DISCLAIMER:  The characters of John Doggett and Monica 
Reyes belong to 1013 Productions.  Since this is pre-XF, 
most everything else is of my own creation.

CATEGORIES:  Pre-XF, Doggett, Reyes
RATING:  R
SPOILERS:  None.
FEEDBACK:  wisteria@smyrnacable.net

SUMMARY:  It's fatigue, John, he told himself.  Not stress 
because your wife is pissed off at you, you might miss your 
kid's kindergarten graduation, and you ditched a perfectly 
good career in order to become a glorified secretary.


+++++

LONE STAR
by alanna

+++++

The nights were always the worst.

Sure, it was a clich?, but it was a true one.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but I-35 had been 
worn to a pockmarked ghost of a highway by semi trucks, and 
this damn bucar hadn't had its shocks replaced in a good 
ten years.  John leaned over and turned up the radio, 
trying to drown out the sound of Mitchell slurping cheap 
gas station coffee.

The Texas Rangers vs. the New York Yankees, top of the 
seventh, two out.  Derek Jeter hit a line drive to right 
field, and John rolled his eyes as the biased announcer 
made a comment off-color enough for end-of-the-dial AM 
radio.  He'd cheer for the Yankees like he has for the past 
six years, but he was in Texas now.  Concealed civilian 
weapons were legalized last year, and he gets the feeling 
Agent Mitchell's packing more heat than the FBI-issued Sig 
in his holster.

Not a lot of lights in this part of the interstate, so he 
stared out the window at the silhouettes of corn fields 
obscured by darkness.  Sure, he could close his eyes, but 
the night was already inky black.  One of the handful of 
things he did like about his new locale was the wide-open 
sky.  At 9:43 p.m., however, it was just one big black 
blanket that didn't keep him warm.

A few minutes later, Boggs fouled out and the inning was 
over, and John braced himself for his fellow agent's 
ritualistic sing-along to the Rangers' seventh inning 
stretch anthem, "Cotton-Eye Joe."  Mitchell was a good guy, 
really -- a bit uncouth, but he had a big heart.  
Unfortunately, the big lug couldn't carry a damn tune more 
than five feet and an inch.

"If it hadn't been for cotton-eye Joe, I'd been married 
long time ago."  John mouthed along with Mitchell, out of 
force of habit.  Gave him something to do.

In his head, he heard pipe organs instead of fiddles.  When 
he was back home a week ago, he managed to catch a game at 
Yankee Stadium.  He'd owe his neighbor favors for the next 
two years to get those tickets, but all that was worth it 
to watch Luke burst into giggles when they got to the 
"cracker jacks" line.  He had hoisted his son onto his 
shoulders, and Luke's little five-year-old heels pounded 
his dad's chest in time with "One! Two! Three strikes 
you're out."  

The station launched into cheap AM radio commercials, and 
the sing-along ended.  The commercials were always the 
same, whether in New York or halfway between Dallas and 
Waco.

"Hey, John?"  Mitchell said in a loud voice, apparently 
unaware that the man in question was less than two feet 
away.

"Yeah?"

"Are we staying at the Best Western on 4th Street?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Mitchell chuckled.  "Good.  It's right next door to the 
IHOP.  I know how much you like their omelettes."

Yeah, and you like the Rooty Tooty, Doggett thought.  He 
didn't know where tonight's pissed-off mood came from.  The 
two of them usually got along pretty well.  'Course, John 
had only been working out of the Dallas field office for a 
little over three months, and despite all these damn road 
trips, he didn't think he knew Mitchell all that well yet.  

As long as he could keep the pissiness in check, he'd be 
fine.  Ray Mitchell was the senior agent in their detail, 
and John Doggett was just the greenhorn four months out of 
the academy.  Six years of the Marines had taught him all 
he needed to know about the chain of command.  

Twelve miles and two Yankee RBI's later, Mitchell spoke 
again, his voice taking on the hard edge of a frustrated 
fan.  

"Once we get checked into the motel, could you pull out 
those affidavits and double-check them for 
inconsistencies?"

"Will do," John replied, resisting the urge to add 
"colonel" and salute.  

Speaking more to himself than to an audience, Mitchell 
continued, "Last thing I need is for those goddamned Waco 
lawyers to try and make me look like a dumb ass up on the 
witness stand."

John remembered the Bureau's unofficial public relations 
mantra:  "If it looks bad, it's bad for the FBI"  God knows 
they'd learned their lesson three years ago.  And now he 
was heading down to Waco, trying to help them clean up 
their messes.  He should be flattered that Mitchell 
handpicked him as his assistant during the civil trial, but 
John didn't particularly want to be labeled anyone's 
"assistant."  Still, he was the new guy.  Starting at the 
bottom was expected.

Wade Boggs redeemed himself for the earlier foul-out by 
hitting a solo four-bagger to right field, and Mitchell 
cursed loud enough to bust an eardrum.  

John turned to look out the window and smiled.  That 
weekend he and Luke got to the stadium early, and Boggs' 
autograph was now taped above his son's bed.  Even though 
he'll never get anything for it on the memorabilia market 
now, the autograph looked much better with a bit of added 
decoration.  On the subway ride home he'd indulgently let 
his son's grubby fingers use a blue crayon to practice 
writing his name next to Wade's.  Luke still hadn't 
mastered the letter "K", but he'd get the hang of it soon.

Only two more months, then the school year would be over 
and Carolyn and Luke could join him in Dallas.  He and his 
wife grew up together in Georgia, and she'd been dying to 
move back down to the South.  Of course, neither of them 
expected an environment where being Bureau is akin to being 
a talking pig with leprosy.

Mitchell was a good buffer, though.  He wasn't born with 
the traditional qualifications, but he knew how to play the 
Good Ol' Boy game to the hilt.  To John's detriment, that 
extended to an air of pomposity.

"Oh, and Kendra's supposed to fax us the corresponding 
affidavits from the Davidian lawyers.  If they're not at 
the lobby fax machine when we check in, give her a call up 
in Dallas and leave her a voice mail reminder."

John didn't reply.

After a few seconds, Mitchell prodded, "Did you hear that?"

"Sure thing, Ray."

Maybe he should laminate his Ph.D. diploma and keep it in 
his briefcase.  The other man might have seniority and lips 
throughout the field office attached to his ass -- he was a 
good agent, after all -- but John wasn't an idiot, and he 
sure as hell didn't apply to the FBI so he could be an 
errand boy.  

Staring out the window at the inky black flatlands of 
central Texas helped rub away his irritation, though not by 
much.  He'd have to find some decent form of stress relief, 
and ASAP.  The lawyers were predicting the trial to last at 
least four weeks.  Carolyn provided her own highly-
satisfying form of stress relief, but he wouldn't see her 
until Memorial Day, and phone sex was out of the question 
with a five-year-old at home who leapt with glee when he 
heard it ring.

The game ended in defeat for the home team, and white noise 
filled the car as Mitchell scanned the airwaves for another 
radio station. 

John ground his teeth, suddenly needing a cigarette, a shot 
of whiskey, sleep.

The first city lights began to appear on the horizon.

+++++

"Call me right back, okay?"  John asked after he gave 
Carolyn the hotel phone number.

"Call you back?  What on earth is going on?"  

Suddenly self-conscious, he shifted on his feet, glancing 
around the parking lot as if he had an audience.  "Look, I 
can guarantee you that our long distance bill will be far 
lower than whatever fees the motel tries to stick me with."  
She sighed, and he continued, "Give me ten minutes, then 
call that number and ask for room 116." 

"You're ridiculous, John."

"And you love it."  

With that parting shot, he hung up and sprinted away from 
the pay phones, toward his room.  Hierarchies, 
happenstance, whatever had given him his own room; the 
other Bureau people in town to testify in the trial were at 
the La Quinta.  It was more plush, sure, but they could 
just include it in their legal expenses.

Mitchell also got a cell phone; junior agent Doggett did 
not, so he was stuck with playing phone tag with his wife. 

The phone was ringing when he entered the room.  Carolyn 
was always the impatient type.  Breathless, he picked up 
the receiver and panted, "That was quick."

"Agent Doggett?" a female voice not belonging to his wife 
asked.

Shit.  "Speaking."

"It's Kendra Alcantar up in Dallas."  She sounded 
ridiculously hyper for 11:18 p.m.  Then again, every time 
he saw her, she had a Diet Dr. Pepper in her hand.  

"I wasn't expecting to hear from you this late at night," 
he replied, wondering if she'd get the hint.

She did have a nice laugh, he had to admit.  "Got stuck 
with the night shift this week."  

He wondered if standard protocol would allow him to tell 
her to cut to the chase because he was expecting a call 
from his wife.  Unwilling to hedge his bets, he stayed 
silent and waited for her to continue.  

"Anyway, I couldn't get hold of Ray in his room, so I 
wanted to make sure that y'all got those faxes.  The phone 
lines have been acting up all evening." 

"I've got them in my hand right now."  He didn't, really, 
but she wouldn't know that.

"Great!"  He heard a burst of noise in the background, then 
her voice sped up.  "Listen, I've got to run.  If you ever 
need anything, John, just let me know how I can help."   

In his three months in Dallas, that was perhaps the second 
time anyone had offered to help him.  He'd feel touched, 
but Carolyn was probably trying to reach him.

"Oh, and just a word of advice."

"Yeah?"  This time, he didn't bother to mask his 
impatience.

Kendra didn't pick up on it.  "Ray might be a great guy 
most of the time, but just ignore anything he says to you 
before 9 a.m.  He can be a real asshole until he gets his 
coffee and bacon."

"Thanks, Agent Alcantar.  I'm sorry, but I really have to 
go now."

"Sure thing," she replied, and hung up. 

He hung up the phone and shucked off his shoes.  The bed 
wasn't comfortable, but it was a bed and he was a man in 
need of some sleep.  Once he'd finally arranged the pillows 
in the preferred position, the phone rang again.

A gleam in his eye, he picked up the phone and murmured, 
"Kendra, I told you not to call me at this number.  What if 
my wife finds out?"  He held his breath, waiting for 
Carolyn's sarcastic reply.  

"Hi, Daddy!"

He sputtered, "Oh, hey kid.  What are you doing up so 
late?"  John should have learned his lesson a long time 
ago, especially after Luke picked up the phone while he and 
Carolyn were engaged in not-quite-wholesome activities when 
she was in Atlanta visiting a sick aunt.

"The ring woke me up.  Who's Kendra?"

"Um...  I'll tell you when you're grown up."  Luke whined 
in response, and his father continued, "You need to get 
some sleep, buddy.  Go to bed, and I'll call you tomorrow 
during dinner.  Okay?"

"But --"

"Good night, Luke."  Stern, he could do.

He heard the phone being fumbled and a female voice 
admonishing someone to "go to bed now!", then Carolyn came 
on the line.  "Yeah, John.  Who's Kendra?"

"Just an agent at the Dallas field office.  She called 
before you did."

"Ah."  She paused.  "A Dallas woman."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  They'd gotten out of the 
teasing mode lately. He was glad to be back.

Her voice was still stern, but he could hear the laughter 
underneath.  He waited for her to pretend to believe the 
stereotypes of saucy, big-haired Southern women, but all he 
got was,  "Oh, nothing.  How are things going down there?"

"Same old thing.  The trial starts on Wednesday, and we had 
to come down early to do prep work."

"What trial?"  Carolyn had a tendency to ask more questions 
than she gave answers. 

"The one about the local media causing the initial raid on 
the compound three years ago.  One of the agents from 
Dallas is a key witness, and I'm here as support personnel 
for him.  I think I'm mostly just supposed to observe the 
trial and make sure nothing embarrasses the FBI."  He 
stopped.  "Wait, didn't I tell you this the other night?"

She sighed.  "Yeah, sorry.  I forgot."

He noticed the fatigue and irritation in her voice.  
"Everything okay?"

"Define 'okay'."  

John kept himself from nagging.  Last thing he wanted was 
another night of bickering.  Long distance cost too much 
for something they could easily do back home.  "Seriously, 
Carolyn, what's going on?"

"Nothing specifically bad.  I'm just stressed out from 
school.  We have to start giving the Regents on Wednesday, 
and I'm sick to death of bubbling in names on those 
goddamned answer sheets."

Time to steer the topic away from teacher topics.  She 
could go on for hours.  Maybe when she and Luke joined him 
down here, he could convince her to take a year off.  He 
was earning more than enough now to support the three of 
them, and she needed a break.  So, he navigated his way 
toward happier subject matters.  "How's the kid?"

"Luke's fine.  I got the school newsletter today, and they 
gave a date for his kindergarten graduation.  Think you can 
be here by June 14?"  She sounded hopeful.  That was an 
improvement.

"Yeah, I should be able to take a break by then.  Oh, and 
it looks like I won't make it back up there for Memorial 
Day, so go ahead and book two tickets to Dallas.  It's 
still early enough for us to get cheap fares." 

"Okay." A little static filtered over the connection.  "So, 
you're acting as support personnel, then?  A glorified 
secretary?"

John closed his eyes.  "Carolyn..." he warned.

Apparently ignoring him, she continued, "You quit a 
perfectly good job with the NYPD and are about to uproot 
your family, just so you can carry around some other guy's 
briefcase."

She had it all wrong, as usual, but he really wasn't in the 
mood to argue.  Keeping his voice as steady as possible, he 
replied, "And if I'd stayed with the police, I'd be taking 
the same dead-end cases and nothing would ever change.  
That's not what I want, and I know you don't want it 
either."

"I didn't think I did, but now..."  A pause.  "God, John, 
we've hardly seen you for more than a month at a time since 
you quit that job." 

He sighed.  "I know, Care.  But all this just started, and 
it'll settle down soon.  Let's get through the rest of your 
school year, then you and Luke can come down here and 
everything will get better.  I promise."

Silence.  So much for his little pipe dream of a little 
therapeutic romance.  They were both tired, and he still 
hadn't looked at those faxes. 

"Hey, Carolyn?  Go get some sleep.  I'll try to get a 
better idea of what my schedule's going to be for the next 
month, and I'll call you two during dinner tomorrow night.  
Okay?"

"Sorry, John.  It's just been a rough few weeks."

"I know," he repeated.  "Take care of yourself, and I'll 
talk to you tomorrow night."

He heard her even breathing over the phone.  "I love you."

"Love you too.  Give the kid a hug from me."  

She said goodbye, and severed the connection.

John hung up the phone and closed his eyes.  The faxes 
still needed double-checking, but he wasn't in the mood.  
Even his body was too tense to relax.  

The two of them bickered too much these days.  Sure, they 
had their good days, when they could just chat happily like 
the old married couple they were becoming, but those were 
getting fewer and farther between.  The distance had slowed 
the tension somewhat, mostly because there wasn't much 
point in arguing when they were paying for long-distance 
calls.  Still, her pissiness tonight was all too familiar.

Last summer she'd started talking about having another 
child.  They'd tried a little bit but nothing happened, and 
John couldn't say he regretted it.  Things were too damned 
stressful now for him to start having to worry about 
another kid to raise.  He loved Luke, but the boy was a 
handful, to put it mildly.  

Maybe that visit in a few weeks would do them good.  This 
separation wasn't fun, sure, but it was starting to give 
him some perspective.  At least it would be over soon.

Hauling himself off the bed, he pulled his toiletries case 
out of his bag and went into the bathroom to brush his 
teeth and empty his bladder.  Once he was cleaned up and 
divested of all clothing but his boxers, he shuffled over 
to the bed and turned back the covers.  Dialed the hotel 
operator and changed his wake-up call to 6:00, so he could 
review the papers during breakfast.

His hand trembled a bit as he reached up to turn off the 
lamp.  

It's fatigue, John, he told himself.  Not stress because 
your wife is pissed off at you, you might miss your kid's 
kindergarten graduation, and you ditched a perfectly good 
career in order to become a glorified secretary.

Nope, none of that bothered him one bit.  

He stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, and 
waited for sleep to come.

+++++

Cottonmouth.  

He hadn't woken up with cottonmouth in months, not since 
they'd been down in Georgia at Christmas and they'd left 
Luke with his mother-in-law so he and Carolyn could finally 
have a night to themselves.  They'd started off at some 
jazz bar near downtown Atlanta that her sister had 
recommended, but ended up at a dive a few miles away from 
the house, drinking enough beers to make them call for a 
cab to take them to the hotel room they'd gotten because of 
too many relatives at the in-laws'.  

That was the last time they'd really made love.  Sure, 
they'd had sex a few times since then, but those were 
hurried, don't-wake-the-kid fumblings.  

He didn't drink anything stronger than water last night, so 
he didn't know why he had cottonmouth this morning, but 
there it was.  Stumbled out of bed and brushed his teeth, 
then stared at himself in the mirror.  

He wasn't aging well, if this morning was any indication.  
Once-bushy hair was now inching backward, and lines that 
hadn't been there a year ago were making a grand 
appearance.  This shouldn't be surprising -- after all, he 
was on the uphill climb to 40 -- but he'd thought he had a 
little while longer before he started to look middle-aged.

So, he dragged his middle-aged body into the shower, and 
scrubbed long enough to feel alive again.  Didn't help 
much, but it was a start.

Forty-five minutes later, he was in a booth of the 
International House of Pancakes next to the motel.  If he'd 
had his druthers -- and a car -- he would have chosen 
somewhere else, since he got the feeling he'd be sick of 
the place before long.  But the only other place nearby 
that served breakfast was McDonald's, and those years in 
the NYPD had burned him out on McMuffins.

The mediocre coffee and omelet woke him up.  Carolyn's were 
far superior, but she was two thousand miles away.  For not 
the first time, he wondered what she and Luke were doing 
right now.  It was nearly nine, New York time, and they 
were at school.  She taught closer in to the city than 
their house on Long Island, and though it meant uprooting 
him from his friends in the neighborhood, Carolyn had 
enrolled Luke in her elementary school.  Said she felt 
better knowing what environment he'd be learning in.

He glanced around the restaurant, wondering what kinds of 
families the other patrons had.  Had they ever been forced 
to be so far from their spouses and kids for months at a 
time?  Did they ever want to chuck a thankless job and go 
home to pump gas or drive a bus, just because it meant that 
they'd at least get to take their sons to another Yankees 
game?  

Well, here it was a Rangers game, but same difference.  
There were a couple of 18-wheelers out in the parking lot, 
and those truckers probably had the same separation 
anxieties, but at least they got to go home at the end of 
their run.

Driving a bus sounded pretty damned good right now.  Sure, 
he had a Ph.D. and this new job meant he was now making 
nearly seventy grand a year, but he and Carolyn could get 
by on a bus driver's and teacher's salaries.  They'd lived 
with less money in the past.  And at least he'd get to see 
Luke right now.  

He took another sip of coffee.  No point in dwelling on 
them.  They'd be visiting him in a few weeks, anyway, and 
they always had long distance calls.  Maybe he'd look into 
getting a cell phone.  Expensive as hell, but he could 
afford it now.

Loud voices near the front door caught his attention, and 
two of the other agents in town for the trial walked in.  
John didn't know them well, but wasn't the Bureau supposed 
to be one big fraternity?  The men caught his eye and 
waved, and John expected them to come over and sit with 
him.  Instead, they let the waiter lead them over to a 
booth next to the window.

Probably old friends.  Wanted to catch up on things this 
morning.  Didn't know Doggett.  Had no obligation to come 
sit with him.

He still felt snubbed, though.  It was going to be a long 
six weeks, especially if he was already feeling lonely.  
He'd been pretty popular at the NYPD; he and Carolyn never 
wanted for invites to barbecues or beach get-togethers in 
the summer.  The Dallas field office was a tightly-knit 
bunch, even though most of the agents were in transition 
from one assignment to another.  In the past few months, 
he'd made a couple of friends up there, but most of the 
agents down here in Waco were relative strangers.  He 
should make more of an effort to be social, but his heart 
just wasn't in it yet.  Maybe later.

He finished his breakfast, and tried to remember why the 
FBI had been his dream career.


+++++


"I think the kids are going to do pretty well on the exam.  
Oh, and I got the estimate back on the car, John."

"Yeah?"

She laughed.  "Looks like we won't have to replace the 
transmission after all.  I took Luke out for ice cream to 
celebrate."

Carolyn was in a far better mood than she had been in last 
night.  Warm and cheerful, just like the teenage girl he'd 
first known back when she played French horn and he beat 
the snare drum in marching band.  It'd taken them until 
after college to fall in love, but she had been worth the 
wait.

"How about you, John?  What's going on down there?"

Honesty or a white lie?  He decided to do a little spin 
doctoring.  No need to tell her that he'd done little more 
than shuffle papers all day.

"Well, I spent most of the afternoon in briefings with the 
agents who are the plaintiffs in the case and their 
lawyers.  We talked about how they're going to approach the 
opening arguments."  

He didn't mention that they'd discussed and he'd taken 
notes.  At one point he'd made a suggestion, but one of the 
senior agents gave him a condescending glance, as if to 
tell him that he didn't know what the hell he was talking 
about.  John refrained from retorting that he also wasn't 
the one who'd fucked up the raid to begin with.  At least 
he could say that his notes were far more thorough than the 
paralegal's across the table.

Carolyn didn't seem too interested in the case, which was 
fine by him.  Normally, he'd go on and on, as she stared at 
him with fascination in her eyes, but he didn't hear that 
interest in her voice now.  He wasn't all that eager to 
recount details that already bored him, stripped of all 
their passionate details by dry lawyers.

"What are you two having for dinner?  It's got to be better 
than this crappy takeout.  Thank God for per diem, at 
least."
 
She laughed again.  "What's 'per diem'?"  

"Just the food allowance the Bureau gives me.  I get $30 
each day for food.  Unfortunately, I don't have the best 
selection of restaurants here."  Indeed, choosing between 
Schlotzky's and Cracker Barrel had been about the extent of 
his mental effort.

"Well, John, if you were here, you'd be feasting on Mac 'n 
Weenies."

"But you make them so well, Carolyn.  Nobody can combine 
powdered cheese sauce and hot dogs like you."  He tried to 
keep the homesickness out of his voice.  Then again, maybe 
she'd like to hear it.

"Yeah, Luke seems to like it.  He begged for them the whole 
drive home."

"Put him on the phone, okay?"  Time to talk to the kid.  An 
anticipatory smile spread over his face.  He took advantage 
of the pause to get another bite of his sandwich, then 
heard his son's voice.

"Hidaddywhenareyoucominghome?"  The words flew by in a rush 
of air, and John's guilt rose in direct proportion to the 
falling of his heart.

He dodged the question.  "Hi, Luke.  How was school today?"

"It was okay.  I learned to count to thirty."  His voice 
raised as if he was asking his mother for approval.  She 
must have agreed, because he continued, "Want to hear?"

"Yes!"  John tried to sound cheerful, but he would rather 
have been listening to it in person.  Luke began to count, 
slowly and steadily.  He skipped 25 to 27, but John 
pretended not to notice.  Once the kid was finished, his 
father said, "Great job, Luke.  I'm really proud of you."

"Thanks, Daddy."  Undeterred, he repeated, "When are you 
coming home?"

Keeping his answers vague, John replied, "As soon as I can, 
slugger."

"Okay."  Must be good to be five years old, when you can 
accept everything your father tells you without question.    

"You mind your Mom, Luke, and when I see you, I want to 
hear you count to fifty, all right?"

"Yes, sir." 

By the time John finished saying, "I love you, son," 
Carolyn was already back on the line.

"You lucked out, John.  He's been driving me crazy since we 
got home.  All I've heard is either him whining or yelling 
those numbers of his.  Betcha don't miss that, huh?"

He didn't reply.

Changing the subject, she began to prattle on about car 
repairs and the airfares she'd been quoted by the travel 
agent.  John pretended to listen, but his mind drifted to 
wondering if it was warm enough up there for her to start 
wearing shorts again.  She had great legs.  

A few minutes later, they finally hung up, and he got up 
off the bed.  

He felt restless and jittery.  Lately he'd been trying to 
cut back, but he finally grabbed his pack of cigarettes and 
a lighter, and walked out into the parking lot.  As he 
leaned against the stairwell, smoke filled his lungs and he 
began to calm down.

Typical.  Just when he felt nice and settled, there was Ray 
Mitchell, who walked by with some of the agents from the 
other hotel, on their way to the rental car.  

"Oh, hey, John," Mitchell began, but he didn't seem eager 
to see Doggett.  "Uh, we're heading to a bar downtown.  
Want to join us?" 

The other guys glanced at each other so quickly that they 
probably didn't expect John to catch it, but he did.  
Picking up on the vibes, John replied, "Nah, that's okay.  
I'm going to hang around here tonight."  

He'd make that effort to be social some other time.  Maybe 
tomorrow he'd join them for lunch.

"Okay," Mitchell replied.  "We'll see you at the breakfast 
confab tomorrow." 

John raised his hand in acknowledgement, and the men were 
off.

He shifted against the stairwell, trying to get 
comfortable.  It was a futile effort, so he started pacing 
around the parking lot.  Stubbed out the half-finished 
cigarette under his shoe, then picked up the butt and 
pocketed it to throw away later.  The sun was beginning to 
set, but he couldn't get a good view of the horizon.  He 
wanted to run laps or something, but he didn't have on his 
running shoes and would look pretty foolish jogging around 
a parking lot.

As the sky shifted from blue to orange to twilight, he 
stared up at it, trying to make out the first stars of the 
night.  Finally he walked back to the room, mentally 
checking the Tuesday night television schedule for 
something to keep him company.

+++++

In his dream, Luke was in a locked basement, screaming 
"Daddy!"  John yanked at the door, but it wouldn't budge.  
The knob grew hotter and hotter, until his palm seared.  
The frame glowed orange from the fire behind it, but Luke 
kept screaming.

He awoke with a gasp, beads of sweat on his forehead.

It'd been months since he'd had a nightmare like that.  His 
last few years with the police department had been spent in 
the fugitive division, and it wasn't all that bad.  Serving 
warrants kept him away from the evil stuff his friends in 
Homicide had to deal with.  He'd been in that environment 
before, and he didn't want to go back.  That's why he'd 
tried to steer his FBI training toward the fugitive 
division again.

But the people in the placement office at Quantico had had 
other ideas, and so here he was.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see was that burning 
door.  

So he opened them again, and looked down at the file he'd 
been reading when he fell asleep.  It was another 
affidavit, this one discussing the bodies of burned 
children they'd found after the final standoff.  That 
probably explained the dream.  

Suddenly alert, he picked up the file and began to skim it, 
trying to find what had initially caught his attention.  
Something was there, but he couldn't figure out what.

Coffee.  He needed coffee.

He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed his wallet, and 
headed across the parking lot.  It was nearly midnight, but 
the IHOP was always open.  The fatigue on the hostess' face 
was the direct opposite of his wired brain.  

Linda couldn't bring coffee fast enough; she finally just 
stuck a pot on his table.  His hand shook a bit as he 
poured another cup, but he held it steady.  

John wasn't sure what he was looking for, or if there was 
even anything to find.  The Bureau already had plenty of 
lawyers down here doing the same damn thing he was doing.  
Mostly, though, he was struck by a need to have it all make 
sense.  He'd practically been sleepwalking through the case 
so far, but he had a hook now.

He could see Luke's face on those burned little bodies.

The waitress came by and asked if he wanted anything to 
eat.  He replied, "No."

As she strolled away, something caught his attention.  A 
young woman sitting across the restaurant was staring at 
him.

She quickly looked away, but not before he caught her eye.  
From twenty feet away, he couldn't tell much about her, 
except that she was wearing all black and she looked out of 
her element.  

He turned back to the file, but when he looked up a few 
minutes later, she was staring again, openly this time.  
She didn't turn away, and when he picked up the coffee mug, 
he made a point of fiddling with his wedding ring.  Last 
thing he needed was some strange woman in an all-night 
restaurant coming on to him, even if it'd been years since 
he'd flirted with a stranger and he could use a little 
flattery.

Next thing he knew, she was on her feet and halfway across 
the restaurant, making a beeline toward him.

Great.  Just great.

John closed the file and reached for his wallet, already 
planning ways to escape.

+++++

The woman was quick; he had to give her that.  By the time 
he'd fished some money out of his wallet, she was already 
standing next to the table.  

"Let me guess.  You're a Fed."  She paused, assessing him.  
He fought the urge to squirm.  "FBI?"

Not bothering to hide his irritation, he replied, "No, I'm 
a wheat farmer from Austin."

She laughed.  "Like hell you are.  I'm from Austin, and you 
damned sure aren't."

He turned away to hide a combination eye roll and reluctant 
smirk, and she asked, "Mind if I sit down?"

John opened his mouth to say that as a matter of fact, he 
did mind, but she was already sliding into the booth.  The 
set of her shoulders gave him the impression that she'd do 
whatever she damn well pleased.  

"Hi," she began, her hand extended over the table.  He 
didn't want to shake it, but his mother had raised him to 
be a gentleman.  "My name's Monica Reyes.  I'm a grad 
student down at UT, working on my Ph.D. in applied 
anthropology.  Came up here for the trial.  You're probably 
up here for that too, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am?  Wow, haven't heard that before.  Makes me feel 
old."

He studied her, wishing he'd taken more profiling classes 
at Quantico.  Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, long-
sleeved black t-shirt, no makeup.  She looked barely old 
enough to buy beer, but if she was working on her 
doctorate, she must be in her late 20s.  

She leaned in toward him.  "Sussing me out, huh?"

"Just being observant," he quipped, then wanted to bite his 
tongue to keep from getting drawn into this conversation.  
"That's my job."

"God, with a voice like that, you're definitely not from 
around here.  Jersey, right?"

"New York City," he shot back. 

She smiled.  "Ah, New York.  One of my favorite places.  I 
did my bachelor's at Columbia.  How's the city these days?"  

Her easy, almost flirtatious manner unnerved him.  He moved 
in for the kill.  "Last time I saw it, things were pretty 
good.  My wife and son are still up there."

She stared at him for a moment, then settled back against 
the booth, a bemused look on her face.  "You think I'm 
coming on to you?"

He froze, caught between frustration and embarrassment.  
All he could say was, "Uh...."

"Sorry, I've got a boyfriend down in Austin, and besides, 
you're not my type --"  She stopped short.  "What is your 
name, anyway?"

"Special Agent John Doggett," he replied, still feeling his 
ears burn.  

"Good.  I'll have to remember that."

He sincerely hoped she wouldn't.

Linda came by with a fresh pot of coffee, and flipped over 
the empty mug on the table for Monica.  "Y'all want 
anything to eat?"

The younger woman glanced up and smiled.  "No, thanks.  
Maybe later.  But could you please bring me a carafe of 
orange juice, and two glasses?"

Great.  She was already settling in for the long haul.  

As she went back over to her table to gather her things and 
pay her tab, he examined her.  She reminded him of Carolyn, 
before career and family had softened her edges, her quick 
sense of humor.  He wondered if Carolyn ever met men who 
reminded her of him, before he'd become all sharp edges and 
dour demeanor.  

She settled back into the booth as if she owned it.  "So, 
why are you here, anyway?" he asked, surprised to be 
curious about her reasons.

"Here at IHOP, or here in Waco?"

Now she was really beginning to remind him of Carolyn, what 
with all her questions.

"Your choice."  

"Well," she began, "I'm here because I couldn't sleep and I 
was hungry, and this is one of the only places in town 
that's open past ten."  

But he remembered looking over at her table when she went 
to get her things, and she didn't seem to have eaten 
anything.  Maybe his powers of observation weren't as keen 
as they once were, or maybe he just needed glasses.  

"Okay, and Waco?"
 
The expression on her face shifted, as if she were putting 
on a practiced look for every mood.  "I told you my 
doctorate is in religious anthropology, right?"  He nodded.  
She'd left out the religious part, but details didn't 
matter.  "My dissertation is on cults and their 
relationships with authority, like what makes some of them 
go ballistic and start confrontations with the government.  
Groups like the Davidians, the People's Temple in Guyana, 
Aum Shin Rikyo, and so on."

"And the Waco trial was a logical place to start, then?"  

"Of course."  She took a sip of her juice, keeping eye 
contact while she did so.  John had to admire her 
coordination.  "I really don't need much more research, but 
I wanted to watch part of the trial, especially since it's 
dealing with where the blame for the confrontation should 
be placed.  I'm writing a whole chapter on the trigger 
mechanisms for the initial shootout."  She paused.  "No pun 
intended."

He processed her words, and slid the file on the table 
closer to him, as imperceptibly as he could.  "And you 
thought I could give you inside information?"

She broke her serious expression with a quirk of her 
eyebrows.  "No."

He stared, challenging her.  

"Well, not really.  Sure, you have that file there, but I 
just got a vibe from you."

"A vibe?"  Oh, great.  She was one of those types, just 
like his New Agey brother.  He loved Roger, but shied away 
from him at family reunions.

She raised the glass to her mouth, but didn't take a sip.  
"You just looked lonely."

Lonely, huh?  She said it as if it were an absolute truth.

The worst of it was that yes, he was lonely.  He'd already 
admitted as much to himself.  But his stoic control must be 
slipping if it was that evident on his face.  

"I'm just fine, ma'am."

"Are you?" she prodded, her eyes meeting his earlier 
challenge.  

They stared each other down for a moment, then she shrugged 
and said, "Don't answer that."  Her expression and voice 
once again shifted, and she changed the subject.  "So, you 
said you have a wife and kid back home?" 

"Yeah, a son.  He's five."

"Got any pictures of him?" 

He reached for his wallet, then realized that he didn't.  
What kind of father was he, anyway?  Dads are supposed to 
have a stash of school photos, and Luke only being in 
kindergarten was no excuse.  Keeping the guilty look off 
his face, he muttered, "Nope, they're back in the motel 
room."

She smiled, an indulgent look on her face.  "No problem.  
You can show them to me next time."  

He ignored the latter comment. 

"What's his name?" she persisted.

John stared again, suddenly suspicious.

She laughed.  "It's not like I'm going to stalk him or 
anything.  I'm just trying to be friendly."

Should he relax or not?  She didn't seem like she had any 
ulterior motives, so he finally replied, "His name is 
Luke."

"Hey!  My nephew is named Luke too, but he's only two.  
Cool coincidence."  

Sharing coincidences with this woman was not high on his 
list of life's joys.  An awkward silence fell over the 
table.  He picked up the second glass and poured himself 
some orange juice, immediately giving himself a headache as 
the sugar rushed to his head.  It was too late.  He was 
tired.  

Lest he make his goodbyes, though, she reached over and 
grasped the corner of the file in front of him. 

"Ms. Reyes," he spat as he tried to pull the files away.

"Monica," she interrupted, her voice insistent.

"Monica, those files aren't for public consumption."

"Freedom of Information Act, John."

She opened the folder before he could slam his palm down on 
it, and he felt foolish doing so.  Her fingers carefully 
flipped through the papers.  "Ah, hell, all these are in 
the public domain, anyway.  I've already seen them.  So 
don't worry, your precious confidentiality hasn't been 
violated."

"You're still not supposed to be looking at them."  He 
tried to make his voice as authoritative as possible, but 
damn fatigue wouldn't let him muster more than a hoarse 
growl. 

Monica ignored him, engrossed in the papers and 
photographs.  As she pushed aside a fax cover sheet, she 
visibly blanched.  Glossy, full-color images of burned 
little children stood in stark relief against manila 
cardstock.

"Oh, God.  I've seen these before, but those were tenth-
generation photocopies and I couldn't make out the detail."  
She furrowed her brows and bit her lip.  "Shit."

He wanted to tell her that was the reason they weren't for 
public consumption, but it didn't seem like an appropriate 
thing to say.

Common sense told him he should yank the file away and 
hurry out of the restaurant, but he was frozen in place, 
remembering the first time he'd seen those same pictures.  
They were heady, heartbreaking stuff.  No matter how set 
you were in your opinions, they made you question anything 
that would make those little kids suffer.  

Monica was stock-still, her face still white and her lips 
slack.  In that moment, he felt a sudden rush of sympathy, 
of protectiveness.  As hip as she presented herself, John 
got the feeling that she still had the na?ve belief that 
the world was a good place, full of justice and of kids who 
never died because of their parents' foolhardy and 
misguided convictions.  

Although she said she'd seen the pictures before, he wanted 
to shove the file away and rewind time, pretending the past 
five minutes had never happened.  But the tremble of her 
hands told him that it was too late.

John glanced around the table and noticed the ashtray for 
the first time.  Its morbid familiarity jolted him out of 
his daze.  He reached for his pack of Marlboro Reds and lit 
one, not bothering to ask her if she minded.  She probably 
wouldn't even notice.

Monica did notice, though, her gaze lifting to meet his for 
the first time since she'd first opened the file.  "Could I 
--" Her voice broke.  "Could I have one of those?"  Her 
voice was suddenly small.  She looked very young.

Without words, he handed her the pack and she pulled one 
out, lifting it to her lips with a faint tremble.  He 
watched her try and fail three times to get a flame, before 
finally getting it lit.  She inhaled deeply, then promptly 
began coughing.

"You've never smoked before, have you?"  

"No," she admitted, staring at the cigarette in her hand 
before attempting another drag.  This time, she didn't 
cough, but a sour expression spread over her face.  "But 
after--" she gestured toward the file with her free hand, 
as if unable to say the words.  "I just feel like I need 
one."  

There was nothing he could say, really.  He recognized that 
feeling all too well.  

They sat in silence for a while, until both cigarettes were 
burnt down to yellowed filters.  He was surprised Monica 
finished hers, but she had an air of determination about 
her.  John hoped it would be her last; he didn't want to 
add starting an addiction to his crime of damaging her 
naivete.  

The waitress brought by the bill, her movements unsubtle.  
John reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty, then 
pocketed the receipt for his per diem paperwork.  

"No, it's okay," Monica interjected as she fumbled for her 
purse.

"It's on me," he insisted.  His voice felt dead.  "There's 
enough left for you to get something to eat if you want." 

"Thanks," she whispered.  

As he stood and picked up the file, she looked up at him.  
Her whole demeanor was miles away from the woman who had 
practically knocked him over half an hour ago with her 
enthusiasm.  "Are you going to be here tomorrow night?"

John turned to walk away, but looked over his shoulder at 
her.  "I don't know."  
 
He really didn't know.  He didn't think he could take her 
chatter and questioning a second time.

But for a half-hour in a strange town, she had kept him 
from being lonely.  That mattered.

So he replied, "Maybe."

"Okay."  Her voice was still lifeless and her lips pursed 
into a pout, but it was thoughtful, not petulant.  

He gave her a gentleman's nod, then walked out of the 
restaurant.

As he made his way across the floodlit parking lot to his 
motel room, he gritted his teeth and hoped that, if he even 
managed to fall asleep tonight, his dreams wouldn't be of 
burning children.

+++++

Seven a.m. came too early.  A half-dozen hours of sleep 
weren't enough these days.  Maybe back in college, but not 
now.  

Putting his body on autopilot, he was ready to go by 7:30.  
Walked over to Mitchell's room, but the other man opened 
the door with a irritable look on his face.  John stood by 
the window as Mitchell sat back down on the edge of the 
bed, clad only in boxers and a tank top, and resumed a 
phone conversation.  Sure, John had seen his fair share of 
half-dressed men back in the Marines, but that was fifteen 
years ago, and he was out of practice.  The other guy 
didn't seem to care, but John was still uncomfortable. 

Mitchell finished his conversation then headed toward the 
bathroom, calling over his shoulder, "The meeting's off.  
One of the lawyers had something she had to take care of."

John yelled, "Okay," in reply, but the shower started and 
he didn't think Mitchell heard him.

He sat in a chair and turned on the television, flipping 
around until he could find the network morning shows.  One 
of the Good Morning America anchors was with a man 
demonstrating a cooking recipe.  None of the other channels 
proved interesting, so he settled on cartoons, seeing if he 
could recognize any of them as Luke's favorites.

When Mitchell emerged, fully-dressed, from the bathroom, he 
walked over and grabbed his keys off the table.  Peering at 
John, Mitchell said, "You look exhausted.  Get enough sleep 
last night?" 

"Yeah," he replied, but it was a lie.  At least he didn't 
dream about Luke and fires again.  John wondered if Monica 
Reyes had dreamed of what she saw in those photos.  

Two other agents were at the diner near the courthouse, 
already working on plates of biscuits and gravy.  Once his 
food arrived, he listened to the three other men tell 
inside jokes he probably would have understood if he'd paid 
more attention to their chatter over the past few days.  

Guess this meant he'd have to start hanging out with the 
boys when they asked him, even if he wasn't in the mood and 
they didn't go out of their way to make him feel welcome.  
Gotta love office politics.

And speaking of the office, he still had no real idea what 
he was supposed to be doing.  The others weren't talking 
shop, and John had nothing but shop on his mind.  

Finally, he took advantage of a lull in the conversation 
and a sudden bravado to ask, "Hey, Mitchell, why am I down 
here, anyway?"

Staring back at him with a look that was either bemusement 
or condescension, Mitchell replied, "You're here to observe 
and learn."

"Yeah, but you could get anyone to do what you're having me 
do.  I don't get it.  Why was I assigned?"  He hoped his 
voice didn't sound petulant.

Mitchell glanced at the other agents, then chuckled.  
"You're here for a reason, John."

Could've fooled me, he thought, but instead kept quiet and 
waited for a response.

Agent Traylor chimed in with, "Consider this an audition.  
SAC Martinez is thinking of either putting you on a new 
fugitive division task force she's setting up, or 
permanently assigning you to work with us in External 
Affairs, but she wants you to get a feel for how the system 
works first.  So yeah, John," he said, "observe and learn."

Observe and learn, huh?  Sure, he could do that.  Didn't 
change the fact that he was still a glorified secretary, 
but at least he now had a goal in mind.  

Look good.  Take good notes.  Kiss ass when necessary.

+++++

So this was the Texas Judicial System.

He'd been assigned to substitute for another agent at an 
arraignment a week after he arrived in Dallas, but at the 
last minute SAC Martinez decided to send another man with 
more experience.  Since then it had been grunt work in 
whichever division needed another agent.  

John had seen his share of courtrooms in his life, though 
most of those were either in the military or New York City.  
A couple of months before he'd left home, his mother began 
a career as a legal secretary in Atlanta, but he'd never 
gone to see her at work.

All of his expectations for Southern courtrooms were based 
on too many viewings of movies like "Inherit the Wind" and 
"To Kill a Mockingbird", so he probably had unrealistic 
expectations, but this wasn't the grand, wood-paneled 
chamber he'd anticipated.  Yeah, there was wood paneling, 
but it was of the '70s pre-fab variety.  Could be any 
courtroom anywhere.

The generic familiarity was comfortable as he took a seat 
on the plaintiffs' side of the gallery.  The hard wooden 
benches were not.

He took out a steno pad, then fumbled around in his 
briefcase for a sharpened pencil.  He had a very specific, 
very mundane task today: watch carefully, and take notes.

At least now he knew why.

The Bureau wasn't an official party in the trial, since the 
plaintiffs were comprised of a group of ATF and FBI agents 
who were involved in the initial raid that went haywire.  
But even though the FBI had no direct involvement,  
Martinez had sent down some reps from External Affairs as 
attaches, to make sure the Bureau's interests were 
accurately represented.   

Mitchell and Traylor, the two main attaches, were sitting 
in the front row of the gallery, right behind the 
plaintiffs' table.  As the bailiff called the court to 
session, the latter agent turned around and looked at John, 
his brows raised.  John held up his steno pad.  Yes, he was 
observing, and taking more notes.  

Opening arguments were on the morning's docket.  The judge 
began jury instructions, and John put down his pencil.  
He'd heard the same instructions dozens of times before, up 
in New York.  Ignoring the familiar words, he began to scan 
the courtroom.  It was surprisingly full, but he couldn't 
yet figure out most of the observers' representative 
groups. 

As the plaintiffs' attorney began her speech, Monica Reyes 
entered the courtroom.

John watched her slip into the opposite end of the row in 
front of him, about fifteen feet away.  He didn't think she 
noticed him, but who could tell with that woman?  For all 
he knew, that whole conversation last night could have been 
an act.
 
Then he remembered the haunted look on her face as he 
walked out of the restaurant, and he decided she was 
genuine.

Her appearance intrigued him.  Her black pants and dark 
gray blouse were professional and stylish, but even from a 
distance he could see the fabrics were faded and the 
rumpled, as if she'd slept in them the night before.  From 
their conversation last night, she seemed the type to want 
to project an image; then again, she didn't have anyone in 
the courtroom to impress.

He did, however, so he pulled his attention back to the 
attorney, her voice and body language trying too hard to be 
theatrical.  John hoped she was better at cross-
examination; otherwise, they were already screwed.

After jotting down a note about the plaintiffs' apparent 
plan of attack, John looked up to see Monica staring at 
him.  

He stared back, and she raised her hand in a wave and 
curled her lips into a smile.  

Nodding back at her, he tried to keep himself from sighing 
in relief.  It was nice to have someone act like they were 
actually glad to have him around, instead of telling him so 
with hollow words because he was on a so-called "audition". 

In his peripheral vision, he noticed Traylor shift in his 
seat, and John turned his attention back to the lawyers, 
ready to take more notes.

Observe and learn.  Boring as hell, but if that's what it 
took to move ahead in the FBI, he'd watch and absorb as 
much of this damn case as he could.  He just hoped the rest 
of it wasn't as tedious as this.

John glanced back over at Monica, and saw her pull out her 
own notebook and pen.  He wondered what she was observing 
and learning.  Was she genuinely interested in trial 
minutiae, or was she beginning a long search for 
explanations for those dead children in the photographs 
from last night?

Carolyn liked to say that every minute of life is part of 
the learning process.   

He wished he were up in New York, learning her lessons 
instead of ones about office politics and little kids who 
burned to death.

+++++

Two days after he first drove down it, he was back 
experiencing the utter joy of I-35.  

It hadn't changed much in 48 hours; the space between Waco 
and Dallas was still a stretch of mind-numbing tedium.  At 
least this time he got to choose what was on the radio.  
Unfortunately, the choice was a whole lot of nothing unless 
it was country or talk radio.  As he drove through 
Waxahachie, John got a sudden craving for a Dilly Bar, 
prompted by the familiar red-and-white Dairy Queen sign.  
Hadn't had one of those since he was growing up in Georgia.  
Too bad he didn't have time to stop.  

After the defense had finished its opening argument, the 
judge called a fifteen minute recess and Mitchell 
immediately reached for his cell phone.  A few minutes 
later, he'd gestured for John with a quirk of a pudgy 
finger, handing him a set of car keys.

"You need to head back up to Dallas, John.  Martinez has 
some files for me and she can't find anyone to messenger 
them down here."  He'd picked up his briefcase and shuffled 
through it, adding, "And I think she wants to talk to you 
about something."

So much for his role as educated observer.  He was back to 
being the errand boy.

The miles passed in a blur, more from lack of scenic 
variation than from an overabundance of thoughts to keep 
his mind occupied.  He mentally calculated the timetable: 
ninety minutes up, same time back, and hopefully the 
meeting with Martinez wouldn't last too long.  If he was 
really lucky, he'd have time to run by his apartment and 
get some stuff to take back with him.  More books would be 
good.

By the time he got into town, he hit the lunchtime traffic.  
People took their cars everywhere in this city.  It had 
annoyed him until he realized that, unlike New York, there 
weren't twenty-three eating joints within four square 
blocks.  He maneuvered his way through downtown, trying to 
figure out the haphazard maze of streets he still hadn't 
figured out.

His badge flapped against his breast pocket as he ascended 
in the shaky elevator.  The little kid next to him lost his 
balance and tumbled into John, who reached out a hand to 
steady the boy but quickly snatched it away.  Everyone was 
so damn paranoid these days, and he didn't want to be 
accused of anything.

"Don't stare, Tyrone.  It's not polite," the boy's mother 
murmured sotto voce, and John looked down to see two huge 
brown eyes examining him.

He smiled.  "It's okay.  My son's about his age."  
 
The woman smiled in return, then returned her gaze to the 
shiny elevator doors.  Tyrone continued to stare, but he 
didn't seem impolite.  He looked at John with admiration, 
as if the man was a hero.  John liked that feeling, but 
stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from ruffling the 
kid's hair.

The elevator finally alighted on his floor, and he stepped 
across the hallway to the main field office entrance.  He 
easily remembered the route to Martinez's office, but when 
he got there, her secretary told him that she was in the 
forensics lab and that he should wait for her inside.

As he was examining the photos on her wall, a voice behind 
him said, "That was the day I got my bachelor's.  I was the 
first in my family to finish college."  
 
He leaned in to look closer at the photo in question.  An 
ebony-haired SAC Martinez in cap and gown was surrounded by 
three kids that looked like younger versions of her.  She 
continued, "See those kids there?  Those are my nephew and 
nieces.  Marisol's a chemist, Marcus does public relations 
for the American Cancer Society, and Julia just opened her 
first exhibit at an art gallery in Houston."  

Her voice was full of pride.  John wondered what Luke would 
do to make him brag in twenty years.  It was too soon to 
tell, but the kid loved planes.  Maybe he'd be a Marine 
pilot, or something.  

"Give me a sec to get my briefcase, and let's get out of 
here," Martinez said, breezing past him.  "I'm starving.  
Have you eaten yet?"

"Nope," was his none-too-eloquent reply.  'Attaway to 
impress the boss, he thought.

He followed her back out of the building and down the 
street, barely keeping up with her long, purposeful 
strides.  As they waited for the light to change so they 
could cross, she reached up and pulled off her badge, 
sticking it in her pocket.  John mimicked her, at first 
wondering why she'd bother to take it off, then he realized 
that being Bureau here probably wasn't the best calling 
card.

By the time he made it across the street, she was already 
nearly twenty feet ahead of him, and he marveled at her 
ability to walk so fast in those heels.  She stopped short 
and pivoted on one of them, calling, "You coming?"  

He nodded a reply, glad that he was in shape enough not to 
pant.  She didn't look irritated, though.  From what he'd 
seen of her in the past few months, John got the feeling 
she was used to getting where she was going without much 
fuss.

A light drizzle started to fall as they ducked into a 
barbecue joint that rightfully earned the designation of 
"hole-in-the-wall".  She strode up to the counter, nudging 
past a phalanx of suits, and ordered.  He held back, 
examining the menu before ordering a beef brisket sandwich.  
As they edged down the line to the cashier, she turned to 
him and said, "It's on me, John."  A coy smile curved her 
lips, and she added, "Well, it's on the Bureau, at least."

By the time they got their food, the crowd had thinned out 
and they snagged a booth by the window.  He took a sip of 
his iced tea and tried not to stare as she spread mustard 
on the bun of her rib sandwich.  His dad had been a 
barbecue god back in Georgia, but John had never seen a 
combination of mustard and ribs before.

"So," Martinez began, "Ray tells me you want to know why I 
sent you down there."

The woman had great timing; he couldn't reply with his 
mouth full.

She continued, "I probably should've told you at the time, 
but I was really impressed with your work on the Goddard 
case two weeks ago." 

Yeah, she should've told him.  He could've used some 
validation, given how damned useless he'd been feeling 
lately.  Instead of saying that, of course, he swallowed 
and said, "Thanks."

A stranger chose that moment to sidle up to the table and 
exclaim, "Hi, Teresa!"  John finished his sandwich and 
started on his fried okra while the two women exchanged 
news of their families.  

Once the woman had left, Martinez took a sip of her 
lemonade then said, "Anyway, I'm trying to decide just what 
to do with you, Agent Doggett." 
 
Gee, he didn't know he was such a conundrum.  "Yeah, 
Mitchell said something about a task force?"

"Right.  We're working with the Dallas PD to merge our case 
files with theirs and track down some of the fugitives who 
had previously been deemed untraceable.  I saw in your 
personnel file that you did a lot of warrant work up in New 
York, and I'm considering you for the team."

The rain began to steadily fall outside.

Martinez continued, "But Agent Carter in External Affairs 
is being transferred to Albuquerque next week, and we need 
someone to replace him.  It's not your area of expertise, 
but I think you could handle it.  Plus, it's always good to 
have several different areas of specialization.  It'll help 
you get ahead in the FBI."

He couldn't help feeling flattered.  John wondered if the 
decision would entirely be her own, or if he would have any 
say in the matter.  External Affairs already looked to be 
pretty damn boring, given what he'd seen so far in Waco, 
and the task force sounded challenging.  Only problem was 
that setting up a task force would mean that he'd be stuck 
in Dallas for at least a good six months or so.  He knew 
the chances of another transfer were remote, but last week 
he'd called a friend up in the New York field office, 
asking about any potential openings.
 
Then again, she had a good point about broadening his 
experience.  After all, who didn't want to advance in the 
Bureau?  Sure, EA might be dull, but he'd do what it took 
to get ahead.  

Choices, choices.  

And hell, they might not even be his choices to make.  He 
was entirely at Martinez's mercy, and although he'd spent 
the past fifteen years -- Marines, NYPD -- answering to the 
whims of authority, for once he'd like to be the one in 
control.

He took another bite of fried okra, feeling the juicy pods 
burst between his teeth.  Martinez stared at him, awaiting 
his response.

John took the safe course of action.

"Tell me more about this task force."

+++++

Things hadn't changed much, though it had only been four 
days and he shouldn't have expected the place to be 
different.  Still, his entire apartment was custom-designed 
for transience, and seeing it exactly how he'd left it -- 
leftovers in the fridge, a shirt tossed into the makeshift 
hamper -- was strange.  As he'd driven over, he'd imagined 
it would have snapped like a rubber band back to the way it 
had been.  

The place was soulless, and although the bland furniture 
contributed to the effect, it was really his fault.  He 
hadn't done much to make himself at home.  

Two months' rent in a furnished apartment was part of his 
relocation package, and after that he was responsible for 
his accommodations.  But the two months had long since 
passed, and last week he found himself writing another rent 
check.  

It was really more than he could afford, especially when he 
was still paying bills back up on Long Island, but John had 
slipped into the place.  Once the school year was over, 
Carolyn and Luke would be joining him in Texas, and they'd 
probably start looking for a bigger apartment or even a 
rental house when the two of them came down in a couple of 
weeks.  

Of course, after the conversation with SAC Martinez, the 
length of his stay was now uncertain.
 
God, all the thinking made his head hurt, so he resolved 
not to think for at least another hour.  While John was 
sorting through files at the field office, Mitchell had 
called and said that plans had changed and he didn't need 
to be back until the next morning.  Rather than fight 
morning traffic, he decided to head back later that 
evening.

But that gave him a few hours to kill, so he grabbed a beer 
and walked over to the balcony, breathing in the late 
afternoon air.  

A couple of flight attendants were parking their car in the 
lot below.  One of them looked up at John and waved.  He 
waved back, then watched them make their way across the 
pavement to the apartment they shared.

The sequence of events was enough to sink him into a bad 
mood.  If someone had told him in his bachelor years that 
he'd be living in an apartment complex with gorgeous young 
women in whom he had no romantic interest whatsoever, he 
would've laughed.  But that was before marriage, the kid, 
and strands of hair accumulating in his comb every morning.  

'Is life being good to you, John?' he asked himself.

The worst of it was that he didn't know the answer.

Another car pulled up, driven by a man John knew was an 
efficiency expert who only spent a few months in a city 
before moving on.  The car was nice -- leather interior, 
the works -- but its owner obsessively waxed it each 
Saturday evening.  Another man whose financial life was 
treating him well, but who was mostly likely just as lonely 
as John.

The Live Oak Gables Apartments were for people on their way 
from one place to another.  Some were furnished, most were 
not.  All were occupied by transients -- not the kind who 
lived barely above the poverty line, but people who were 
waiting for something to happen.

John was one of those people now.  He didn't want to be.

After wiping sweat from the back of his neck, he pressed 
the still-cold beer to his forehead, trying to stave off 
the heat.  Finally, he gave up and opened the sliding glass 
doors to his apartment.  The air conditioning sucked him in 
like a vacuum, and he walked over to the coffee table, 
where a stack of newspapers awaited him. 

Subscribing to the local paper had seemed like a good idea 
at the time; after all, he needed to learn about the city 
and keep abreast of local events.  But more often than not, 
he ended up taking stacks of unopened papers to the 
recycling bin.  Last Sunday's paper was still in the stack, 
and he fished it out, setting the rest of the papers on the 
floor.  

He opened up to the real estate section and started looking 
over the listings for rental houses.  Maybe he'd find a 
decent three-bedroom place for his family.  A bedroom for 
Luke, one for him and Carolyn, and a study where she could 
put the computer she bought last year and where he could 
build model airplanes with the kid.  Thank goodness archaic 
traditions from John's childhood also held fascination for 
his son.

A half-hour later, he'd circled a dozen ads that looked 
promising, then he closed the classifieds.  He glanced at 
his watch and decided that a call was in order.

As the answering machine on Long Island picked up, he 
remembered too late that Thursdays were PTA nights.  Damn.  
He told  Carolyn's recorded voice, "Hey, it's me.  I'm in 
Dallas right now, but I'll be back in Waco later tonight.  
I'll just give you a call tomorrow night.  Love you two.  
Bye."

It was official:  he was lonely as hell.  

He wanted to pick up a book and read, but his brain didn't 
want to give him the required concentration.  So he flipped 
on the television, and let CNN lull him into a half-sleep.  

No comfort in Waco, and none in his grudgingly-adopted 
home.  

And two more weeks was a damned long time to wait for his 
family to arrive and give him some emotional peace.

Glassy-eyed, he stared at the television and began to wait.

+++++

He shouldn't have been surprised to see Monica Reyes at the 
IHOP late that night, but he was.  After all, she'd said 
she would probably be there.  Still, he did a double-take 
when he leaned down to pick up the briefcase he'd set on 
the floor, then looked up to see her staring at him.

She waved over at him, gesturing for him to join her at the 
table.  Sure, he could say no, but he'd look like an 
asshole, and his mother had raised him better than that.  
So, off to her table he went.

"Didn't really expect to see you here, but I'm glad you 
stopped by," she said after taking a sip of orange juice.  
She was already three-quarters of the way through one of 
those carafes.  He wondered how she slept at night, with 
all that acid in her stomach.  

He nodded and picked up his menu.  Should've just grabbed 
some fast food on the drive back down, but he'd nodded off 
at his apartment and had to haul ass to get back down to 
Waco in time to catch Mitchell before bed.  But Mitchell's 
room lights were out when John got there, so he'd let the 
growl of his stomach propel him across the parking lot.

Sticking with familiarity over hour-appropriate choices, he 
ordered basic pancakes when the waiter -- a man this time -
- came by.

"John?  You there?"

He realized he still hadn't said anything to Monica.  
"Sorry, just a little tired, that's all."

"Why did you come here, then, instead of going to bed?"  
 
Damn, if he wanted to be grilled as to his lifestyle 
choices, he'd call Carolyn and wake her up.  "Because I'm 
hungry," he replied with irritation.  

"Oh.  Good reason."

Their conversation -- if it could be labeled that -- had 
taken a turn for the banal.

She reached over for one of the coffee mugs, turning it 
over and putting it in front of him.  "Here, have some OJ 
if you want." 

"Thanks."

If his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, then why 
the hell was he acting so perfunctory?  He didn't 
especially want to be in that booth with Monica, but he 
could do better than this.  "So," he began, trying to perk 
up his voice, "anything interesting happen in court this 
afternoon?"

She shifted in her seat.  "Yeah, I noticed you left pretty 
early.  Didn't miss much.  Your side called the first 
witness, but it was just some tech expert testifying about 
transmission relay stations for media satellites, or 
something.  Most of it flew over my head."

"Okay, thanks.  I'm sure the others will tell me if there's 
anything I should know."

The waiter walked by and John flagged him down, requesting 
coffee.  He looked around the room, noticing other 
customers who were probably different from last night's 
crowd, but who looked just the same.  

As he stared, Monica said, "Look, if you don't want to sit 
at this table, it's okay.  I won't be offended."

He turned back to look at her, trying to read her face.  
Drawn lines around her mouth betrayed her benign 
expression.  And a glimmer of something in her eyes made 
him wonder, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

"I'm just a little distracted tonight.  But it's nice to 
see you again."  It wasn't the complete truth, but sure, it 
was nice to see someone who actually seemed glad to see him 
too.  He could use a little conversation for a change.

A big smile spread over her face, and he relaxed a little 
bit.  His answer pleased her, and that pleased him in 
return.  He suddenly felt a strange warmth toward her.  
Certainly not attraction, but it gave him that same little 
buzz as when his nine-year-old niece would run up to him 
for a hug when he went back home for a visit.  That same 
buzz as when Luke would grin at him.

John asked himself why he was associating the moods of a 
woman in her late twenties with those of kids young enough 
to be her own children, but he guessed it was all the same, 
really.

She placed her palms flat on the table and said, "And it's 
good to see you again.  Should I call you my friend now?" 

Gee, she certainly was presumptive.  Hell, he inwardly 
shrugged.  Let her be.  "Sure, if you want to."

"Good.  Though, if you're a friend, I don't know a whole 
lot about you." 

If they were going to sit around and share their personal 
histories, he had to wonder if it was too late to get 
another table.  But she still had that smile on her face, 
and what harm would it do to indulge her?  He'd play it 
safe.

"Um, what do you want to know?"

She cocked her head to the side.  "Let's see....  Have you 
ever killed a man, just to watch him die?"

He froze.  

He'd seen men die, and he'd killed a few back when he was 
in the Marines, but....

She stared right back at him for a long moment, then 
laughed.  "That was a joke, John."

The decision of whether to laugh or to stare her down was a 
tough one.  His instinct was to reply, "Sure, I knew that," 
but that felt even stupider than the other two options.  So 
he let himself smile, just a little.

"Seriously, though, if your family is back up in New York, 
why are you down here?"

Good question.  Despite Martinez's words earlier, he still 
wondered.  "I finished Quantico back in early February.  I 
put in request to be assigned to New York City, but the 
Bureau usually farms out new agents to the smaller field 
offices before you can get a big assignment like that.  So, 
here I am."  

"Last night, you said you had a wife and son."  He nodded.  
"Why aren't they here, then?" 

"Because Carolyn's a schoolteacher and she couldn't quit 
until the end of the year.  Plus, we didn't want to pull 
Luke out of school."

Her sage nod looked strange on someone who was still pretty 
young.  "Sure, that makes sense.  I'll bet you miss them."

"Yeah," he said.  That was an understatement.

"So, you're a New Yorker, then?  You don't really look like 
one."

"What's one supposed to look like?"

She stared at him, a startled look on her face.  "Oops, I'm 
sorry.  That was rude.  You look exactly like a New 
Yorker," she said, the words spilling forth.  

He chuckled.  "No, you're right.  I grew up in north 
Georgia.  My wife and I have only lived in New York for 
about ten years."  

"Georgia, huh?  Why the New York accent, then?"

Good question.  He'd never really given it much thought.  
"I guess I just picked it up without thinking.  I was in 
the police department up there, and perps respond better to 
someone who sounds like them."

The pancakes arrived and he saw her glance at her fork as 
if she planned to eat some too.  "Want some?" he asked.  

"No, that's okay.  Thanks for offering, though."  But a 
twitch of her eyes made him think that she'd be asking for 
a bite later.

A few minutes stretched past as he ate, faster than was 
probably polite, but it was late and he was hungry.  By the 
fifth bite, he got sick of her pretending not to watch with 
envy, so he picked up her fork and handed it to her.  With 
a murmured "thanks," she started to eat, and they made 
quick work of the dish.  

"So, what about you?" he asked as he used the last bit of 
pancake to mop up the rest of the syrup.

"Me?"  

"Yeah.  I told you about me, so it's your turn."  He wanted 
to add that she had a drop of syrup on her upper lip, but 
didn't think that would be polite.  

"Well, let's see," she began, her voice brightening.  John 
surreptitiously glanced at the coffee pot, hoping it would 
be enough for the duration of what would probably be a very 
long story.  

"The nutshell version is that I'm 29, single but with a 
boyfriend who -- like half the men his age in Austin -- is 
working for a small tech company while he tries to be a 
musician.  Justin bitches and moans about it too damned 
much, but at least it pays our rent."  She paused for a 
breath, then continued, "I'm not from Texas either.  All my 
family's back in Tallahassee, and I miss them, but UT has a 
good anthropology department and they ponied up the 
fellowship bucks, so here I am."

John knew all about those all-important fellowships.  He 
and Carolyn had first ended up in New York state because 
Syracuse offered him decent money, and the GI Bill didn't 
give much for post-graduate education.  Then, within six 
months of the end of his dissertation, she got pregnant and 
they moved down to Long Island, where he could work during 
the day and write like hell at night.  Luke was born two 
weeks after he successfully defended his paper.

Not that any of this mattered to Monica, and he probably 
wouldn't tell her.  She was lucky for not having a family 
to support while in grad school.  At least Carolyn had been 
able to teach, and they hadn't been quite as poor as some 
of his classmates.

Focusing back on her, he asked, "So, why religious 
anthropology?"

She grinned.  "You remembered!  I'm touched."

"It's my job."

"I guess so, huh?"  She shrugged.  "My dad's a lapsed 
Catholic from Cuba and Mom's a lapsed Methodist from 
Tallahassee, so I didn't grow up with much religion at all.  
For me, I guess it was the opposite of all those kids who 
got burned out on the church and turned their backs.  Once 
I got to college and took a few religion courses, I started 
to wonder what I'd been missing.  I'm not a particularly 
religious person, but the concept of faith in general 
intrigues me."

And didn't she say last night that's what brought her down 
here?  "Alternative faiths too, you mean?"

Monica laughed.  "'Alternative', huh?  Guess you could call 
them that.  Cults are an alternative, sure, but probably 
not the healthiest one.  I'm just intrigued by what causes 
people to go to such extremes.  Cultists often consider 
their beliefs to be completely normal and acceptable to the 
outside world, which is what makes them so surprised by 
external skepticism.  My research is on why some of those 
groups cut themselves off so much from mainstream society 
that they get defensive and sometimes even violent when 
they perceive that their insular communities are being 
threatened."

"Ah," was just about all he could say in response.  

"Ah?  Am I totally going over your head, John?"

He flushed.  "No, just that my doctorate was in public 
administration, not liberal arts, and most everything I 
know of anthropology is from watching PBS."

She laughed and took a long sip of her orange juice.  "You 
probably have a fairly decent grasp of it, then.  Hey, are 
doctorates required for the FBI?"

"No, not necessarily," he said, though just about everyone 
he knew in the Bureau had at least one fancy degree to his 
or her name.  "Why do you ask?"

"Well, there isn't much you can do with a PhD in applied 
anthropology except teach, and I've been a TA one too many 
times for my taste.  My advisor suggested that I look into 
the FBI or maybe one of those think tanks in Washington or 
California.  I don't know, though.  Those groups would 
probably bore the hell out of me." 

What, a group devoted to sitting around and talking about 
issues would bore her?  Given what he knew so far about 
Monica Reyes, graduate student of anthropology, she had 
"Future Talking Head" invisibly tattooed on her forehead.  
Her demeanor would go over well on CNN.

His reaction must have showed on his face, because she 
replied in an indignant tone, "I'm serious.  I'd rather do 
something challenging with my life, and from what I've 
heard, the FBI is definitely a challenge.  It'd be a good 
way to set myself apart from the crowd, you know?  
Besides," she chuckled, "my dad would get a big kick out of 
it." 

Funny, John's retired-from-the-sheriff's-department father 
had wondered why the hell his son would want to give up a 
career in the military, much less as a cop.  But wasn't 
John still a cop, only with a fancier title?  

"Well, just do what you want to do, Monica.  Follow your 
interests."

And yes, he'd definitely turned to the banal.  The waiter 
dropped the check on the table with a thud of his hand and 
whisked away the plate with the other.  

"Hey, John?  Do you like your job?"

God, what a loaded question.  Tonight was probably not the 
best time to ask him that.  Hell, the last three months 
since Quantico graduation weren't the best time.  It was 
supposed to get better, wasn't it? 

He remembered that Bureau public relations mantra of "If it 
looks bad, it's bad for the FBI."  At 10:46 on a Thursday 
night, his face wasn't looking all that great for the FBI 
either.  But if Martinez was thinking of putting him in 
External Affairs, he'd best start playing the part now.

"Well, Monica, it's still too early for me to really know 
what it's like, since I only started this job back in 
February.  But I'm enjoying it so far.  It's a constant 
challenge, and the good thing about the Bureau is that 
you're not pigeonholed into one area.  You're given 
opportunities to move to different parts of the country and 
hone your expertise in different fields."

Which was all just a diplomatic way for him to say that you 
could be stuck in the damned Knoxville field office if 
that's where they needed you, without much chance to even 
pack up before moving, and that even if all your education 
was in public administration, you could suddenly find 
yourself in the Art Theft division if its SAC needed a warm 
body. 

"Give it a year, John," Carolyn had said when he'd finally 
broken down last week and told her that things weren't 
quite as peachy as he'd expected.  That meant nine more 
months of... whatever.  

Monica piped up with, "You sound like a recruitment tape."  

Well, that settled it.  Martinez may as well pull out that 
reassignment form now.  

"Just giving you the facts."

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, her expression trying for acumen, but 
her face was still too young to achieve the full effect.  
"Tell me -- where do you stand on this case?

Oh, great.  Talking about that with her would probably just 
cause a heated debate he wasn't really in the mood for 
right now.  He glanced over at the check, and she must have 
noticed, because he heard her sigh.  

"It's late, isn't it?  I'm sorry, I shouldn't be keeping 
you here like this," she said in a rush of words.

He noticed for the first time her full-to-bursting knapsack 
on the bench next to her.  She'd probably be here for a 
good long while, anyway, doing research or writing or 
whatever the hell she'd been doing when he got there.  Nah, 
he didn't have an obligation to keep her company.  

"It's okay," he replied, but even he could hear the fatigue 
in his voice.  "I'm just tired.  I had to hurry to get back 
here before bedtime, and that's probably where I should be 
right now.  Early morning tomorrow, and all that."  
Mitchell had left a message on his motel voice mail saying 
that they had another breakfast meeting tomorrow morning, 
and it would probably be right back here in this same 
booth.  Lovely.

"All right, then," she said in a voice that was far too 
perky for the late hour.  "I'll probably see you tomorrow 
morning in court."

He fished another twenty out of his wallet, but didn't 
bother to wait for the receipt this time.  This one would 
just have to go off the per diem.  He could afford it now, 
and she probably couldn't.  Call it charity, or whatever. 

"Take care," John said as he fished in his pocket for his 
keys, and stood up.  "Get some sleep, yourself.  You don't 
need to stay up all night, you know."

Yeah, he was definitely acting like a big brother.  Good 
Lord.  But although he was already heading for the door, he 
got the feeling that his words made her smile.  She seemed 
like the kind of person who liked that sort of friendship.    

As he opened the glass door, she called out, "Sweet 
dreams!"  

He blushed, imagining that the rest of the near-empty diner 
was snickering at the words.  Hell, let them.  John was too 
tired to care. 

A few cars littered the IHOP parking lot.  Stickers all 
over the back window caught his attention, and he 
immediately assumed it was hers.  Tan sedan, a few years 
old, just like the cars of most of the young women he'd 
known back at Syracuse.  He looked at the stickers, the 
parking lot's darkness keeping anyone from noticing his 
examination.  

"Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History."

"Dare to Think for Yourself."

"When I Grow Up, I Want to Be Like Me."

Okay, the last one made him laugh.  Some other decals 
surrounded them -- names of bands he'd never heard of, 
drawings of stars and strange symbols, and a green cartoon 
alien head in a Dr. Seuss hat.  Oh, brother. 

Luke loved Dr. Seuss, though, so he shouldn't really roll 
his eyes.  But then, Luke was five years old.  Monica Reyes 
was 29.  John assumed the sticker was a joke.  

The only sticker on his and Carolyn's car said, "If You Can 
Read This, Thank a Teacher."  John wasn't the bumper 
sticker type, but he figured that it was a good enough 
message to impart to the world.

He couldn't help leaning in to peer through her rear 
window, but what he saw surprised him: a pillow, a blanket, 
and folded-up bath towel.  
 
Walking around to the side, he saw that the passenger 
floorboard was crammed with books and what looked to be a 
toiletries kit. 

Aw, damn.  She was in grad school, so of course she was 
poor, but really.  Until he heard otherwise, he'd just 
assume that she was crashing in her car because motel rooms 
were pretty expensive on a fellowship budget.  Still, the 
sight of all that stuff piled in her car made him sad.  

He turned away, suddenly embarrassed, and began walking 
across the parking lot to his motel room.  As he stepped 
over the grassy median between the IHOP and Best Western, 
he looked over his shoulder.  If he squinted, he could see 
Monica Reyes, back to hunching over her books.  

Sure, he had a career now, with a damned good income.  He 
had a family, even if they were two thousand miles away.  
He had a promising future, if he'd just be patient and wait 
for it to happen.

But was he happy?  

He sure as hell wished he knew the answer.
 
+++++

"Hey, John, are you expecting something?"  Mitchell asked 
as he pocketed his cell phone.   
 
"Nope.  What do you mean?"   
 
John struggled to keep up with the other man.  As he'd 
stepped out of the shower that morning, he'd turned his 
ankle.  It was one of those old man injuries that bruised 
his ego more than his leg.  Traylor had asked why he was 
limping, but John avoided the question, lest he be in for 
teasing of the 'I've fallen and I can't get up' variety.   
 
"That was Kendra on the phone, asking where we were meeting 
for lunch.  She just got down here and said she had a fax 
for you." 
 
"What's it about?"  He didn't have a clue who'd be faxing 
him. 
 
Mitchell yanked open the car door and unlocked the 
passenger side.  "She'll be at the restaurant when we get 
there.  You can get the fax then." 
 
Now his interest was definitely piqued.  It was probably 
just some more case stuff from the field office, but 
usually the folks up there didn't single him out for 
documents.  He fastened his seatbelt and wondered how long 
it would take to get to the restaurant.  Getting antsy 
about something so insignificant was silly, but it gave him 
something to look forward to.  Hell, he hadn't looked 
forward to much of anything lately, except for Carolyn and 
Luke's visit next weekend. 
 
As they pulled out into traffic, Mitchell flipped on the 
radio, and country music blasted out of the speakers.  He 
quickly reached over to turn it down, for which John was 
grateful, but he'd rather it be off altogether.  Sure, he'd 
spent his childhood in the South, but he'd never warmed to 
twanging guitars.  He really wasn't much of a music fan in 
general.  
 
He hadn't expected Mitchell to like country music, but the 
man tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the music.  
Just goes to show that people will surprise you all the 
time.   
 
Monica was someone else who kept surprising him.  She 
hadn't been in the courtroom since last Friday.  He assumed 
she'd gone back to Austin to do whatever the hell she did 
down there, but he was still curious why she wasn't at the 
trial.  Maybe she didn't consider the plaintiffs' 
witnesses' testimony vital to her research.  Couldn't blame 
her, really.  Sitting through the past six days of it had 
pretty much numbed whatever interest he might have had in 
the case.  
 
John wondered just how much longer he was supposed to 
"watch and observe."  Mitchell hadn't said much, nor had 
Martinez when she came down to check on things on Tuesday.  
So he kept on taking notes.  He'd already filled four legal 
pads.   
 
Lunch today appeared to be at a cafeteria.  He kept himself 
from cringing.  Mitchell and the gang's culinary tastes 
weren't very exotic, not that they had a huge selection to 
choose from.   
 
Now that he finally had his own bucar to use, John had 
started exploring the city, and had found an Indian 
restaurant he decided he rather liked.  Eating naan and 
malai korma in his motel room brought back memories of 
heading into the city with Carolyn for their ninth 
anniversary, while Luke stayed home with a sitter.  They'd 
drank so much wine and spiked chai that they had to take 
the train back home, and when he drove the car back the 
next day, the scent of her perfume still lingered inside.  
She was beautiful that night. 
 
Agent Kendra Alcantar was already at a table when they went 
inside, and John's curiosity once again spiked.  He 
shuffled through the cafeteria line, choosing a limp pot 
roast and vegetables, but the apple cobbler looked pretty 
good.  After paying, he snaked a path through tables of 
families until he got to the one where Kendra and Traylor 
were waiting.    
 
She and Traylor were laughing about something when he sat 
down, and he dumped packets of Sweet 'n Lo into his tea 
while they finished their joke.  Then she looked up at him 
and said, "Hey, John!  Long time no see," with a huge smile 
on her face.   
 
John liked her easygoing manner.  She was about the same 
age as Monica, and both women had natural grins, but Kendra 
was more circumspect than the other woman.  She made him 
work for conversation, when he was in the mood to join in 
one with her.   
 
He returned her greeting and waited for her to tell him 
what she had for him, but she kept on chatting with the 
others.  John listened carefully, trying to pick up on what 
they were discussing, but yet again it seemed to be some 
kind of inside joke.  But whereas a week ago he would have 
just tuned it out, now he listened for cues and absorbed 
the information so he could join in next time.   
 
John had finished the pot roast and was on his last bite of 
mashed potatoes when she finally said, "Oh, I have 
something for you, John." 
 
"Yeah?"  He kept his voice from showing his combined 
impatience and curiosity. 
 
"Fax came in for you."  She handed him a file folder.  
"It's personal, though, so I don't know if you want to open 
it here."  
 
He said, "Thanks," but opened it anyway, and his heart 
stopped.   
 
Airplanes and little v-shaped birds circled a sky, with 
lollipop trees on the ground.  Three stick figures stood 
under their shade -- a big one labeled "Daddy", another 
labeled "Mommy", and a little one labeled "Luke." 
 
He'd finally learned how to write a "K". 
 
Mitchell leaned over to look at the drawing.  "A fax from 
your kid?" 
 
"Yeah," John muttered, rifling through the pages.  Three 
drawings, and a cover sheet with two handwritten notes. 
 
The first was in Carolyn's script:  "Luke made these for 
you in art class today.  Call me when you get them, and 
we'll see you next weekend."  The second was in shaky 
D'Nealian print:  "Hi Daddy.  I am miss you.  I hop we see 
you soon!!!!"   
 
Damn it, he wasn't going to cry.  Sure, it was a scene 
custom-made for emotion, but he could control himself.  He 
didn't know whether he should be proud that he was able to 
keep his eyes from getting damp.  Maybe tonight, when he 
was alone. 
 
He looked up to see the others giving each other indulgent 
smiles.  Traylor said, "Must be tough, being so far away 
from your family.  Hell, my wife and daughters are up in 
Dallas and I see 'em every few days, but I still miss them 
like crazy.  Didn't you say they're coming down to visit 
you soon?"   
 
"Yeah," he repeated, sounding like a broken record, but he 
didn't care.  
 
Kendra asked him about Luke, and John closed the file 
folder, although the others seemed like they wanted to see 
the drawings.  Maybe he'd show them when they were far away 
from messy food.   
 
John told her the basics about his family, which set off a 
conversation about the others' kids and family life in 
general.  He finally had a discussion topic in which he 
could fully participate, and didn't feel the least bit of 
guilt for bragging like hell about Luke and Carolyn. The 
thermostat hadn't gone up, but John suddenly felt very 
warm. 
 
+++++ 
 
Monica had a rather inconvenient method of reappearing in 
his life. 
 
It was Thursday night.  He was in his motel room, on the 
phone with Carolyn, making arrangements for their visit in 
a week.  As they debated whether she should take their car 
to the airport or take the chance of friends giving her and 
Luke a ride, he heard a knock on the door. 
 
"Hang on a sec," he told Carolyn, and went to open it. 
 
There was Monica, wearing a skirt, blouse, and a serious 
look on her face.  "Can I come in?" she asked, her voice 
subdued. 
 
John was surprised to notice that she didn't seem like she 
expected to be let in.  He replied, "Um, sure," and opened 
the door wide.   
 
She said thanks and took a seat in the cheap motel chair.  
He went back to sit on the bed, trying not to shake his 
head in confusion. 
 
"That sounded like a woman's voice, John.  Should I be 
worried?"  But Carolyn sounded more amused than worried.  
He was glad neither of them was the jealous type. 
 
"Nah, just someone here to talk about the case.  Nothing to 
worry about."  He glanced over at Monica, who had turned to 
look out the window.  Her hair was brushed back from her 
face and the shirt was tight and in a nice shade of blue.  
She looked kind of pretty. 
 
Two thousand miles away, Carolyn said, "You go ahead and 
talk to her, then.  We still have a week to get this sorted 
out.  Besides, Luke's about done with his bath, and I need 
to go get a mop to clean up his mess." 
 
Cleaning up after a splashing five-year-old was one thing 
he didn't much miss about home.  "I'll be back in Dallas 
tomorrow night, and I'll call you then.  Love you." 
 
"Love you too," then the line disconnected. 
 
Monica was still looking out the window, and after a 
moment, she said, "Was that your wife?" 
 
"Yeah." 
 
"Sorry to interrupt you, then."  Her voice was lifeless. 
 
He didn't reply.  He'd almost rather be back debating 
airport arrangements than trying to figure out this woman's 
moods.  
 
As he tried to figure out how she'd found him, she said, "I 
saw you walking back here last week, and I thought this was 
your room.  But I saw Agent Traylor -- I think that was his 
name -- in the parking lot and he directed me here." 
 
Oh, great.  He'd get some ribbing for that tomorrow 
morning.  At happy hour tonight Chris had had one too many 
beers and asked him who "that hot woman you were hanging 
out at IHOP with last week" was.  John deflected the 
question by changing the subject to the now-familiar 
Yankees versus Rangers debate.  
 
The aforementioned "hot woman" still hadn't turned around 
to look at him, so he finally asked, "Is everything okay?" 
 
Her hand fell from where it'd been pulling back the 
curtain, and her shoulders slumped.  "Yeah."  A pause.  
"Well, no.  Justin's mom died on Friday and we were down in 
Houston with his family." 
 
"I'm sorry to hear that."   
 
She murmured a thank you, and turned around, her body 
looking almost drained of life.   
 
"Um, do you want to talk about it?"  John ineffectually 
asked, but he didn't really want to talk about it with her.  
It just seemed like the polite thing to say. 
 
She gave a shrug and a hollow chuckle.  "No, that's okay.  
I've done nothing but talk about it all week."   
 
"Oh."  He paused.  "Well, what can I do for you?" 
 
She took a few steps forward, as if she was going to start 
pacing the room, but stopped short in front of the 
television.   
 
Turning to stare at him, she said, "Do you want to sleep 
with me, John?" 
 
Oh, shit.  Oh, holy shit.  Sure, he'd never been good at 
reading women, but she'd given him very different vibes 
last week.   
 
"No," he immediately, unequivocally replied.  
 
The room was dark but she held his gaze steadily for a long 
moment.  Shifting on her feet, she toed off her shoes and 
he began the ascent to panic.  Ten steps to the door, dark 
outside but lots of floodlights, Mitchell was two doors 
down.  He could get the hell out of here in less time than 
it would take for her to concoct some outrageous claim. 
 
Then she stared laughing.  It was a low laugh, barely 
audible.  "John?" 
 
He kept his mouth shut, because he knew that if he tried to 
say anything, it would come out as either a croak or a 
shriek. 
 
"John," she repeated.  "Calm down.  You're a great guy, and 
under different circumstances I might feel differently, but 
I don't want to sleep with you.  Trust me."  She tried to 
grin but it just looked macabre on her very serious face. 
 
"I just wanted to make sure things were the way I assumed 
they were."   
 
He gave a pointed look to her shoes, splayed on the floor.  
Picking up on the trajectory, she said, "My feet hurt, 
okay?  They're cheap shoes and uncomfortable as hell, but 
they're the only fancy ones I have, and I've had them on 
since that damn funeral."  Still staring at the shoes, she 
added, "I can put them back on if you want." 
 
"No, that's okay.  Leave 'em off."  He finally found his 
voice.   
 
"Thanks."  
 
The bed would have been closer and more comfortable, but 
she walked back over to the chair and took a seat.  "God, 
I'm sorry.  I didn't realize that question would freak you 
out so much.  Forget about it, okay?  I wasn't getting any 
attraction vibes from you, but I suck at figuring people 
out, so I just wanted to make sure that I was right." 
 
While talking to Carolyn he'd been drowsy, but now he was 
startled awake.  John wished he'd had more to drink at the 
bar earlier, and wondered if any of the gas stations around 
here sold beer.  His nerve endings were becoming downright 
painful, despite Monica's reassurances.   
 
Now he had to figure out how to turn this atmosphere 
around, because in spite of her bizarre behavior tonight, 
he did kind of like Monica.  But if this was how their 
interaction was going to be from now on, he had to call a 
halt to it right now, even if he needed a friend.  Not a 
drinking buddy like Traylor was turning out to be, but an 
honest-to-god friend.  Last week he'd started to think of 
Monica as a friend, but now.... 
 
"No offense, Monica," he began, measuring his words 
carefully.  "But even if I weren't married, nothing would 
happen between us.  You're a great person, but you're not 
my type."  Hell, who knew?  If things were different, maybe 
she would be his type.  However, he was married and that 
put her squarely off-limits, so no use wondering about 
'what ifs'.   
 
In the dim motel room light, he watched her body visibly 
deflate.   
 
"God, I've totally screwed this up, haven't I?"  Her voice 
dropped an octave.  "I seem to do that all the time.  Take 
a chance and fuck it all away."  She stopped short, then 
chuckled.  "No pun intended." 
 
Her words helped put him at ease, but his nerves still 
jangled.  Finally, he said, "It's okay.  I'll just forget 
the last five minutes." 
 
She looked up from examining her fingernails.  "Good." 
 
A few seconds later, she muttered "God."  Her shoulders 
shuddered a bit, and her chin rested on her collarbone.  
John wondered if she was about to cry, and he hoped like 
hell she wouldn't.  He could deal with Carolyn crying 
because he'd known her forever, and he could deal with Luke 
crying because he was just a kid.  He didn't know anyone 
else who cried. 
 
"You okay?"  He repeated his earlier question, and wanted 
to cross his fingers.  
 
A car passed by outside, washing the room in searchlight 
yellow.  Her eyes were wide, but dry.  "Yeah, I'm fine.  
Just really, really embarrassed.  I pull this shit all the 
time, and I don't even realize it until too late."  She 
laughed, and although it was low, it sounded genuine this 
time.  "I should probably be eating my shoes right now." 
 
She made him want to talk, which was a very strange 
sensation.  "No, you don't have to do that.  Remember?  
I've already forgotten all about it." 
 
Her smile looked genuine now too.  "Thanks.  You're a good 
friend, John.  And if you treat your wife half as well as 
you're treating me right now, she's a hell of a lucky 
woman." 
 
Laughing felt strange, but he figured it would help her 
out.  "When Carolyn calls herself 'lucky', she usually 
means she's lucky she can put up with me." 
 
Monica laughed again, but the shaking of her shoulders made 
him think of tears some more.   
 
Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute, until she leaned 
down and picked up the backpack she'd brought in with her.  
She set it on her lap, and he waited for her to open it.  
She didn't.  
 
"Justin thinks I'm being ridiculous with all this trial 
stuff. 'God, Monica,'" she said, her voice lowering as if 
mimicking her boyfriend's tone, "'You've been working on 
that damned dissertation for a year now.  You've got all 
the research you need, and you don't have to put up with 
all that shit.'"  
 
John would ask her what she was supposedly putting up with, 
but he thought he had an idea.  He kept quiet, certain that 
she'd elaborate further.  Fortunately, she didn't seem like 
the kind of woman to need oral prompts after every 
sentence. 
 
"Did you know that I was actually sleeping in my car last 
week?"   
 
He didn't nod, because even though she was confessing, he 
thought she might be embarrassed to know he was aware of 
that. 
 
"Well, I was.  The only motel rooms I could find were too 
expensive, but at least I found one here at the Best 
Western for tonight.  My Visa card won't like it, but who 
the hell cares anymore?"   
 
"That's good," he said, throwing her one of those oral 
prompts.   Sure, it was good -- it meant that she'd 
probably go back to it after she finished getting all this 
off her chest.  And hell, he didn't want her to sleep in 
the backseat of her car.   
 
She didn't reply, so he figured he'd indulge his curiosity.  
"So, why did you come back up here, anyway?  You don't much 
look like you want to be here." 
 
"Oh, God, I had to get out of the apartment."  She sounded 
like she was talking more to herself than to him.  "I love 
Justin and I know he's going through a hell of a time right 
now, but he's devastated and emotionally raw, and he's 
using me and my research as a scapegoat.  I had to give him 
some personal space, and I wanted to get wrapped up in the 
trial stuff again before I lost that focus."  
 
A muscle in his knee seized from cramps, and he 
straightened his legs in front of him, leaning back against 
the headboard.   
 
"Well, Monica, if all of your research is done, why are you 
still following this trial so closely?" 
 
She caught his gaze and held it, her eyes narrowed and 
glinting with seriousness.  "Don't take this the wrong way, 
because it's not your fault, John, I promise--" 
 
Uh-oh.  He tightened his arm muscles, but not because of 
cramps.   
 
"--but I probably would've just followed the news reports 
in the Austin paper, except you showed me those photos last 
week, and ...." 
 
Oh, yeah.  He remembered now.  He hadn't had an opportunity 
to look at them since that night, and frankly, he was glad.  
Sure, it would have been more data to learn and observe, 
but those images were already seared into his brain. 
 
She opened her backpack and pulled out a spiral notebook, 
bursting with papers stuffed within its leaves.  Monica 
stood and put it on the end of the bed.  He didn't move to 
pick it up.  If she wanted him to look at it, she'd hand it 
to him, herself. 
 
The backpack still on her lap, she said, "I did come here 
for a reason, besides just to make an utter fool out of 
myself."   
 
"Yeah?  What can I do for you?" 
 
So, they were back to where they'd started.   
 
A warning niggled at the back of his brain, and he added, 
"I can't show my files again, Monica, just so you know.  
Confidentiality issues, and all that crap." 
 
"No, it's okay," she quickly replied.  "But I'm sure it's 
not against FBI policy for you to look at my stuff, right?" 
 
Both of them sitting on the bed would probably be a more 
effective use of space, but despite her reassurances, he 
just wasn't comfortable with that kind of setup.  So, 
ignoring his creaky knees and still-sore ankle, he got up 
and went over to sit in the other chair.  On the way, he 
picked up the spiral notebook. 
 
She smiled at him as she leaned over to turn on the lamp.  
He tried not to notice the way her tight shirt rode up, 
revealing a swath of smooth stomach skin.  John felt a 
sudden flash of weirdness.  It was like seeing your kid 
sister's best friend in a swimsuit for the first time.  
 
But she seemed to know just how to set his mind at ease.  
Before dropping the backpack on the floor, she pulled out 
two longnecks of beer, their canary yellow labels so bright 
in the strange new light that they almost made him squint.   
 
"Want a beer?"   
 
As he took one, he knew that despite her earlier attempt to 
"figure out where things stood between them", he probably 
shouldn't be sitting in a motel room with her at night.  
But hell, screw the warnings.  He knew now that she was a 
friend, and he definitely knew that she might be tactless 
and impetuous, but she wasn't stupid enough to make a move 
on him after all that mess earlier.   
 
What harm would come of having a beer with her and going 
over her notes?  He knew Carolyn wouldn't mind, and if 
Traylor gave him crap tomorrow, tough.  John had enough 
balls to set the other man straight. 
 
So he picked up the beer, surprised to find that it was 
still semi-chilled.  The puckered ridges of the cap dug 
into his palm as he twisted it open.   
 
Monica smiled at him, but with more relief than good humor 
in her eyes.  
 
"So, what did you want to ask me?" he began. 

+++++

"What's up with you and that woman?" Chris Traylor asked 
after the judge called a recess to review new evidence from 
the defense.  

As John stood and stretched his legs, he craned his neck 
around to look at Monica, who'd entered the courtroom an 
hour earlier.  She didn't sit with him, not that he 
expected or even wanted her to.  In the past couple of 
weeks, the courtroom had begun to resemble one of Carolyn's 
seating charts, and his ass was already wearing grooves in 
his spot on the unofficial "Bureau Bench."  Besides, he got 
the feeling that Monica would just whisper or pass notes if 
she sat next to him.  He liked talking to her, but really.

"Ms. Reyes?" John answered.  Disingenuousness didn't suit 
him well, but the reply was instinctive.  

"Yeah, her.  You two got something going on?" Traylor 
prodded, and John half-expected him to wink.

John turned back around to face the other man.  "Sorry to 
disappoint you, Chris, but she's just a friend."  Last 
night had made that abundantly clear.

Chris leaned down to pick up his briefcase, and John 
scanned the courtroom for Mitchell, who'd disappeared after 
the break began.  "You sure about that?   She seemed awful 
eager to find your motel room last night, John."

He could still hear the tease in Chris' voice.  He knew he 
could spend the next ten minutes trying to convince the 
other man, but it wouldn't do much good.  That was how 
those guys operated.  

All he said was, "Ms. Reyes just stopped by to say hello.  
She'd been out of town for a few days."

"Uh-huh," Chris replied, straightening up to look at him.  
Fortunately, he changed the subject after a glance at his 
watch.  "Look, you're on your own for lunch.  Mitchell's 
heading back up to Dallas early, and I'm supposed to call 
my daughter's teacher at noon for a phone conference.  I'll 
see you back here when the session starts back up at 2:00."

Before John could respond, Chris continued, "That reminds 
me.  Tammy and I are firing up the grill in the backyard 
tomorrow night.  She told me to invite you over for burgers 
and chili dogs.  She wants to meet you."

John had planned on spending all day and evening on the 
house hunt, but he needed to get out sometime.  "Guess I 
should come by and see what lies you're telling her about 
me."  It felt good to have a guy to joke around with.

Chris nodded as if everything was settled.  "Great.  I'll 
write you down some directions this afternoon." 

"Thanks," John replied, then turned away to gather his 
things.  When he had everything together, he looked up to 
see that Traylor was long gone, but Monica had taken his 
place.

"Want to go to lunch with me?" she asked.

It'd only been a minute since he'd heard that lunch with 
the other agents was off, but he'd already planned to just 
grab some fast food and head back to the motel.  Oh, why 
not?  He was sick of that damn motel room, and who knew if 
he'd even see Monica again after today.  She struck him as 
a bit fickle -- or impetuous, to put it politely.

He eased past her into the aisle, and she followed.  
"Sounds good.  Do you like Indian food?"

"Love it," Monica said, and they walked out to his car.

Twenty minutes later they were in a booth at Bombay Palace.  
As they sat down, he scanned the menu, remembering how he 
and Carolyn had stared in confusion at a similar menu until 
the waiter patiently explained the names.  The novelty of 
the experience had been part of the fun.

But Monica scanned the menu with a practiced eye, starting 
several sentences with, "I think I'll have --" before 
stopping short as she changed her mind.  It was amusing the 
second time, but after the fifth revision, he had to bite 
his lip to keep from telling her to just decide already.

After the waiter took their orders, she explained, "Both my 
parents hated cooking, so I know just about every 
restaurant in Tallahassee.  It really sucks, though, 
because I have an inordinate fondness for takeout food, and 
my budget refuses to cooperate."

He watched her bite into a samosa, its golden brown shell 
the same color as the skin of her hands.  "Did you sleep 
well last night?" 

She made an irritated face.  "Yeah, the room was nice 
enough, but the idiots at the front desk didn't place my 
wake-up call like I requested.  I didn't wake up until 
nine, and had to haul ass to get cleaned up so I could make 
the check out time."

"Sorry 'bout that."

"Why?"  She looked up at him.  "It's not your fault."

He busied himself with his food.  "Just being polite."

"Y'know, that's one of the things I like about you," she 
said, then took a bite of the bread she'd folded like a 
taco.  He wanted to laugh, but kept silent as he waited for 
her to elaborate on the non-sequitur.

After she swallowed, she said, "You just seem like a good 
person.  You kind of remind me of my Uncle Hector."

"I do?  Is he 80 years old, bald, and senile?" John teased, 
deflecting the accolade out of embarrassment.  

"How'd you guess?"  She laughed.  "Nope, he's in his 
fifties, and he's an engineer.  Great guy.  He doesn't say 
a whole lot, but he's really intelligent and has a heart of 
gold."

John nodded.  "Thanks, then.  I appreciate the compliment."

A curious look spread over her face as she stared at him.  
"You don't get many compliments, do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She flushed.  "Oh, sorry.  I don't mean that you don't 
deserve them or anything, just that when I said that, your 
ears got red and you looked a little startled."

Great.  He flashed back on grade school, and how the other 
kids would tease him when he blushed.  John didn't think 
they did that much anymore, but Carolyn had once teased him 
about it.  'Course, the blush that time was from a 
compliment on his technique after some pretty damn good 
sex, but still.  He hated those damn ears of his.

He didn't know quite what to say, so he just said, "It's 
not really something my friends and I do."  

"Okay, sure.  Makes sense.  I just got that vibe from you."

John was eager to change the subject, especially since he 
was now fixated on the memory of his wife murmuring in a 
darkened bedroom.  

"What do you mean by 'vibe', anyway?  You've said that 
before."

Monica laughed.  "You mean you've never heard that term?"

Oh, Lord.  Was this one of those popular culture things?  
He must be getting old if he couldn't follow the 
conversation of a woman nine years younger than him.  
"Sure, I've heard it," he said.  "Just never understood 
what the deal was with 'em."

"Well," she began, her voice sounding suspiciously like 
Carolyn's when she was explaining fractions to her fifth 
graders.  "It's just another word for a feeling.  I could 
get all technical and start talking about auras and stuff, 
but you don't look like you're into that."

He almost choked on his bite of curried rice, and took a 
sip of water to cover himself and tamp down the spiciness 
on his tongue.  "You're not gonna go all new agey on me, 
are you?" he practically sputtered.  Shit, he had to put up 
with enough of that mystical crap whenever he saw his 
brother, Roger, at Christmas.  The guy didn't know when to 
shut up, like he was on some personal mission to convert 
John to Eastern religions.  At least Monica wasn't so in-
your-face about it, though she was starting to make him 
concerned.

She leaned back against the booth.  "You know, John, we 
really don't have much in common, do we?"

"You could say that again."

"That's okay."  Monica smiled.  "I won't hold it against 
you."

"Thanks." 
 
The grin still on her face, she said, "Auras and vibes 
really aren't all that different from simple human 
intuition, in a way.  It's kind of like the collection of 
moods and energies a person projects.  I'm not really good 
at seeing all the colors, myself, but a friend of mine has 
started dabbling in aural photography.  I've seen some of 
his pictures.  The people almost have this bright, 
multicolored halo around their heads.  They're really 
beautiful."

Sounded like a load of crap to him.  "Yeah, but how do you 
know that it's not just the photographer playing tricks 
with lenses and flashbulbs?"

She sighed.  "I suppose that's possible, sure, but I 
watched Brandon take a photo once.  It looked pretty 
authentic to me."

John couldn't help but roll his eyes.  "Okay, then, Madame 
Monica, what's my aura?"

It was her turn to look up at the ceiling.  "I didn't say I 
was any good at it."

He put his fork on the table and stared, challenging her.  

"Fine."  She huffed in mock-exasperation.  "I guess I see 
some light orange and dull brown around you. Those stand 
for discouragement mixed with a desire for success.  You 
also have some blue, which is the color for searching and 
dissatisfaction."

When she paused to squint at him some more, he interrupted, 
"Great.  So I'm depressed and hopeless."

"I didn't say that!"  She turned indignant, complete with 
furrowed brow and the hint of a pout.  "Those aren't 
necessarily bad things, John.  You seem to focus on 
negative interpretations of things, and that's not a good 
way to look at life.  If you'd given me a chance to 
explain, I would have said that you have some purple mixed 
in, which is a hopeful color.  All of those colors together 
basically mean that life isn't going entirely the way you 
want it to, but you're looking for ways to make it better.  
Most people would just give up, but it says a lot about you 
that you take action instead of getting mired in that 
dissatisfaction."

He processed her words.  It did sound a little bit better 
when she put it that way, but he still didn't buy it.  "You 
could've told that just from our conversations.  And I'm 
not as dissatisfied as you seem to think I am." 
 
"Whatever you say."  Now she sounded smug.  Hooray. 

John sighed and picked up his fork again, prodding at the 
cooling rice on his plate.  

"Anyway," Monica began, "I don't have to read your aura to 
tell that you want to change the subject."
 
"Good work, Sherlock.  You should join the FBI."  He wasn't 
very proud of himself for sounding so bitter, but there it 
was.  

"That reminds me...."  

He looked up at her.  Monica's face and voice had 
brightened considerably.  He had to admire the way she so 
easily shifted moods and paths.  

"I wanted to ask you some more about the FBI."

"Yeah?"  John replied, trying to pick up on her sunnier 
mood.

"Before Justin and I had to go down to Houston, I met with 
my advisor again for a dissertation conference.  We got to 
talking about her suggestion that I look into applying to 
the Bureau."

He remembered what she'd said during their first meeting, 
that she was interested in that kind of career.  Lucky for 
her, John was feeling much more positive about the FBI 
today than he'd been back then.  

"What do you want to know?"

"Just tell me what it's like."

Where could he begin?  He took a moment to finish his plate 
and tried to remember all those things he'd heard at 
orientation.  

For the next half-hour, he did most of the talking.  John 
started off with the standard Bureau spiel, but before long 
he was relating anecdotes that made her smile, and tales of 
bureaucracy and rootlessness.  The good and the bad, sure, 
but John was surprised by how much he really did have to 
say.  Monica was the type of person to demand honesty, and 
he found that being straight with her was freeing, in a 
strange way.

The conversation progressed to their families, and by the 
time he'd started telling her about how he and Carolyn 
first met, John realized his mood had lightened 
considerably.  

He couldn't really say he was happy, per se, but he felt 
good for the first time in weeks.  He hadn't had an 
intelligent, adult conversation about something besides 
this damn trial in far too long, and he liked it.

As he fished his wallet out of his pants, quelling her 
protests by saying he'd just put it on his per diem, he 
realized he was starting to really like her.  Monica Reyes 
felt like a kid sister, or something else that he couldn't 
quite put his finger on.  

Maybe it was a simple as saying that, for the first time 
since he'd stepped off the plane in Texas, he'd found a 
real friend.

+++++

If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was back 
home again.  Sitting on the porch, smoking, his other hand 
curled around a bottle of beer.  But Luke wasn't asleep in 
his bedroom and Carolyn wasn't sitting beside him, sharing 
the beer and pretending she'd only take one drag of his 
cigarette.  She'd always end up finishing the bottle and 
smokes, and he'd reach behind him for the extras he'd 
brought out in expectation of that.  

Just like home, really, except this was the Traylors' home, 
to which he'd been invited for burgers and conversation.  
John's own home was two thousand miles away.  He should 
start thinking of Dallas as home, John supposed, but it 
didn't feel that way without his family there.  

Instead, he was sitting by himself on a Saturday night, 
finishing his beer and his cigarette alone.  

John shifted, trying to lessen the pressure of the concrete 
porch on his tailbone.  Back home, they had a porch swing.  
He'd rolled his eyes when Carolyn first spotted it at Home 
Depot.  It was so goddamned domestic, but she whispered 
that it was "great for neckin'."  While he doubted they'd 
ever make out on the front porch like teenagers, he'd given 
a sigh of mock-exasperation as she pulled out her 
checkbook.  She never progressed to the picket fence stage, 
so John supposed a porch swing wasn't all that bad, 
considering.

If she were here with him, he might just pull her close and 
give her a kiss.  It was that kind of evening.  The 
Traylors' two preteen daughters were well-behaved but 
obviously bored by the grownups' conversation, and they 
retreated to the family room to play Nintendo when Chris 
cleared away the dessert plates.  Tamara, his wife, was 
spirited and intelligent, and when Chris asked John what he 
thought of the new fugitive task force, Tammy proclaimed 
that shop talk was off-limits for the evening.  John was 
surprised by how much else they found to talk about.  

A low breeze blew out the cigarette he'd just lit, so he 
fumbled for his lighter in the darkness.  Once it started 
burning again, he looked around him.  The street was fairly 
bland, but John kind of liked it.  Small, one-story brick 
houses from the '60s, similar to his place back home.  
Large green lawns with oak trees.  Bicycles akimbo on the 
driveways.  

It wasn't fancy by any stretch of the imagination, but it 
felt much more homey than those brand-new subdivisions he'd 
seen that afternoon as he went on his first house-hunting 
expedition.  John was tempted to buy the house down the 
street with a for-sale sign out front, but living on the 
same street as the Traylors was just a bit too sitcom-ish 
for his tastes.  

Carolyn and Luke were arriving on Friday night.  He didn't 
much relish the thought of fighting the airport traffic on 
Memorial Day weekend, but the hassle was worth the payoff.  
They'd get the house-hunting out of the way on Saturday, 
then hang out at his apartment that night.  Yesterday he'd 
gotten to talking to one of the plaintiffs in the trial, 
and the agent had invited the Doggetts to the lake on 
Saturday night.  Said he had a decent-sized fishing boat.  
It sounded good, but after three months down here he wanted 
his family all to himself.

He flinched when the porch light switched on above him, and 
adjusted his eyes to the light while Chris stepped outside.  
Beer in hand, the other man sat down next to him, but 
fortunately kept a suitable distance between them.

"Nice night out," Chris began.

John took a drag of his cigarette.  "Yeah, it is."  He 
thought about offering Chris a stick, but decided he'd wait 
to be asked. 

"Tammy's inside with the girls, trying to explain to Megan 
that a twelve-year-old has no business wearing a bikini."  
He chuckled.  "You're lucky you have a boy, so you won't 
have to deal with crap like that.  I stay involved in Megan 
and Alison's lives, but I figure it's best to leave stuff 
like swimsuits up to my wife."  

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea."  
 
God, two 'yeahs' in a row.  He could do better than that.  
Stretching his legs out on the pavement, John tried to make 
his voice sound interested.  "So, how long have y'all lived 
here?"  Saying 'y'all' felt odd, since he hadn't used it in 
so long, but it wasn't really common lingo up in New York.

Chris took a sip of his beer and stretched his legs out 
too.  The other man's knees creaked, which made John feel a 
bit depressed.  The guy couldn't be more than five years 
older.  Gotta love the approach of middle age.  Forty was 
only  a few years away.

"We bought this place back in '88, right after we moved 
here."

"Eight years, huh?  That's rare.  I thought agents weren't 
based in one place for that long."

"That's right, most of the time," Chris replied.  "When I 
first started with the Bureau, I got bounced around like a 
damned basketball.  In the first two years, I went from 
Minneapolis to Birmingham to Anchorage, of all places.  
Tammy was with the kids full-time, so we had it easier than 
you and your wife.  All the moving like to drove us crazy."

John absorbed that for a moment.  "How'd you manage it 
all?"

"We lucked out.  Tammy's from Sherman, which is about an 
hour north of here.  The Bureau recruited me for my PR 
background, and when I found out they had an opening in the 
Dallas office, I put in a request.  Mitchell and Harrison, 
the old SAC, liked my work well enough that they made sure 
I'd have a permanent assignment here.  Sure, I could 
probably advance higher in another field office, but Tammy 
and I like it here."

"So you're going to stay?"

Chris laughed.  "Sure, God willing.  I'm going to keep on 
doing this job until Alison graduates from high school in 
ten years, then maybe I'll get back on the ladder."

"Good luck."

Both of them were silent for a few minutes.  John stubbed 
out his cigarette and pocketed the filter.  His beer wasn't 
cold anymore, but he kept on drinking it.  

After a bit, Chris asked, "What about you?  Didn't you just 
join, anyway?"

"Yeah," John replied.  "Finished Quantico back in 
February."

"Damn, I didn't realize you were so green."  Chris laughed 
again and John tried not to either blush or get annoyed.  

Feeling a sudden urge to defend himself, he said, "I was 
with the NYPD for seven years, and before that I spent six 
years in the Marines."

"Marines, huh?  Why'd you leave?"

"Got shot in my shoulder by a sniper in Lebanon."

He felt the other man flinch.  "Shit, that must have hurt 
like hell."

John finally laughed.  "It wasn't all that bad, really, but 
the rehab was a bitch, and after all that mess in Beirut, I 
was more than ready to leave."

"Makes sense."  Chris' beer bottle made a loud clinking 
noise as he set it on the pavement.  "After all that, why 
the FBI?"

Yeah, why the FBI?  Things had been going better for the 
past couple of weeks, but he still wondered.  "I got sick 
of the same old bullshit cases up in New York.  It felt 
like a dead-end career, and I wanted out.  Went to a few of 
the Bureau's VCS seminars and it sounded like a good change 
of pace.  More variety and opportunities for advancement, 
or whatever."

Chris began cracking his knuckles and John tried not to 
flinch.  "Sure, the FBI's good for that sort of thing.  
Just don't take me as an example."

"No danger of that," John quipped, and for a moment it felt 
like old times.  Sittin' around, shootin' the shit with 
buddies.  He still wasn't sure if he could call Chris a 
buddy, but it was starting to look that way.

"What'cha think about that fugitive task force Martinez is 
setting up?"

John pondered it for a moment.  "She gave me a few more 
details when she was down in Waco last week."  Martinez had 
swept into the courtroom like a dowager empress, full of 
benevolent authority.  She'd cornered him at lunch 
afterward, and told him that she was leaning toward giving 
him that assignment, but wanted him to stay in Waco and 
observe for the time being.  

"So, you're going to do that, John?" 

"Beats the hell outta me.  It's up to Martinez and 
Mitchell, I guess, but it sounds like a good opportunity." 

"Yeah," Chris said.  "And you'd have more of a chance to 
settle down and get a house, or whatever.  Are your wife 
and kid going to move down here too?"

"That's the plan, though we haven't decided whether to rent 
or buy a place."

Chris held out his hand, as if surveying the landscape.  
"It's a good place to live, sure.  Whichever assignment you 
get, you'll probably end up being here for a year or two, 
so you might as well buy something.  The way the real 
estate market's been lately, you could probably sell in a 
year for more than you paid."

John looked down the dark street.  Settling down sounded 
pretty damned good right now.  "We'll have to see how 
things go with this assignment stuff, not to mention the 
hassle of trying to sell the house up on Long Island.  
Might be easier to just rent for now."

"Didn't you say your wife's a teacher?"

The other man was looking at him now, so John nodded.  "But 
I'm trying to convince her to just take a year or two off, 
since she's pretty burned out and could use a break."

Chris laughed again.  He was doing that a lot tonight; 
maybe it was the three beers he'd had.  "My sister-in-law 
teaches high school, and she's always complaining about all 
that testing shit.  But if your wife wants to teach, I can 
put her in touch with Rebecca, if you want."

"Thanks."  He suddenly wanted another beer, or just a glass 
of water for his dry throat.

"You should look for a place in this area," Chris 
continued.  "The schools are good, and didn't you say your 
kid's in first grade?"

That warm glow that came from thoughts of Luke spread 
through him.  "Nah, he's in kindergarten.  That's good to 
hear, though.  I'll keep it in mind."

Tammy opened the screen door and stepped outside.  "What 
are you two up to?"

Her husband smiled up at her.  "Oh, just talking about how 
damn good you look in that tight t-shirt, darlin'."

She laughed and lightly kicked him square on the ass.  
"Like hell you were.  You haven't noticed my cleavage in 
five years and you know it, Chris.  Thanks for the 
compliment, though."  

Tammy held out two more beers, and Chris reached up for 
one.  John hesitated, well aware that he shouldn't have 
another, but she pre-empted his decline by saying, "I've 
already made up the guest room for you, John, so just take 
the damn beer."

Shrugging, he took it and nearly shivered at how cold it 
was in his hand.  It felt even better between his lips.  

"So you'll stay here tonight, then?"

He took a sip and nodded.  What the hell did he have to 
lose?  He sure couldn't drive home like this, and it'd 
probably be more comfortable than that damned pre-furnished 
apartment.  

"Good," Tammy said with finality in her voice.  She moved 
around them and sat cross-legged on the front walkway.  

John took the opportunity to look at her, relaxed and 
without the creased brow she'd had as she played mom.  She 
was a pretty good looking woman, and the tight shirt did 
look good on her.  He guessed she must be about forty, but 
she looked about ten years younger.  Dark hair and bright 
eyes.  A wide smile.  She reminded him a little of Monica, 
but without the almost self-consciously quirky air the 
other woman had.  Then John began to wonder why he was 
starting to compare Monica to other women.  Shouldn't he 
use his wife as his reference point?  Maybe absence makes 
the heart grow fonder, but it also tends to dull the edges 
of visual memory.

Tammy started giving her husband an account of their 
daughter's bikini pleadings, her voice mimicking the pre-
teen's rising inflections.  Alcohol loosened up John's 
usual reticence, and he couldn't help but laugh as he 
listened to her.  He'd have to introduce her to Carolyn.  
They'd probably get along well.

He still didn't want to live on the same street as the 
Traylors, but maybe tomorrow he'd look in the classifieds 
for a rental house in this area.  

Or maybe he'd go for broke and call a realtor.  Put down 
some new roots, or something.  

+++++

The FBI might be a massive organization, with 56 field 
offices and over 20,000 employees nationwide, but it wasn't 
immune to small-scale office politics.  John realized that 
one of the few good things about being down here for the 
past few weeks with only a few other agents to keep him 
company was that he got to know a lot about the inner 
workings of the Dallas field office.  It helped when one 
was with Mitchell and Traylor, both of whom loved to 
gossip. 

Not much else to do but gossip, anyway.  They had only 
minimal contact with the agents involved in the case, due 
to the lawyers' stupid belief that interaction might taint 
the plaintiffs' proceedings.  It didn't really matter much, 
though, since only a handful of the plaintiffs even showed 
up at the trial, and some of them had long since left the 
Bureau.

So Chris, John, and Frank Mitchell sat in the courtroom, 
day after day, taking notes and making sure that the 
testimony didn't make the FBI look bad.

Yesterday John had asked Chris just why the three of them 
were expected to stay in town.  Waco was only about a 90-
minute drive away, and commuting would be a pain in the 
ass, but feasible.  

Chris had rolled his eyes and said, "Martinez' official 
directive is that she wants us on-site to avoid logistical 
problems, though that's stupid since these hotel rooms and 
per diems cost a fortune.  In reality, if we're down here 
full-time, it looks like the FBI is actively involved in 
the case, and that makes us look good."  

John replied, "It's all about image, then?"

"Welcome to the wonderful world of External Affairs."

If that was the case, John hoped Martinez would make up her 
mind soon about his placement.  The delay was getting 
ridiculous.  Sure, she was busy, but how long did it take?  
He was already leaning toward the Fugitive Inter-Agency 
Task Force she'd mentioned, not least because if External 
Affairs crap like this was the other option, he could live 
without.  Chris might have no problem making it his career, 
but John had joined the Bureau to advance, not stagnate.

He headed back out to his car after day 22 of testimony.  
As he fumbled in his pocket for the keys, Monica suddenly 
walked up to him.  Her arrival that afternoon had been 
unexpected, since he hadn't seen her in almost a week, but 
then he remembered that today's witness was a religious 
expert who had turned out to be the most boring witness 
yet.

"Hi, John," she chirped, leaning against the passenger 
door.  That perennial sunniness had been off-putting at 
first, but it was now a welcome break from the dour 
courtroom atmosphere.

"Hey, Monica," he replied as he unlocked the door, but he 
didn't open it.

She straightened up and he once again felt the odd 
sensation of looking into the eyes of a woman nearly taller 
than him.  "Can I talk to you for a little while?"

"Sure.  What's on your mind?"

Monica shifted the strap of her satchel and said, "Not 
here.  Maybe at that bar we went to last Friday after the 
trial?"

"You're acting secretive."  He laughed.

Her face fell a bit, and he wondered what was up.  The late 
afternoon light was bright, but he couldn't read her face.  
John shrugged and said, "Okay, get in the car."

Nelly's Bar and Grill was only a few blocks away, and 
parking was a bitch even on a Thursday.  He managed to 
slide the Taurus into a parallel slot and they got out.  
Air conditioning and loud laughter hit them with a blast 
when they opened the door.  Happy hour was already in full 
swing.

She grabbed them a booth while he ordered the amaretto sour 
he knew she liked and a Coke for himself.  John stared 
longingly at the twelve beers on tap, but he was the one 
who'd end up driving.

Back at the booth, she took a sip of the drink, then a 
volley of words flew out in a rush.  "I can't stay long but 
I wanted to tell you in person."

"What?"  He had a strange sense of foreboding.

Her eyes widened as she looked at him, reminding him of 
just how young she looked.  In spite of all the ugly things 
they'd seen and heard during the trial, she had that same 
bright earnestness he'd first spotted in the IHOP almost 
three weeks ago.  

"Oh, it's nothing bad.  Kind of sad in a way, but really 
it's a good thing."

"Cut the crap, Monica," John replied, but he let himself 
smile so she wouldn't get upset.

She picked up the cocktail napkin, already damp with 
condensation.  One fingernail tore at the paper, and he 
noticed her bright blue polish.  It was a color he'd never 
seen before, but now that he knew her better, the blue made 
sense.

"I had a meeting with the dissertation committee yesterday.  
They really like my working draft, and they think I'm only 
a month or two from having it ready.  Dr. Haley even thinks 
that it might be suitable for publication."

"Congratulations!"  His voice hadn't sounded so 
enthusiastic in ages, but he really was happy for her.  
John remembered his own dissertation.  It had been good, 
and everyone told him so, but it wasn't especially 
spectacular.  And nobody had ever told him to publish.  

"Thanks."  A shy smile spread over her face, which confused 
him.  Monica was not a bashful person by any stretch of the 
imagination, but John felt a sudden pleasure from seeing 
how a rare compliment from him could affect her.

"Published, huh?  That's really impressive."

"Yeah, and I might present it at a conference in Dallas 
later in the year."

She took another sip of her drink and licked her lips 
afterward.  He thought about that evening in his motel 
room.  He'd told her that nothing would happen between 
them, but now he couldn't help but notice how attractive 
she really was.  
 
But he was married and she was living with someone.  No 
matter how tempting it might be -- and even now it was just 
a mild temptation, nothing he couldn't control -- he wasn't 
about to wreck his family for a dalliance with this woman.  
It was easier, anyway, to think of her in a sisterly way, 
so he looked away from her and took a drink of his Coke.

"Anyway," she continued with a sigh.  "All of this means I 
have to buckle down and get it done.  Justin's excited 
about me finishing, but he's threatening to lock me in the 
apartment since I keep finding excuses to get away.  Heck, 
he bitched about me coming up here today, but I wanted to 
see Dr. Neal's testimony."

John realized his toe was tapping the floor, something he 
only did when he was nervous.  "Yeah, her testimony was 
pretty interesting."

She laughed, loudly, like the office workers already 
getting drunk over at the bar, but she'd only had a few 
sips of her amaretto sour.  "No, it wasn't, John.  It damn 
near put me to sleep, and I was already predisposed to 
liking it.  I don't know how you managed to sit through 
it."

"You have a point."  He laughed too, but more softly than 
her.

"I also wanted to say goodbye to you, since I won't be 
coming back up here again."  

John's foot stopped tapping.  She stared at him, and he 
wanted to turn away but couldn't.  The moment stretched 
taut like a rubber band, until she finally said, "You've 
been a good friend, and I really appreciate that.  Maybe we 
can get together sometime if I'm ever up in Dallas."

All he knew to say was, "That'd be nice."   

He realized now how much he liked her, how much he'd come 
to rely on her sense of humor and liveliness during these 
almost-lifeless past few weeks.  Obviously they couldn't 
continue to get together, what with circumstances being how 
they were.  This was the end of the road, and rightfully 
so.  But he knew he'd miss having her around.

"And I wanted to let you know that I did some more research 
on the Bureau.  There was a recruiter on campus, talking to 
the students over in the public affairs department.  I went 
to listen to his presentation, and it was really 
interesting.  I'm seriously considering giving the 
application a try."  

John thought about that for a moment.  He was still easing 
into this new job as a special agent, and he wasn't 
entirely sure yet that it was what he wanted.  But Monica 
was a very different person than him.  Who knew how she'd 
ease into a special agent position?
 
Then he looked around the bar, toward the office folks 
already drowning themselves after a day at work.  She was 
too lively for a desk job like those people probably had.  
Maybe the Bureau would suit her just fine.  

He kept his advice neutral.  "If you do decide to apply, 
then I wish you the best of luck.  Just think long and hard 
about it and make sure that's what you really want."

She chuckled, but the light was gone from her eyes.  "Yeah.  
Fortunately I still have a few more months before I have to 
decide on something.  I'm also going to look into those 
think tanks I mentioned.  We'll see how the dissertation 
defense goes first."

"Good plan."

"So, what about you?"  She straightened her shoulders and 
smiled, as if physically lifting a curtain from around her.  
Given her apparent emotional state, the action seemed 
false. 

"Me?"

"Yeah.  Are you going to stay down here for the rest of the 
trial?"

He only wished he knew.  "I have no idea.  My boss up in 
Dallas is trying to decide what she wants to do with me.  I 
might be assigned to a new task force she's setting up."

"That sounds good.  You're not suited for this sort of 
thing, John.  I don't have to read auras or whatever to 
tell that."

That was obvious to anyone who knew him, except Martinez, 
it seemed.  "That's the way the Bureau works.  Go where 
you're told."

"I guess so."  She took a sip of her drink, the melting ice 
cubes clinking against the glass.  "Hey, didn't you say 
your family was coming down for a visit soon?"

John brightened.  "Tomorrow night, in fact.  Carolyn and 
Luke are flying down for Memorial Day."

"That's great!"  The gleam returned to her eyes.  "Too bad 
I can't meet them."

Actually, that was probably a good thing.  Carolyn trusted 
him and there was certainly no reason for her to worry, but 
he didn't want to have to figure out how to explain his 
relationship with Monica.  He'd rather spend the weekend 
just being a family again.

"Maybe one of these days," he replied, but he knew that 
would probably never happen.  

Just as well, really.  All things come to an end sometime.

Another uncomfortable silence fell, like the first time 
he'd met Monica.  They hadn't spent very much time 
together, all told, but this conversation felt stilted, 
like they were two strangers.

He took a sip of the flat Coke, and she mirrored him with a 
sip of her own.  

"Well, I should probably get going.  If I leave now, I can 
miss the worst of the evening traffic back down to Austin." 
 
She looked lucid, but he asked, "Are you going to be okay 
to drive?"

"Oh, sure.  This drink was pretty watered-down."  She 
winked at him.  

"Need me to give you a ride back to the courthouse?" 
 
As she slid out of the booth, she replied, "No, it's only a 
couple of blocks, so I'll just walk.  I could use the 
exercise."  

He stood up and held out his hand to her.  Monica's 
handshake was firm, but her palm was clammy.  Maybe it was 
the condensation on the glass, or maybe it was nerves.  
He'd known her for three weeks, but he couldn't read her.

"Well, it was nice knowing you, John," she awkwardly said.

He let go of her hand.  "You too.  Good luck with the 
paper." 

"Thanks."

She reached over for her knapsack, but she lost her balance 
and the contents spilled to the barroom floor.  As he 
helped her pick them up, he spotted a pack of cigarettes 
among the debris.

Looking up at her, he raised an eyebrow.  Great.  
Apparently he'd helped start an addiction.  Of course, he'd 
smoked off-and-on since he picked it up while stationed in 
Lebanon.  It had been a way to alleviate stress at the 
time.  Now it was just a pathetic force of habit.  He 
wasn't one to lecture her about it, but he couldn't quite 
wipe away the disapproval on his face.  

Monica smirked, a guilty look on her face.  "I know, I 
know.  I took to it like a fish to water, I guess."  She 
quickly shoved the pack back in the bag.  "I'll quit, one 
of these days.  Promise."

One thing that the past few weeks had taught him was that 
Monica Reyes was a very determined woman.  Pushy and 
stubborn?  Sure.  A quitter?  Nope.

She could make her own decisions, and from what she'd told 
him, she had a lot of decisions to make.  

He picked up his own briefcase and gave her one last, long 
look.  "Take care of yourself, Monica."  

"You too, John."  

Monica matched his look for several seconds, then walked 
past him and out of the bar. 

Alone again.  

He wasn't as lonely as he'd been a few weeks ago.  That was 
something, at least.  He was slowly making himself at home 
down here in Texas.  Carolyn and Luke would arrive tomorrow 
night, and they'd move down for good in another month.  His 
career was looking up, provided Martinez would make up her 
mind to put him on that task force.

But as he stared at the space Monica had occupied in the 
booth, he realized that he really would miss her.

John shrugged, trying to wipe away one last remaining bit 
of loneliness.  Finally, he gave up and walked back over to 
the bar.  One for the road, then he'd go back to his motel 
home-away-from home.


+++++

"You missed all the fun, John."

He barely heard Carolyn over the din of the airport 
terminal.  "What?"

"Your son," she emphasized the word with mock accusation, 
"got airsick on the plane."

John laughed and swung Luke, whom he was carrying on his 
hip, around to look at him.  "Did you throw up, Kid?"  

"Yup, it was yucky!"  Luke replied with a snaggle-toothed 
grin.  

His father leaned down to rub the boy's nose with his own, 
then almost lost his balance.  Settling Luke back on his 
hip, he said, "Yucky, huh?"  

Luke chirped, "Yeah.  Mommy got me this bag to throw up in, 
and we gave it to the woman with the cokes."

John kept on chuckling.  "You're too cute for your own damn 
good, Kid."

As parents, they were doing a pretty good job, but they'd 
developed odd pet names for their son.  Carolyn nicknamed 
him 'teddy bear' as a baby, which evolved into just 'bear.'  
John affectionately called his son 'The Kid.'  Weird, sure, 
but he knew that they'd better get as much use out of the 
nicknames as possible before Luke got old enough to 
protest.

"Two things, John."  Carolyn adopted a stern tone.  "First, 
don't say the D-word around Bear.  Second, he's only being 
cute because you're here.  He was ornery the whole way 
down.  I'm going to have to bake a batch of cookies to make 
it up to the flight attendants who had to listen to him 
whining."  

Well, that was nothing new.  "Were you being a brat, Luke?"  

"Nope.  I was an angel," Luke said with a hint of that 
brattiness in his voice.

"Hmm..." John pretended to ponder the question as he 
searched the terminal hallway for the baggage claim signs.  
"Who should I believe?  You or your Mom?"

"Me!" Luke proclaimed a little too loudly for public 
consumption.  He squirmed a bit and John set his down, 
pausing a second for the boy to take his hand.  

John spotted the baggage claim sign, caught Carolyn's eye, 
and gestured toward it with his chin, since both hands were 
full.  "I'm gonna have to agree with your mother on this 
one, Kid.  You don't present a very convincing case."  

They entered the baggage claim area as Luke prattled on 
about something or another.  "How did the flight go?" he 
asked Carolyn.

She set down her carry-on bag next to the carousel and 
said, "Aside from the vomit and whining, it went okay.  
Laura and Mike gave us a ride to LaGuardia.  I'll have to 
bring them back something nice as a thank-you gift."

He set Luke's small backpack next to the other bag.  "I'll 
bet you two are tired."

"Gee, how can you tell?"  

Yeah, she did sound tired, but that was to be expected 
after a three-hour flight.

After admonishing Luke that no, the carousel was not a ride 
and just to sit down on the floor, John turned to look at 
his wife.

Damn, she was a sight for sore eyes.

She looked worn out, sure, but she also looked great.  Her 
dark blond hair had slipped out of the plastic headband, 
and wisps curled around her face.  She was busy rifling 
through her purse for the claim tickets, biting her lip in 
concentration the way he'd always liked.  Her blue t-shirt 
and khakis were rumpled, but they hugged her curves in all 
the right places.  Although Carolyn's body was softer now 
than it'd been when they met back in high school, she still 
looked damn good.  

As he stared at her, she glanced up and caught the look on 
his face.  A slow smile spread over her lips.  "God, I 
missed you, John."

Carolyn leaned over for a kiss, and he drank in her scent 
and the familiarity of her touch.  Sure, they had their 
problems.  He wasn't a good listener and she was easily 
irritable, but the two of them felt good together.  

All too soon, she pulled away and called out, "Luke!  Get 
away from there."

John turned around to see his son leaning over the baggage 
carousel, a startled and guilty look on his face.  The kid 
was far too mischievous sometimes.  
 
But he still looked too damn cute for his own good.

Time to be the big bad dad again, John, he told himself.  

Stepping over to his son, he grasped the kid's shoulders 
and steered him five feet away from the metal contraption.  
"Stay there.  You will not move until we tell you too."  At 
the new look on the boy's face, John added, "And don't 
pout."

Luke sank to the floor and sat cross-legged, his lower lip 
inching out anyway.  

When he turned around, Carolyn was already reaching over 
for their bag.   "That was quick," he said.

"It's a miracle!" she replied in a mocking tone.  She 
double-checked the luggage tags, then he picked up the 
suitcase.  

"What the hell --"

Carolyn glared at him.

"-- heck is in this thing?"  As he picked it up, his 
shoulder strained, remembering old bullet wounds.  

"Wouldn't you like to know," she teased, and reached for 
the carry-on bags.  "Okay, Bear.  You can get up now," 
Carolyn added, and their son struggled to stand, exhaustion 
finally showing in his little body.  

They walked over to the doors that led to the parking lot.  
"Lingerie?" John asked sotto voce.

"Maybe," she replied, drawing out the word in tease.

The grown-ups conversation wasn't too soft for Luke to 
hear, of course.  "What's 'long hay'?  Is that what horses 
eat?" he asked in a sleepy voice.

John led his family out into the balmy Texas night, two 
concerns on his mind.  Could he stick earplugs in Luke's 
ears tonight?  Just how tired was Carolyn, anyway?

"I'll tell you in fifteen years, Kid."

+++++

It got hot earlier in the year in Texas.  Sure, the summers 
on Long Island were dismal too, but they usually weren't 
this bad until mid-June.  Here in Dallas, though, it was 
Memorial Day weekend and the mercury was already hovering 
in the mid-90s.  

The thermostat needed a kick left, but he wasn't in any 
condition to shuffle out to the living room and turn it on.  
Carolyn had other ideas, though.  After rifling through her 
open suitcase, she walked over to the pressboard drawers 
and opened the top ones.
 
"Some things never change," she murmured, pulling out a 
pair of pajama bottoms.

"Huh?" John replied as he summoned the energy to get up out 
of bed.  Once he had it, his lethargic muscles cooperated 
just enough to propel him over next to her.

"Pajamas and boxers: top drawer.  I assume your shirts are 
in the middle, and pants in the bottom."  
 
Yeah, he'd been doing it like that for twenty years.  
Everything ironed and folded with military precision.  Once 
you've gotten in the habit, it never quite goes away, 
despite Carolyn's somewhat less-exacting housekeeping 
style.

He went in the living room, grateful for the carpet that 
muffled his footsteps.  The scene that greeted him was a 
mixed-blessing.  Luke was asleep on the air mattress John 
had bought, but the kid had pulled all the cushions off the 
sofa to build a haphazard fort, and crayons were scattered 
nearby.  John should be grateful his budding little 
insomniac had fallen asleep easily, but he knew Luke would 
find an excuse to get out of cleaning it up in the morning.  
Nope, the kid wouldn't make a good soldier, with his 
rumpled clothes and messy bedroom back home.

Wait, home is here now, John had to remind himself.  Well, 
not in this apartment for much longer, but they'd settle 
that tomorrow.

He nudged the thermostat close to 70.  The rooms would be 
chilly in the morning, but Carolyn had body heat like an 
overheated engine in July.  He took one last glance around 
the dark living room, double-checking that everything was 
okay, and he resisted the temptation to reach down and 
ruffle Luke's hair.  Once the kid was awake, it took an act 
of Congress to get him back to sleep.

When he got back to the bedroom, Carolyn was sprawled out 
on the bed, her nightshirt riding up high enough for a 
glimpse of white underwear.  John missed the good ol' days 
when they could sleep naked without fears of little eyes 
seeing something they shouldn't. 
 
There came the guilt again.

"Um, do you want me to..."  He gestured toward her hips.  
They'd never really been good at talking directly about 
sex.

She closed her eyes and stretched, her belly arched like a 
cat.  "No, don't bother."  

That guilt must've shown on his face, because she 
continued, "It's okay.  I'm too tired from the trip, and no 
matter how good you are, I probably wouldn't have gotten 
off anyway." 

"Yeah, well..."  God, he couldn't finish anything tonight: 
not a sentence, and apparently not mutual climaxes.  

His father's few words of advice about women had included 
the instructions that he should always make sure he made 
his partner happy.  Of course, Roy Doggett had also told 
him that he should always respect a woman's wishes, and 
Carolyn didn't look like she was in any mood to try again.  
Not that they could, anyway, since he didn't have a 
seventeen year old's quick-start abilities anymore.  But he 
did have fairly decent hands and a tongue.

"We'll try again tomorrow night, okay?"

"Okay," Carolyn replied, her eyes still closed.  

He turned off the lamp, then climbed in next to her and 
waited for a nonverbal signal that she wanted to cuddle.  
He'd never been physically affectionate until they got 
together after high school, and even then it took her years 
to cure him of that problem.  

So they just laid in bed together, close but not touching, 
each of them slowly reassimilating to their traditional 
positions.  He lay flat on his back, and she curled herself 
on her side, body bowed like a parenthesis.

"I really did miss you, John.  You know that, don't you?"  
She reached over to take his hand.

He brought it to his lips and kissed her palm.  "Yeah.  I 
missed you too."  

She sighed.  "Only another month, then school will finally 
be over and we can move down here." 

"Do you think you'll miss it?"

Carolyn was quiet for a moment, then said, "Strangely 
enough, I don't think I will.  Sure, I have friends up 
there, but aside from Laura, I'm not all that close to any 
of them.  I'll be sad to say goodbye, but that's about it."

He shared the attitude, and that made him sad.  They'd 
lived on Long Island for almost ten years.  They'd bought a 
house and gotten involved in the community.  Luke was born 
there.  But neither of them had formed really close 
relationships, the kind that would probably endure beyond 
Christmas cards and photos in an album. 

As if reading his mind, his wife said, "We'll just make new 
friends here."

"I was going to try and introduce you tomorrow night to 
some friends I've made," he told her, remembering the 
invite from Chris.

"Oh?" 

"Yeah, Chris and Tammy Traylor.  He's one of the agents 
who's down in Waco with me.  They invited me over for 
burgers last Saturday.  I think you'd like Tammy.  She's 
your speed."

Carolyn chuckled, but she sounded groggy.  "What's my 
speed?"

"I don't know.  She just reminds me of you."

She finally scooted over and laid her head on his chest.  
"Is that a good thing?"

"Sure it is."  He reached up to comb his fingers through 
her blond hair.  "They asked us to join them tomorrow 
night.  Chris said he was going to fix steaks or 
something."

"Mmm.  That sounds good."  

Talking about the Traylors reminded him of something that 
had been on his mind.  He wasn't sure he should bring it 
up, but this was probably a good opportunity, since a 
sleepy Carolyn was less argumentative.  Things had been 
calm since she'd arrived a few hours ago, and he started to 
think that maybe those months of bickering had passed.

"Tammy said her sister's a teacher and she can give you 
some advice about finding a job here."

"Oh."  Carolyn didn't exactly brighten with enthusiasm, and 
John took that as a good sign.

"But Care?"

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinkin'...."  He crossed the fingers of his 
free hand, hoping his prediction was correct.  "Why don't 
you just take a year off?  I'm making enough now to support 
the three of us, and I get the impression that you haven't 
enjoyed teaching for a while now.  You might be happier 
just taking a break for a while."

She shifted around to face him, her hands folded on his 
chest with her chin resting on them.  "Take a year off?  
John, I've worked full-time since I finished college, 
except for my maternity leave.  What would I do with myself 
if I didn't work?  Do you want me to just stay home and 
wash dishes?"

"C'mon now," he replied, trying to keep his voice from 
getting loud enough to wake the kid or sound like he was 
irritated.  "There's lots you could do.  Maybe you could 
get that master's degree you were talking about, or you 
could find something else you really enjoy doing.  I've 
been listening to you complain about school for the last 
couple of years.  Some time off might rejuvenate your or 
give you some perspective."

He paused to study her face.  "I just want you to be 
happy."

She closed her eyes.  "But I don't know if that would make 
me happy."

"Just think about it, okay?"  John reached up to brush her 
hair away from her face, as if that gesture would smooth 
things over. 

Carolyn sighed.  "Okay.  I'll think about it."

A long moment stretched between them, and he thought she 
had dozed off.  He glanced over at the clock.  They hadn't 
been up past midnight in ages.  

Just when he'd closed his eyes and begun to feel a sleepy 
lassitude, she murmured, "I've been thinking about 
something too."

"What's that?"  He cleared his throat. 

"Remember what we discussed last summer?"

His eyes opened now, John searched his brain.  "We discuss 
a lot of things.  You like to do that."

She laughed softly, and John wondered what brought on this 
mood swing.  He got the feeling that the new, gentler mood 
wasn't entirely a predictor of good things.  

"I mean our discussions about having another baby."

Oh.  That.

She looked at him.  "Why aren't you saying anything?"

"What do you want me to say?"

Her half-smile fell.  "Well, maybe that you've been 
thinking about it, and that you want to try again."

They'd tried last summer, but the half-hearted attempts 
hadn't gone much further than her going off the pill.  She 
didn't get pregnant, and he'd started the FBI application 
process.  John hadn't thought they were serious about it, 
despite all the talk, and the idea fell by the wayside.
 
John couldn't say he regretted it, though.  He loved Luke, 
he really did, but those early years had been full of ear 
infections, tight budgets, and near-arguments over how they 
were going to make Luke's life good when they both worked 
full-time and didn't have the best support system.  

"I suppose that if I took a year off, this would be a good 
time for me to get pregnant."  She kept her face neutral, 
but John could see a gleam in her eyes.

Last summer, John didn't know whether he really did want 
another child, and now things felt even more complicated, 
even as their lifestyle seemed to be adapting better to the 
possibility.  

He thought about his career, and how right now it was an 
open book with dog-eared pages.

He thought about those burned children from the photographs 
a few weeks ago, and wondered if he really wanted to bring 
another baby into a world with terrible things like that.  

He thought about how he loved Carolyn but they hadn't 
exactly had a healthy, strong marriage for a while now.  
They had issues between them that needed solving first.

Then he closed his eyes and pictured Luke's huge grin as 
they'd cheered on the Yankees at that baseball game last 
month.  Luke would like a brother or sister; he'd even 
asked for one before.  Maybe a daughter would be nice, one 
with Carolyn's blond hair and small ears.  A little sister 
for Luke to play with, and whom John could take to baseball 
games.  

Sure, they'd talked about it last summer, but that was a 
year ago.  Their lives -- especially his -- kept shifting 
around them, like a carnival ride.  Things were different 
now.  Better in many ways, but there were still issues left 
to explore.

He should tell Carolyn about all this, but she still had 
that gleam in her eyes and he wanted this weekend to go 
well.  Years of experience had taught him that if they 
started this discussion now, it would monopolize the 
weekend he'd wanted to be happy.

Maybe when they went to house-hunting tomorrow, they'd look 
for one with four bedrooms.  Or maybe he'd suddenly find a 
way to explain that he just didn't know if he wanted 
another child yet.

That was too much to say right now, as Carolyn shifted back 
to her former position, her cheek resting on his bare 
chest.

So he simply repeated her earlier words.

"Okay, I'll think about it."

+++++

The American notion of a nuclear family is a curious one, 
John thought as he stood with Carolyn before the Traylors' 
sliding glass doors.  The girls were playing with Luke in 
the backyard, and John could hear shrieks and giggles 
through the glass as the three kids drew on the back porch 
with sidewalk chalk.  Megan and Alison took turns guiding 
the little boy's hand around in large blue chalk arcs, 
their sibling rivalry manifesting itself in nudges and 
glares.  

After an afternoon spent in equal measures of bickering and 
compromise, John and Carolyn had settled on a house a mile 
or so away.  It was a rental, but the owner said that she 
might be looking to sell in a year.  Nice house.  Nothing 
special, but it had a big backyard.  Four bedrooms:  one 
for them, one for Luke, an office, and a den that might 
someday become a nursery.  They hadn't discussed the baby 
issue since last night, but he'd seen his wife mentally 
redecorating the fourth bedroom in pastels.

"Are you sure you don't need any help in there, Tammy?" 
Carolyn called toward the kitchen, and the other woman once 
again replied in the negative.  Chris had run to the 
grocery store for more ice cream.  In the living room, John 
was alone with his wife.

She reached over for his hand, lacing his fingers with 
hers.  She hadn't done that in ages.  He gave her warm 
fingers a squeeze, feeling the slight stickiness of the 
lemonade she'd wiped from Luke's cheeks.

"How do you know when you're happy, John?"

He turned to look at her.  "You're not happy?"

"I didn't say that."  Her hand grew slack in his, but he 
didn't let go.  "I'm just curious what you think."

Luke got up to chase a piece of chalk that rolled away, but 
his five-year-old burst of energy resulted in a tumble to 
the cement.  John watched his son grimace at the scraped 
knee, and he immediately reached for the handle of the 
sliding door.

Carolyn grabbed his hand to stop him.  "Let him be, John.  
He's had worse scrapes before, and he'll live through this 
one."  

John stared at her for a moment, assessing the calm look on 
her face.  He'd always been the parent to overreact, to run 
for the Bactine and Band-Aids.  She took a calmer approach, 
once telling him that she'd read in a book that it was best 
to let the child come to them with problems instead of 
smothering the boy with fussiness.  

Letting him be might be a valid parenting philosophy, but 
he didn't buy into it.  He let go of her hand and went into 
the kitchen to ask Tammy for their first-aid kit.  The 
woman directed him toward the bathroom, and once the 
supplies were procured, John took them back into the living 
room.  When he returned, he saw Luke back up on his feet 
again, chasing the Traylors' dog around the grass.  Faint 
red scratches were barely visible on the child's knee.

He set the Band-Aid on the coffee table and moved to stand 
next to Carolyn again.

"You asked how I know I'm happy?"

She nodded.

"I guess it's when I have what I want with me, and when I 
don't feel like I have to worry about anything."

"So, are you happy, John?"  She stared at him, a wariness 
lurking in her gaze.

"Well..."  His voice trailed away as he assessed the 
situation.  "You're here.  Luke's here.  Things are going 
pretty well."

But was he still worried about anything?  He didn't know.  

When they'd arrived at the Traylors', Chris greeted him 
with a grin.  "Got some news for you, John."

"Yeah?"

"I had to run over to the office this morning to pick up 
some stuff, and I saw Agent McDougal there.  She's the one 
heading up that fugitive task force with the Dallas PD.  
Says it looks like you're a lock for the team."

The news was what he'd been waiting to hear, wasn't it?  
John had his family back, and he finally had a solid answer 
about his future.  The two men discussed it some more as 
everyone sat down at the dinner table, and Chris told him 
that he shouldn't consider this a permanent placement just 
yet -- that the Dallas venture was a pilot program and if 
John did well, he might be tapped to start similar programs 
at other field offices.  Still, it made John more 
comfortable at having signed that lease earlier.

But was he still worried about anything?  
 
He shouldn't be.  Everything was going just as he always 
thought he'd wanted it.  His family was prospering and his 
career was finally on the upswing.  Yet, as he stood and 
watched Luke wear himself out from chasing a puppy through 
the grass, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that 
something was going to change.  His career, family, life in 
general -- he didn't know.  

That night in his motel room, Monica had opened a second 
beer along with her bursting notebook of research.  She'd 
traced the outline of a photograph of the cult's charred 
prayer book.

"One thing that has always interested me about religions 
all over the world," she'd said, "is that despite the 
promise of some kind of heaven at the end of the road, 
their believers are often conditioned to expect their own 
failure.  So many people live their lives in misery because 
they fear they're not good enough to achieve that nirvana 
in the end.  As humans, we see the bad far more than we 
ever look at the good."

"I don't buy it," John had replied, his words slow from 
beer and fatigue.  He remembered his days of Sunday School 
and fiery preachers.  "If we're all just going to fail in 
the end, why bother?"

She'd laughed.  "But if all you have to do is live a good 
life and you'll come out well in the end, why would anyone 
join a religion?"

John looked at Luke, who was only in the first chapter of 
his young life.  What setbacks would he face as he grew?  
John thought about his own life, and he wondered when his 
setbacks would end, or if they were all just a figment of 
his own neuroses.

Carolyn shifted closer to him and put her arm around his 
shoulder.  

"For what it's worth, John," she said, "I'm happy right 
now."

But for how much longer? he wanted to add, but didn't.

He turned to place a kiss on her cheek.  "Then that makes 
me happy."

Something else would happen, he knew.  If they were all on 
that path to nirvana Monica mentioned, then some other 
setback was lurking around the corner.  He'd just try his 
damnedest to convince himself to live for the moment 
instead of worrying about the future.

His wife smiled.  "Good."

She gave him a kiss, and they watched the children playing 
in the yard.

+++++

The End