When Pigs Fly

When Pigs Fly

by Linda O.

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By seven-thirty, Control had been in his office for more than an hour. He nearly always arrived very early. He liked the quiet: no phones, no voices, no interruptions. He liked to see who came in and when. Simms was usually in before eight, but worked quietly. Walker, that kiss-up, also came in early, but lounged around the break room, chit-chatting with everyone who came in the door, drinking up the coffee and never starting another pot. You could tell a lot about a man, in Control's opinion, by the way he behaved in the break room. This morning, so far, no one had arrived on the upper floors. It was Friday. They'd all be ten minutes behind schedule.

Control took the last cup of coffee from the pot. It was jet black; he always brewed the first pot double-strength. He started a second pot, normal strength for the mere mortals, then carried the cup back to his office. He still had reports to get through, but just for a moment he wheeled his chair around, put his feet up, and watched the sun come up over the city.

His phone rang.

Control glared at it mildly. It was too early for phone calls; it should have gone through the switchboard. That it was ringing meant it was coming in on his private line. He could count on his fingers the number of people who had that telephone number. And not one of them would call at this hour. Unless.

Unless, of course, was the sticking point. Unless something truly horrific had happened. Unless he was needed right now. Unless it was her, but she wouldnt call here unless it was terribly urgent. And nothing could go wrong with her; she was supposed to be back in New York before noon. Finally.

More apprehensive than annoyed, he kicked his feet down, gently lifted the receiver, and waited in silence.

Nervous breathing on the other end, a bit of shuffling. No background noise. Control frowned, listening intently. Someone in trouble? Tied up, managing to knock the receiver off the hook and then dial his number? Not likely. He waited.

Finally, a small timid voice said, "Hello?"

Control grinned, relieved. A female, but not the one he'd half-expected, half-feared it would be. "Becky?"

"I... I... I... damn it."

"What's wrong?" he asked gently. He sat back, feeling relief wash through his body. He'd forgotten that he'd even given Becky Baker this number. He'd never expected her to use it, and the fact that she had was cause for alarm in itself. But it didn't sound like she was in mortal peril.

"Y-y-you have to go home," she stammered. "Go home right now."

"Why?" Control inquired mildly. He glanced around the quiet, dim office. This was his home, for all practical purposes. "What's happened?"

"Nothing, yet. But it will."

At least she had the stammer under control now. He was careful to keep his voice level and calm. "Go on."

There was a long pause, flustered breathing, and Control could almost see her free hand waving aimlessly. Becky Baker was a gifted psychic, but she wasn't a great communicator at the best of times -- and this clearly wasn't the best of times. What was she trying to tell him? "G-go home," she repeated finally. "Go back to bed and stay there. Nothing good will happen today."

Control grimaced. "You called me at this hour to tell me I'm going to have a bad day?"

There was another long silence. "Not a bad day," she finally answered grimly. "I wouldn't have called you if it was just bad." And then, "Please, just this once, please listen, take a sick day or something. Just go home."

"I can't, Becky. I can't just walk out of here. I've got meetings, I've got... I can't just announce that my psychic says I should go home. Be reasonable."

There was a third silence, longer than the others. "Nothing you do today," Becky finally said, very quietly, "will end as it should. Don't do anything you can't take back. Not until after sundown."

Control made an effort to keep his impatience out of his voice. He did not want to discourage her from calling again, in the remote event that she had something sensible and concrete to tell him next time. "I'll keep it in mind, dear."

Becky sighed. "You don't believe me at all."

"I appreciate the warning," he answered smoothly, "but I can't let my actions be dictated by your... hunches."

Unexpectedly, she said, "I'm making dinner at my place tonight. Something simple, steak maybe. You should come over."

The invitation took Control by surprise. Miss Baker had never been unfriendly towards him, but she certainly never sought out his company, either. She was, to all appearances, scared to death of him. Given her gifts, that was probably for the best. "I'd like to," he answered, "but I have plans." Unbidden, his thoughts turned to his once-and-future lover, back from rehab finally, back in the city tonight, and the weekend without interuption ahead of them...

"She won't show," Becky predicted. "I'll make you a steak." She hung up.

Control put the phone down, frowning deeply. Damn it, how had she known, how much had she known? He was going to have to be careful with that one, with Becky. She didn't always see what she was looking for -- she couldn't make predictions on request -- but she could sometimes see right through the best lies and disguises in the world.

But if she didn't think Lily was going to make it to New York by dinner time, she didn't know Lily at all.

Distracted, he swung around, caught his coffee mug with his elbow, and dumped the dark hot liquid into his lap.

* * * * *

Robert McCall was also having problems with coffee -- or, more specifically, a complete lack thereof -- when his telephone rang. He ignored it for a moment, jiggling the plug and then the switch on his unresponsive coffee maker. Nothing. Not even the indicator light would come on. Snarling, he grabbed the phone. "Robert McCall," he barked at the receiver.

"Eeep."

"Good morning, Becky."

"Hi."

"Early for you to be calling." He took the decanter off the coffee maker. "What's wrong?"

"E-e-everything."

Curious, Robert touched the warming plate of the brewer. It was screaming hot. He snatched his hand back, put his seared finger reflexively in his mouth. "It can't be that bad," he told her absently. "What's Scott done now?"

"N-nothing. He's still asleep."

McCall raised one eyebrow. He'd known for months, of course, that Scott was sleeping with this young lady. But they'd always maintained a token level of discretion about it. There was a difference between knowing and being told. Then he shrugged it off. The coffee maker was heating, obviously; perhaps the reservoir was clogged somehow. He pulled the grounds basket out and set it on the counter, leaned over to peer at the tiny dispenser hole. "What can I do for you, love?"

"C-can - I know this sounds ridiculous, but can you - just - stay home today?"

"Hmm? Why?"

"Nothing is going to go right today. Nothing. You should just stay home and be very quiet."

Finding no obstruction, Robert straightened up. His free hand brushed the filter basket off the counter, dumping the dry coffee grounds all over his kitchen floor and his slippers. "Damn it!" he swore aloud.

"I - I'm sorry," Becky answered.

"Not you, dear," Robert shifted his feet, feeling the coffee sift down inside his slippers and begin to grind against his feet. He sighed. "I can't stay home. I have an appointment with a client."

"Move it to tomorrow."

McCall considered this in passing while he glared at the obstinate coffee maker. The woman had called late the previous evening - someone had broken into her apartment repeatedly, the police were having no luck - she'd sounded frightened and desperate. "I can't."

Silence at the other end of the line. Then, quietly, "Please?"

Giving up on the coffee pot, McCall finally gave her his full attention. "Becky, I'm sorry. I appreciate your gifts, I truly do, but I can't rearrange my life according to your hunches."

"Well, that sounds familiar," she answered tartly. Then, more gently, "Don't do anything you can't take back today."

"Sound advice at any time," Robert mused.

"Come for dinner. After sunset, at my place. Nothing fancy."

At least that sounded promising. "I'll be there if I can."

"Okay."

McCall hung up the phone, shaking his head. Becky was usually such a sensible girl, so level-headed. It wasn't like her to overreact like this. To call him out of the blue on such scanty information. Maybe she was spending too much time with Scott.

Well. On with the day; he'd find coffee on the way.

He got out the whiskbroom and cleaned up the coffee, then padded off to shower, the last elusive coffee grounds still grating on the bottom of his feet. As he closed the bathroom door, the brewing light clicked on, and the coffee maker dutifully dispensed its entire reservoir of water onto the empty warming plate.

* * * * *

Of all of them, perhaps, Mickey Kostmayer was the most likely to have heeded her warning. There was inborn in him a certain Old World penchant for listening to fortune tellers; besides, she'd given him winning lottery numbers. Twice.

But his phone only rang twice before his machine picked up, not enough to wake him. She left a message. His alarm clock failed. He woke, three hours later, two hours after he was supposed to meet his brother. He swore, then ambled sleepily to the kitchen and turned on the tap water, letting it run until it was hot enough to make instant coffee. While he waited, he glanced at the answering machine. Six messages. Nick, he thought blearily, yes, I know I'm late, keep your collar on. He pressed the "play" button. The tape door popped open, and the slender tape shot up toward him like a serpent's tongue, hissing and writhing until it fell to the floor in a little dark pile.

Mickey unplugged the machine, made his miserable coffee, and went to shower.

* * * * *

Becky crept back into bed as quietly as she could, but Scott was already awake. He wrapped his arms around her, drew her close. "Where you been?"

"Making phone calls."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. We need to just stay in bed today."

"Sounds good to me," Scott answered agreeably. He drew her closer, kissed her with intent.

Becky hesitated. There was no way, she was sure, this was going to work. But there was no point in telling him. He'd find out for himself soon enough.

To her pleasant surprise, it worked just fine. So fine, in fact, that neither of them heard the low knock at the apartment door, the key in the lock, the quiet, motherly voice calling, "Scott, are you still sleeping?" Neither of them heard a thing until Kay was in the room, saying, "Scott, honey you need to... aaaagggghhhh!"

* * * * *

There was a narrow diner on the ground floor of Robert's parking garage. He'd never been inside; it appeared somewhat disreputable, and he'd had enough lousy diner food during his career. But they ought to be able to make him a cup of coffee, he reasoned, ducking in.

The cash register was tucked up against the door, and a middle-aged woman with enormous hair stood there, counting singles. She was wearing one of those wretched waitress uniforms, pink with the white frilly apron, and far too much perfume. "Hey, there," she said, looking him up and down.

"Hello," Robert said. "I'd like..."

"Just grab a seat anywheres, sweetie."

"No, thank you, I just... "

She slammed the cash drawer and walked away. "Ralph, damn it, where them eggs at?"

"No, I just want... " She was already out of earshot, vanishing behind the greasy swinging doors to the kitchen.

Robert made himself take a deep, calming breath. He looked at his watch. He could still be on time for his appointment, provided he was on his way in the next five minutes, provided traffic wasn't terrible. He was quite worried about his newest client. Mary Cassidy, her name was. Someone had broken into her apartment a week ago. They hadn't taken anything of much value - some tapes, she thought, a portable radio - she didn't own anything of much value. Break-ins were common enough in New York. She'd filed a police report, thought nothing more of it. But then there was a second break-in. More of the same, trivial items taken. She'd reported this to the police as well, and they'd given her the usual advice, be cautious, change the locks, promised more patrols. And then last night, she'd come home from work and found that there had been a third break-in. She'd called Robert in a panic.

McCall pondered her story, waiting for the waitress to return. Miss Cassidy swore she had no idea who might be breaking in. She lived alone, worked regular day shift hours. All the break-ins had taken place while she was at work. Even a casual observer would have known when the apartment was empty. Given the value of the things taken, McCall was leaning toward truant teens as the culprit. One small detail bothered him: yesterday, according to Miss Cassidy, the robber had helped himself to two slices of cheesecake from the refrigerator. Teens still, perhaps, but if so, they were becoming dangerously bold...

The waitress shouldered through the swinging doors, deposited a plate of eggs to a customer at the end of the counter, and finally made her way back to him. She seemed perturbed that he was still on his feet. "Wassa matter? Can't find a clean spot?"

"No," Robert said, a bit tersely. "I just want a cup of coffee."

"Why didn't you say so? Park it, I'll bring you one."

"No, a cup to go, please. I'm in rather a hurry."

"I'm in rather a hurry," she mimicked, badly. "Just kidding, darlin'. Let me find you a paper cup." She bent over to look under the register, giving McCall a wholly unobstructed view of her cleavage. She straightened, winked at him. "Hang on, we got some back in the kitchen."

The waitress flounced off before McCall could stop her. At the end of the counter, the customer held out his plate. "These eggs are runny," he complained.

The waitress snatched up the plate and examined them closely. "They look okay to me."

"They're runny."

"Have it your way. Ralph! Damn it, Ralph, these eggs aren't done! Throw'em back on the flattop, will you?" Then she was gone again.

McCall waited. He tried to think about the Cassidy woman again. He'd asked her to have a neighbor stay the night with her, but she refused, arguing that the burglar only came during the day. He'd had to settle for her promise that she would call the police again, that she would block her door, would not go out. An abundance of caution, perhaps, but nothing would have spoiled his day more than to read about her in the morning paper.

What in the world had gotten into Becky?

McCall shrugged it off. She was a nice young lady, Becky Baker, a very nice young lady, but she was young yet. Her prescience came and went in waves, it seemed, and frequently she knew things she didn't understand. It occurred to Robert that if the girl kept a little more mundane company, she might be happier - the things she read from him, from Mickey, from Control - Control, he thought angrily, and that damn ring, he could have throttled his old friend for that dirty little trick, and might yet... still, her warning might be worth something, at some point in the day. An abundance of caution for himself as well as for his client.

In the kitchen a phone rang. McCall heard the waitress's voice, loud and laughing. "How've you been?" she was saying. "I haven't heard from you in forever!"

The waitress was not, McCall realized, coming back.

He glared around the little diner. All he wanted was a cup of coffee. Was there some great conspiracy at work to keep him from getting coffee? Was that perhaps what Becky's warning had been about? He longed for the old days, when he could start his day without a cup of the vile stuff, when he could sip tea like a proper Englishman and be on his way... but damn it, he wanted coffee now!

He took out his billfold and left a dollar on the register. Then he went around the counter, fetched a ceramic mug, and poured himself a cup from the evil pot on the warmer. With a glance at the hungry diner still waiting for his eggs, McCall walked out, restaurant mug and all.

He was in the elevator of the parking garage, on his way to the third floor, and feeling rather smugly pleased with his acquisition of the coffee, when he looked down into the mug. The surface of the coffee was flecked with globs of grease.

"Bloody hell," he cursed. He stepped out of the elevator and set the cup down on the ground next to the door. He had intended to return the cup on his way back, but no more. They could just search for it, if they couldn't wash their dishes any better than that.

In a black mood, he set out down the row to his car.

It wasn't there. McCall's eyes narrowed angrily. Third level, second row, sixth spot, reserved and paid for a year in advance. What in blazes was that rusty red Sentra doing in his spot? And where was his Jaguar?

He stomped back to the elevators, past the abandoned coffee mug. He would damn well see about this, right now. He knew where the garage manager lived. And he was... he was...

McCall paused, his finger on the elevator call button.

He was on the second level.

* * * * *

Control's intercom buzzed.

He looked up from the report, scowled intently. This mission, this team in Montenegro, could be headed for big trouble. He was re-reading everything, trying to get a sense of the men, trying to decide whether they were over-reacting or giving him straight intel. Two of them had been picked up and released the week before, on general suspicion, by the local police. The Company had been having similar problems everywhere in the Balkans; the KGB was losing its iron-fist control, and every regional and local police body was starting to enforce its own rules and regulations. Now a third member of the team had been arrested, though it was very unclear whether the locals knew he was a spy or had some other less serious charge in mind. All of which would have been just a ripple in the intelligence pond, except for the nuclear power plant plans the team had secured nine days before.

Hold, sit, Control had decreed. State authorities knew the plans were missing and were scrambling to find them. Sit and wait, let the storm pass, hide the plans and wait. How difficult was that? And yet these four trained professionals had managed to screw it up. Shelby, the one under arrest, was the one who had the plans last.

The intercom buzzed again.

Control slapped at it. "What?"

There was a long pause, and then his secretary's voice. "Excuse me?"

"Why did you buzz me? I said I didn't want to be disturbed."

"I didn't buzz you, sir."

Control positively glared at the little box. "Well, someone did."

"Uh... there's no one here but me, sir."

He took a deep breath. "Fine. See that I'm not disturbed."

"Yes, sir."

He took his hand off the box. He could have had one of those hands-free models now, the Directorate had authorized them, but no one could convince Control that there wasn't a way to eavesdrop on his office with such an intercom. Call him old fashioned. When his door was shut, he didn't want anyone listening in. At least, not unless he knew about it.

Control tugged at his collar, going to loosen his tie. He scowled deeply when he remembered he wasn't wearing one. He had spare pants in the office, but of course they didn't go with his suit coat, so he'd abandoned it, and the tie, in favor of a wool sweater. Now, of course, all the idiots in the office would assume he'd instituted casual Friday. By next week they'd be wearing cut-offs and flip-flops. He'd have to remember to issue a memo. Later.

He turned back to the report. Shelby, right. Shelby had the plans, and he'd been picked up at his apartment in the middle of the night by the local police. Another team member, Sam Jones, was his roommate. He had not been arrested, but hadn't been able to find out what, if anything, Shelby was being charged with. Ah, Control thought, the inconvenience of working in a foreign country, where there was no automatic right to be charged or released.

His intercom buzzed. Cautiously, Control keyed it. "Yes?"

The secretary sounded genuinely concerned. "Yes, sir?"

"You buzzed."

"I swear, I didn't."

Very quietly, he said, "Thank you, Sue."

He released the button. What in the world was going on with that? If this was someone's idea of a joke...

His attention swung back to the report. Sam Jones. He knew Sam Jones, didn't he? Control tried to remember what the man looked like. His eyes narrowed. Ah, yes, there. Sam Jones was not a man, but a rather buxom red-haired woman, mid-thirties, a little loud. Very confident.

Control sat back and contemplated this tidbit. So Sam Jones and Shelby were sharing an apartment. Which was, of course, against Company policy for agents in the field. Unless they were posing as a couple as part of their cover. In which case it would be impossible to tell how much was cover and how much was inappropriate behavior. Control wouldn't even try to make that determination, unless it became more clear that somehow the relationship had botched the mission. Or contributed to said botching. It was, however, a speculation worth filing in his encyclopedic memory, against future developments.

Somehow, in his mind, it was always McCall's voice that pointed out the hypocrisy of criticizing such behavior, when Control himself had had, and planned to resume, an affair with a subordinate. But then, Control countered smugly, he hadn't been caught in it. It wasn't the affair that counted, it was the cover-up.

He smirked, recognizing this line of thinking as raw rationalization. He didn't care. She was coming home today. Sometime today, after lunch, he'd look up and find her standing in his doorway. Sometime tonight he'd be alone with her, he'd be able to hold her and kiss her and...

The intercom buzzed.

Control stood up silently, took his gun from his desk drawer, and walked to the door. As the intercom buzzed a second time, he checked that the safety was on and snapped the door open.

Sue was across the room from her desk, filing. There was no one anywhere near the desk. Her eyes got wide, seeing the gun in his hand, but she'd been with him six years; she didn't say a word.

He went behind her desk and checked the floor. There was, of course, no one there. Control straightened and glared at her, daring her to speak. As they stood there staring at each other, the intercom on her desk buzzed.

Control exhaled, lowering the gun. "Call Internal Services," he advised. "Find out what's wrong with that thing." He went back to his desk.

A moment later, Sue was at the door, looking exasperated. "The phones don't work," she reported.

"Then walk down and find somebody."

As she left, Control lifted his own phone. It was dead. He hung it up slowly, an icy finger on intuition trailing down his spine. Phones, intercoms, what else wasn't working? He rummaged around his bottom drawer and found a holster. It looked like hell under the sweater, but he felt more comfortable with the gun snug against him. Then he went out to the wider office.

* * * * *

Kostmayer could smell the van before he got within ten feet of it. That damn tom cat had been there again. He circled the vehicle slowly, just checking it over. The cat had sprayed on all four tires. Mickey could understand the need to mark a little territory, but this was ridiculous. The tom seemed to think he held the title to the damn van lately.

Mickey'd been in prisons that smelled better than the outside of the van.

He shrugged. He could always run through the car wash later. Right now, he was hours late to meet Nick. He climbed in and started the vehicle.

The van screamed.

Kostmayer turned the key back off. He was covered in cold sweat; his heart was pounding. Waiting for the bomb to go off. Because a vehicle could only possibly make that sound if it was about to explode.

Nothing happened.

He reached for the door handle, then hesitated. What if the ignition had armed the device, the door would detonate it? It would be a tricky piece of wiring, but he could do it, so could someone else. Who? Why?

Kostmayer sat very still and listened to his heart slow back down to normal. Detonator in the door, maybe in the seat, he'd looked the van over before he got in, habit, but he'd mostly been looking at cat urine, not really for bombs...

From beneath the dashboard, an unearthly yowl sounded.

Mickey froze. Swallowed. And then, when the yowl sounded again, laughed. Loud and hard, until he nearly fell out of the driver's seat. There was no detonator, no arming device, no bomb at all. There was just the damn tom cat.

When he finally stopped laughing, he wiped his eyes and looked around. No one to see what had happened, fortunately. Not that he'd been scared. Not for a minute. Shaking his head, he climbed out of the van and opened the hood.

It took him nearly a minute to locate the cat - well, more specifically, the last two inches of the cat's tail. The rest of the cat was up underneath the dashboard somewhere, still yowling like a banshee. It had also sprayed again. Gently, Mickey reached up and grabbed the tail. A paw whipped down and swatted him; the claw laid his finger open.

"Damn it!" Mickey yelled, snatching his hand back. He stood back, sucking on his bleeding finger, and considered the situation. Two choices, really. Get the cat to come out, or start the engine again. If he started the van, the cat would just get out and run away, wouldn't it? Except, if it could, it would have done it already. So, he'd have to get it out first. Next choice: dead or alive?

He did have a gun under the front seat. He hated the cat, and he was bleeding. But shooting it where it was was bound to ping something in the engine. Maybe a knife. He had a knife in his right boot. But he couldn't even get at the cat. What was he going to do, cut its tail off and wait for it to bleed to death?

And, too, there was the problem of being stuck with a dead cat under the dashboard...

Swearing under his breath, he got his leather gloves out of the van and put them on. He pulled the cat's tail again - not nearly as gently this time. The cat's claw ripped a long scratch in the leather, but except for that paw, no cat emerged.

It did, however, spray again to express its displeasure. It also continued to growl.

Mickey's swearing emerged from under his breath. He climbed under the van and looked up. He could see a little more of the cat from that angle, but he couldn't reach it. It had tucked itself way up under the dash. There was only one way he could see to get it out.

Kostmayer climbed into the driver's seat again and flipped the latches that released the doghouse portion of the dashboard - the funny housing between the two front seats that opened to allow access to the engine. The left latch stuck, of course, and he had to go to the back and rummage around for a screwdriver to pry it up. Then there was a lot of wiggling to get the thing open; Mickey had to straddle it to reach around it, then lift on both sides evenly...

The tomcat exploded out of the engine compartment. It clawed straight up Mickey's legs, leaving tiny puncture wounds in its path, jumped onto the doghouse that he still held, screeched and spat in his face, then sprayed his chest and fled out the open door.

Mickey dropped the housing and staggered out of the van, spewing every obscene phrase he'd ever learned - and he had been a Navy man. He wiped at his shirt, thereby covering his gloves with cat piss as well as his jacket. Swore about that, too. Swore in a couple different languages - his legs were bleeding, his hand was bleeding, he hated that cat! - and then he heard a giggle.

He snapped around. Two little girls - seven, eight? - stood watching him in wide-eyed learning mode. He knew them. They lived right up the road. While he glared at them they stopped giggling, shrieked, and ran home to tell their mother.

By then he'd run out of curses anyhow. Kostmayer stomped back inside to shower again and burn his clothes.

* * * * *

The Jaguar said 'click'.

Surprised, McCall tried the key again.

The Jaguar said 'click' again.

Robert withdrew the key, checked to make sure that it was the right one. Placed it firmly into the ignition slot. Wiggled it to be sure it was in correctly. Turned the key.

The Jaguar said 'click'.

McCall swore.

He tried the lights. They came on. The radio came on. His car phone worked. So obviously it wasn't the battery. Ignition, perhaps. McCall knew all about the legendary fickleness of Jaguars, but his had never been such a contrary vehicle. In part, he knew, that was because he paid his mechanic way too much to keep it running. Obviously, he wasn't getting his money's worth.

He picked up the phone and called the mechanic. For a wonder, Jorge himself answered. McCall explained the problem. "Yeah," Jorge agreed, "sounds like the ignition, maybe. I'll come over and take a look at it. Be there in ten minutes."

Robert sighed. Well, at least the mechanic was close. Maybe it would be something simpler - and less expensive - to fix.

He was definitely going to be late for his appointment now. He brought out his notebook and called Miss Cassidy's number. The phone rang fifteen times before he gave up.

Gravely worried, he dialed again. Still no answer. Maybe it was nothing, maybe she was in the shower. Maybe she was dead on her floor in a pool of her own blood. McCall pounded the steering wheel with an open hand, willing her to pick up the phone. Nothing.

He could take a cab. It would take a long while, cost a small fortune... he slapped the wheel again.

A battered green Volvo wagon parked behind him and Jorge got out. "Here, here, stop hitting her, let me see."

Grateful, Robert got out of the car and let the mechanic slide in. He tried not to wince at the greasy overalls on his leather interior. Jorge looked over the dashboard quickly, as if there was something to see there, then turned the key.

"I've already tried that," McCall protested, "it doesn't..."

The Jaguar purred to life.

Jorge peered out at him. "She doesn't like it when you hit her."

"She's a vehicle, not a woman! Shut it off, start it again."

Jorge did so. The car started without hesitation.

McCall clenched his teeth. "Again."

"Nothing wrong with her," Jorge said, climbing out after he'd started the car four more times. "She just wants to be treated nice, is all."

"She's not..." Robert gave up. "Thank you, Jorge. Thanks for coming over so promptly."

"Sure thing, Mr. McCall. I'll send you my bill like usual."

"I'm sure you will."

Robert watched as the mechanic's ratty station wagon drove away. Shaking his head, aggravated beyond words, he climbed into the Jaguar. "She's not a woman," he said sternly to himself. Then, sure he was alone, he patted the dashboard affectionately. "Are you, pretty girl?"

He turned the key.

The Jaguar said 'click'.

* * * * *

The telephone was ringing when Mickey came out of the shower. He ignored it, toweling off, waiting for the machine to get it. It would just be Nick, anyhow, reminding him how late he was. "I know, Nick," he growled.

The phone kept ringing, and he remembered that the machine was broken. Throwing the towel around his waist, he strode to the kitchen and snagged it. "Damn it, I know I'm late, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Um... okay," the woman answered uncertainly.

Mickey frowned at the phone. "Romanov?"

"Kostmayer?"

"What do you want?"

"You always talk so sweet to me."

The towel slipped; Mickey grabbed for it, juggling the phone. "So nice to hear from you, dear," he said, dripping sweetness. "Now what do you want? Where are you?"

"I'm in, um, St. Louis, I think."

"I thought you were coming back to New York today."

"Yeah, so did I. But my flight got cancelled, and I tried a different airline... look, it's a long story. What's going on at the office?"

"What office?"

"The one that issues our paychecks?"

Mickey scratched his hand absently, making it bleed again. "You mean they pay you?"

"Mickey, I'm serious. I tried to call in and they're not answering the phones."

"What do you mean, they're not answering the phones?" The towel slipped again; he barely caught it.

She sounded impatient. "What part did you not get?"

"Hey, give me a break, I just got out of the shower."

There was a brief pause, and then, "Mickey, are you naked?"

He let go of the towel so he didn't have to lie to her. "I am now. What are you wearing?"

Lily giggled. "Seriously, Kostmayer. I can't get through to anybody at the office. The phone just rings and rings. No service, no switchboard, nothing. I've tried about fifteen times, and this damn phone keeps eating my quarters."

"Did you try the super secret private number?" Kostmayer smirked.

"If there was such a number, which I can neither confirm nor deny, I would have tried it, yes."

Mickey ran his fingers through his wet hair. "All right, Lil. Let me get some clothes on and I'll try them. I'm sure it's just a staff meeting or something, but if I can't get through, I'll take a drive by there, okay?"

"Thanks, Mickey."

"Where can I reach you?"

"Nowhere, really. I'm supposed to have a flight out of here in twenty minutes. Into Newark, that's as close as I can get. I'll try to call you when I get there."

"I won't be here, but you can leave a... no, wait. Look, if you can't reach anyone when you get to Newark, call McCall, okay?"

"Okay."

"But don't worry. It's probably nothing."

"I know. Thanks."

Mickey hung up the phone, leaned over to scratch one of the claw holes. The phone rang in his ear. Grinning, he picked it up. "What now, sweetie?"

A long pause, then Nick's chilly voice. "You were supposed to be here three hours ago."

* * * * *

Control circled the room slowly, his arms crossed over his chest. Waiting. Stalking.

At the conference table, his six lieutenants scrambled over papers, walkie talkies, surveillance cameras. An hour since the phones failed, and they still had nothing. Nothing.

"Walker," he barked. "Who's new in town?"

"Uh, uh, here," Walker scrambled for reports. "Just, uh, that one from Belfast, McKerney..."

"No." McKerney was a straight bomb maker; he wouldn't begin to know how to do something like this.

"Loukides."

"No."

"Kerninghan."

"No."

"Hunter."

Control paused. "Hunter?"

"Kevin Hunter. Came in to Atlanta yesterday."

"Not a lot of time to organize this. Find out where he is now."

"Okay." Walker reached for the phone, caught himself. "Uh... "

"Pay phone," Control suggested tersely.

"Right. Right." The man scrambled out of the room.

The phone rang.

Simms was closest. He glanced to Control, who nodded, then carefully picked it up. "Yes?" And then, "All right. Let us know. Thank you." He hung up the receiver. "The phones are working," he informed the room.

"I want to know what happened," Control insisted.

"They're tracking it now, but it just looks like a computer glitch."

"I don't like glitches." He turned to Russo. "Get Jonah. Get him in here."

"He won't come in here... "

"I wasn't asking a question, Russo."

"Yes, sir."

"Simms. Find out what's happening in Montenegro."

"Right away, sir."

Control stalked back to his own office. Sue looked up from her phone. "Mickey Kostmayer. He wants to know why the phones don't work."

"I wish I knew," Control answered, walking into his office and slamming the door behind him.

* * * * *

McCall arrived at his new client's apartment more than an hour late for their appointment, and in a foul mood. He hated to be late for anything, much less a meeting as critical as this might be. He was considerably annoyed, and concerned, that she still had not answered any of his calls. Also, it tweaked his self-esteem more than a little to be driving the ancient, rusty green Volvo wagon his mechanic had lent him.

Jorge had driven the Jaguar back to his garage to check it over. Because, of course, it had started right up for him.

In very bad humor, McCall stalked to the front door. The building had the usual security set-up: Open outer door, tiny atrium, mail boxes with buzzers for the inner security door. He found Cassidy's apartment number, 312, and buzzed. At least she didn't have her name stuck on it.

There was no answer. McCall was starting to get a very bad feeling about the whole situation.

He glanced around behind him, then picked the security lock. It was depressingly easy to do. He started up the stairs, looking around. Usual, nondescript apartment building. Four floors, six apartments on each floor. Three-twelve, he noted, would be in the back. Less traffic than on the street side. He paused on the second floor landing, checked again that he was alone, and drew his gun.

The Walther felt cool in his hand, and something about the touch of metal brought Becky's words back to him. Don't do anything you can't take back. McCall hesitated just for a moment, then went up the last flight of stairs, still gripping the gun, but a step back from thinking he'd need it.

He knocked on the door, fully expecting to have to pick the lock. To his surprise, it opened almost at once. A young woman stood there, wearing only a bathrobe, her hair dripping wet. She seemed startled to see him. "Yes?"

"Miss Cassidy?" Robert asked.

"Yes, I'm... oh, God, you're, um, you're that equalizer guy..."

"Robert McCall," he answered stiffly. "Are you all right?"

"I... I... oh, man, I should have called you back, I just got... um, sidetracked..."

She clearly was not going to invite him in. "Are you all right?" McCall repeated.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I, um, see, the thing is..."

Beyond the door, a man's voice called, "Mary, who is it?"

The woman blushed. "I'm so sorry, I should have called..."

"You've discovered who your burglar is," McCall guessed tiredly.

"My ex. John. He moved out six weeks ago, but then... he'd left some of his tapes... and some other things..."

"You told me," Robert pointed out, "that you had no idea who it might be."

"Yeah, I know." She tipped her head sideways, smiled with embarrassment. "I didn't think he was coming back. I'm really sorry."

McCall opened his mouth, then just shut it again. There was simply no point. He turned on his heel and walked away.

"I'm really sorry," she called after him. "Do you want some coffee or something?"

Robert held up one hand in farewell and kept walking.

* * * * *

"You were supposed to be here at eight-thirty," Nick said accusingly.

"I'm here now," Mickey answered gruffly, following his brother to the church basement.

"Yeah, well, it's a little late now."

Mickey stopped in his tracks. "Okay," he said, turning to leave.

Nick grabbed his arm, hard. "Don't you dare. I've had the Ladies Auxiliary waiting around for hot water for since ten o-clock."

"What?"

"They made the community meal this morning, and they don't have any hot water to wash up with. So they've been camped out in my study, waiting. Seven ladies. For two hours."

"Well, you know, if you weren't a priest..."

"Mickey!" Nick barked warningly. "Besides, not one of them is less than a hundred years old." He unlocked the door to the boiler room. "Please, just get it fixed so I can get rid of them."

"Sure thing, Nick." Mickey looked squarely at the ancient water heater. It was half the size of the room. "You know, the new ones are a lot smaller and a lot more efficient. Why don't you just replace it?"

"Why don't you just donate the money?"

Mickey held his hands up in surrender. "Okay. But your Ladies Auxiliary couldn't just heat water on the stove?"

Nick growled. "Not when I kept assuring them that my brother would be here to fix the water heater any minute."

"Oh." Mickey set down his toolbox and crouched in front of the ancient monstrosity. It would take both kinds of screwdrivers just to get the cover off the damn thing. He started in, then glanced under his arm at his brother. "Don't watch me, Nick. I hate it when you watch me."

"Sorry, I'm going. I just... does it smell like a cat got in here to you?"

"Nick. Go away."

"Sure. You know where to find me."

"Yes, Nick."

"And Mickey? Can you hurry it up?"

"Nick, go away!"

* * * * *

"Update from Montenegro," Simms reported in the conference room, not happily. "No change in the situation. Shelby's still in jail, and they still haven't found the plans."

Control sat back, his templed fingers tapping against each other. "Have Roelen assemble a strike team," he said slowly. "Send them into the city, have them meet up with Jones and the others. Tell them to hold there."

"Right away."

"Simms," Control called after him. The man came back. "Tell them to hold."

"I will."

"Somebody get me a cup of coffee," Control snapped. A suit scrambled for the break room.

Control closed his eyes for a moment, running the possibilities. If they had to break Shelby out of that jail, on no notice like this, there wasn't much covering up to be done. It was a basic smash-and-grab. There would be significant fallout. Political, possibly military. By rights, he should be consulting with his superiors in Washington on this. Get permission before you start a war, one of the basic tenets of intelligence.

But he didn't have much use for his superiors these days. They spent way too much of their time trying to cover up the Iran/Contra deal, not nearly enough of ongoing missions. They might decide, nuclear plans or not, that Shelby wasn't worth the risk to rescue. Control disagreed. Therefore, he was going to act first and ask permission later.

The beautiful thing about fallout was that you got to deal with it afterwards.

* * * * *

Mickey considered the insides of the boiler controls. It was unbelievably old, but everything looked pretty standard. Gas adjustment, pilot light, burner, water inlet to the boiler, water outlet. It simply refused to light. He flicked his lighter over the gas jets. Not so much as a flicker. So it had to be the gas supply somewhere. He wondered briefly if Nick had paid the gas bill. Yet the pilot light was burning; something had to be feeding it.

He traced the gas line back to where it left the building. Peering through the dirty little window, he oriented himself to the outside of the church. He doubted he'd find anything out there - most of the pipe was buried - but it wouldn't hurt to check the outside shut-off valve.

Carrying his largest screwdriver, he walked outside, startling two old ladies who were standing there smoking. "Oh, are you done?" one of the crones asked.

"Not quite, ma'am," Mickey answered. He felt a moment of sympathy for his brother, but it passed. He went out to where the valve was, at the edge of the street. It was corroded and rusty; clearly it hadn't been turned lately. Mickey crouched and tapped the valve with the screwdriver, knocking some of the crud away. Experimentally, he used the tool to turn it. It spun easily, much too easily.

He spun it back the other way. Well, that was easy to identify, anyhow. Nick would have to get the gas company out here to replace it, but at least it wasn't the boiler proper. Maybe, Mickey thought hopefully, the day was going to get better.

Kostmayer trotted back past the old ladies and down to the basement. He gathered up his tools, went to replace the cover on the controls. As he crouched down, he heard the hiss.

As in the van, he had all the time in the world to realize what it was, and no time at all to avoid it.

Had he blown out the pilot light? But he already knew he hadn't.

Fresh gas, through the pipe he'd jiggled open. Fresh fire from the pilot. Fresh air from the open panel.

The explosion blew him all the way across the room.

* * * * *

McCall sat behind the wheel of the Volvo, his hands firmly on the wheel, his eyes closed. He was trying to remember a mantra, any mantra, that would take the edge off this horrible day. His head throbbed just behind his eyes. He longed desperately for a cup of coffee.

The car behind him blew its horn. Robert opened his eyes and let the car roll forward three feet. Stopped again, locked in the grid of New York traffic. He should have taken the surface streets.

He wished quite fervently that he had taken Becky's advice. He was bloody well going to take it now - provided he could actually get home.

Then, unexpectedly, a spot opened in the lane to his right. McCall gunned the car as he turned. Accustomed to the agile responsiveness of the Jaguar, he badly misjudged the sluggish acceleration of the Volvo. The car coming up on the right slammed on its brakes, honked furiously. By then, though, the considerable engine of the station wagon had taken hold and the car flew into the opening and pulled away.

Robert's eyes narrowed a bit at the vehicle he found himself behind. It was a pick-up truck, rusty blue. Above the bed it had wood rails, gates that made the bed three feet higher. The added sides were homemade, and from what McCall could see, secured together with twine and hope. Within the truck, two or three large animals moved.

Pigs, McCall decided. More technically, he supposed, hogs. Why in the world would anyone transport live hogs on a New York City freeway in an open truck? Idiots. He let the cranky wagon drop back another car length. Behind him, the car he'd cut off honked again and began to tailgate him in earnest.

At least they were finally making speed. Not highway speed, to be sure, but thirty, then forty, miles per hour.

The truck hit a pothole, hard. The pigs squealed audibly and moved around. McCall steered around the hole. He glanced in his mirror, and was gratified to see his tailgater hit it squarely. When he looked forward again, a pig looked back at him over the top of the gate.

The beast was standing on its back legs, its front feet over the gate, and it was scrambling up.

Robert had time to hope the gate would hold. Time to lift his foot off the accelerator. Time to look right and left and see that there was nowhere to go. Almost time to get to the brake - not quite.

The wooden gate collapsed. Gate and pig sailed off the truck and flew - flew - directly at McCall's head.

Robert had time to notice that the pig looked quite surprised to find itself airborne.

His foot hit the brake.

The pig hit his windshield.

Then a lot of things did and did not happen at once. McCall's shoulder belt did lock, and bit hard into his left collarbone; the seatbelt similarly mashed his right hip. He did lurch forward, but did not impact with the steering wheel. The windshield did shatter, but did not come apart; it turned opaque with cracks, but did not blast him with broken glass. The engine block crumpled and came back toward the driver's compartment, but did not crush his legs.

The car behind him did hit him, hard, and folded the cargo bay of the wagon to compact size. McCall lurched forward a second time, and the seat belt did not fail him.

And then things were strangely silent. Robert sat very still for a moment, waiting to be sure that everything had stopped. Then he opened the car door. It creaked in protest, the frame being bent, but it opened. He tried to climb out, and found that he was unable to move. This puzzled him for a moment. Then he realized he was still wearing his seat belt.

He unbuckled it gingerly. His hip hurt. His shoulder hurt worse. He reached up to rub it, but it was far too tender to touch. Broken, perhaps; bruised, most definitely. Carefully, he got out of the car.

Someone began to scream. McCall looked to the car behind him. The driver, a younger man, was already climbing out. He looked shaken and bruised, but he was alone and he was not screaming. Robert looked ahead. The truck had stopped, unharmed. In the road between them lay the pig, screaming exactly like a human woman.

McCall walked slowly towards the pig. The scream was unnerving. The pig's back was clearly broken; it was struggling to get up, but its hindquarters remained motionless on the pavement. Its abdomen had burst open, spilling a portion of its innards onto the roadway. It was bleeding from its mouth and nose, bright red. And it went on screaming.

Seeing no humane option, Robert drew his Walther and shot the poor beast in the head, twice. It fell silent and motionless.

The truck driver rushed back, crying, "Porky! Oh, Porky!" He threw himself onto his knees, crouching over the pig's carcass, weeping.

McCall stood there, perplexed, motionless, the gun still in his hand. He hurt everywhere.

And then, behind him, a high, squeaky voice said, "Put the gun down."

Robert squinted. To his left, peripherally, he could see the flashing of red and blue strobes. This was New York City, he thought gruffly. There had never been a cop on the scene of a traffic accident this quickly in the history of the whole damn city.

"Put it down," the voice said again, this time cracking with fear.

McCall flared his arms slightly and started to turn around. "Don't move!" the voice pleaded. "Just drop it."

This was quite absurd, Robert thought tersely. Then, unexpectedly, Becky's words came back to him. Don't do anything you can't take back. Like turning on a terrified police officer with a gun in your hand. That might be bloody hard to take back, come to think of it. He opened his hand and let the gun fall.

"Hands on your head."

Robert complied, though his shoulder screamed. He turned, very, very slowly. The office he faced was all of twelve years old, and the gun the officer held was far bigger than the officer himself. At least, that was the first impression McCall got.

The Magnum the cop was holding began to shake visibly. So did Robert McCall.

* * * * *

The phone rang. Simms snatched it. "Yes," he said, and hung up. To Control, he reported, "Phones are back up."

"Obviously. Montenegro. Now."

"On it."

Control paced while his lieutenant made the call. His head was screaming now. Probably caffeine withdrawal; stress didn't give him headaches like this. And, too, he hadn't eaten - what time was it? He glanced at his watch. Well after noon.

Where the hell was Lily?

Simms had said something. "What?"

"Sam Jones was just arrested. The locals tossed the apartment."

Control glared at him. "Did they find the plans?"

"No. As far as our people can tell, the plans weren't there."

The older man rubbed his eyes. Shelby had had the plans, and hidden them. Had not bothered to share with anyone on the team - including Jones, potentially his lover - where he'd stashed them. Now there were two agents under arrest, and still no plans. Which might be a good thing, and might not...

If he started a war major international indicent on Friday afternoon, it was a good bet he wasn't going to get to spend the weekend with his lover.

"Roelen's in place," Simms added.

Control nodded. "Tell them to hold for orders," he repeated. "I'll be in my office."

As he started out, he heard Simms pick up the phone, swear, and bang it down again. The phones were out. Again.

* * * * *

Mickey Kostmayer squinted hard, then opened his eyes. He wasn't, to his great astonishment, dead yet. The room looked entirely as it had before, save that a polite flame burned in the boiler, heating the ladies' wash water. It did smell a bit like burned hair, but other than that, there was no trace of the fireball.

Flashover, Mickey decided. He swallowed hard. The back of his head hurt where he'd hit the far wall. He touched his face gingerly. His hand came away covered with soot, but no blood. He probed a little further. His hair was singed in the front, and his eyebrows were completely AWOL. "Damn it!" he swore, rubbing the back of his head. He closed his eyes. And then, just because of the day he'd had, he added a number of the phrases he'd used earlier.

"Ahem."

Mickey opened his eyes and squinted up at his brother, who was looking very much holier-than-thou. "Are you all right?" Nick asked. "We heard something like an explosion."

"Flashover," Mickey told him. He leaned sideways. Behind Nick, of course, was huddled the entire Ladies Auxiliary. Three of them looked shocked. Three looked disgusted. One looked highly amused. He clambered to his feet. "Sorry, ladies."

"Ladies, I think we should go," the oldest crone said. "There's clearly nothing we can do here." She glared directly at Mickey. "Such language! And in a church!"

"We'll pray for your soul," another huffed snootily as she left.

And a third added, "At least we got the right brother for our priest, thank the Lord."

Mickey tasted blood. He'd bitten the tip of his tongue. When they were all gone, he shrugged again to Nick. "Sorry."

His brother just sighed. "Are you hurt?"

"Hmmm... not very."

"You look like you ought to be. Let's get you cleaned up."

Mickey nodded. "I might as well put that cover on first."

He did so, advising Nick in the process about the outside valve, the need to call the gas company. Then they trudged up to Nick's office, and Mickey cleaned up as well as he could in the closet-sized bathroom. The whole place reeked of incense; it was giving him a headache. "Got any aspirin?" he called.

Nick appeared in the doorway. "You have a concussion. I'm taking you to the hospital."

"I don't have a concussion, I just have a headache," Mickey snapped back. "I'm not going to the hospital."

"You have to have somebody look at it."

"No."

"Mickey."

"Nick."

"Mickey."

"Do you have any aspirin or not?" Mickey repeated.

"If I get you some, will you promise to get your head examined?"

"That sounds like a fine idea," Mickey agreed. "I need to have my head examined for agreeing to help you with this!"

"Mickey."

"Yeah, yeah, fine. I'll, uh, I'll stop by the office, see if the Company nurse is in."

Nick fetched a bottle of aspirin from his desk, but held it out of Mickey's reach. "You wouldn't lie to a priest, would you?"

Mickey resisted the urge to put his brother in an arm bar - barely. He held his hand out politely for the aspirin. "If she's in, I'll have her examine my head," he promised.

He did not mention that the Company nurse came in once a month, primarily to update vaccinations for field agents and such, and that she'd been in on Monday. It just wasn't worth the argument.

* * * * *

Walker stuck his head into the computer room. "Phones are down again," he reported.

Control swore. "Lock the building down," he ordered. "Code two. No one in or out without ID. Triple guards on the entrances. Any field agents in house, arm them and keep them."

"Right away."

As he left, Control turned his glare back to Jonah. "You've got no right to keep me here," the computer genius protested again. "You had no right to drag me in here..."

"I'm not particularly interested in rights just now," Control told him, his voice tightly precise. "You are not leaving here until I know what is happening to my communications system, and why, and who is responsible. Understand?"

"But there's nothing," Jonah protested. "I've been over the whole program, there's nothing here."

"Then why don't my telephones work?"

Jonah threw up his hands. "Maybe... something at the phone company?"

"Other businesses are not being disrupted. We've checked."

"Then something in the program. I don't know."

"Fix it," Control said tersely, on his way out. "Or you will spend the rest of your life in this room."

"You can't do this to me!"

Control turned and looked at him. Just looked. As only Control could look.

Jonah turned back to his computer screen, quickly.

Control stalked up the hallway. People had begun ducking into doorways to avoid him, which was just fine with him. He was in a dark mood. Couldn't get any information, couldn't get any intel - couldn't even get any coffee. Hadn't he sent someone to fetch him coffee? He stomped to the break room, muttering, "If I want anything done around this damn place..."

The coffee pot was dark, cold and empty, and a hand-written post-it note proclaimed that it was out of order.

* * * * *

Mickey drove with all the van windows open. The vehicle smelled intensely now of cat. He was giving serious thought to dumping it in the Hudson and starting over.

He didn't even clear the freeway on-ramp before all traffic stopped. He put the van in park and slid up on the doorframe to look out. The freeway looked like a parking lot for as far as he could see. The furthest left lane was inching, but no one else could move at all. Should have taken the surface streets.

The driver behind him - a pretty blond - stuck her head out her window. "Any hope?" she called.

"None at all," Mickey answered. "We need to back up and go around."

The woman nodded. "It's on the radio. Some guy hit a pig."

"A pig?" A farm animal, he wondered, or a cop?

"That's what they said."

"Okay." He got out and helped her back off the on-ramp, then stayed there long enough to wave traffic away. Then he sprinted for the van, managed to get half-way down the ramp before a car pulled in behind him. He climbed out, explained the situation, stopped traffic while that driver got out. Sprinted to the van, backed up until another idiot pulled in behind him. Got out, explained the situation...

And since he was aggravated anyhow, and since he knew Nick would ask annoying follow-up questions, he stopped by the office. He breezed into the lobby, and was suddenly confronted with a wall of suits. "Uh, guys," he said, "I work here."

"We need to see your ID," one of the suits said.

"I'm a covert op. I don't carry ID."

"You were issued an official ID, and should carry it at all times in headquarters," the other suit said.

"Yeah, right. I'll make a note of that." He attempted to push by. The suits closed up, and were joined by two more. Surrounded, Mickey did what seemed most reasonable at the time - he sucker-punched the one directly in front of him and sprinted for the elevators.

And then skidded to a halt when the guns came out in front of him. "Guys, guys," he said, his hands vaguely in the air. "We're all on the same side here."

The non-injured suit came up behind him, grabbed his arm. Mickey considered taking another shot, but decided against it, since the guns were still out. "Control's direct orders," he said stiffly. "No one in or out without proper ID."

"What the hell is going on around here?"

Out of nowhere, the voice of reason spoke. "I'll vouch for him. Let him go."

Mickey and the suits turned as one and looked up the stairs. Simms was coming down. He's lost his jacket and tie, had his shirtsleeves rolled up, and looked like he'd been through the wringer. "Let him go," he said again.

Kostmayer shrugged loose from the suits, none too gently, and joined the assistant on the stairs. They headed back up. "You got something for us, Kostmayer?" the man asked hopefully.

"Have I got... I don't even know what the hell is going on around here."

Simms sighed. "Go on down to the bullpen," he instructed. "Someone will update you there." He peeled off to another hallway.

Mickey watched him go, and discovered that he was checking his gun by reflex. So Lily had been right after all. There was something going on here, something big. There was always security here, but the suits all knew him by sight; he'd never had a problem getting in before. He started towards the bullpen, then changed his mind and headed for Control's office. Might as well get it straight from the top.

* * * * *

The phone rang while they were contemplating the ruins of the kitchen. Scott went to answer it in the bedroom - there was a phone in the kitchen somewhere, but he wasn't sure where now - and came back with his jacket. "I've got to go get my dad," he said swiftly. "He was in some kind of car accident."

"Is he all right?" Becky asked.

"I guess so, but the hospital wants me to come drive him home. You coming with me?"

Becky considered, than shook her head. "If he's okay, I'm going to go shop for dinner." She seemed dismayed at the very prospect.

"I don't see why you think you have to feed them all tonight."

"I just do," Becky answered. "Go on. Be careful. I'll see you later at my place."

"All right." Scott succeeded in finding his car keys. "Don't worry about this," he said, waving at the kitchen. "We'll clean it up tomorrow."

The girl nodded, not happily. Leaving a kitchen dirty was against her nature, and this - well, this was beyond her ability to fix today. "Tomorrow, yes."

"And don't worry about Mom," Scott insisted further. "She'll get over it."

"Uh-huh." Becky came and kissed him. "Be careful," she repeated. "Don't do anything you can't undo."

"You keep saying that."

"And everybody keeps not listening."

"I'll be careful."

"Kiss your dad for me."

"Okay. Sure." Then he was off.

Becky locked the door after him, returned to the ruined kitchen. The smell alone was going to take a year to clear. Which pretty much settled that other issue, but, yikes! This was a new one. She glanced at her watch. No time to fool around with it today, as long as grocery shopping was likely to take. She went to find her own jacket.

She was back in the living room when she heard the key in the lock. Becky simply froze, her heart sinking. Not Kay, not again. Please not Kay. But when the door opened, it was a young woman her own age who came in. Black leather, black hair, black eye shadow. Tattoos visible on the backs of her hands, with no end in sight.

Becky knew at a glance exactly who she was. And she agreed with Mickey Kostmayer: this woman was scary.

"Uh, hey," the newcomer said, surprised to find anyone there. "I, uh, was looking for Scott."

"H-h-he just left."

"H-h-he did, huh? Are you the new one?"

Becky had spent the whole morning under Kay's oppressive thumb. And though she was normally the most timid of women, the most shy and retiring, even she had a breaking point. Being teased about her stammer - especially by this woman - was the last straw. "I am the new one," she said, very clearly. "You already knew Scott was gone. You waited across the street until he left. What do you want?"

The other girl was startled by the sudden change. "I, uh, I left some tapes here."

"No. You were going after the rent money. You know where he keeps it." Becky was actually starting to like this. The shock on the girl's face - her intuition was dead on today.

"Hey, you can't just accuse me of..."

"I can, and I am. Give me the key and get out."

"I just want my tapes back."

"Give me the key and get out." Bad enough that one other woman had the key to this apartment - Becky was determined there wasn't going to be another.

Astonishingly, the girl turned and bolted for the door. Becky found herself doing a Robert maneuver - reaching past her to slam the door and lean on it, her face an intimidating two inches from the other girl. "The key, damn it!"

The tattooed lady gave up the key. Becky let her leave.

And then she stood there, alone in Scott's apartment, and shook. Half was fear - she had never, in her whole life, stood up to another human being like that, and it was scary to know that she could. But half was also delight. Because it felt so damn good.

* * * * *

"Kostmayer, what the hell are you doing here?"

Mickey leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "Romanov called me," he said, quietly relishing the older man's flinch. "She's all concerned because nobody answers the phone here."

"Where is she?"

"Lily? She was in St. Louis when she called, but that was hours ago."

Control rolled his eyes. "Kind of the scenic route."

"Yeah, she said something about piling up frequent flier miles." Kostmayer already knew the boss wasn't in any mood. He shrugged. "She said her flight got cancelled and she was trying alternate routes. She was supposed to be coming into Newark."

"Good." Control returned to his papers.

"What's going on around here?" Kostmayer persued. "I damn near got mugged at the front door."

"So I heard. Don't hit the security people any more, Mickey."

"Tell them not to get in my way any more. What's with the phones?"

Control slammed the file down. "I don't know, Kostmayer. If I knew, I could fix it. If anyone knew, our phones would be working. But right now, none of my highly trained and highly paid experts can tell me a damn thing!"

"Oh."

"What happened to your eyebrows?"

Mickey rubbed his naked forehead. "I was, uh, trying to fix a boiler at Nick's church."

"Speaking of highly trained experts," Control mumbled.

"Don't start," Mickey answered. "I know you're having a bad day here, but I am having about the worst day of my life."

Control nodded his agreement. "We should have listened to Becky."

"Becky?"

"She didn't call you?"

"Scott's Becky? Called you?"

"She didn't call you?"

"Well, she might have," Kostmayer admitted, remembering those six lost messages. "What'd she say?"

"To stay home, in bed."

"You're kidding."

Control spread his hands, palms up. "And she's making dinner tonight."

"Am I invited?"

"Call her."

"What else did she say?"

Before he could get the answer, the intercom buzzed. Control slapped it. "What?"

Simms sounded breathless. "Phones are back," he advised, "and we got big problems."

"On my way." Control stood and pushed past the younger man. "Call her," he advised on his way out.

"Okay."

Control looked back at him. "Not from my office," he snapped.

"Yeah, yeah."

* * * * *

Scott McCall hurried to the Emergency Room information desk. "I'm looking for my father," he said. "Robert McCall. He was in a car accident."

"Oh, yeah, him," the clerk said. "Hang on."

The phone rang; the clerk answered it. She talked for several minutes, while Scott danced from foot to foot with impatience. When she finally hung up, she looked at him with surprise. "Can I help you?"

"McCall. Robert McCall."

"Oh, yeah, yeah. Hang on." She looked at her computer screen, frowned. "I'm sorry. He's gone."

Scott stopped dancing. "Gone? Gone home?" Gone home home?

"Ah, it doesn't say. But he's not here any more."

Scott resumed his nervous little dance. "Well, he's got to be here somewhere. They called me to come and get him."

"They called from here or from the morgue?"

Scott's heart froze in his chest. "From here," he insisted. "From the emergency room."

"Are you sure?"

He had to go back and think about it. He hadn't heard much except father, car accident, and hospital. But surely they wouldn't just call from the morgue - would they? "From here," he insisted. If he was wrong, he decided, he'd deal with that later. But he wasn't wrong. Becky would have told him. Right?

"I'll go check," the clerk said grudgingly. She stood up and shuffled toward the back.

Scott paced the length of the waiting room. Depressed people, sick people, only two bleeding. They all looked like they'd been waiting since the dawn of time.

And now he was waiting with them.

There was a huge clock on the wall - just in case someone needed to know how long they'd been waiting. It took nine minutes and fifteen seconds for the clerk to come back. Scott rushed back to the counter. "Did you find him?"

"Who?"

"My father. Robert McCall."

"Oh. Um, no."

Scott gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, as tightly as he could. The alternative was to grip the clerk's neck. "He was here," he said, slowly. "He was brought here. They called me to come get him. Where is he now?"

"He's not here any more," the clerk said slowly, as if Scott were a retarded child.

Scott glared at the woman, his jaw working back and forth. Took a deep breath. And moved.

He rushed past the desk, through the swinging doors, and into the emergency room itself. "Dad!" he called at the top of his lungs, pulled back the cubicle curtains as he went, checking every patient. "Dad, where are you?"

He got about half-way back before the security guys caught up to him. There were two, but one was small and one was old, and he made a pretty good attempt at shaking them off. "I have to find my father!" he explained in desperation.

"I told him, he's not here," the clerk whined from the doorway.

"You're coming with us, son," the older guard said.

"I'm not going anywhere until I find my father!" Scott pulled his arm loose from the older one, dragged the smaller one with him. "Dad! Dad!"

He dragged the two back to the nurses' station. A much older, rather plump woman in white sat there, utterly unimpressed by the uproar the young man was causing. "Who's your father?" she asked calmly.

"Robert McCall."

"Him. Sent him up to x-ray. He should be back in ten minutes or so."

Scott stopped dead. The security guards fell away. "He's okay?"

The nurse shrugged. "Banged up some. Might have broken his collar bone. He walked in, though. Lucky as hell. If he'd been in a sports car he'd be dead."

The boy was practically limp with relief. "Um... he was driving a Jaguar."

"Nope. Volvo. I love those cars. Safest things on the road. Tried to get my husband to buy me one, but he'll only buy domestic. Idiot."

"Uh..." Scott was confused again. "You're sure it was him? Robert McCall."

"Gray hair, accent, stone looker?"

"Uh... I guess."

"It's him. Go park your butt in the waiting room with the rest of the stiffs. We'll call you when he comes down."

Scott shrugged past the security guards and flopped in a far corner of the waiting room. The clerk came back to her desk and sat, glaring at him. When she looked away to answer the phone, Scott stuck his tongue out at her.

* * * * *

"Let's have it," Control barked.

"KGB's moving a squad to Montenegro," Simms told him tersely. "They're on a train, headed right for our people."

"Tickets are confirmed," Russo said, hanging up the phone. "Six men."

"It's got to be a pick up," Simms continued. "They're sending Shelby and Jones back to Moscow."

"Maybe," Control answered slowly. Something felt - wrong.

Walker threw in his two cents. "We need to send Roelen in right now."

"Simms?"

"I agree," the younger man said. "It's one thing to take on the local police, another if they have to get past a goon squad."

"Russo?"

"I'm with them. Send him now."

"No cover," Control reminded them. "Political fall-out. Military fall-out. At the very least, we expose our entire operation in the region. And we may not be able to recover the plans." He paced the room slowly, his arms crossed. His eager lieutenants had gone silent. "Do we have any proof at all that Shelby and Jones weren't arrested for outstanding parking tickets?"

After considerable additional silence, Simms said, "No, sir."

"Except the KGB squad," Walker contributed. "That's pretty conclusive."

"Maybe," Control mused. "Maybe coincidence."

"There are no coincidences in espionage," Walker answered with some authority.

"Whoever told you that," Control informed him, "was an idiot."

Silence fell again. Control's shoes padded softly on the carpeted floor as he paced, slowly, slowly. Considering the angles, the options.

"God," Simms said quietly, "I wish we had Romanov back."

Control happened to have his back to them all; he managed to compose his face to blankness before he turned around. "Romanov?" he inquired.

"She'd have been in and out with the plans a week ago," Simms went on. "We wouldn't have this problem."

Control nodded slowly. Yes. Lily could have done it. And probably, if she'd been back to work, he would have sent her. Simms was right. He had a lot of trouble sometimes remembering that Lily was an asset of the Company - and a damn fine one. His reasons for wanting her back were entirely personal.

Well, almost.

But she wasn't here, and she hadn't been here when they needed her, because of those boneheads in Washington...

He could feel the expression creeping onto his face, and forced it out again. "Yes, well. We'll have her next time."

"Do we send Roelen?" Walker pushed. "Before the phones die again?"

"We may not get another window," Russo agreed.

"On the other hand," Simms contributed, "if we send him and lose communications, we've got no way to call his team back."

Something about that phrase. Damn it, Control thought, pacing. Why was he hesitating? This was so clear-cut, so simple. Except it wasn't, and he couldn't, couldn't afford to be wrong. It didn't help that he kept hearing Becky Baker's voice in the back of his head. Don't do anything you can't undo.

He was not going to have his actions dictated by the whims of an intermittent psychic.

Was he?

"We hold," he pronounced clearly.

"But, sir..."

"We don't have enough information," Control answered. "We hold."

They didn't like it. None of them. But he was still the boss.

Control continued to pace, careful not to let them see how frantically he was second-guessing his own decision.

* * * * *

Becky Baker moved through the grocery store in a serene trance. The front wheel on her cart wobbled dangerously, pulling the cart hard to the right with every step. She ignored it. People double-parked, blocking aisles and browsing endlessly. She waited, with infinite patience. She wandered every row, picking up whatever her intuition told her to buy, pointedly ignoring the many - many - inconveniences and small annoyances.

At the check-out, she got in the shortest line. There was only one person ahead of her, a mother with a fussy toddler and a cart completely loaded with groceries. Becky waited, flipping through the tabloids while the woman's order was rung up. When the cashier hit total and the register shut off, she barely glanced up. After two minutes of fussing, five additional minutes with the head cashier, and five more with the manager, they got the thing running again. But, of course, they needed to ring the woman's entire order again. After they un-bagged it.

Becky continued to read, sedate and calm.

There was much to be said for accepting that a day was going to be horrible.

* * * * *

The phone on the conference table rang. Simms grabbed it. "What?" And after a bit of listening, "What? Are you sure?"

He put the phone down, gazing at Control with unabashed awe. "They just released Jones and Shelby," he reported slowly. "No charges."

Control nodded, as if he'd known it all along.

"The, uh, the KGB has a training exercise there this weekend, and they need the bunk space."

"Holy crap," Walker exclaimed. "We could have started a war over this. How'd you know?"

"My God," Russo agreed fervently. "We came this close..."

Control sighed. "Tell Roelen to stand down, but hold where he is. We may need him yet, and we don't want to be tromping around under KGB noses."

"Yes, sir," Simms said. He was still in the thrall of hero worship. "How did you know, sir?"

Control fixed his steel blue eyes on the man. He could tell him the truth, he thought, but his head would explode. He settled instead for an enigmatic smile. "Gentlemen, I'm still looking for answers on this phone thing. Keep Jonah at it until he finds something. I'm going to call it a day. Call me if you need me. Use a pay phone if necessary."

He walked back to his office slowly. People had stopped ducking into offices, at least; he must not be looking so threatening any more.

"Messages?" he called to Sue in passing.

"Romanov," she called back. He stopped at her desk. "She's in Boise."

"Boise?"

"Idaho."

"I know where Boise is," Control snapped. "What's she doing there?"

"Trying to find connecting flights. She says she's probably not going to make your meeting today. I told her it was a wash anyhow."

The boss nodded. "Okay. Okay. If she calls again..." he paused. "I'm going home. If she calls again, take a message. I'll call in later."

"Have a good weekend."

Control did not, quite, growl at her.

* * * * *

Scott waited, watching the obnoxious clock. He waited for two hours. By then, the desk clerk had gone home and been replaced by a young man. Finally, Scott's impatience overrode his fear of causing another scene and potentially going to jail. He went back to the desk.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm Scott McCall. I'm waiting for my father, Robert McCall. They told me he was in x-ray, but that was two hours ago. Can you find out what's happening?"

"Sure thing." The man at the desk turned to his computer, flew his hands across the keyboard. "Robert McCall. He's gone."

Scott growled. "Gone where?"

"He signed himself out hours ago."

"He... what?"

"He went home," the young man told him. "They should have told you."

"Yes," Scott answered tersely. "Yes, they should have."

* * * * *

Mickey arrived at home, finally, and climbed wearily out of the van. He'd had to fight his way into the office, and then he'd nearly had to fight his way out. They'd wanted him to stay, in case of enemy attack. As if. There hadn't even been any coffee. He was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a long nap.

The woman came up behind him as he unlocked his door. "Mister Kostmayer?" she demanded, with special emphasis on the first word.

Kostmayer looked at her. He knew this woman. She lived up the street. With a wince, he remembered the little girls. "Mr. Kostmayer," she said again, "I want you to know that my daughters are at a very impressionable age and I do not appreciate..."

"Lady," Mickey said, his hand raised in supplication, "lady, I'm sorry. I was having car trouble, I didn't know they were there, I shouldn't have shot my mouth off. I'm sorry."

"Well, that's all well and good," she huffed, "but now how am I supposed to get them to stop saying those horrible things, hmmm?"

"Not my problem, lady." He was tired, he smelled of cat, and his eyebrows were gone. She'd had all the apology she was going to get. He opened the door and went inside.

"You can't just... how dare you... and what did you do to my cat?"

Mickey slammed the door in her face. It seemed more convenient than trying to figure out where to hide her body.

He dragged himself to the kitchen phone. Then he had to paw through the drawer to find her number. Becky answered on the second ring. "Y-y-yes?"

"You sound awful," Mickey told her.

"T-th-thanks. I feel worse."

"Did you try to call me this morning?"

There was a short pause. "Oh, honey, you didn't get the message?"

"My machine broke. What was the message?"

"To st-st-stay home, preferably in bed, and not to do anything you couldn't take back."

Mickey rubbed the place where his eyebrows had once been. "Ah. Great."

"I'm so sorry. I should have called you back."

"You didn't know," Mickey answered.

"Are you home now?" she worried.

"I'm home, and I'm staying home," Kostmayer promised her. "You tell me when it's safe to leave."

"Sundown," she answered at once. "Come here, I'll make you dinner. Nothing fancy. But I'm not trying to cook until after sundown."

"You, too, huh?"

"You wouldn't believe. Come for dinner."

Mickey hung up the phone and went to shower. Naturally, there was no hot water.

* * * * *

McCall snagged his phone irritably. He'd just been ready to settle in for a nap - finally taking Becky's advice. "Hello?"

"Dad?" It was Scott, sounding hysterical.

"Scott? What's wrong?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home, obviously," Robert answered. "What's wrong?"

"I went to the hospital to pick you up and they..."

"I told them not to call you," Robert answered tersely. "I signed myself out and took a cab." He'd been annoyed enough at going to the hospital - the terribly earnest young police officer had insisted - and had very quickly lost patience with the pace of the emergency room staff.

"But you're okay?"

"A bit bruised," McCall allowed. "But otherwise I'm fine."

"What happened?" the boy demanded.

"I hit... something. On the freeway."

"But you're okay?"

Robert sighed. "Yes, Scott, I told you, I'm fine."

"Uh... how's the Jag?"

Ah, so that was it. Robert didn't mind, really, that his son aspired to inherit his car one day. He just wished the boy would be a little less obvious about it. "The Jaguar was in the shop. I was driving a... loaner. Which probably saved my life."

"Bad, huh?"

In the background, Becky said, "Ask if he's coming to dinner."

"Are you coming to dinner?"

"I'm looking forward to it, yes."

"He says yes," Scott said, aside.

"Then let him get a nap, and you can talk about it later," she finished.

"The young lady," Robert said firmly, "is right. As usual." He hung up the phone.

He'd dried the floor from the earlier coffee pot incident, but water had gotten up under the cupboard and kept seeping out. McCall stepped in the small puddle that remained, slipped, and landed firmly on his butt on the kitchen floor.

* * * * *

McCall had guessed, correctly, that Becky would have no decent whiskey on hand; he'd brought his own. He had stashed the bottle carefully in his trunk to make the drive, half-expecting to be stopped for a broken turn signal or such like, but that hadn't happened. Nor did the Jaguar give him any more trouble, though Jorge said he hadn't done a thing to it. Instead, as he opened the trunk to retrieve the bottle, it snagged his sleeve and tore both buttons off his cuff.

He closed his eyes for a moment in sheer resignation, then retrieved the bottle and went upstairs.

Becky greeted him at the door with a warm hug. She looked every bit as bedraggled as he felt. "I brought Scotch," he announced grimly.

Scott was flopped on the couch, his legs taking up about half of the living room. "Hi, Dad," he said wearily.

"Come fetch drinks," Robert answered gruffly, trudging to the kitchen. Three giant steaks were marinating in pans on the counter; aside from that, there was no sign of any cooking. Scotch and steak, that'll do just fine, Robert thought. The kitchen was impeccably clean, though as tiny as any other New York apartment kitchen. He stood in front of the sink and considered, then reached for the logical cupboard and found the glasses. Six tall glasses, six tumblers, six coffee mugs, all matching, all upside down, all in neat rows. As opposed to Scott's cupboard, which Robert knew was full of plastic cups from Taco Bell and Burger King, jelly-jar tumblers with cartoon characters, and a couple mugs he'd stolen from Kay's house. He approved of this girl, Robert thought warmly. He truly did.

Scott ambled into the kitchen as he got down the tumblers. "Is there ice?" Robert asked.

"There wasn't before, but I can check." There was. Between the two of them, they managed to get six ice cubes into three glasses, while only losing two to the floor and one into the marinade. Robert opened the bottle and poured.

Mickey Kostmayer appeared in the doorway, completely filling the kitchen. "Yes, please," he said clearly.

Robert handed him a drink, reached for another tumbler. "Good Lord, Mickey, what happened to your eyebrows?"

Kostmayer scowled. "Gas explosion."

"On a mission?" Scott asked, struggling with the ice tray again.

"At church." Kostmayer slugged the drink back and held his glass out for more. "I knew there was a reason I never went."

They went back to the living room. Becky hesitated when Scott handed her the whiskey, then shrugged and took it. She didn't drink much, Robert observed, watching her shudder after the first sip. But she went back for a second. Corrupt the child, he thought dourly. Why not? "You look," he observed, "as if you've been through the ringer."

Becky just sighed.

"Mom's in town for the weekend," Scott explained.

"Oh, yes, I remember," Robert answered. "She mentioned coming in for the sale at Macy's or something."

"You might have warned us."

McCall grimaced. "Sorry, it slipped my mind. So," he said to Becky, "now you've met Kay."

"First thing this morning," Becky answered mournfully. "In the flesh."

"Yours or hers?" Kostmayer asked brightly.

"Mine."

"Ahh," Robert said, understanding completely. "You really have to get that key back from her, Scott."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

"She thinks I'm a whore," Becky continued sadly.

"I'm sure she doesn't," Robert lied comfortingly.

Becky just looked at him. It never paid to lie to a psychic.

"It's not that bad," Scott assured her. He sat on the arm of her chair, put his arm around her shoulder. "It's not like she never walked in on me before... um."

Becky raised one eyebrow at him. "Oh, so she thinks you're a whore."

"No," Robert countered, "she thinks he's the All-American boy and you're leading him astray."

"You're not helping, Dad."

"You know," Mickey offered, "she probably would have forgotten all about it if you'd made her one of those breakfast sandwich things you make."

Becky's frown deepened. "I tried that."

"She didn't like it?"

Becky shook her head, on the verge of tears.

"Oh, stop," Scott said. "I thought the firemen were very friendly."

The two older men laughed out loud. "It's not funny!" Becky protested, but then she, too, broke into a regretful smile.

"Where was your fire extinguisher, Scott?" Robert chided lightly. "I bought you one last year."

"I tried it," Scott answered.

In unison, the four of them finished the thought, "It didn't work."

Tires screeched in front of the building - someone braking much too hard. But there was no following noise; whatever they had stopped for had survived the near-collision. "That would be Control," Becky observed.

"You invited him?" Robert asked in surprise.

The girl shrugged. "He needs a hot meal today."

"Speaking of which," McCall prompted gently, "are we going to start cooking soon?"

"Sure," Becky answered. "Do you want to light the grill before the sun goes down?"

Robert shook his head. "Maybe another drink." He went back to the kitchen, got himself a fresh drink and one for Control.

"Mom's never going to give that key back," Scott lamented. "Especially now."

"I could change the lock for you," Mickey offered. "Use the same brand, your landlord would never know."

Scott and Becky shared a look. "No, that's okay," Scott finally said. "It probably doesn't matter."

"Suit yourself." Kostmayer finished his second drink, looked around. "You're moving in here, huh?"

"Uhhh... we haven't told my dad yet."

Mickey shrugged. "I'm sure not gonna tell him."

Becky stood up - allowing the chair to tip, nearly dumping Scott on the floor - and went to open the door even before the knock. Control leaned on the doorframe with one hand, looking exhausted. A bouquet of roses, yellow, wrapped in yellow tissue paper, dangled from his other hand. It had seemed only fair to buy flowers after his limo nearly flattened the flower vendor. "You," he said sternly to the girl.

"I-i-it's not my fault," Becky protested.

"You," he repeated, thrusting the flowers at her unceremoniously, "can call me any time."

She stood back to let him in. Robert met him at the doorway to the kitchen with a drink. "You look like death on toast," he observed.

"Same to you, old son." He slammed the drink back, gave the tumbler back to McCall. "More."

"Yes, effendi."

"Me, too," Mickey called.

Robert scowled. "There's a reason it's called sipping whiskey, you know," he informed them. But he retrieved Mickey's glass and went back to the kitchen. Becky followed him, carrying the roses. She paused behind him, looking upward. McCall followed her gaze to a vase on top of the cupboard. "Do you want me to get that for you?"

The girl gave this serious consideration. "No. Let it wait until after sundown."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Robert snarled impatiently. He stretched up for the vase, snagged the base, and brought it down. Naturally it slipped from his grip and tumbled, splashing into the marinade on top of the nearest steak.

With a sigh of infinite exasperation, McCall retrieved the vase, rinsed it off, and filled it with water.

"Thank you," Becky said meekly. She was sucking on the tip of her thumb, and at first he thought she was trying not to laugh at him. But when she took the thumb out and examined it, a bright red spot appeared at its tip. She'd stabbed herself with a thorn.

"Leave them," McCall said gruffly. He put the roses next to the vase on the counter, gathered the tumblers in one hand and the girl with the other, and steered her back to the living room.

It was not a room made to accommodate five grown people. Control had already claimed one end of the short couch, Mickey one of the easy chairs, Scott the other. McCall was going to let the young lady have the other end of the couch, but she solved the seating issue by simply plopping onto Scott's lap.

McCall delivered the drinks and took off his jacket. He predicted to himself that the splash of marinade was never coming out. His shirt sleeve, buttonless, dangled; he sat next to Control on the couch and rolled his sleeves up.

"What," Control demanded, sipping this second drink with appreciation, "was this all about?"

There was a moment of silence, until Becky realized they were all looking to her for an answer. "I-I don't know," she protested. "I just, I woke up, I knew."

"Well, what?" Mickey pressed. "Some cosmic misalignment, solar eclipse, what?"

The girl frowned at him. "You don't really believe all that stuff, do you?"

"Hey," he protested, "I didn't believe in psychics until I met you."

"I don't know," she repeated. "I woke up, I knew, I called you."

"And none of us listened," Robert reflected gloomily.

"Did you stay in bed all day?" Control asked. Unexpectedly, the girl blushed and ducked her head. "What?"

"They stayed in bed," Robert informed him gently, "until Kay showed up."

Control grunted. "Better you than me." The girl peered up shyly. "You did say something about dinner."

"Soon," she answered. She twisted to look at Scott's watch. "Five more minutes."

"What happens in five minutes?"

"The sun goes down," Mickey said.

"And then everything's okay again?" Scott asked.

"Everything... goes back to normal," Becky answered. "I don't know if that's the same as okay."

They sat for a moment in tentative silence. Five more minutes; none of them even wanted to move, to tempt Fate with one last hit. "I know what happened to Kostmayer," Control finally said, to Robert. "What happened to you?"

"I got hit," McCall announced, "by a flying pig."

"A... what?"

"A pig," Robert answered tightly. "A pig flew off the back of a truck and hit my windshield."

"Oh my God," Mickey said, "that was you?"

"A... pig?" Control managed to remain straight-faced, but it was clearly an effort - an effort lost entirely when Mickey, and then Scott, began to chortle. And chuckle. And then laugh outright. Then, in the face of his oldest friend's indignation, Control also started to laugh. Hard.

He laughed, in fact, until his drink tipped out of his tumbler and into his lap. Which only made the others - McCall included - laugh harder.

The sun was down before they stopped laughing.

Becky slid to her feet and went to the kitchen, brought back a dishtowel for Control, kissed Robert consolingly on the cheek. "Somebody go light the grill for me."

"I'll go," Mickey and Scott said in unison. Mickey reached up and touched the tender skin over his eyes. "You go," he conceded.

Scott clambered out the window to the fire escape, moved the potted plant and uncovered the camouflaged grill. Becky went into the kitchen, opened that window, and passed the steaks out.

Control followed her, stood in the doorway, watched as she put the roses in water, then retrieved a ridiculous array of ingredients. "You don't have to go to all that trouble," he informed her. "Raw meat would do just fine today."

She flashed him a quick smile - an actual smile. "This is the most fun I've had all day," she said. She retrieved the dishtowel from him, hung it up.

"Can I help?"

This time the glance was sidelong and suspicious. "This isn't going to be like last time, is it?"

Control winced. Last time he'd brought her a class ring. Harvard, '69. It had come in the mail to his office, on to a severed finger. But he'd only brought her the ring, trying to find the agent it (and the finger) had been attached to. He'd dropped it into her hand and she'd shrieked as if the thing was on fire...

"I promise."

She was still wary - it didn't take much of a psychic to know what his promises were worth - but she made room for him at the counter, set a cutting board in front of him, a steamer bowl, a pile of slender zucchini. "Second drawer," she said, and he found a beautiful high-carbon knife there, part of an ancient second-hand set, all sharper than his wit. Becky busied herself setting up a mixer. "Go ahead."

Mickey popped into the kitchen as he was about to speak. "Can I help?"

"Yes." Becky reached around Control, got down a platter and a long-handled meat fork. "Take these out. Don't let him put the steaks on until it's hot, and don't let him overcook them."

"Got it." Mickey trotted out.

Control reached into his pants pocket, brought out a Zippo lighter. It was painted on the side with a scantily-clad, dark-haired woman - Bettie Paige. A whimsical thing, really, retro, kitschy. It had been a gift. He held it out to Becky.

"N-no," she answered. "Put it down."

He set it on the counter between them, turned to peeling and chopping. Zucchini, onions, tomatoes.

Very gingerly, Becky touched one finger to the lighter. When it didn't actually jump up and bite her, she put another finger on it. Breathed. "I'm not... I'm not seeing much," she confessed.

Control nodded, feeling a growing tightness in his chest. Where was she? Why hadn't she called back? Well, the phones had been so sporadic, but still - a simple flight, Miami to New York, what was she doing in St. Louis, in Boise? Where in the world was she now?

"There's lot of men," Becky continued unexpectedly. "And guns. They all have guns."

Control felt his heart freeze.

"But they're... they're... luggage?" the girl went on. "They're not... she's not... they're just carrying them. Hauling them. And gear, duffle bags, uniforms..."

"Guns," Control clarified, "handguns or rifles?"

"Rifles," she answered at once. "Long. She's not scared of them. They're friendly. She's just aggravated." And then, very surprised, "Oh."

"Oh?"

"I didn't realize," Becky confessed, "you block me."

"Hmmm?"

Her hands waved a bit. "W-when I'm with Scott, when he's happy, I can't, um, see anything. I can't... read. I didn't realize, when you worry, I can't, I can't see past you. Just now, when you relaxed, I could see more."

Control frowned at her. Back when Lily was missing, when he was frantic to know if she was even still alive, Becky hadn't been able to tell him anything at all. Well, now they knew why. Damn it.

"D-don't," she protested, sensing the sudden darkness of his mood. "Don't be cloudy."

He made himself breathe and relax. "What else do you see?"

"Something about... aboot."

"A boot?" he asked.

"Not a boot. Aboot. All one word. She keeps hearing it, and she's... chanting it in her head, aboot, aboot, aboot. Like, if she hears it one more time she's going to scream. I don't know what word, I don't know what that means."

"It means she's in Canada," Robert growled behind them. "She's all right?"

"Yes," Control told him with relief.

"Good. Then leave Becky alone. I'm starving."

"I'm helping," Control pointed out, waving the knife.

"You're not helping. You're distracting her."

"H-h-he's helping," Becky said quietly. "It's okay. I don't mind."

McCall growled. "Don't you bully her," he warned Control. And to Becky, "He's obsessed. Pay him no mind."

The girl dimpled prettily. "It's kind of sweet," she said, very quietly. It had obviously not even occurred to her to be surprised that Control had a lover.

"Thank you, Becky." Control raised one eyebrow at Robert. "See?"

"What can I do?" Robert asked.

"Hmmm... beer?"

"You have beer?" he asked.

"No."

"You want me to fetch beer."

"Yes?"

"You're trying to get rid of me," Robert accused.

"Yes, she is, Robert," Control jabbed.

"I'll send Mickey."

"Papa," Becky said, gently, "it's okay."

McCall glared at the two of them. "Don't you bully her," he warned again before he stomped off.

"I'm not bullying you," Control said, a bit defensively.

"N-no."

"Are you ever going to stop stuttering around me?"

She took a deep breath, and managed to get the next words out cleanly, with effort. "Probably not." She set the mixer to whipping eggs, reached for a pot and a plastic container of rice. Unexpectedly, she patted his hand. "She'll be in your arms by sunrise."

"Thank you."

She took a bottle of curry - unlabeled, homemade - from the spice rack, sprinkled it liberally over the dry rice. Hesitated, cast a questioning glance to Control. "Don't stop on my account," he answered. "I love the stuff."

Becky shrugged, heaped more curry in, added water, set it to cooking on the stove. Control had finished with the vegetables; she brought out one more onion. "Dice that fine," she instructed. She took the bowl of vegetables from him, splashed them with olive oil and herbs. Held them out the window. "Scott?"

Scott took them, went back to the grill. "I wouldn't think you were allowed to have grills here," Control observed.

Becky shrugged. "You can if you feed the neighbors often enough."

"Ahh." And then, "You know, of course, you can't tell anybody about her. McCall knows, and Mickey, but for her safety..."

"I don't even know her name," Becky answered quietly. "And I wouldn't tell, anyhow. She's the one you were looking for before, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"If I'd known she was the other one..."

"The other one what?"

"The other one caught up in this... day. Whatever it was. I knew there was someone else, but I didn't know who."

Control sighed. Poor Lily. At least he'd had a little warning. "I'm sure she's fine."

Becky's hand strayed back to the lighter. She opened her mouth, took a breath - then shut it without speaking. "What?" Control asked.

"N-nothing."

"Becky."

"It's nothing," she insisted. "Just..." Then she shook her head, shy. "You don't need relationship advice from me."

"For today, I will take any advice you have to give."

"Um." Becky fussed for a minute with the mixer. Cream, sugar, cocoa powder. She reached for the lighter again, brushed her hand over the back of Control's as he diced the onion. "You know the tarot deck?"

"In passing."

"If I put one in your hands right now, you'd cut it to the Death card."

The knife paused.

"I-it's not literal," Becky added quickly. "It never is. It's just a, a symbol, the major symbol, for transition. For change."

The knife resumed. "Go on."

"It's about... something over, gone, and something new beginning. You understand that?"

"Yes," Control sighed.

"You don't like it."

"No."

"She doesn't like it, either. But..." Hands again, trying to express what her words couldn't. "It's already been turned. It's already in play. What's ended... has already ended. It's done."

"Yes," Control agreed sadly.

"No," Becky said earnestly. "There's new now. It's good. It'll be good."

Control regarded her. "Maybe."

"It will," she promised.

He finished with the onion; she stirred it into the simmering rice. "What else?"

It seemed to Control that she stalled for a long moment. Finally, timidly, she said, "A lot, maybe half, of what you think you know is wrong."

"Excuse me?" His tone was too sharp, and she flinched from it. "Sorry, sorry."

"'s okay. I don't... you have the facts right, but the way you understand them is... I'm sorry. I don't know. Just... she knows things one way and you know them another." Becky paused. "That might just be a guy thing. I see it an awful lot."

"Ahhh." Control didn't know quite what to make of that statement; it seemed best just to let it pass. "Anything else?"

"That's all," Becky reported cheerfully. But she picked up the lighter and closed her hand, and her face darkened at once.

"What?" Control demanded.

"I don't... I don't..." She was suddenly frightened. "Not now. Later. I don't understand."

"Tell me." When the girl didn't answer, Control put down the knife and lightly wrapped his hand over hers and the lighter. "Becky. Tell me."

"Take it," she half-begged. "Take it back."

Very gently, Control pried her fingers loose from the lighter. He kept her hand in his, dropped the lighter onto the counter. "Becky?"

Her fear faded a bit with the contact loss. She leaned closer. "Don't chase the White Russian," she half-whispered. "It's darker than you know, and it will break your heart."

* * * * *

They ate, all of them, until they very nearly couldn't move. Salad, grilled vegetables and steak, curried rice, crusty bread from the bakery, and an astonishing assortment of other dishes. "Custard," Becky announced, getting up to get it.

"You cooked enough to feed a small army," Mickey commented. She paused, looked pointedly at him, at the other men in the room. "Okay, I see your point."

Becky went and fetched dessert.

"I should go," Control said tentatively, when his dish was empty.

The girl frowned at him, held out her hand. Control slapped the lighter into it. "You can stay a while," she announced promptly, handing the lighter back.

"What's that all about?" Scott asked.

Becky didn't answer. Neither did anyone else, for a moment. Finally, Control cleared his throat. "I have a meeting... later."

The boy nodded sympathetically. "You never get any time off, do you?"

"Ahhh..."

Mickey started to chuckle. "I'm, uh, I'll help clean up," he announced, and carried his dishes to the kitchen.

"An excellent suggestion," McCall agreed.

"You don't have to..." Becky protested feebly. It did no good. The four of them took over her kitchen, in an oddly precise exercise of washing up. She contented herself with packing doggy bags for the three that were leaving, and staying out of the way.

"You know," Mickey observed, looking into a cupboard, "I've seen submarine kitchens that weren't packed this tight."

"Um... sorry?"

"He meant that as a compliment," Robert advised her.

"Yeah," Mickey confirmed.

"Oh."

They got the last of the dishes washed, dried, put neatly away. Control headed out first. He seemed a little startled by the full-sized grocery bag Becky handed him. "I don't really eat a lot of left-overs," he protested.