at the wheel. “I'll call you back.  My quarry is here.  I'll be home soon, okay?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Everything considered, you got off lucky.  You were built quite strong.  Either that or you drank a lot of milk growing up.  A human your size doesn't get this kind of break…no pun intended.  He'd certainly have damaged ligaments as well.  So, no surgery.  You'll instead be fitted with a sling and you'll keep it on for several days."

The human doctor standing in front of Shiloh, holding the long-awaited X-ray, may be five feet, five inches tall.  She is the shortest being in the room, but she rules the emotions and future actions of the wolves in there with her.  Winter stands behind her, desperately trying to make out the transparent image.  She is happy at the news, but still worried with what she sees.

The gray wolf is sitting at the edge of the bed looking much like his old self.  “How long would you say it'll take before my clavicle is back to normal?"

“I'd say give it four months before you go back to your day job.  Those beasts in the apiary will have to wait."

Winter taps the doctor's left shoulder.  “Is he okay everywhere else?"

“The extra pints of blood have helped immensely.  He's also breathing normally so his punctured lung is working fine.  I don't know what else to tell you.  He'd be fit as a fiddle if it weren't for the sling he's gonna get tomorrow."

“When do the stitches come off his neck?"

“We're gonna give it a week.  The wound was quite significant, but again, your mate got off lucky.  It wasn't too deep.  His carotid was spared and he didn't bleed out too much.  It's a good thing the bleeding was mostly stopped when he was found."

“He was…found?"  Winter looks at Shiloh with uncertainty.  He looks back at her, just as confused.

“Well…that's according to the officers who found you.  And now that we've brought it up, I have to ask.  Do you remember what happened?  Do you remember anything from that day?  Because, if there's anything that happened that could worsen your condition, we'd like to be ready for it.  That includes any environments you were exposed to or anything you may have consumed."

He looks at his lap with worry.  He waits a while to respond, with the doctor watching him with palpable interest.  Winter leaves the physician's side and creeps closer to her boyfriend.  Her face suddenly starts to show worry.  There is fear in her eyes that permeates through her mouth and her gesturing fingers.  Her hands clasp rigidly, trying to console one another.  “You were found?" she asks him.

Shiloh leans his head back.  “I don't remember anything."

The doctor grunts with doubt.  “Well, try and remember something.  We want to keep your life saved.  I'll be back around noon with reinforcements.  You should get your sling shortly after that.  Try not to move around so much."  With that, she stuffs the image in a folder on the table and leaves the wolves.

Winter repeats, “You were found?  All this time I thought you turned yourself in."

“Don't bother asking me what happened.  I'm still trying to piece it all together."

“I've been trying to avoid talking about it.  I've been trying to stop myself from saying what we're both thinking."

Shiloh covers himself with the blankets.  “Yeah?  What's that?"

“That it was a mistake for you to leave for Death Valley and you shouldn't have done it."

“Honey, if I felt that way every time you went after a mark, I'd keep you prisoner at home.  Then you'd be all whiny and 'complainy.'  I'm not telling you to accept what happened to me…whatever it was.  I'm telling you that with these kinds of missions, setbacks are expected.  Doing the kind of work we do, it's not uncommon to come away second best."

“Bullshit.  I was at the recovery room; you didn't even look millionth best.  Before you left, you said you'd be fine.  The very next time I see you, you're almost stabbed to death!"  She carefully sits on the bed and strokes his forehead.  “Are you sure you can't recall anything?  Do you even remember who the client was?  Or why she was so important?  Remember everything you told me before you left that day?"

Shiloh sits up and holds his head in his hands.  He slaps his forehead a couple of times, trying to force something into the open.  He grunts with frustration before looking at his lover's soft face.  “I'm sorry.  I can't remember anything."

“Why do I get the feeling you're trying to hide something from me?" she asks.

“Curb that feeling, would you please?  I don't feel like having the intuition vs. instinct argument today."

“So you don't remember anything at all?"

He lays back down and chuckles.  “Seriously, you mind if I recover first?"  He turns away from her and mashes his head against the unforgiving pillow.  He looks much better now than days ago.  The color has returned to his face, showing off his normal, dark shade of gray.  His eyes are alive and back to their normal panning and scanning.  His voice is back to its normal, deep octave.  Besides the wrapped-up shoulder, his outward appearance looks no different from the wolf Winter knows and loves.  Right now, he looks in good spirits.  “It's gonna be a long week," he says.

Winter reaches out to rub his back.  Despite her boyfriend's relatively good condition, she is still saddened by the circumstances.  She now leans her head forward to kiss the back of his neck.  Soon, she is lying next to him on the small bed.  It is too small for them both and her legs are hanging off the edge, but she can still hold and nuzzle him, as if he is worse off than he really was.  “I love you," she whispers.

“Ditto," he says, smacking his thirsty lips.  “I still can't believe that you told the doctors that I work at the zoo.  That's so lame." 

“Well, when you really stop and think about it, isn't our workplace a zoo?"

“But now I have to stick to that story the next time I come here."

“So, let's hope there's no more next time."

“Well…of course there will be a next time.  We're gonna have our kids here, aren't we?"

Winter laughs and hugs him harder, causing a slightly pained grunt from the man.  It is like they are back home again.  Only this time, the trials and discomforts of everyday life feel really small.  She licks the back of his neck gently as she tries to hang on.“Shiloh?  Can I ask you a serious question?"

The gray wolf is half asleep.  “Yeah, what's that?"

She kisses and sighs on his neck.  She closes her eyes and, for a while, it looks like they are both going to doze peacefully.  “Let's get married."

Shiloh raises his brow and sucks in some air.  His reaction to the question pretty much wakes him from his peaceful state.  He tries to face her but is still held in place.  “First of all, that's not a question.  Second of…."  He clenches his teeth and chuckles, well aware that his response might let her down.  “You mean in the Christian tradition?"

“Don't laugh.  I really mean it.  Let's do it."

“What for?" he grunts.  “Could you ease up on the ribs?"

“I feel we can seal the deal if we get married.  We can make our relationship…official?"  She licks the back of his neck repeatedly.  “Yes.  Official.  It might mean more if it was.  It would keep us grounded…prevent us from taking so many chances.  A married couple is happier, more put together, more accountable to one another, and better equipped for the long road ahead."

“Only in the metaphysical sense.  Our union is already is official.  We made it that way."

“Oh yeah?  How?"

“How else?  We fucked.  That certified it right there.  We met at school, we went out for six months, and we fucked for the very first time at the park.  That's all we need because our needs are very simple.  I love you and you love me.  We don't need marriage.  That's a human construct.  They're almost as bad at it as they are at love."

She releases him, but still lies there in deep thought.  “Well, that ruins things.  I just thought if we got married, we'd be more careful.  We'd be more loving to each other and less cynical during our missions.  We'd take extra care to—“

“Winter, don't take this the wrong way, but…."  He turns himself until they are facing each other.  “Please go home, okay?  Go back to our house and live there.  You can see I'm quite healthy for someone on the mend.  I'll be fine."  He presses his index finger on her mouth.  “You know what's not fine?  Our house.  Nobody's been in it for days, except the ocelot, but she can't open our mail or pay our bills.  She also can't make our wages.  You need to be there to do that."

“So, no to getting married?  Just like that?"

“You hang around Crevecoeur too much.  Get rid of those human ideas.  Just go home."  He kisses her nose and closes his eyes.  “While I'm away, you're the breadwinner.  Just like old times."

Winter spends the next five minutes kissing his mouth, nose, and forehead, trying to convince him to let her stay.  She fails, but forces him to take her iPhone, even though it would be of better use to her in a mission.  She gets up, stretches, and proudly takes her leave.  “I expect you to call me every hour on the hour…except when I'm asleep.  Or when you are.  Otherwise, I'll come back."

Shiloh laughs.  “I'll let you figure out what's wrong with those sentences.  Besides, there's already a phone nearby."

“I'll also expect you to use the notepad application on that phone to write down any memories you have of the events that led to your being here.  I really want to know what happened to you out there.  I hope you can tell me soon."

“What does it matter?  I mean really.  It happened.  I'm here now, so I clearly failed the mission.  I'll just get better and move on."

She turns to him before opening the door and blows him a kiss.  “That's nonsense.  You want to know as much as I do.  The Shiloh I know doesn't leave things unfinished, especially not if he can learn from what happened and turn out a better hunter than before."  She winks and opens the door.  “See you then, big man."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It is six p.m. and the end of the work day for Rapid Recovery.  The executives start exiting the building.  CEO Vivian Cross, Joseph Luisi, Colin Besser, and Simon Blank each file out.  The other main man, Theodore Mullins also leaves, but only to wave goodbye.  He heads back inside as a line of cars start to file away from the building.   It looks like the typical ending to a day here.

As the cars enter the interstate, they each pass a lone, white minivan sitting idle at the side of the road.  The car is just across from the building and hard to miss.  It has gaudy, shiny hubcaps, tinted windows, and a body covered in the day's dust.  The road leading to Rapid Recovery is a rather steep slope that the cars have to crawl over.  The minivan has a nice perch from which to see below.  There are two occupants inside, and one of them opens the passenger-side door to stretch her feet.

“Fran, don't stick your legs out in the highway," the other inhabitant says.  Peter Petrescu is dressed in a three-piece suit.  The orange cat has on a red dress and matching high heels.  They are either going to or coming back from a swanky event.

“Peter, it's been forever.  Can we just go?"

“It's only been fifteen minutes, babe."  He pulls the cigarette lighter from below the dashboard and lights up the stick in his mouth.  “Besides, I haven't shown you all I wanted to show you.  Now look at this."

He points outs the cars passing them by.  Fran quickly sticks her feet back inside the vehicle and looks at the direction he is pointing.  The car he wants her to see has the chief in it.  They can see her face through the open window.  She is talking loudly at her dashboard, most likely communicating on her hands-free phone.  Her car turns away from the minivan and speeds into the traffic-free distance.

Fran gasps.  “I know her.  I've seen her on the news."

“Well I told you this morning.  The building's in the news all the time 'cuz the governor keeps talking about it."

“I'm telling you she's in the news too!  Governor Cartwright makes speeches and she's always sitting behind him."

“I didn't know they knew each other."  Peter rubs his chin while intently gazing at the chief's fading license plate.  “Interesting."

“So you're telling me that the woman who gave you this…killing job…knows the governor?  That's insane!"

“Well, maybe.  Then again, maybe not.  But that might be info I could use in the future."

Fran folds her arms and flattens her back into the chair.  “This is stupid.  You were offered a job by that woman.  You were given a chance to—“

“Correction.  I was offered a choice of jobs."

“Whatever.  You were still offered a job.  You could have chosen to be a loan originator, a job that's in demand, a job that pays…maybe sixty thousand dollars annually.  And instead you chose…."  Fran huffs and stares out the window.  “I worry about you sometimes."

Peter raises his brow in surprise at what happens next.  From his perch, he can see the front door of the office building.  It opens to let out a number of workers.  Hoeness, Baua, Rory, and Prosper exit.  They are all in good spirits as they have just been paid.  For some reason, Hoeness is not as happy as the other three. He is still smiling, but he does not look as jubilant as the others.  While the other three watch, the German Shepherd pulls some money from his left trouser pocket and starts handing out.

Peter smirks.  “Looks like somebody lost a wager."

Fran peeks at what her boyfriend is seeing and tsks loudly.  “Ugh.  How tacky."

“Your dad does it too."

“Not in public."  She wrinkles her nose at the sight.  She thinks what is happening is awful, but she does lean in a bit to get a better look at Hoeness.  “That guy's a mountain.  He looks like my dad's friends at the police force."

“That's the German Shepherd I also told you about.  I've seen him face to face.  He's not that tall.  He's not even their tallest."

She reaches over to the human and rubs his back.  “Come on.  Don't do this.  You can't…."  She pauses as the office door opens again, letting out two more workers.  Pica and Dunn step out, holding hands and laughing with the others.  Fran nervously lowers her head.  “You don't wanna work with these guys.  You have a chance at a normal life."

Peter grits his teeth.  “Look at that.  Look at the way they're handling all that money.  You see that?  They're doing that with impunity.  They're flaunting it like it was nothing.  They're not cherishing it.  They're not respecting it.  They don't even think anybody's looking."  His right hand grabs the steering wheel.

“You can make money the old-fashioned way."

“That.  Right there.  That's what I want.  I wanna make that kind of money."

“You're good with numbers.  Your major is accounting.  You can speed read."

“How much do you think I can make in a year doing what they do?"

Fran reaches out to him and pulls his face toward hers.  “But that's not what you do!  It's not you!  You're not a killer.  And even if you've killed before, you can't pull it off full time."  She kisses his nose and, with renewed confidence, fixes his bowtie.  “You promised me dinner this morning.  You gonna deliver or what?"

“You think I'm joking, don't you?"

“Honey, I'll believe anything you tell me.  It doesn't even faze me that you've killed people if they were as bad as you say they are.  But you have an opportunity so few people get—a job at a prestigious, profitable company that the governor apparently likes since their CEO is a supporter of his.  The governor is a hell of a reference.  Just drop this nonsense and go there tomorrow morning.  Ask them if there's still an opening.  I have no doubt you'll choose the right path."

Feeling quite low, Peter turns on the ignition and starts on his way.  He looks back at the lot and the front of the building.  The door opens again, letting out Ravi, Gonal, Greenleaves, Paraná, and Tivoli.  The jaguar and the ocelot are holding hands, so things might be patched up between the two.

Peter slows down to take in the spectacle.  “Holy shit!  Is that a lion?!"

“Just drive, Peter!"