The Palpable Prosecutor

The Palpable Prosecutor

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore Edition

Copyright 2017 Robert Lubrican

Second Edition 2025

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to zbookstore.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

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Table of Contents

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight

Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen

Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen

Twenty | Twenty-one | Twenty-two

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Foreword

This book contains situations that some readers may find offensive or distasteful. If you are squeamish about violence, graphic sexual descriptions or unorthodox social interactions then this story may not be for you. If you have an open mind, enjoy a rollicking, fast-paced adventure, and like a twist at the end, then I hope you enjoy the book.

Bob

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Prologue

In a dark warehouse office, lit by a single light bulb in a conical shade hanging from the ceiling, a group of ten men made the air hazy with cigarette smoke as they waited for the man who had called them together. Conversation was sparse, and all in Russian. A door slammed far away and the echo of footsteps on a gritty floor crunched across the dark floor of the empty building. The men weren't worried about who this approaching person might be. A veritable army surrounded the warehouse, going out three blocks. If trouble was approaching, the radios in the room would crackle and warn them in plenty of time to take the appropriate action.

The men straightened up as the latest man to arrive opened the door and stepped into the cone of light cast by the light bulb. It was the boss. Or at least the man who they called boss until the real boss was released from the detention center he was locked up in.

That was, in fact, the purpose of this meeting, to decide how best to get Vladimir Illyich Boruskiev out of jail, where he was being held for trial. He had been charged with 50 counts of kidnapping, and other charges associated with their organization's trafficking in young, white girls to mostly Middle Eastern clients who were willing to pay top dollar for a western slut. If she was from America, the price was even higher. At $200,000 per girl, shipping only ten was a two million dollar enterprise. And the organization planned to ship ten a week, if they could kidnap enough of the right kind of girls.

Or had, until the customs man they'd bribed had been arrested by the FBI. He was the one who had supplied the documents and clearances to get the containers of girls out of the country. But the fool had spent his bribe money lavishly, instead of saving it for retirement. When caught by the hated FBI the bastard had turned state's evidence against them. He was in the witness protection program and beyond their reach ... at present. But the government wouldn't keep spending money on this man if there was no trial. And when he came back out into the light of day, he would be killed and then prosecution of Vladimir Illyich would be difficult, if not impossible.

The acting boss spoke, his voice low, but clearly heard.

"A new prosecutor has been assigned to the case," he said. "The last one had no skeletons in his closet. This new one seems to be equally unblemished. I wish they'd appoint someone we could manipulate but, sadly, it appears that is still not the case. If only politicians would take this kind of job our work would be much easier."

One of his lieutenants spoke up.

"Shall we arrange another accident?"

"Yes. It must be so," said the acting boss. "But not like the last time. It must be done in a different manner so no pattern may be suspected. A mugging, perhaps, in a public place. The streets are full of criminals, no?"

There was laughter.

"Is there still no news of where the customs man is?"

"None," came a voice.

"Then let us extend this trial again. Perhaps they will run out of honest lawyers. It is a source of amazement to me they have found two."

Ten minutes later the warehouse was as abandoned as its status on the tax rolls proclaimed it to be.

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

Chapter One

Master Sergeant (Retired) Robert Shepard strolled aimlessly through the market, looking for something to eat. He kept hoping he'd see an unusual, exotic food, such as he'd been forced to consume in some far off land. After twenty-five years in the Army, much of it spent as a Special Forces operator and then Delta Force, he'd finally been injured badly enough that they had kicked him to the curb with a medical retirement. He'd been retired for four months now and was healed up well enough that retirement was already beginning to grate on his nerves.

The only people who would offer him work matching his skills were the private security contractors he'd hated working with as an operator. And, to be honest, he was tired of sand and dirt and not being able to trust anybody outside his tightly-knit unit. His skill set wasn't really appropriate for a normal job, and he wasn't about to become a rent-a-cop at some mall, where the most dangerous person he'd run into would be a fifteen year old girl who thought the world owed her whatever she wanted.

Not that money was a problem. He could live comfortably on his retirement pay. It wasn't like he'd know what to do with a whole house. And living in the suburbs just seemed laughable to him. His room in the Highview Hotel, a flophouse, really, was cheap and just fine. Nobody bothered him. Out on the streets many people assumed he was homeless. That might have been the result of his limited wardrobe and the fact that he hadn't shaved or gotten a haircut since they kicked him out.

The real problem was ... he was bored.

He'd been bored before of course, plenty of times, in fact. The old saying about the Army, concerning "hurry up and wait" was as factual and reliable as the patterns of the sun and moon. But those times of boredom were bearable because you knew action would come. It might come sooner ... or later ... but it would come.

Now, though, the boredom he experienced felt like it just might be permanent. His days of action were over.

Or so he thought.

Ten minutes after leaving the market, the internal radar that had been fine-tuned by years of training and field work came alive. The first blip on that radar was the carriage of a man in the crowd. He was walking in the throng of people on the street, but not with it. Once his attention was on the man, Bob saw that his clothing was also out of sync with the people around him. The coat he was wearing was too long and too heavy for the current weather conditions.

Curious, Bob started following the man, and within another minute realized that the man was following someone else.

Checking for counter surveillance, Bob detected nothing. The man was on his own. Casually, he closed the distance between them. Within another two or three minutes he decided that a woman some twenty yards in front of them was the target. She was wearing a navy blue skirt and jacket, but that was all he could tell about her, other than that she had her blondish hair up in a bun.

The man's body language changed and Bob's radar flared to danger! The way he was holding his right arm suggested he was armed, and he was speeding up, closing with the target.

Bob thought about what to do. Being behind the man would give him a tactical advantage, but he didn't know what kind of weapon was in that right hand. Whatever it was, though, the guy thought of it as a weapon. If it was a gun then there was little Bob could do, other than try to deflect the shot when it came. But if it was a gun then the shot could be off before he could reach the man and do anything about it.

Better to be in front of the guy so he could watch the face and eyes, as well as that right hand.

He thought of a way to disrupt the flow of events, and broke into a run.

Running past the man, he caught up to the woman and reached to grip her elbow.

"Hey Cindy!" he said, loudly. "There you are. I thought you were going to meet me for lunch."

Startled eyes turned on him but he paid no attention to her face. Instead he was looking past her at the man following her. He was coming on, now, speeding up.

"Get away from me!" yelped the woman. "I'm not Cindy! Who are you?"

"You're in danger," he said, his voice low. "Move into that store over there!"

"Get away from me!" yelled the frightened woman, again. "I'll call a cop!"

"Go right ahead," said Bob, who saw that rather than disrupting the man's plans he had accelerated them. He was coming now at a fast walk and Bob saw the tip of a knife protruding from the sleeve of his right arm. No doubt he thought he could use the uproar to let him do whatever he had in mind and then melt into the crowd.

She batted at Bob with her free hand, yelling, "Let go!" and Bob used her motion to swivel her behind him, bringing him face to face with her attacker.

The fight, such as it was, was short. To most people watching, it looked like the two men bumped into each other, at which time one of them tripped and fell down. Something black clattered behind Bob as he levered the man's right arm, dislocating the shoulder. There was a grunt of pain and the man's foot lashed out, hitting Bob's ankle, sending him to the ground, as well.

As he rolled and came up, the other man did too. Disarmed now, and with an arm that no longer worked properly, he spun and ran, fleeing into the crowd.

Bob turned to find the woman staring at him as if he were a raving lunatic. He bent to pick up the knife that had come free when he dislocated the attacker's shoulder. He recognized it instantly as a Kizlyar Irtish tactical knife, the kind the Spetsnaz and the KGB preferred. Though they were not rare he was still surprised that a street thug in New York would have one. He held it out to show the woman.

"He was going to attack you with this," said Bob. "He'd been following you for a while. Probably after your purse."

Her demeanor changed almost instantly.

"That's not what he was after. Thank you. You probably saved my life."

"No problem," said Bob, easily.

"How did you know he was following me?"

"I'm ex-Army," he said. "I've had some training and I saw some things that tipped me off. I thought I could disrupt the attack."

"So when you accosted me, it was to get into position to do that," she mused.

"Yes. I'm sorry if I startled you."

"Would you be interested in a job, Mister ...?"

"Shepard," said Bob. "Bob Shepard. I'm not really looking for a job."

"Well, Mister Bob Shepard, my name is Lacey Cragg, and, as I said, I don't think that man was after my purse."

"Lacey Cragg," said Bob. "I read about you in the paper."

She smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. Her face looked pinched.

"I'm not surprised," she said. "As I said. You probably saved my life and I'd like to hire you to protect me in the future."

"I don't know," said Bob. He didn't really need a job. But he was bored.

People were flowing past them now, and they stood as boulders in a stream, parting the rushing water, sending it on each side of the obstruction.

"I'd think the government would provide you security," said Bob.

"I've asked them to, but there's red tape involved, and the Marshal Service likes to have a confirmed threat before they act. As you can see, I need protection now, instead of later."

"Like I said, I'm not really looking for a job," said Bob.

"Why not? You can't be a bum forever."

"I'm not a bum!" he said. "I'm retired military."

"Well you look pretty scruffy to me. The point is you know how to handle yourself and I need somebody to keep me from ending up like the last prosecutor on this case."

"I thought he was in an accident, a car crash."

"There are things the public doesn't know about that," she said. "Will you at least come with me and let me do a formal interview?"

"You already offered me the job," he pointed out.

"Humor me," she said. "I'm sorry I called you a bum. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. It's the least I can do."

"What the hell," he said. "I didn't have anything else on my calendar anyway."

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

Bob sat across the small table from the woman. He had time, now, to look her over.

She was in the range of five-seven or so. Her navy suit covered a utilitarian white blouse and the overall effect was somewhat mannish. She wore little, if any, makeup and the skin on her temples and forehead was stretched by the tight bun her hair was pulled into. She looked plain, but Bob could see the potential for something much more feminine.

He knew only what he'd read about her in the paper: that she was a rising star in the prosecutorial world, and had replaced the former prosecutor on a big, human trafficking case when he'd been killed in a car crash. The defendant was Russian and his mind made the connection to the Kizlyar knife, now tucked into the back of his waistline and covered by his shirt. She hadn't wanted to call the police, saying there was nothing they could do since the man had fled.

"The former prosecutor died in a car crash and when they offered his case to me I thought getting it would be good for my career," she said, sipping her latte. "Then I was informed that the crash John Rawlins was killed in wasn't a single car accident, as originally reported. They found evidence that he was sideswiped, forced off the road. They found the car that did it several miles away, abandoned. It was stolen, of course. Some argue that it was still just an accident, but it's also possible John was murdered."

"The knife that guy had is Russian-made," said Bob.

"Why they think going after me will do them any good, I don't know," she said. "All I'm doing is prosecuting the case. The man they want to kill is under heavy protection."

"I can think of a reason they want you out of the way," said Bob.

"Why?"

"Because they want the right prosecutor on the case."

"You mean one they can bribe," she said.

"Yes. I'm guessing they can't bribe you."

"You're guessing right," she said, firmly.

"They'll try again," said Bob.

"Which is why I need you to protect me. You saw this guy before he made his move. And then you stopped him."

"It was just what I was trained to do."

"Tell me more about that," said Lacey. "Your training, I mean."

He shrugged.

"Army, twenty-five years, Special Forces and then Delta Force. Got to go to exotic places, meet interesting people and then kill them."

"Really? You've killed people?"

"What do you think your Army does?" he asked, his voice wry.

She looked away, obviously uncomfortable.

"I guess the average person doesn't think much about that."

"We don't ask them to," said Bob. "All we really want is to be able to do our job and then go home, like anybody else."

"So ... will you come to work for me?"

"I'm sure the feds will give you a security detail, especially considering what you told me about the accident and what happened today."

"Sure," she said. "I'm sure they will. I work with those guys all the time, though, and they haven't done what you've done. I'm imagining one of them having been with me today. He'd have been yelling, 'Stop! Federal Agent! Show me your hands!' or some such thing. But you took action. You took out the threat. That's the kind of man I want protecting me."

Bob thought about it. She wasn't much to look at, but it was a pretty good bet that her staff included a bevy of pretty, young interns, or paralegals, or whatever kind of jobs supported her endeavors. The life he'd led hadn't had room in it for a girlfriend, much less a wife. There had been women along the way, once in a while, but most of them were either hookers or female soldiers on the support side of operations. He was only forty-two, which wasn't too old to meet a woman and start a family. And working for her might just expose him to some potential chances to enter the dating game. He hadn't done that since high school. But how hard could it be? Be charming, tell a few war stories, get the girl all excited, and see where things went.

"I can't protect you twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week," he said.

"You can if you live in," she said. "And when the Marshal detail shows up, they can take up the slack."

"They won't like working with me," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I won't like working with them," he said, smiling. "We have different philosophies about how to handle a threat."

"You'll be in charge," she said, firmly.

"I don't think they'll go for that."

"They will if I tell them to," she said. "Especially if I tell them I only need two or three men to supplement you. A full detail is expensive, and they'll jump at any chance to keep from having to spend some of that money."

"I thought prosecutors got paid squat," he said.

"We do. While I was in college I had a double major, economics and law. I understood the stock market and did pretty well."

"So if you were making money, why'd you end up in law? And being a prosecutor on top of that?"

"I'm adopted. My biological father murdered my biological mother when I was three. I got put into foster care, and a couple of years later was adopted by the people I think of as my parents. My biological father went to prison, but only for a short time because he copped a plea. They could have taken the case to trial. I've actually seen the case file. It was a slam dunk, but the prosecutor got lazy and did the easy thing. Or maybe he was overworked. I don't know. But I've always wanted to put bad people in jail, and keep them there."

"So you went to prosecutor school," said Bob.

"Not exactly. After law school I clerked for a judge. That's where I learned about how to prosecute a case. I was lucky and got in the DOJ honors program. I helped with some big cases and then got assigned a high profile case of my own. It was one of those cases they couldn't just decide to drop. I think they thought it couldn't be won, which is why they gave it to me. If I lost it they could chalk it up to me being a rookie and it wouldn't soil their reputations. But I didn't lose it. And I didn't lose the next two cases nobody else wanted to prosecute either. I hope some day those stuffed shirts will have to answer to me."

"What will your husband think when you bring a bum home with you?" asked Bob.

"I'm not married."

"Okay, then, what will your boyfriend think?"

"I don't have a boyfriend. I work 80 hours a week. I have no time in my life for a man."

"I know the feeling," said Bob, but he was thinking that, with her appearance, it wasn't likely men were beating down her door asking for dates in the first place.

She looked at her watch.

"I need to get to work. What do you say?"

"Do you really want a man intruding on your personal space?"

"Not just any man. You."

"It will affect your privacy," he warned.

"I live in a four apartment brownstone," she said. "My apartment has two bedrooms and the one I sleep in has bars on the windows. You don't need to be in my bedroom, just in the apartment."

"How long will this last?" he asked.

"Just during the trial. That shouldn't take more than three or four months, six if the defense can get their motions to delay through."

Bob thought about it. It might solve his boredom problem. And then there were all those sweet young things in her office.

"What the hell," he said. "We actually have something in common."

"What's that?"

"I'm a product of the foster care program, too. Spent my entire life in it."

"What happened?" she asked.

"I have no idea. My earliest memories are of having foster parents. I got bounced around a lot. Was even adopted once, but that didn't last."

"Why not?"

"I had a problem with authority figures. It's why I went into the service. I figured four years in the Army beat eighteen months in jail. I'm not complaining, though. It finally taught me some discipline. The Army's who I think of as my parents."

"So you'll do it?"

"I'm in," he said. "Us orphans have to stick together."

"Excellent. Get cleaned up and come see me in my office." She got into her purse and pulled a card out, which she handed to him.

"How cleaned up?" he asked.

"I just want you to look presentable," she said. "I don't mind the beard, but it needs to be trimmed. And get a haircut. Do you own any suits?"

"I can get a couple. But they'll make me stand out, and they're harder to conceal a weapon under. Speaking of which, this is New York City. I'll need a gun to protect you. How do I go about that?"

"I'll take care of all of that," she said. "You just get some clothes to work in. Where do you live?"

"I'm renting cheap digs," he said, carelessly. "I can move out any time."

"Do you have a cell?"

"Sure."

"Give it to me."

She was all business now as she put her number in his phone, and his in hers. She handed his back to him.

"Be at my office by six this evening. You can take up your duties when I go home."

"Got it, boss," he said, grinning.

"It's Miss Cragg in public," she said, sternly.

She stood up to leave.

"But in private you can call me Lacey. Thank you for being there today."

"You're welcome."

With that she turned and was gone.

Bob finished his coffee and then asked the cashier where a man could buy a suit.

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

New York City is a place like no other. For the right money, a man can get three suits custom made and delivered in three days. Getting the permits necessary to carry a concealed pistol, on the other hand, could take months; maybe a year or more. Lacey cut through that bureaucracy with startling speed, though, and by the time he found the place he wanted to make his suits, he was able to be fitted wearing the Jackass shoulder holster, containing the Sig Sauer P229 he would wear under them. The tailor didn't blink an eye at having to account for the weapon.

Bob kept the Kizlyar and was even able to find a sheath that was a reasonable fit for it in an Army/Navy store in the Bronx. He wore that strapped on the inside of his right ankle.

His days were spent cooling his heels at Lacey's office, which had exactly zero cute young women dying to meet a retired Delta Force operator. If she knew she wasn't going anywhere, he was allowed to go do whatever errands he needed to do. If she had court, he accompanied her there and back. When she went home he spent the evening with her, unless she was working at home, in which case he watched TV, or read. He'd always carried a paperback book with him in the Army, but they were usually whatever happened to be available. Now he could choose what author he wanted to read, and which books he was interested in.

Lacey's stark, frumpy appearance, when they had first met, was no accident. As he spent more and more time with her it became obvious that she intentionally chose clothes that were intended to mute her femininity and cover her body, rather than display it. He was curious about that. It seemed a little femininity might serve her in court, but she obviously didn't think so. Even at home, she kept her body securely draped, mostly in work clothes, though he did see her in a pair of thick, cotton pants that were gray, and a black sweatshirt.

Their relationship was complicated, at the same time comfortably casual, but remote. They spoke to each other with the familiarity of people who live together, but there was no intimacy in that discourse. They often ate separately, preparing their own meals whenever they were hungry. At other times one or the other might decide to call in a takeout order and ask the other if he or she wanted anything. In those situations they ate together. She had no dining room table. Meals were taken either at the minuscule table in the tiny kitchen, or sitting on the couch or chairs in the living room.

The trial proceeded, if that's the correct word at all, with agonizing lethargy. He usually sat in the gallery on court days, and to him it was like watching a box turtle intent on circling the high school track at the same time a marathon was being conducted. The turtle kept pulling his head back into his shell, waiting until it was safe to take another step. Then, hesitantly, the head would peep out, only to slide back inside when another runner's foot stomped down nearby.

The language of the court baffled him. The accused wasn't even present as the lawyers danced and sparred, arguing about this or that aspect of the case. The defense would ask that something be excluded or suppressed. The judge would disappear into his chambers for a while and then come out and give his answer. If it went the way of the defense, then the next agonizingly slow step would be attempted. If it went against the defense, as often as not, they would demand more time to prepare for the actual trial date, which Lacey didn't seem to be able to predict for him.

"We're still doing pretrial motions," she'd explained to him one night. "Then we'll have to select a jury. That could take months. If I could just put my witnesses on the stand and be done with it, it would only take a week."

And then something happened that changed their relationship.

Bob was asleep in his room when he heard her fearful scream. With pistol in hand, he was out of bed like a shot. He slept only in boxers, but that was the last thing on his mind as he charged out of his door and through hers. She hadn't locked it, so he didn't have to put his shoulder into it and break it down.

It was dark, but he knew that the night light she left on in the hallway would silhouette him to any attacker, so he went down and rolled into the darkness, coming up on one knee, arms outstretched, two pounds of force on a three pound trigger. His arms swept back and forth in the dark, looking for movement. Lacey was sobbing, but it didn't sound like she was struggling, so he stayed quiet.

When he heard nothing for fifteen seconds, he called out softly.

"Lacey?"

"Bob!" she gasped. "Something touched me!"

"What touched you?"

"I don't know! Something touched my face." She sobbed quietly.

"Is anybody in bed with you?" he asked.

"What? Of course not!"

Her outrage sounded completely genuine, so he stood.

"I'm going to turn on the light, now," he said.

"Okay," she replied meekly. At least she wasn't sniveling anymore.

He went to the open doorway and reached for the switch. He shielded his eyes with his forearm, and flipped the switch. Light flooded the room. Almost instantly he saw movement near the ceiling and looked through squinted eyes to see a bat fluttering around in panic.

"It's a bat," he said, conversationally.

"Ewwwww, get it out, get it out, get it out!" she squealed.

"Lacey, it’s just a bat. It’s not going to hurt you."

"I don’t like bats," she said.

For the first time he looked at her. She was under the covers. He was reminded of the Kilroy graphic that he’d seen in dozens of places all over the world, a little line drawing of the eyes, nose and forehead above a line. To either side of that were fingers that made the line into the top of a wall. The words "Kilroy was here" were usually beneath the peeking head. That’s what she looked like now, except that Kilroy was always bald, and Lacey had a mass of honey blond tousled hair framing her face.

"Well that bat doesn’t much like you, either," he said. "Look at the poor thing. It’s frantic to get away from you."

"I don’t care. Catch it. Get it out of here."

"I can’t catch it by myself," he said. "You’re going to have to help me."

"I can’t do that! What if it bit me? It probably has rabies or something!"

"It looks like a brown bat," said Bob, squinting at the frantic little mammal, still fluttering this way and that. "They eat mosquitoes, not prosecutors."

"Hah - hah," she said, pushing the covers down, fractionally.

"If we get towels, you can herd it towards me and I can net it," said Bob.

"I don’t like this, Bob," she moaned.

"Do you want the bat gone?"

"Yes!"

"Then get up and help me catch it."

"Ohhhhh."

She dithered, but only for a few seconds, before throwing the covers aside and standing up. This threw the bat into a tizzy as the air pressure in the room went temporarily crazy and a new obstruction appeared in the little bat’s radar. It dipped and flew in an arc past Bob. It looked like it was heading right for Lacey and she shrieked, ducking. But it flew harmlessly past her. She ran for the shelter of Bob’s arms and hugged him as if he were the last life ring on the Titanic.

His arm went around her instinctively, and he was distracted by both the warmth of her body against his, and the feel of something firm, yet soft in his hand. With a start he realized that soft, firm thing was her left breast, and he slid his hand to her side. She didn’t seem to have noticed, though, as she tried to bury her face in his shoulder and look for the bat at the same time.

"He’s more scared of you than you are of him," said Bob, soothingly.

"That’s what they always say about the bear that eats you," she moaned.

"Just get a towel or something to wave around and drive him towards me," said Bob.

She ran into her bathroom and emerged with two bath towels.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said, tossing him a towel.

Five minutes later, after the two of them scampered all over the room, Bob lunged and captured the animal in his towel.

"Be right back," he said.

He took the bundle to the front door and laid it on the stoop, unfolding it so the little bat could orient itself and fly off.

He found Lacey sitting on the side of her bed, just breathing and combing out her long hair with her fingers.

"All better," he said.

He took in her old fashioned cotton nightgown. It covered her body entirely, but could not camouflage what was under it. The woman who, before this, always appeared to have A cup breasts had suddenly grown a pair of Ds. They trembled gently under the white cotton as her hands continued to bring some order back to her hair.

That hair was also interesting. It fell past her shoulders at least eight inches, thick and shiny looking. It wasn't a brash, white kind of blond. It was more the kind that has a little red and a little brown in it, that makes it look deep and rich.

"You suppress your femininity intentionally," he said.

She looked up at him.

"That's really none of your business," she said, her voice level.

"Absolutely. I agree," he said. "It's just nice to know there's a woman under all that tough exterior."

"I wasn't acting so tough when that bat was flying around," she muttered.

"To the contrary, I know how frightened you were. It took a lot of moxie to overcome that fear and help me catch the poor little guy."

"It's late," she said. "Thank you for being so prompt."

He gave a little bow.

"That's what you hired me to do," he said.

He started to leave and she called out, "Wait!"

Turning back he saw her pointing to his pistol, which was lying on the bed beside her. A fold in the covers had hidden it during the mad rush to catch the intruder.

"Ahh," he said. He went to get it and sensed her unease at being so close to the weapon. "What training have you had in firearms?"

"What? None. I don't like guns."

"You need to get over that too. Whenever the Russians make another play, you may need to be armed yourself."

"That's preposterous. Why do you think I hired you?"

"If you'll recall, there was an intruder in here with you for a few minutes before I got here."

"I told you, I don't like guns."

"A gun is only a tool, like a fork, or a vacuum cleaner, or a curling iron. It can be very useful in certain situations. And when it isn't being used it just sits there. The only gun that can hurt you is the one in the hand of a human being."

"We'll see," she said.

He took that to be his dismissal. Carrying the Sig in his right hand, he left the room and went back to his own sleeping quarters.

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

Lacey lay in bed, staring up into the darkness. She wasn't sleepy. It wasn't the excitement of the bat that made her restless. Rather it was the man who caught the bat. She'd tried not to stare, but she could count the number of men she'd seen in just a pair of boxer shorts on one finger. His body fairly rippled with muscles. He had muscles on his muscles. And the scars! They were everywhere! On his back, his arms. She'd seen those little puckered scars in some of her cases. They were bullet wounds. And there had to be a dozen of the things. There were others too, but she hadn't been able to see them well. She remembered a long one on his right thigh, in the back. It looked like he'd been used as practice for doctors to stitch a man up. And yet he was graceful and calm, even in the midst of excitement.

She hoped he hadn't seen her staring at him, almost unable to put her eyes anywhere else. And he'd looked at her too! He'd even commented on it. He had noticed her as a woman. But he hadn't leered or made suggestions. He'd treated her like a lady. Except his eyes had shown interest too, very stark and clear interest.

She'd been binding her breasts since she was thirteen, when they started to grow out of control and all the boys stared at them. Her breasts were all tangled up in her mind with the feelings she started having about then too; ugly, nasty feelings, the kind her mother had warned her about over and over again. It had made her so nervous and embarrassed that she'd done anything she could to hide the horrid things. Her mother had helped, showing her how to wind the strips of cloth tightly around her bra-encased breasts.

Next was her hair. She loved it, loved combing it and brushing it and even washing it. But that hair drew a man's gaze just like her breasts did. So when she wasn't alone in her room she wound it into a tight bun and pinned it firmly that way.

She eschewed makeup for the same reasons, so that men would look at other women, instead of her. And it had worked all these years. She hadn't been asked out on a date since college. She'd put all her energy into her studies, and then law school. Clerking for a judge after that gave her no time for men and, by then she had no idea how to go about finding one anyway. Vaguely, she knew it was all right, at this age, to find a husband and procreate. But the thought of that was terrifying ... almost nauseating.

There was a vague, unformed ache deep inside her that she had interpreted as wanting a family, like those she worked with had. A husband. A child. But being a spinster was easier. That's what her mother would have called it. Spinster.

Bob was the first man she could remember seeing in just those ridiculous loose, striped shorts. Something had moved around under the cloth, there in the front. She knew what that was, of course. She wasn't stupid. But she'd never seen one. Not a real one. Her father had pulled her hand against the front of his pants one night, while he was tucking her in. Then he'd burst into tears and fled the room. He hadn't touched her after that, not even to give her a hug when she left for college.

Her mind kept going back to the dark skin on Bob's body. It wasn't pale like her own, but something that looked permanently tanned.

And all those scars! He must have been in such pain!

Why, then, did she want to touch them? Stroke them? Run her hands across them?

It was insane!

She felt that traitorous itch between her legs, the one her mother had warned her about so many times. It demanded to be touched.

But to touch it meant risking madness. Her mother had told her that, too.

She knew people dismissed that as hogwash, old wives tales.

But she'd seen what people would do to each other. She had defended them, and prosecuted them.

And she was quite sure all those animals had masturbated frequently.

Chapter Two

Bob sipped from the paper cup the machine had dispensed and then filled with what the vendor claimed was coffee. It tasted a lot like some of the stuff he'd been served in Army mess halls. As far as Bob was concerned, if you wanted the best coffee, you didn't go to Starbucks, or any other commercial vendor. The best coffee could be found in USOs all over the world. It didn't matter if it was St. Louis, Missouri, or London, England, or Rhein-Main airbase in Germany. USO volunteers made the best coffee in the world.

He'd had to take a break because listening to the agonizing drivel as the lawyers danced and sparred in the courtroom was enough to make a sane man convinced the entire world was crazy. The latest thing had been going on all morning. It concerned the sworn statement of somebody named Clayton Kolde, which somehow had to do with the probable cause for arresting the man on trial. The defense wanted the statement suppressed, meaning thrown out, and they spent the entire morning talking about why. There had been all manner of arguments, but the one that frosted Bob's cake was when the defense attorney accused Mr. Kolde of being a heroin addict, suggesting that heroin addicts are incapable of telling the truth in a statement, sworn or not.

Lacey had responded that there was not a single shred of evidence that Mr. Kolde knew how to spell heroin, much less that he used the stuff.

The stalwart defender then opined that he didn't have to know how to spell it, and that "everyone" knew that heroin was being smuggled into the United States all the time, and that Mr. Kolde couldn't help but run into it in his official duties as a customs officer.

It was then that Bob left the courtroom to get his cup of coffee.

As it turned out, court had been recessed for lunch by the time he got back. Lacey was still at her table, loading papers into her briefcase. He walked down the aisle, passing a few late leavers and met her at the bar.

"What do you feel like today?" asked Bob, meaning to eat for lunch.

"Loan me your gun," she said, her voice dreary. "What I really want right now is to blow my brains out."

"Now, now," he said, reaching to touch her elbow. "You're the good guy. Let's go find your white charger and go for a ride. You can let your hair down and the wind will make it stream behind you. You'll feel better. I promise."

"I wouldn't even know how to get up on a horse," she said, "much less stay there."

"Well, then, how about a taco? That's almost as good." He smiled.

She looked at him from the corner of her eyes.

"When you were off doing your special forces missions, you did this to people you captured, didn't you? You tortured them like this to get information. Go on, you can admit it to me. I'm your lawyer now. Everything you tell me is covered by lawyer client confidentiality."

He chuckled.

"Let's leave what I did to get information in the deep recesses of things we'll talk about some day when you think you've done something wrong and need to be convinced that what you did wasn't bad at all."

She looked at him again, but he had distracted her from what she'd just gone through all morning, and her shoulders straightened.

"Come to think about it, maybe I don't want to know," she said. "I am hungry, though, and tacos sound as good as anything else."

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

When they got back, he walked her into the courtroom and down to the bar. He was not permitted inside the swinging gates because he was not considered to be an official member of the prosecution team. But everyone who worked for the court knew who he was and what his job was. Some, such as the court reporter, thought Lacey was being ridiculous, hiring a bodyguard. Don Fillbert, the bailiff, felt the opposite. He knew how violent people could be, especially towards the person who was trying to put them in prison for the rest of their natural lives. Judge Edward Gardner paid no attention to the prosecutor's bodyguard, except to warn him not to bring a gun into the courtroom. There were lockers at the entrance of the courthouse, where security screening took place, and that's where, among others, Bob's gun was to be stored while he was in the building.

He had just resumed his seat in the back row of the gallery when a young woman wearing a black skirt and white blouse entered the courtroom from a door that led to what Bob thought was the jury room. No jury had yet been empaneled, which was why he looked at the woman. She was carrying a tray upon which sat two clear glass pitchers of water and four glasses. She stopped at Lacey's table and dropped off a pitcher and two glasses, even though Lacey was alone. She then walked to the defense table and did the same thing, even though there were four people seated at that table. Then she left, using the same door.

It was something so ordinary that he didn't think much about it, at first. He even heard Lacey say, "Thank you," to the young woman, who nodded and smiled.

It wasn't until he saw Lacey pour herself a glass of water that he reflected on the fact that, as far as he could remember, nobody had ever delivered water to the attorneys before this. Lacey had brought bottled water to court in the past, but not every day. He couldn't remember what the defense team had done about thirst.

He thought hard. Maybe he'd just never noticed this service before. It took him twenty seconds to come to the firm conclusion that this was something brand new. And brand new bothered him.

He'd just stood to go speak to Lacey about it when the bailiff came through the judge's door and went through his "All rise" speech. Bob saw Lacey stand, at which point she put the glass she'd just been about to sip from down on the table. When everyone else sat, Bob hurried down the aisle to the bar.

"Sit down," intoned Judge Gardner, staring straight at Bob.

"My apologies, Your Honor," said Bob. "I need to give Miss Cragg some information."

"Court is in session," pointed out Judge Gardner. "You are not a member of the defense team."

"It concerns her safety, Your Honor," said Bob.

"The prosecutor is in no danger in my courtroom," said the judge. "Now, if you will be so kind as to sit down, we'll get on with things. Which," he paused and looked at both attorneys, ignoring Bob completely, "have been taking entirely too long." He looked at the defense table. "I'm ready to rule on your motion to suppress. It is denied. Mr. Kolde's statement was lawfully obtained and established probable cause for your client's arrest. Now, I want to move on. And I want you to understand that when I mean move on, I mean that I do not want to have to deal with any more frivolous motions designed only to extend the process. Is that clear, Mr. Summers?"

"Yes, Your Honor," said the defense attorney, who didn't sound offended at all that the judge had just called him frivolous.

The judge's eyes came back to Bob, who was still standing there, trying to decide what to do. If he was wrong about the water, then he might end up being barred from the rest of the trial. This judge was a crusty old geezer who reminded Bob of more than one command sergeant major he'd known in his Army career. And if the water was spiked with something, it would become evident pretty quickly. 911 was fairly fast these days. Still, if there was something in the water and it was nasty, then even medical speed might not be able to save her.

"Don't drink the water," he said, hastily to Lacey, and then turned and went back to his seat.

Whether she didn't hear him, didn't understand, or simply forgot as she began sparring with the defense again, Bob saw her pick up the glass and take a sip. He winced, and waited. Nothing happened quickly enough for it to have been a nerve agent, or fast-acting poison, so he relaxed a little.

At three-thirty that afternoon, however, her speech became slurred and, while reaching for the glass of water she'd sipped from a total of three times, her hand knocked it off the table and it crashed to the wooden floor.

Bob was up and out of his chair, cursing himself for not having pushed things earlier. He ran down the aisle as people craned their necks, looking at the prosecutor.

"She's been poisoned!" snapped Bob. "Call 911."

The reaction of people within the courtroom was tepid, to be generous. The judge started barking commands for the courtroom to come to order. Bob could see Lacey was already in distress. Both sides of her face seemed to be drooping, and her eyelids were half closed. As he reached her, vomit burst from her mouth as if powered by compressed air.

Rather than wait for paramedics to make it through security and come find the patient, he simply bent over and pulled her across his shoulder. As he did so she vomited again. He could feel it coat his back.

The courtroom was in chaos, now, with people shouting as he ran through the bar and up the aisle.

"Call 911!" he roared, and then pulled the courtroom doors open. He ran down the hallway as Lacey moaned piteously, slung over his shoulder. He could feel her stomach trying to expel more of what was bothering it, but there was little left in that organ.

They were waiting for him at security with drawn weapons, demanding he stop. He laid Lacey down and showed his hands, explaining that she'd been poisoned and that if nobody had called 911 yet, that needed to be done immediately. Luckily, one of guards looked at Lacey and saw immediately that she was in real trouble. He took charge, telling Bob to stay where he was, and then orchestrated the response. Paramedics arrived within five minutes and went to work on Lacey, who was having trouble breathing by that point.

Police arrived within a minute of the paramedics and Bob was turned over to them. He identified himself as Lacey's bodyguard as she was being taken out to the ambulance. The paramedics exhibited a sense of extreme urgency. Lacey had been intubated and was receiving help to breathe. It wasn't until Bob's log-in to the courthouse and the receipt he had been given for his gun were produced that things began to calm down. By then Don Fillbert, Judge Gardner's bailiff, had arrived and further confirmed that Bob was known to be the prosecutor's bodyguard.

"The water," snapped Bob. "The pitchers of water that were delivered after lunch. That's what I think the delivery method was. You need to get back up there and secure that water. It's evidence."

To his credit, Fillbert turned to return to the courtroom immediately. A police officer went with him.

The patrol supervisor arrived. His name tag said "Hoskins" on it and he had sergeant stripes on his sleeves. He was briefed by one of the responding patrolmen and came to talk to Bob.

"So you're the bodyguard," he said.

"Yes. I think she was poisoned. I need to get to the hospital. There may be another attempt on her life there."

"If she was really poisoned, like you say, then she'll have plenty of protection," said Hoskins.

"That's great," said Bob. "But that will take time to get in place, and she hired me to protect her."

"Doesn't look like you did a very good job," said Hoskins.

"I tried to warn her," said Bob. "The water was delivered by a young woman. Five-eight, black hair in a ponytail, pale complexion. Dressed in a black skirt and white blouse. Water had never been delivered to the courtroom before. The judge wouldn't let me talk to Lacey. You can look for the suspect. I need to get to the hospital."

"I don't think you're going anywhere," said the patrol supervisor. "I think one of our detectives is going to want to talk to you."

"Great. Let's talk. But in the meantime somebody needs to talk to the judge and find out about that woman who brought in the water. And you need to secure the remaining water as evidence."

"It could have been something she ate," suggested Hoskins.

"She and I ate the exact same thing, both this morning and at lunch," said Bob. "Come on. Don't be a dick. I'm ex-military, special forces, and I've seen this kind of thing before. If they can't figure out what was given to her, she could die. In fact, the hospital is going to need a sample of that water. We can take it together."

The guy looked like he wanted to argue, but just then Fillbert and the cop who had gone with him returned. Each had a pitcher of water. Close behind them was Ronald Summers and his entire defense team, consisting of a young woman and two men. They were clamoring for immediate treatment.

The patrol supervisor began to see the potential for unhappiness to spread up his chain of command, and decided to move things out of the courthouse, where too many curious onlookers were assembled, watching events with interest. Since no one else was exhibiting any symptoms, he directed them to take themselves to the hospital to be checked out. The two pitchers of water were transferred to the back seat of his patrol car, where they were held by two cops chosen, apparently at random, from the group of officers who were "securing" the scene. He fired off instructions to have Fillbert take two more officers back to the courtroom to secure it and do preliminary interviews. He also called in to his desk sergeant and updated him on the situation, requesting that detectives be dispatched. When he was finished with all that, he looked at Bob.

"This had better be the real deal. Because if this is a hoax I'm going to throw you in jail myself."

"When they took her out they had intubated her," said Bob.

Dan Hoskins had been around long enough to know what that meant.

"As soon as the detectives get here and take over the scene, you and I will go find out how she's doing," he offered.

"Okay," said Bob. "I appreciate that."

"While we're waiting, let's see this permit you have to carry concealed," said the man.

Bob produced it and after a close examination, it was returned to him.

"You said special forces?"

"Yes, and Delta Force."

"I was in first of the sixth Marines in Operation Enduring Freedom," said Hoskins.

"Semper Fi," said Bob. "Where's that detective?"

"I'll make a couple of calls. Don't go anyplace."

"Ooh rah," said Bob. "Can I get my gun?"

"I can't really stop you," said Hoskins.

"Check on Lacey while you're making calls," said Bob.

"I was going to," said Hoskins.

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

Sergeant Danny Hoskins's attitude toward what he'd formerly classified as "The prosecutor's dickhead bodyguard" had changed drastically after he made those calls. First, he was informed what case she was prosecuting, and just who might have wanted to poison her. Next he got an update on her condition, which was grave in the extreme. He was encouraged to get the suspect water to the hospital running code all the way.

He put another cop in charge of the scene and got in his car. He took Bob with him, putting him in the front passenger's seat. The two cops holding pitchers in the back seat were not pleased to be riding in back, while a civilian was riding up front.

Hoskins's attitude changed even more when they got there and found a doctor and a lab technician waiting for them, eager to get their hands on the water samples. After Bob contributed his information, he was whisked away with them, to undergo tests himself.

"I hadn't thought about botulinum neurotoxin," said the doctor. "Based on what you're telling me, though, and the age of the patient, it's a distinct possibility. I need to know everything you ate and where you ate it."

Bob described their diet for the day. Only the water was suspect, based on the fact that they had shared all other food that day.

"Testing for botulism can take days," said the doctor. "But if these symptoms have developed in only hours, and if it is botulinum neurotoxin, then the dosage must have been massive. That, we might be able to determine in hours, now that we know what to look for. We can't wait for the tests, though. We'll have to start treatment immediately."

"What's the treatment?" asked Bob.

"There's a trivalent antitoxin that blocks the action of neurotoxin circulating in the blood. It is only available from quarantine stations operated by the CDC. Luckily there's one here in New York. I'll get that process going while we do some other things to try to remove the toxin from her intestine. We're going to test you too, just to be safe."

With that he left Bob in the hands of the lab personnel and hurried off to reconnect with the other physicians who were caring for Lacey.

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

Detective Reginald Cooper entered the ER waiting room and looked around. He spotted Danny Hoskins sitting beside a man whose driver's license photograph he already had. The scene at the courthouse had been frustrating. Information was spotty at best. About all the witnesses agreed on was that the bodyguard had yelled about the prosecutor having been poisoned. How he knew that was one of the first things Reggie intended to find out.

As he approached, Sergeant Hoskins saw him and stood up. He made introductions in a way that gave Reggie pause. It was obvious that, at least as far as Danny Hoskins was concerned, this Robert Shepard was not a suspect.

"How'd you know she was poisoned?" he asked, abruptly, facing Bob.

Bob told him.

"So they're testing the water right now?"

"Yes."

"And what's her condition?"

"Nobody has updated us since I left the lab," said Bob.

"You just assumed she'd been poisoned? Why?" asked Cooper.

"There was a prior incident," said Bob. He reached down and extracted the Kizlyar from his ankle. Detective Cooper took a step back, but then relaxed when Bob extended the knife, handle first. "Some guy was following her on the street. I could tell he was up to no good so I got between him and her. He had this in his hand and when he made his move I disarmed him. I dislocated his shoulder. He took off running and I stayed to explain things to Lacey. That's when she hired me."

"Was this assault reported?"

"No," said Bob. "I suggested it, but she said the guy was gone and didn't think anything could be done."

"Maybe the guy was just trying to snatch her purse."

"That's what I said, but she knew right away it was associated with the trial she's prosecuting right now. That knife is Russian made, and the guy she's prosecuting is big in the Russian mob."

"How do you know it's Russian?" asked Reggie, examining the knife.

"I was special forces. I've seen a lot of those knives before. They're not easy to mistake for anything else."

"Shit," said Cooper, softly. "I hate working with the Marshal's Service."

"Why? Isn't it their case now?"

"It would be if they investigated anything other than fugitives, but they don't. And that means this will be my case, but I'll have them peering over my shoulder the whole time."

"She said she asked for protection, but they're dragging their heels," said Bob.

"I suspect the heel dragging will come to a screeching halt if what you think is true turns out to be true," said Reggie.

"Unless she dies," said Bob, softly.

"I don't work homicide," said Reggie.

"Are you hoping she dies?" asked Bob, suddenly irate.

"Calm down, there, cowboy," said Cooper. "Of course not. I should be offended that you even said that. But I can see how somebody might misunderstand my comment. What I meant was that they need to save her life."

"Oh, so now you want to work the case?" Bob wasn't happy, yet.

"Mister Shepard, I have thirty-two active cases to clear. This one will make thirty-three and the night is young. I don't want to work any new cases. But I know the deal and I'll do my best to clear this one too. But first I need to confirm that somebody did, indeed, try to off your prosecutor. What I hope is that she ate a bad sandwich somewhere, and that the Russian mob is not out to kill her. Okay?"

"I'll take the knife back," said Bob, sounding neutral.

"Didn't you say it was evidence of another attempt to kill this woman?"

"There's no official report," said Bob. "Right now, it's my backup weapon, and if I meet the assholes who tried to kill her before you do, I'm going to return it to them."

"Now, now. We have enough homicidal maniacs running around the streets of New York City as it is."

"Why should you care? You don't work homicide ... remember?"

Sergeant Hoskins snorted, but looked away when Detective Cooper glanced over at him.

"Wait here," said Reggie. "I'll go try to find out something."

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

Detective Cooper wasn't happy when he returned.

"They do expect her to make it, but that's all I could get out of them," he said. "They got nothing yet on what's actually wrong with her. I assume you aren't leaving town?"

"My job is to protect Miss Cragg," said Bob, firmly.

"I'm going to put some officers on her room when they get her into one," said Cooper. "You can go home and wait, or stay here. That's on you. But if you stay here and learn anything, I want you to call me." He handed Bob a business card and then turned to Hoskins. "They want you back out on the street."

"Roger that," said Hoskins. He stuck out his hand to Bob. "Sorry to have met you under these circumstances. I hope she's okay."

"Thanks," said Bob.

A few minutes later Bob was alone. He went to the ER admittance desk and informed them that Lacey Cragg's parents were deceased, (something he assumed since she had never mentioned them after their initial conversation about foster care), and that he had no idea who her next of kin was. He asked, as her bodyguard, to be apprised of any changes to her condition. He was informed that the HIPAA act of 1996 prohibited the release of any information to him, unless he had a signed release from the patient.

Basically, nobody would tell him anything.

He went home, disgusted.

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

By the time he got back to the apartment it was nine in the evening. He was tired, and needed sleep, but before doing that he got out the contract Lacey had hired him under. He'd never read all the fine print before, but now he did. He was both surprised and gratified that it contained exactly the kind of medical information release that the hospital staff had been talking about.

He returned to the hospital immediately. After another hour of dealing with bureaucrats, he finally got to someone in medical records who read over the contract, made a copy of it, and added him to the list of people to whom medical information could be released. There was exactly one person on that list - him.

"What about the police?" he asked.

"They have to get a warrant, unless the patient signs a release," said the clerk.

"And if the patient is unconscious?"

"Then they have to get a warrant."

"That seems helpful, if they're trying to solve an attempted murder, and all," he said, sarcastically.

"I didn't pass the law," said the clerk, who had heard it all before. "So don't take it out on me."

"You're right," said Bob. "I'm just frustrated, that's all."

"You and everybody else," said the clerk. "You're on the list, now. You can go ask all the questions you want."

"Good. Can you tell me how she is?"

"No. I don't have access to that information. You need to go to the nursing station."

With a groan, Bob left. He imagined himself as Don Quixote, looking for another windmill to tilt against.

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

Ironically, it was Doctor Masterson who found him sleeping in the ER waiting room and woke him up. Doctor Masterson was the physician who had accompanied Bob to the lab with the water samples.

Bob rubbed his eyes and peered at the man.

"You can go home now. If you haven't exhibited any symptoms by now then you're probably fine. But if you start feeling sick or woozy or get any headaches, I want you back here STAT."

Bob looked at his watch. It was four in the morning.

"What about Lacey?" he asked.

"I can't tell you anything about her," said the doctor. At least he sounded regretful. "There are privacy regulations."

"I'm on the HIPAA list," said Bob, tersely. "I have been since ten o'clock last night."

"Really?"

"You can check, but I'm going to get cranky if you do," said Bob.

Masterson didn't want to go check.

"She's out of the woods. By that, I mean she has several weeks of treatment ahead of her to get back to full health, but she isn't going to die."

"Was it the water?" asked Bob.

"I'm somewhat amazed to be able to answer that question," said Masterson. "Normally it takes days to culture the botulinum bacteria in the lab, but the amount in that water gave us results in only six hours. It was an extremely high content. Had she drunk much more, we wouldn't have been able to save her. As it was, the only reason the outcome was so good was that the antitoxin was quickly available. The CDC wasn't happy about releasing it without a positive lab test, but that will all be water under the bridge when they see the report I did."

"I'm guessing it would be difficult for there to be that much bacteria in a pitcher of water, naturally," said Bob.

"If there was, then half this city would be dying," said the doctor. "You were right. She was intentionally poisoned. I can't think of any other alternative."

"Have you informed the police?"

"Nobody has asked. We put her into a medically-induced coma to make things easier on her. We'll bring her out of that around noon today and see if she can breathe on her own by then. She won't be able to sign a release for law enforcement until sometime tomorrow afternoon."

"Got it," said Bob. "Thanks. Can I see her?"

"Not now. As I said, she's out cold. Come back around two or three this afternoon."

"She's being guarded, right?"

"There are two burly cops up there scowling at anybody who even approaches the door."

"Okay," said Bob. "I appreciate you taking care of her."

"No problem. It's a fascinating case. The high dosage made it touch and go, but it also proved that the antitoxin works well."

Bob left the hospital and went back to his car. He pulled out Detective Cooper's card. He had no idea if the man was still on duty or not, but there was also a generic police number on the card. He called that one first, and asked for Cooper. He was told to hold, heard some clicks, and another voice came on the line.

"Cooper." That was it. The man sounded tired.

"This is Bob Shepard, on the Lacey Cragg case?"

"Oh, yeah. You got something for me?"

"Yes. You're going to want to get a warrant for her medical records. They will prove somebody tried to kill her with botulism. I got that straight from the doctor. You can cite me as your source. Right now I'm the only person on her HIPAA list, so nobody else outside the hospital knows that."

"No shit. Okay, thanks. I go off duty at eight. I'll be honest. The judge will be a lot more amenable to signing that warrant in the morning. I'll have somebody follow up on that. So she's going to be okay?"

"The doctor said she is. They put her in a coma. He said they'll see if she can breathe for herself around noon today."

"Was it the water?"

"Yes. High enough quantities of bacteria that it couldn't have been an accident, or from natural causes."

"I'll also have them notify the Marshal Service," said Cooper. "You been up all this time?"

"I slept some at the ER."

"Not me," said Cooper. "I was up all night. But I'm used to it. I get to go home for twenty-four. You should do the same."

"We'll see," said Bob.

"Thanks for the call."

"I hope you solve it," said Bob.

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

The warehouse was in use again as a meeting place. Grigoriy Petrovich, still acting in Vladimir Boruskiev's stead, asked for an update from his lieutenants.

Anatoly gave the report.

"We were successful in contaminating the water in the courtroom. Our operative got away clean. But our contact at the hospital informs me she didn't die. She is in intensive care and is expected to live."

"Can our contact unplug something to finish the job?" asked Petrovich.

"No. She doesn't have that kind of access, but she tells me that the recovery is expected to take weeks, so the trial will be delayed at least that long."

"What about locating the customs man?" asked Grigoriy. Another lieutenant spoke.

"We have not been able to penetrate the witness protection program," he said. "No matter how much money we offer, no one comes forward to claim it."

"Several weeks delay is good, but only if we can find this Kolde and eliminate him. What other options can we put into play?" Petrovich sounded annoyed.

A third lieutenant spoke.

"Can we simply send someone into the hospital to shoot the bitch?"

"I am told she is heavily guarded," said Anatoly.

Petrovich waved a hand.

"To execute her that way would draw too much attention."

"I have an idea," said a man named Aleksey. "It involves blackmail."

"This has already been discussed. There is nothing in her background we could hold over her head. Unless you have new information?"

"No, but we have gang contacts who are known to use blackmail concerning situations they create."

"This sounds interesting," said Grigoriy. "She would be much more useful in our pocket than dead. And if they are caught, then there is no connection to us."

"I'll see what can be done," said Aleksey.

Chapter Three

Bob got to the hospital at three. He had to wait, first because there were questions about HIPAA again. Then he was informed she hadn't been moved from ICU to her room. The uniformed policemen had been replaced by two US Marshals, who wanted to throw their weight around, telling him he wasn't authorized access to the protectee. He'd brought his contract with him and showed them the paragraph that stated, quite clearly that should the US Marshal's Service assign her protection, he would "play a pivotal role in the protection plan or their services would be declined." While they were faxing that to their headquarters and generally dithering, Lacey was moved into her room.

Eventually the two USMS guards were told to give him accompanied access until the situation could be further clarified with the protectee.

When he finally got to see her, she was awake, but still disoriented. Her skin looked like ash and she was too weak to do more than lift a hand in recognition of him.

"Hey," he said, softly. "How you doing?"

"Turrble," she said, moving her lips fractionally. "Wha happen?"

"You were poisoned," he said. "It was in the water in the pitcher on your table."

She blinked.

"You tole me nah drin," she sighed.

"I know. I guess you forgot."

"Shit."

It was the first word she'd said clearly. It was also the first off color word he'd ever heard her utter.

"Don't worry about it. We got you to the hospital and they're fixing you up."

Her eyes ranged around the room and fell on the US Marshal who was "accompanying" Bob.

"Who?"

"He's a Marshal," said Bob. "I guess your request for protection finally got approved."

"Fuckers," she muttered. Bob blinked. Two curse words in less than a minute.

"They don't think I should be here," said Bob.

She rolled her head toward the Marshal. It was obvious it took all her strength to do so.

The man stepped closer and said, "I'm Deputy Jenkins, Ma'am. We're going to take good care of you."

She moved her lips, but what she said couldn't be heard.

Jenkins leaned closer, putting his ear next to her mouth.

"Bob is in charge," she whispered.

He leaned back, startled.

"I'll inform my superiors," he said.

"Good." All it was, was her mouthing the word. She was obviously exhausted.

"We'll let you rest," said Bob. "Don't worry. Either they or I will be here all the time. He's right. We're going to take good care of you."

She mouthed, "Good," one more time and closed her eyes.

Deputy and hired gun left together.

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

"I told her you guys wouldn't want to work with me," said Bob, standing in the hallway.

"It's not that we don't want to. There just isn't any precedent," said the other man, who had introduced himself as Deputy Thomas.

"She asked you guys for protection and didn't get it. Since then there have been two attempts on her life."

"We didn't know about the first one," said Deputy Jenkins, his voice accusatory.

"Would you have jumped right on it if she said some guy with a knife came at her, but was chased away?"

"Probably not," admitted Jenkins. "But we're here now, and we're trained to do this. Are you?"

"I'm trained to identify threats and eliminate them," said Bob. "I was very good at it until I got shot up in a firefight."

"Military?"

"Special forces and Delta Force," said Bob. He wasn't used to telling people about his military past. When he'd been in those positions, he never told anybody about it. Even now he knew he wasn't supposed to tell anybody what he'd done, or where he'd done it.

"We don't normally go in with guns blazing," said Thomas.

"I don't either, unless I have to," said Bob, patiently. "The point is that they've tried twice, and I'm pretty sure they're going to keep trying. I am not inclined to cut them any slack in the matter. You guys can arrest them if you want to, but if I see anybody trying to kill her, I'm going to eliminate the threat."

"And what happens if you eliminate the wrong threat?" asked Jenkins.

"There's no such thing as a 'wrong threat'," said Bob, "but I get what you're saying. I plan to be on the interior. That means anybody who gets to where I am will have gotten through you guys first. If they did that, then they're not good guys, and I will consider them a clear and present danger to the health and safety of my client. Fair enough?"

"I think that's workable," said Jenkins. "We'll handle exterior security, and have a man inside with you. That way any of us who want to come inside will be known to him, and there will be two of you to handle anything that gets past us. Not that I expect that to happen, of course. But I think my superiors will buy off on that."

"You have your superiors come talk to Lacey," said Bob. "She's the one calling the shots, here."

"I don't think it will come to that," said Jenkins.

"I hope not," said Bob. "We have enough problems already."

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

It took Lacey three weeks to recover enough that they were willing to release her to continue her rehabilitation at home. During that time the trial was in recess. Bob had no contact with the officers of the court, though Detective Cooper did. It was because of what Cooper told Judge Gardner that he decided not to ask for a new prosecutor. First of all, having a new AUSA assigned would delay the case longer than the month Lacey was expected to be in recovery. Second, he felt a little guilty at having shut down her security man when he tried to alert the court to his suspicions about the water. He was irate that the sanctity of his courtroom had been violated in such a manner. Dozens of people had seen the mystery woman who had waltzed into the courtroom as if she was supposed to be there. But nobody knew who she was, where she came from, or where she went. As happens frequently in bureaucratic situations, if someone acts like they are supposed to be there, others accept them at face value.

So he simply recessed the trial. He had to charge the delay to someone and, while it might be overturned on appeal, he decided that the facts and circumstances justified blaming the delay on the defense. When Ronald Summers objected strenuously, the judge pointed out that his water had not been contaminated and that both the pitchers and glasses had been brought in from outside.

"Whether it was intentional on the part of the defense or not, the only party who benefitted from this was the defense. So I am charging the delay to the defense."

Summers' complaint abated. It didn't really cost him anything.

In fact, it earned him more in fees.

And, of course, while his client denied it, Summers, like everybody else in the system, knew on whose behalf this vile act had been perpetrated.

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

At the hospital, Lacey wasn't able to feed herself for the first week. She was on an IV drip, which helped replace fluids she'd lost during her initial treatment. She didn't know it, but that initial treatment had involved almost continuous enemas in an attempt to cleanse her digestive tract of the bacteria she'd ingested.

She lost twelve pounds that first week. When they began to offer her food, and she was too weak to feed herself, Bob spoon-fed her at her bedside. He spent as much time with her as he could without falling asleep and their relationship became much less formal as a result. Her appearance, that first week, was reflected not in Bob's eyes, but in those of the agents who guarded her. They did not engage in such mundane pursuits as feeding her, but they did check in on her and chat with her from time to time. It was what she saw on their faces that told her how bad she looked.

That Bob never reflected that meant more to her than he could know. And then there was the fact that he had saved her life ... again.

It was her reaction to him on that plane that caused her one day, when his hand happened to be resting on the covers near her hip, to lift her hand and place it on top of his. It was merely her acknowledgement of the fact that he obviously cared about her, but it was something more too, something she'd never experienced with a man before.

It was, in fact, the most intimate thing she'd ever done to or with a man she was not related to in some way.

The second week she was able to sit up and feed herself. She sat with her legs hanging over the edge of the bed and was able to stand long enough to sit in a wheel chair while her sheets were changed. She asked if there was a way to wash her hair but the nurses demurred. She did get a sponge bath every other day.

The third week she took a few halting steps, first supported by nurses, but then later, by Bob as she walked around the room. Her strength improved rapidly, though she had no endurance, and had to rest often. She chafed at the restrictions she was under, but finally got to wash her hair. Bob brought her one of her robes, too, and her own slippers, which made her feel better.

She'd been in the hospital for twenty-four days when she was able to take a shower unassisted and walk all the way around the circular third floor hallways. It was then that Dr. Masterson said she could go home.

He told her not to go to work for another two or three weeks.

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

The USMS detail that had been assigned to Lacey while she was in the hospital went home with her. Their superiors deemed that four were enough to provide her with adequate security, both at home and when she returned to work. One deputy was inside the house with her at all times. Another took care of external security. The shifts were twelve hours on, and twelve hours off for two weeks. Then those four had a week off while four more gave them some relief. Bob, of course, lived there, and was "on duty" twenty-four hours a day.

Since Lacey's windows were barred, and considered unlikely entry points for an invader, the inside deputy was posted in the short hallway between her front door and the living room. The outside deputy stayed in the main building entry, just past the stairwell that led to the second floor. There were four apartments in the building, two upstairs, and two down, with a small basement that contained a washer, dryer, and caged storage for the tenants' boxes, bicycles, and so on. The agents were in radio contact with each other.

When she finally got back into her own home the atmosphere was much different than it had been before she was poisoned. Perhaps because her hair had been down in the hospital, she left it down when she got home. More importantly, Bob checked on her a lot, including when she was in her bedroom. Neither of them thought that was really a departure from the norm. He'd spent three weeks with her in what amounted to her bedroom at the hospital. Nor did she feel shy about him seeing her in the nightgown she wore constantly for the first day or two she was back home. Bob, after all, had seen her daily in her hospital gown, which was much more revealing than her cotton nightgown. Bob sat in a chair outside her bathroom the first couple of times she took a shower, but when she had no trouble with that, he busied himself elsewhere in the apartment while she was attending to her personal hygiene.

Another thing that might have impacted their relationship was that the inside USMS guard normally had very little to do with Lacey, directly. Bob made sure that man had something to eat and drink. The two agents swapped places every two hours, both to break the monotony and so each had access to a bathroom regularly. The men used the half bath between Lacey's room and Bob's room. Lacey had her own bathroom, which was accessed directly from her bedroom. But the result was that, with nothing to do in terms of work, Lacey spent almost all her time with Bob. They chatted about everything under the sun. She told him about her childhood, and what little information she had about how she'd come to be adopted and what she'd found out about her biological father having been sent to prison for killing her biological mother. She'd never seen the man since he was released from prison and had no idea where he was, or even if he was alive or dead.

Bob responded to her supply of intimate details with some from his own life. He didn't go into the operations he'd been on in more than very general terms. He stayed with the missions in which they had taken supplies, equipment, and arms somewhere, to support various groups, and the rescue missions he'd been on. He didn't tell her about the times he'd killed insurgents, terrorists, or just plain criminals in the line of duty.

Several times they talked, her in bed and him sitting beside her, until she fell asleep.

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

Now that there were more people around to protect Lacey, Bob was able to go shopping on his own. Prior to this, he and his boss had always gone places together. Like many bodyguards, he knew a lot more about her tastes than the casual observer might have realized.

"I'm going grocery shopping," he announced one day. "Anybody want anything?"

He was speaking to Lionel Young, one of the agents on duty at the time. He saw Young lift his radio handset to his lips and speak softly.

"Dick is making you a list," he said to Bob after listening for a few seconds. He was referring to his partner, Deputy Richard Hooker, who was in the main hallway of the brownstone. Hooker, who always said, "I prefer Richard," when being introduced, was invariably called Dick by his compatriots. Some latent juvenile, male drive made them insist on associating "Dick" with his last name.

Bob picked up the list on his way out. Dick was seated in a chair that gave him an unobstructed view of the entryway and both downstairs apartment doors. The short staircase leading to the basement laundry room was behind him. The other tenants had adapted to having armed lawmen in the building with astonishing ease. One of the upstairs apartments was occupied by a young man and his wife, both of whom worked on Wall Street. The other upstairs tenant was a woman in her fifties, named Elaine. She was a receptionist at a doctor's office. Downstairs, across the hall from Lacey, lived an older man named Maurice Towner. He was a bell boy at a hotel in Manhattan. He wasn't on a first name basis with the men he saw each time he came and went, but he nodded amiably. All the tenants knew who Lacey was. They read the papers. They were all New Yorkers, and having the US Marshals Service in the building was something they just took in stride.

Bob chose a big box department store to do his shopping at because he had a couple of things in mind other than groceries and he didn't want to have to hunt for them on the streets of New York City. It meant a longer drive, but he didn't care. He'd been cooped up in either the hospital room or the apartment for weeks, and getting out on the road felt good.

He did his "extra" shopping first. That list started with two new robes and one nightgown for Lacey. Then he spent a few minutes standing in front of a bewildering display of nail polish. The names of the colors delighted him, though they meant nothing whatsoever in terms of actual color. He chose "Feminine Flower" because of the name alone. The fact that it was a subdued lavender shade also seemed appropriate. Finally, he selected a number of different kinds of things that were designed to control and help style a woman's hair. The only makeup he had any knowledge of was the camouflage variety and the commercial pastes that many operators used as a base under the green, brown, and black streaks, so that it would come off when you wanted it to. He decided not to try getting her any makeup. In his mind, if he could get her to use the nail polish, that would be a resounding success.

When he got back home he dropped off a pint of chocolate milk to Lionel, who was on outside duty at the time, and went in to give Dick his order and put away the rest of the groceries. Lacey appeared from her bedroom and helped him.

"What's all this?" she asked, when she opened the bag with the clothing items in it.

"You only have one nightgown," said Bob. "I thought you might like to be able to change things up now and then. So I got you a new nightgown and two new robes."

She pulled the garments out of the bag and held them up to look at. The robes came out first. One was midnight blue, with gold trimmings. The other was forest green with cuffs, collar, and belt that were light brown. Both only came to just below her knees when she held them up against her body. She thought of them as decadent, but at the same time beautiful. She wondered what her mother would have said if she'd seen them. She blinked and swallowed. She didn't have to wonder. Her mother would have said they were a sinful, extravagant waste of money. The nightgown was long and white, like her cotton one, but it was much lighter. In places the fabric was smooth, shiny, and unbroken. The bodice had a pattern worked into the material that made it look lacy, but it wasn't see-through, like lace. It went from neck to ankles, like her old one. That too was classified as decadent, but beautiful.

She decided that, since she hadn't bought them, and that they were a gift, she would accept them. And she would wear them!

"I was thinking about getting dressed," she said. "But I'm going to go put one of these on instead!" Her voice sounded like she had decided to climb a smallish mountain rather than go for a short walk.

While she was gone Bob put the rest of the groceries away and pocketed the nail polish.

She returned wearing the blue robe.

"It's so soft," she said, sliding her hand across one sleeve. "Thank you!"

"It goes with your hair," said Bob. "Speaking of which, I also got you some barrettes or whatever they're called. Your hair looks really good down out of that bun, but I noticed you have to keep brushing it out of your face. I thought something like this might help." He dumped the little pile of hair clips out of the bag, onto the counter.

Lacey had plenty of pins to keep her tight bun in place all day. But she didn't have anything in the shape of a butterfly. Then her eyes were drawn to one that was a flower perched on a banana clip. It was blue, the same color as her new robe, and made up of a number of little blossoms. In the middle of each was a dark blue artificial pearl. It was beautiful, and she ignored all the others as she admired it.

"This one!" she said, like a little girl. "I want to wear this one!"

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

In some ways Lacey Cragg was a little girl, despite the fact that she'd walked the Earth for almost twenty-nine years. The first four of those twenty-nine years had been with her biological parents, but she hadn't had much chance to be a normal little girl. Her father was abusive and there was a lot of yelling in the house. She did a lot of hiding. Then one day people came and took her to a new house, along with a pitiful collection of her clothes. Her questions as to where Mommy and Daddy were went unanswered as first one foster family and then another tended to her physical needs, while leaving her psyche to fend for itself.

Fred and Eileen Cragg adopted the little six-year-old girl based on Christian duty, rather than a desire to love and cherish a lost soul. They attended what some would have called an ultra-conservative fundamentalist church which, among other things, believed the geological age of the Earth was in the neighborhood of 6,000 years, rather than the more widely accepted four and a half billion years. Give or take half a billion. Among those other beliefs were the concept that sex was necessary for procreation, but to be eschewed otherwise. Sex for pleasure led one down the primrose path to destruction and into the waiting arms of the grinning devil. It was perhaps because of the conservatism of this church that Eileen changed the girl's name from Angela to Lacey. Angela seemed blasphemous, and Eileen's great-grandmother was named Lacey. They never told Lacey she'd had any other name.

It was possible that the reason Eileen's womb never quickened and she was therefore motivated to adopt was because they were so careful not to engage in "frivolous" intercourse. Once, during the peak of her fertile time should be enough if the Lord was willing to give them a child. They decided the Lord wasn't willing, and wanted them to exercise their Christian charity by adopting some unfortunate urchin.

So Lacey was raised to believe that flaunting one's gender was base, and sinful. She was always dressed plainly, and her feminine attributes muted in all ways possible. As a girl her hair was cut short enough that some people thought she was a long-haired boy.