Wiscasett, Maine

The sound of the bell announced to the owner of Otter Rock Resort that another visitor had arrived. He looked up from his desk and regarded the latest tourist. Somewhat under six feet tall, a man had stepped inside the office and glanced cautiously, but curiously, around. He had a large army duffel bag hooked around one shoulder and a bemused smile on his face.

"Can I help you?" The resort owner asked. The man nodded, stepped up to the desk and swung his duffel to his feet.

"Yeah," he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. "I have a reservation."

The owner raised an eyebrow, figuring the guy to just be one of the many 'weekenders' to pass through. The man slipped a credit card out of his wallet, followed by a New York Driver's license.

"The name, sir?" The resort owner asked as he flipped his ledger open.

"Kostmayer." The other replied. "Michael Kostmayer. I have a reservation for three weeks."

The owner felt a little startled and saw, neatly penciled in, the name Kostmayer for a rental cabin. He was suddenly all pleasantness and business.

"Cabin #3, the one closest to the beach. It's a nice cabin." He pulled out a couple of papers and looked up at the young man. "I need you to fill out a few forms, here. You're going to be with us for a while." He said, smiling.

"Yup." Mickey replied, looking the forms over and picking up a nearby pen. "I hear the fishing is real good."

"Some of the best! Can't beat Wiscasett for both saltwater and freshwater fishing. There are hundreds of lakes back up the hills, full of trout, bass, you name it and the salmon runs look promising this year. Then there's sea bass, ling cod, rock cod. Lobster and crabbing too if that's your thing. There are some good clamming beaches around too. A little bit of everything for everybody." The owner busied himself with charging the expense to Mickey's card.

"Just so long as they're biting, I don't care." Mickey replied, smiling lopsidedly. "I'm driving the rental out there." He added and nodded his head out the large window towards a newer model car. "Also, I may get messages here, it's important that they get to me." He shrugged slightly looking steadily at the owner with hazel eyes. "Duty, you know."

"Military?" The owner asked, knowing the area was full of personnel from Bangor. Mickey nodded as the owner slipped the cabin keys onto the counter. Mickey signed the forms, turned them around for him, gathered the keys and smirked.

"You could say that," he replied dryly as the owner tore off Mickey's receipt and handed it to him.

"Thank you, Mister Kostmayer!" He said cheerfully. "If you need a rental boat, try Vernal's Rentals over by the local market. He and I are old friends. You can buy bait over there too."

Mickey let the Resort owner ramble on as he neatly folded his receipts and tucked them into his wallet. The credit card and license quickly followed. Mickey nodded at the appropriate places as he put his wallet away, then picked up his duffel bag.

He really wasn't paying that much attention, any more. Only one thing mattered. He was on vacation. Three weeks of nothing but fishing. That's all that mattered. Three weeks all to himself, the Company be damned. Mickey had well earned this vacation. An unusual early summer one at that. Though Control insisted he not stray too far, to Mickey's annoyance; he let it slide, as he had found himself a nice secluded, lazy little resort town to hide in. As he ambled out of the office, he blinked at the bright sunshine filtering through the tall conifers and felt the tension in his shoulders ease.

Three weeks, all to himself.

Wiscasett was set back in amongst the hundreds of thousands of crags and coves that made up the intricate Maine Coastline. There were an unlimited number of isolated spots where Mickey could indulge in his passion for fishing. The area was full of trails and paths wending in and out of the thick cover of trees, leading off to who knows where and inviting the traveler to come and explore. Mickey sighed at last, glanced at the cabin keys and ambled his way down one of the trails towards a cabin that sat near the beach. He smiled at the sound of the surf as he walked around to the door facing the water. Letting himself inside, he began looking around, dumping his duffel at the foot of the bed inside his rental cabin.

It was small, clean, and functional. That's all that mattered, he thought as he nodded in satisfaction. For him it would be home for three weeks. He looked at the bed. The first thing he planned on doing. He smirked, setting a hand in the center of the bed and testing its bounce. Turning away from it, he jumped and dropped, sprawled, on his back, comfortably on the bed. He wriggled his head into the pillow and sighed, draping his forearm over his eyes.

He had earned this nap.

Wiscasett had its fair share of summer tourists and supplied Mickey with a boat, bait, local gossip and some surprisingly good eats. He enjoyed himself, roaming around, doing whatever he pleased, getting up whenever he wanted, and doing whatever he cared to. It was his vacation.

When he needed to restock on food, he drove the rental car into town, to the local store perched at the edge of the cove. A few older folks, obviously residents of the area, milled around trading shop talk. Mickey wandered about, ignoring the sound of the bell clanging as another customer entered the store behind him. Barely keeping an ear tuned to the sounds of the talking, he made his selections before heading for the register.

A girl stood ahead of him, paying cash for two big sacks of groceries and a bag of cat food. She had to be a nearly a foot shorter than him. She gathered up her bags awkwardly and turned for the door. Mickey couldn't help but notice the long blonde hair caught back at the nape of her neck with a burgundy pony band. His rather keen sense of observation took in the jeans, soft brown shoes, denim shirt and trim, almost skinny, slenderness. Something, however, jarred the picture. Mickey focused on the attendant and dug out his wallet to pay for his purchases. It was early summer, the day promising to be a pleasant 80 odd degrees. Why would anyone be wearing a turtleneck?

He snatched up his purchase as he heard the sound of bags being juggled and caught up with the girl at the door.

"Here, let me get that for you!" he offered as he caught the door and held it open. He smiled his pixyish, lopsided grin at her. The girl, half stooped to catch the cat food bag as it slid, glanced up at him. She had light grey eyes, set in a slender face. Looking up at him in surprise she blushed, a tiny smile touching her lips. Mickey, not entirely unhandsome himself, turned on the charm.

"Can I help you carry any of that?" he offered as he flipped a stray lock of his own brown hair out of his eyes. The girl smiled at him, straightened up and shook her head no. As she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she nodded her head in thanks and turned to go.

Mickey blinked. She hadn't said a word. He felt a little deflated as he let the door shut behind him and watched the girl walk across the lot to an old brown Pick-up. She loaded her things and climbed into the driver's seat. He still stood there as she drove by and felt a little better when she waggled her fingers at him by way of saying good-bye. He sighed, chalking the girl up to local character. He wandered off to his own car. the fish were calling.

Two days later, the fuel line on the rental boat broke and, as Mickey happened to be close in to town, he rowed his way to the dock where he rented the boat from. The morning being glorious, people milled about doing the tourist thing. A cacophony of gulls laughed and cried ahead as folks tossed up whatever was available to feed them, while others prepared for fishing trips of their own, or bustled about on private business. Mickey paid no attention to them at all, being fully occupied with the broken line. It turned out to need long term repair, so the old man who ran the place gladly rented him another boat, which was moored at their furthest dock. Several spare boats bobbed at their moorings, and hardly any people stood around near them. He ambled over and spied someone sitting on the steps that led down to the plank walkway. As he neared, to his delight, he recognized the girl from the store.

Lying on the ground above her head was a sketchpad and a pen. Another pad lay opened to a blank page across her lap. She idly twirled a pencil in her fingers. She stared intently at a nearby boat, where Mickey could see that a catch of fish lay unattended. Next to the boat was an unidentified mound, covered with a tarp. His spirits lifted as he approached her.

"Hey!" he greeted.

The hand with the pencil flew up sharply to stop him. Bewildered, Mickey's eyes scanned instantly around taking in everything at a glance. He froze in his tracks. Nothing seemed out of place, except maybe this girl still sporting a turtleneck, (albeit of a different color), despite the warm weather. Mickey's eyes caught movement. He frowned, annoyed as a familiar tension took over his body and his weight shifted forward, balancing more on his toes, ready to drop his poles and tackle and go for his gun, lying snugly in its holster under his left arm.

The tarp covered mound suddenly rippled. Warily Mickey watched as the edge of the tarp flipped and waved. To his surprise a slim, dark brown, body eeled out from under the tarp and slipped noiselessly into the water. It swam towards them. Peripherally, Mickey caught a second movement as the girl's hand dropped to the pad on her lap. Fascinated, yet still tense, he watched as a river otter, if he wasn't mistaken, reappeared at the edge of the boat where the fish lay invitingly. Not a creature to miss opportunities, the enticement was too much for him to resist. Propelled seemingly by some giant hand from underneath, the otter bailed over the side of the boat, fully facing them. Again Mickey's eyes caught movement as the pencil in the girl's hand flashed. A quick sniff at the fish, a glance up and the otter bit deep into one. With a flick of his powerful tail, he splashed over the side of the boat and disappeared. Astonished, Mickey looked down at the girl, but stopped short again.

Leaning over her, he watched as the pencil in her hand developed a mind of its own. Like a snapshot, the face of the otter began to come alive just as he had bit into his purloined fish, his wild dark eyes dared them to challenge him. Droplets of water fell off his bewhiskered face. Each stroke from the pencil brought the creature more and more to life, until Mickey would have sworn it could move. A few things struck Mickey then. One, being the scarcity of otters, and two, this girl sitting on the dock was a bona fide lightning artist. He'd heard of them, people who could look at something once and quick as you please, draw it. Sort of a combination artist and photographic memory rolled into one. Where had he heard about them before?

"Wow!" he breathed, glancing back at the newly robbed boat, gently rocking on the waves. "I guess I'd better make sure my catches are stowed away!"

He looked back down at her. She gazed up at him, smiled brilliantly and pointed at a sign on a dock post with her pencil. In bold white letters on a red background it warned; 'Beware of the Otter.' Mickey chuckled.

"May I?" he asked impulsively and nodded at the drawing as he set his gear down. She agreed and lifted the notebook to him as she stood up.

"I'm impressed," he said truthfully as he studied the picture, amazed indeed, it had been done so fast. "Do you paint too?" he asked and flipped the page. When she didn't respond, he looked at her. Blushing, she waggled a hand at him, self-consciously tucking a long straying strand of hair behind one ear.

"These are really good!" he said admiringly, flipping to a few more drawings, all of the otter, apparently since he had appeared there that morning. "You should get them published," he smiled at her, handing the tablet back. She flushed a little more, as the corners of her mouth curled wryly. Still she said nothing, turning gracefully to reach down and pick up the other tablet and pen. Mickey felt intrigued, and liked it. He held out a hand, taking the initiative.

"I'm Mickey."

As she straightened, she shifted the tablets to one arm, looked a little tentative, and then shook his hand.

"I'm Reva." she replied.

As she studied him, he noticed her stiffen slightly. Her voice was too soft and too low, Mickey thought. She had spoken barely over a whisper. She certainly didn't seem to be shy, she acted totally natural. There was something wrong with her voice and her eyes seemed to darken as if a shutter came down.

"Nice to meet you, Reva. You live around here, or are you traveling?" he asked, seeing where he could go.

"Other side of the point," she whispered, nodding her head towards a spurt of land knifing its way across the bay.

"Over by the rental cabins?" he asked, delving further, hopeful. She smiled slightly, looked a little uncomfortable and then nodded yes.

"That's where I'm staying," he added. She lifted her chin in response and asked no questions back. He got the feeling those grey eyes were trying pick him apart. Mickey scrambled. Bobbing his head at the boat he asked.

"That otter, isn't it a bit unusual for them to be around? Aren't they supposed to be up a river or something? I thought they were rare?"

A soft exhale of laughter greeted his ears.

"Yes!" she whispered a bit raspily. "He's a local boy. We don't know where he came from." She smiled brightly

"Someone's pet maybe?" he asked. He saw no sign of the critter; he looked back at the girl.

"No," she replied, shifting her foot. "He's too wild, no one can get near him."

"Except you." Mickey beamed his lopsided boyish grin at her, his face quirkily showing off his good humor. She blushed, averting her gaze. He liked it.

"Only because I keep still."

Mickey heard a slight catch in her voice then. A self-conscious gesture towards her throat got his attention. A flash of discomfort further darkened her grey eyes, then just as quickly passed.

"When I move, he's gone," Her whisper grew harsh.

"Touch of laryngitis?" he asked, easily and friendly like. She turned her head away and tried not to feel too embarrassed. He noticed her shoulders tensing.

"Permanently," she replied, letting her hand go to her throat and rub gently. She didn't look at his face. He blinked, a frown touching his eyebrows.

"Some sort of accident?"

Her lips pursed together, before she smiled wanly.

"Wrapped a car around a tree." Somehow she couldn't look him in the eyes just then.

"Ouch," he cracked.

"It's okay, really," she glanced at him, a bit uncomfortable. "I just don't have much of a voice left." The grey eyes darkened and looked away from him. Something niggled at the back of Mickey's mind. An awkward pause developed.

"Those really are very good drawings," he commented trying to recover the conversation. "Do you have them published at all?"

"Yes," she replied with her strange whisper. "I do, actually." She briefly looked back at him, hunched her shoulders together and clutched the drawings tightly to her. She cast a glance down at her watch then at her truck.

"Uh oh!" she exclaimed. "I've got to go!" She looked up at him apologetically. "It's been nice to meet you... Mickey?" she asked uncertainly, gazing at him, wide eyed, innocent, embarrassed.

"Yeah," he said as she took a step back.

"I'm late for a meeting," she added, moving further.

"Sure, no problem. See you around maybe?" he asked. She shrugged, waggled her fingers at him again, by way of saying good-bye. She turned and trotted off to the truck.

As he watched her go, Mickey smirked slightly to himself. She had just very effectively lied to get away from him. Typical, he surmised, sighing in resignation. Sometimes all the charm in the world couldn't get you past square one. Not that he was even trying to get anywhere.. Bending, he scooped up his fishing gear, heading for the boat.

45 minutes later he bobbed contently in a secluded inlet, pole out, feet kicked back, head nestled in his arms and returned to the little enigma presenting itself in the form of a girl named Reva. Something didn't sit right and his brain had doggedly latched onto it. It simply refused to let it go.

Not far away, on a dirt track, Reva shifted the truck into neutral, killed the engine and coasted forward until she could spot the lone boat. Knowing full well the surrounding trees and scrub kept her practically invisible. She leaned forward and rested her arms across the steering wheel. She gazed thoughtfully at the lone man in the boat, a slight frown of disquiet on her face.

He certainly had charm and boyish handsomeness. And looked to be in very good shape under the blue T-shirt, windbreaker and jeans. Reva wasn't fooled. She knew what he was.

She'd seen the tell-tale lift on one shoulder marking a shoulder harness. She'd seen it too much. She closed her eyes briefly at a memory. Add to that his dark eyes, too carefully shuttered, despite the good humor sparkling from them. Oh, he seemed sincere, conversational too, but she simply knew better. He definitely was no cop. Not many tourists showed up who packed a concealed weapon. With what she knew from before... She caught herself, her eyes narrowed as she continued her study of Mickey Kostmayer. He had been trying to gain some sort of information. Yet in a "get-to know-you" type of way. Strange. She felt irritated, suspicious. The catch in her throat warned her that she'd aggravated her larynx in talking to him. She wouldn't have a voice by the afternoon if she didn't go home and take care of it. She gazed at Mickey and watched the light breeze lift his longish light brown hair. She sighed and climbed out of the truck, turned, braced herself against the doorframe and pushed it backwards until it began to roll gently. Mickey never heard the engine catch a few moments later as she drove away.

Mickey wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to his fishing pole as he mused on the enigma of Reva. The lapping of wavelets hitting the boat and surrounding rocks, the occasional gull, maybe the slap of a fish jumping, the creaking of the oars and motor in their casings, all were lulling him into a doze. Yet Reva kept intruding into his thoughts.

That she had some sort of injury was apparent. Both by voice and the self- conscious gestures at her throat. Add to that her never asking him a question, or giving up much about herself. Now that he thought of it, she seemed to get uncomfortable with him once she had a good look at him. Then there were the drawings. His mind still marveled at the accuracy and vitality of just the few he had seen. A lightning artist.

Some were employed by the media to cover those court cases where cameras were never allowed to go. Others were employed in police departments to help people trying to describe assailants. Most made careers for themselves in graphics or commercial arts. Some even did the complex storyboards for movies and television shows. Able to make quick, on the spot changes to satisfy a director or writer's whims. Personally, he had never seen them, nor heard of their cases, but Mickey did know that Control had a few tucked away somewhere in the Company. His knowledge ended there. Reva had mentioned she had been published. Perhaps she was just a commercial artist. Somehow that didn't sit quite right with him; however, his musing simply wouldn't reveal what that might be.

She avoided him, that was for sure. He sighed and muttered to himself. He had to be making mountains out of molehills. Reva was a local girl who happened to draw, had a bad accident, couldn't talk and brushed him off as gently as you please.

"Probably married and has twelve kids!" he grumbled, yet didn't recall seeing a ring on her finger. So why couldn't he get the girl off his mind?

Fishing that day turned out to be a total bust.

Further evidence for Mickey's suspicions that Reva tried to avoid him came the next day. He had finished eating breakfast when his eyes caught sight of her truck pulling into the parking lot fronting the cafe'.

She had to pass him. Curious, he sipped coffee and watched her retrieve a pet carrier from the front of her truck. Through the front grill he could see an enormous, dark cat. Turning, she caught sight of him gazing at her. Mickey nodded, raised his coffee cup and wondered why on earth her face had gone totally white. Hastily she looked away, her knuckles tight on the handle of the carrier. Shifting his own eyes away, he could see her swallowing hard, hefting the awkward burden. Her foot caught the door to her truck to close it and slammed it a little hard. The cat in the carrier shifted in alarm. Reva struggled with the wobbly burden a moment, half- bent over the carrier. Mickey could see, peripherally, as she tried to calm the cat and moved quickly to the sidewalk. She didn't even look his way as she hurried past him to get to the nearby vet's office. Mickey frowned; the very sight of him had caused her to react in fear. What on earth for? Piqued, Mickey dropped a pair of bills on the table, downed the last of his coffee and got up.

He moved into the card shop next door from the cafe' towards her parked truck. A convenient rack of birthday cards provided enough of a blockade to prevent her from seeing him, but he hauled out a battered baseball hat, crammed in his back pocket, just in case. One element to successful disguise being to slightly change one thing about oneself. He tossed his hair back, nestled the hat on his head and moved to where he could see her come toward the truck. He hadn't waited five minutes when she emerged and began, very carefully, to look around to see where he was. She pulled her hair loose from its band with one hand and nervously ran her fingers through the long curls with the other. She distinctly scanned up and down the streets, her eyes registering fear as she moved cautiously towards her truck. Mickey looked down at the cards as she passed by the window. She checked around again, jerked the door open, clambered inside and gunned the engine. As she backed out she looked into the window of the shop and their eyes briefly met.

The impression from her that registered most in Mickey's mind was that the baseball cap didn't work.

Sheer terror coursed through her and nearly caused Reva to put her foot through the floorboard. Visibly shaking from the adrenaline rushing through her veins, she began forcing herself to breathe normally, failing miserably as her breath came out in gasps. She leaned over, poked at the glove box and tried to watch her driving at the same time. She reached in, found an odd bundle and pulled it to her. She glanced at it once, reassured that she had grabbed her gun.

Mickey couldn't bring himself to go fishing. Reva fully occupied his attention, now. Sticking to the trails around his cabin, Mickey didn't pay the slightest attention to where he was going. A ton of questions pounded at his skull, the foremost wondering what had caused such fear in a local country girl.

Several days passed before Mickey located her home. She did live next door to the resort where he was staying. A light drizzly rain had set in and Mickey's restlessness drove him out of the lonely cabin. He had this thing about not being cooped up. The myriad paths surrounding the area cried out to him and he found himself prowling the one heading to the beach. The rain, a gentle warm one, did little to penetrate too far into the trees so by sticking to the forest paths he stayed relatively dry. Several minutes of walking brought him to the beach leading to the long finger of land cutting the resort off from sight of the little town itself. A cove within a cove greeted his eyes, as did a gazebo. He paused, taking in the view, hunched in his jacket.

A semi circle of clearing revealed a sea cottage to his immediate left, back against the trees. A series of beautifully kept gardens swept around the house to the immaculate green lawn. From the lawn's edge, wild grass took over, leading to the beach. Dead ahead lay the viewpoint. A long boardwalk that started at the beach grass, wended its way to the shoreline then continued on out several yards before it ended at the gazebo perched neatly on its stilts. Adirondack chairs and a table provided furnishings. Several flower boxes supplied a riot of pink, blue, and white flowers that spilled in delighted abandon over their edges despite the grey, rainy June day. To the gazebo's far right, more towards the entrance of the cove itself, sat a lone float upon which two seagulls huddled. Mickey gazed thoughtfully at the place and glanced left towards the front of the house. Parked out in the driveway was the old brown truck. Noting that the trail went on past her beach and up to the point, he continued walking, intent on exploring further on.

Sitting in the drawing room, Reva was bent over a work in progress when she saw someone walking across her beach. It wasn't uncommon for people to wander across it to reach the point. The plank walkway had access for people to cross over it as they came to and from the spit of land blocking her from Wiscasett. Several couples and a group of kids had already been along there earlier in the morning. However, when she looked up and spied Mickey ambling along his way to the point, Reva froze.

Very carefully she pulled her hand away from the drawing table and watched the solitary figure as he climbed up and over the boardwalk. An ink- loaded, antique stylus had just been poised to draw on a new section of her drawing. Reva carefully dipped the ink away into its bottle as her hand began to shake before she set the stylus down. She knew from past experience that no one could see into her place from where he strolled so she watched him, going cold with dread. Mickey had to be observing her, she thought. If indeed he was, he was damned good at hiding it.

She glanced out into her living room at a computer, frowned and clutched her arms. Why here? Why now? Her life was going along fine. So why was there an agent wandering across her beach, trying to get to know her? So far as she knew no one was seeking her... He had made sure of that when she dropped out of sight so many years ago. Besides, it had been a couple of years now since she had had any contact with him, ever since... Reva caught her hand sliding across her throat. She got up from the table and watched as Mickey disappeared into the trees.

Mickey simply couldn't be an agent on vacation; or could he? Reva sighed; he seemed to be out there only to enjoy himself. Besides, she was entirely too suspicious, she had to be. All the same, she needed to know something. She stared at the computer, wondering if she should say something to Mickey or go ahead and make contact with... Reva stopped herself. That could mean the total disruption of her home.

She wasn't willing to give up all the time, effort, and money she had spent in fixing the cottage up specifically for her. Besides, it had been her therapy while recuperating from the injuries to her throat. A place to unwind after hours of intense therapy to learn Ameslan for those times when her voice would fail her. Someplace secluded where she could cry, laugh, get mad or just soak in the beauty of her rugged little spot of coastline. She knew she could lose it all with one tap of the finger on that computer. Reva glanced outside. Better to go and tackle the bull by the horns herself. She vanished a moment into her bedroom, then she found her coat and went outside.

She took a longer path skirting the front of the point, which enabling her to check and make sure no one else was out exploring. Satisfied that only Mickey was headed to the scenic spot, she took the nearest shortcut that led up to it.

Mickey, lost in thought, gazed out at Wiscasett, hands shoved deep into his windbreaker pockets. Reva had lied to him earlier about needing to go to a meeting, and as he considered it, probably lied about the car accident too. Then there was that reaction in town. What could scare her so bad? He wondered what on earth made the girl so suspicious. Had she been injured under doubtful circumstances? He heard someone scrambling up the incline. Turning away from the view, he wasn't very surprised to see her. A mingled look of fear and determination had hardened her face. She studied him a fraction of a second. Her eyes then drifted quickly around the view point as she checked for other people.

She didn't have a sweater on this time, but instead had a high collared shirt buttoned to the top. Her long curls were caught loosely back at her neck. Reva just stared at him, her fingers tensing, and slowly set her foot down to stand up straight.

"Decided not to run this time?" he asked dryly. Reva carefully pursed her lips and swallowed. He pulled his hands out of his coat and held them out to her. "I've got nothing to hide," he added. She said nothing, still, but he could see her thoughts racing ahead and that she clearly didn't believe him.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice a thick whisper. He turned his head slightly, not quite hearing her.

"What?"

Her hands moved then, sharp and precise, a scowl crossing her features.

"Who are you?" she whispered harshly, at the same time.

Mickey hesitated, clearly recognizing sign language and understanding it. The problem was she saw his reaction too. The girl's eyes grew huge in horror, the color literally draining from her face. She began backing quickly away as if he suddenly had developed a virulent case of leprosy.

"Hey wait!" he protested and took three quick steps after her, catching her gently under her forearm. He suddenly discovered a very different Reva.

She grabbed a fistful of his coat in her left hand and jerked him forward. A leg wrapped around the back of his left knee. Off balance before he fully realized it, Mickey felt himself being shoved back, his leg giving out. Tucking his shoulder in, he expertly twisted, landed hard, and rolled to come back up again. Instantly he froze.

His eyes stared at the business end of a .9mm automatic. Now, where had she hidden that? his brain wondered. He slowly sat upright, bracing his hands flat out on the ground, digging his fingers in, hoping for a possible rock or two. Mentally, he berated himself for getting knocked off his feet. She stood over him, properly crouched, the big weapon looking too large in her hands, but she held it a little too knowingly for him to risk any stupid moves. He relaxed and carefully set his feet flat on the ground.

"Now what?" he asked her. The corners of her mouth were tinged white with fright. Her eyes had become as dark as the clouds surrounding them. She shifted the gun to one hand, stepped over him, and jerked open his jacket. Reaching in, her hand rested briefly on the end of his gun. She'd've been too easy to take down, stepping within range of his feet like that, but the dread emanating from the girl kept Mickey glued firmly to the ground.

"Watch it. I'm ticklish," he murmured lightly in her ear. Mickey's face had gone deadly serious, his eyes business-like. It, however, didn't stop the concern that drifted across his gaze.

She scowled, jerked back away from him and doubled the grip on her gun. "Who are you?" she whispered again.

"Michael Kostmayer," he said. "But my friends call me Mickey." He felt that irresistible shot of adrenaline he had long grown addicted to. It seemed to give his eyes a strange glint.

"Who sent you?" she asked harshly.

"Sent me?" he asked, surprised. "No one sent me. I'm supposed to be on vacation."

Reva shook her head, frowning in disbelief.

"Who do you think I am?" he replied as his voice dropped, trying to reason with her. "Don't you think this is gonna look kinda stupid when the next group of people come up?" Why hadn't she pulled his gun out when she had a chance? He kept his eyes carefully on her face. "Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"Answer my question," she grated out as a catch marred her already damaged voice. Mickey gazed at her a moment. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to toy around.

"Look, I am not a bad guy. I am only out here on a fishing trip, no one sent me!" he replied truthfully. "But if you need some help."

"Why would you be carrying that, then?" she rasped, indicating his gun. "How did you know sign language? How'd you even figure out I knew? Why were you watching me yesterday?" She reaffixed the gun sight between his eyes. "Some one sent you and I want to know who?" Her voice gave out completely.

"Look, I work in security, my gun is a part of it. No one sent me," he replied cautiously, keeping his voice low. "I'm here on vacation. I'd be more than happy to leave though, if you'll." he let his gaze drift to the gun. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as her lips curled down. A lot of questions were popping into Mickey's mind. At almost the same instant both heard muffled voices from the Wiscasett side of the viewpoint.

"Reva, listen carefully," he spoke urgently. "I'm not the bad guy, really! I just here to do some fishing. I'm not spying on you! I'll leave and never come back if you'll just give me the gun. Those people are gonna be here any second. Whoever you're hiding from is certainly gonna see some sort of story on this, if it hits the paper." Moving ever so slowly, he stood up. She began backing away, never dropping the gun. He held his hands out to her, placating.

"Just put that thing away and I'll leave, all right?" He studied this odd young woman a moment. "I won't ever come back," he added truthfully. The voices grew louder. Reva stood frozen. Very gingerly Mickey moved sideways and slipped past the end of her gun. He set his hand on top of it and gently pointed it to the ground as his ring finger pushed the safety on. He could hear a faint wheeze in her breathing. As he removed the gun out of her hands, a harsh racking cough seized the girl.

Two people, at the far edge of the point, appeared in view just as he deftly tucked the gun against the small of his back. Reva, one hand on her throat, the other covering her mouth, began coughing in earnest. Mickey gently caught the girl under both forearms, holding her in front of him and quickly moving them down the path away from the approaching couple. Just his hands, where they carefully gripped her past her elbows, could feel the tension wound up tight as a coil in the girl.

Gaining the beach, her legs gave out, bringing them both down to their knees. The spasm literally racked her body as she turned her face away from him in shame. She began to retch. Mickey felt his heart wrench at her whimper. For a moment all he could do was hold her arms as she retched again and choked on a painful sob. She began to cough again as she pushed herself up off the pebbles. She pulled her hand from her mouth.

Blood covered it.

Alarmed, Mickey simply took over.

"C'mon," he murmured in her ear, pulling her to her feet. He took her back to her home. Another fit racked her as they climbed onto the veranda. While Mickey eased her to the deck, Reva jerked her shoulder away from him.

"What can I get you?" he demanded, as she choked again. Her hand flashed to her chin, her first three fingers forming a "W". Her eyes were screwed shut in obvious pain, the other hand clutching her throat. Mickey nodded, scrambling to his feet.

"Water! Got it!" He moved towards the house, only to find the French doors were locked. Not even thinking, he knocked out a pane with his elbow, reached up inside and forced his way into the house. A scan through the kitchen located the glasses and the towel hanging off the refrigerator door. He quickly filled a glass full of water and he rejoined her. She had managed to sit up, desperately trying to wipe the blood off her face.

"Here," he said handing her the glass and the towel. He crouched next to her. Fighting against sobs of frustration, she wiped her mouth then downed a short swallow of water. Swishing quickly, she leaned and spat over the side of the porch and drank again, struggling to avoid another round of hacking. He waited patiently, aching to do anything more to help.

"Can I get you some more? Maybe call your doctor? What can I do?" he asked. She refused, shaking her head no, her hair loosening itself from the pony band. Impulsively, he reached up and carefully pulled her hair back over her shoulder. She visibly flinched.

"S'okay," he murmured lifting a corner of the towel she kept over her mouth. He gently wiped off a smear on her cheek. "I won't hurt you," he added softly, allowing himself to gaze at her profile. Something checked him. He got to his feet suddenly, carefully guiding her up with him. "Let's go inside."

She let herself be steered indoors, then she shrugged his hands off of her. With wobbling steps she disappeared down a hallway, leaving Mickey standing by himself. Realizing he had broken into the place, Mickey wandered over to the doors and gazed in dismay at what he had done. Broken glass had settled on the floor inside the house with a few shards still hanging from the door. Gingerly Mickey pried loose the remnants, examined the caulking, and mentally figured what it would need to fix it.

Picking up the shards on the floor, too, he headed into the kitchen. He located the waste basket, dumped the glass in it and then looked around for something to patch the window. A pile of cardboard sat near the few logs by the fireplace, so Mickey helped himself.

No Texas good ol' boy ever went without a pocketknife. Mickey produced one and made a temporary patch for the hole he had made. As he worked, he looked around the living room.

Immaculate, was the first word that popped into his head, followed by expensive. Kitchen, dining and living room were combined for one big area, dominated by the great fireplace. To his left was the sunroom where he had previously seen a drawing table and work sitting on it. A hallway separated the sunroom and the kitchen, which led off to several other rooms. The whole house was open and airy, very comfortable, designed to take advantage of the view and the natural light. His eyes drifted over a few award plaques on the dining room wall. Several framed lithographs, of which some were of her drawings, hung there. Oddly, an assortment of kids books mingled in with various others on an oak bookcase. An expensive computer desk sat against the only wall with no windows, upon which a computer, the phone, a tty unit, and printer sat patiently waiting to be used. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, he mused, then he remembered the gun at his back. Pulling it out, he checked to see if there was a chambered round. He wasn't too surprised to find that there was. He removed the clip then jacked out the remaining bullet. He looked the gun over carefully, noted the well kept condition, then gently set it and the bullets on the kitchen bar.

This girl was scared stupid, he thought, frowning, as he shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets. He could hear her trying to stop another round of coughing in the bathroom. The injury that robbed her of her voice clearly had more to it than a car accident. Something aggravated it to the point of drawing blood. At least what he had seen had been bright red, which indicated arterial blood. Probably scar tissue. He let his gaze drift out the windows to the beautiful gardens, blooming in profusion.

She knew a little something about hand to hand combat, else she would never have gotten him down so easily. But why hadn't she taken his gun when she had the opportunity? She seemed to only want to confirm he had it and to know who had sent him. Who would send him? He didn't know anything about her. Mickey heaved a sigh, except maybe that this Reva was completely opposite from the one he met at the dock, drawing otters. That Reva had been sunny and delightful, this one was downright suspicious and scared. Mickey didn't like it. Why would a commercial lightning artist know martial arts and pack a substantial weapon? Better still, how had she figured him to be some sort of spy? Unless she'd been around them. An icy finger trailed its way up his spine. How on earth could she know?

He heard the door opening and waited patiently as she disappeared into the furthest bedroom. After a few moments she re-emerged, having put on yet another turtleneck. Her hair was loose now, and she looked nearly grey, her face was so pale. She had a discouraged, frightened frown on her face and looked to be in pain. Entering the kitchen, her eyes glanced once at him, then at the gun on the bar. Silently, she set a belt holster next to it.

"Are you going to be all right now?" he asked, genuinely concerned. She looked at him a long moment, skeptically, then nodded her head in acknowledgement.

"What caused all that?" he asked, nodding at the deck. She said nothing. Presently she moved her hands. Her signing was eloquent, if slow, which sat fine with him, being a bit rusty at translating.

"There's scarring," she signed, not even trying to speak. "It needs more surgery to remove it. When I try to use my voice too much, it causes problems." It made sense to him. He nodded in understanding.

"What would make you think I'm some sort of cop?" he asked bluntly. She gazed at him directly. Mickey hated seeing the fear come into her eyes.

"Who would pack a weapon on vacation, unless they were?" her eyes grew challenging. "Only a cop or an agent is that suspicious, even on vacation! I spotted you were wearing a holster," she added. "And you understand signs. Then there was yesterday at the card shop."

"Only another operative would be trained to see something like that," he replied softly. She seemed to shrink even smaller.

"I am no spy," she signed crisply. He looked at her.

"Maybe, but you've certainly been around them. And you're scared. Of something," he murmured. "I've been around fear too much not to recognize it."

Reva clenched her fists slightly and scowled again. Her hands moved.

"Who sent you?" she asked again. Mickey heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Nobody," he said flatly, looking at her. "I came here to enjoy some fishing. It's what I do when I'm not." he let his words trail off, a ghost of a smile curling his mouth. "I'll even let you call my boss and ask him," he added. She stared back at him, warily. Somehow she suddenly didn't want to know who his boss was... She sighed and gently rubbed at her throat. Instinct told her he had to be telling the truth. If he had been sent to watch her, he'd certainly not be standing in her own home with her. Her fears had caused an over reaction on her part. Mickey noticed her looking embarrassed.

"Look," he said trying to appease. "I could just leave. Never come back to this place. Would that make you feel better?" She didn't respond right away and just stared at the gun on the counter. Mickey continued.

"I never meant to alarm you," he added. She glanced back up at him. He looked at her with dead earnestness. She recalled how gentle he had been bringing her back to the house. If anyone would have had opportunity to get at her. Weariness settled all over her.

"Besides, I owe you a window pane," he nodded his head at the doors. "I'd like to fix it..." he offered. She glanced at the door and couldn't help but notice that he had removed the glass and put in a temporary fix.

"I'm tired," she signed. He straightened to go. Pausing he looked her over, seeing indeed that she had suddenly aged far beyond her years.

"Would you mind if I stopped by later? I'll fix that window," he offered. She looked up at him and felt a hundred years old. She sighed, then nodded her head indicating he could. A light smile quirked across his face, then he turned and went back out the way he had come in. For a long time Reva simply stood and stared at the temporary repair he had made to her French doors.

Late the next morning, Mickey pulled into Reva's driveway and immediately noticed that her truck had a flat tire. He hauled out a sack of stuff from his vehicle and ambled over to the truck. Running his free hand along the tread his fingers located the head of sheet metal screw. His eyes twinkled a little, knowing full well it was another opportunity to stick around and get to know this girl.

When she answered his knock, he saw that she had hardly slept, the circles under her eyes made worse by the paleness of her face. Pain and uncertainty lurked in her features.

"Hi," he said, smiling lopsidedly. "You all right?" She nodded.

"I. uh, got the stuff to fix that window," he said then turned slightly to let her see the truck. "Did you know you have a flat?"

Reva looked at him blankly a moment then stuck her head out the door. Her mouth said 'Oh no!', but there was nothing from her voice. She gave him an utterly deflated look. He looked at her with boyish hope.

"I can fix that too, you know? I checked it. You ran over a nail somewhere. I saw the spare in the bed of the truck. I could get it off and put it on? That's if..." he looked expectantly at her. "If that's okay with you?"

Reva's shoulders sagged. Wearily, she signed.

"I don't have a car jack."

"I do," he smiled brightly and set the sack he held just inside her doorway. Reva followed him as he went to his car, clutching her arms. Mickey popped the trunk and pulled out a jack and tool kit, complete with cross wrench and fittings.

"Here take a look," he said dropping to a knee in front of the tire. He showed her the tack. Reva sighed, gazing at him in frustrated resignation.

"I have to pick up Toby from the vet's in 20 minutes."

"No problem, I'll have this done in a jiffy," he volunteered. Reva nodded her head in dismay.

"At least let me pay you for doing all this." she signed as he felt under the truck searching for a place to set the jack. Mickey gave her pained look.

"You don't have to do that." he said, watching her. Reva, exasperated, signed.

"I can't let you just fix all this stuff for nothing." she protested, her hand gestures eloquently accompanying her silent words.

"Hey let a guy have some dignity, will ya, I don't want your money. Besides, I'm the one who broke your window." He ducked under the truck's edge, located a likely spot, and set the jack in place. He popped his head back out and quickly added.

"But I did not stick the tack in your tire." To his surprise he got a smile from the girl, albeit a bit of a sardonic one. Mickey quickly had the tire off. She moved to the side of her truck and began to reach in for the spare.

"Ah, ah!" he scolded. "That's my job." He reached past her, drawing the tire to him. Hefting it out proved to be a little too easy. He dropped it to the pavement. Both stared as it flattened.

Their eyes met over the tire.

"Need a ride?" he asked, hopefully.

Reva moved her hand to cover her mouth. For a few seconds everything grew very still as she stared. Then she snorted softly and he could see her trying to hide a reluctant grin. "I'll load these in the car," he said indicating the tires. Reva bobbed her head.

"I'm not quite ready," she mouthed, and signed. "I'll be a couple of more minutes."

"Mind if I come in and check the glazing on that window? I want to make sure I got the right stuff." Reva paused a moment, considering, then nodded. She went back inside. Mickey felt relieved that she seemed to be much less afraid of him this morning. Yet there remained an underlying tension.

As he waited for her, he studied a framed lithograph of 'Where The Wild Things Are' hanging prominently in the dining room. The illustrator, Maurice Sendak, had signed it. Mickey glanced at Reva as she entered the kitchen.

"I remembered reading this book as a kid," he mused, reminiscing. Reva smiled lightly.

"Who didn't read it? He's my favorite illustrator, living anyway," she signed.

"Signed copy too. Must be worth something."

"You could say that."

"He grew up in the area my brother works in," Mickey commented.

"Brooklyn?" Reva 'exclaimed'. Mickey grinned at her.

"Polish Brooklyn, the old section. Nick's a priest." He shrugged, raising a you-know-how-it-is eyebrow. "Kinda hard not to live there with a name like Kostmayer," he added wryly.

"Sendak did most of his work in New York. I admire his stuff," she signed.

"I think Nick mentioned something about the older Sendaks being in the area still, but that was ages ago," Mickey said thoughtfully.

"Someday I want to do a better job than he did doing set designs for the Nutcracker. His Pacific North West work is unbeatable," she signed. Mickey looked at her slightly amused. That was the longest discourse about herself he had 'heard' yet. "We've got to go get Toby," she reminded him.

"Toby?" Mickey asked moving into the hallway.

"My cat."

"Oh yeah, the one who didn't appreciate you kicking the door shut the other day," he cracked. Reva blushed.

"Let's not mention that," she signed, looking at him soberly. "I still have a lot of questions I want to ask you."

"Why am I not surprised?" he asked as they left the house. A stray cloud had to enter his day somehow.

The conversation in the car wasn't much, due mostly to Reva's lack of speech. Mickey couldn't help but notice how genuinely tired she was. The trip into town being blessedly quick, he dropped her off at the vet's office and ran the two tires to the shop across the road from them. As it was going to take a few minutes, he walked back across the street, headed first into the card shop then into the cafe'. Seeing she still wasn't out he took the two coffees he bought and decided to join her.

There was always something about the smell in a vet's office that never sat right with anyone's nose. Mickey ignored the clang of the bell as he pushed the door open with his hip. Presently, a tall brunette showed up in an otherwise empty reception room.

"Can I help you?" she asked brightly, sitting down.

"I'm waiting on..." Mickey let it hang, nodding his head at a closed door.

"Miss Cheney? The one with Toby?"

"Yeah, Miss Cheney."

"They'll be a couple of minutes. He had a nasty abscess on his back leg."

Mickey nodded, setting one coffee cup down and sipping at his. Miss Cheney, he mused trying to hide his smile of satisfaction. So much for married with twelve kids. The receptionist returned to her work.

Presently the door opened and Reva emerged, lugging the cat carrier, followed by a stocky older man wearing a white lab coat, emblazoned with the name Dr. Lasker. His hair, once red and now greying, was combed back. Nothing was able to hide a pair of twinkling blue eyes behind a set of bifocals.

"Just make sure he has no more run ins with that other cat, dear." he said amicably. Reva smiled awkwardly up at him. Mickey set his cup aside and instantly relieved her of the cat carrier. Toby shifted, uneasily.

"Let me carry that," he said easily. "Just grab the coffees okay?" Reva looked at him a moment in dismay, relented, then glanced at the Doctor. All she could do was mouth a thank you at him.

"Don't worry about it, Reva dear. Just make sure he gets his pills and bring him in next week to get those stitches out. Bonnie will take care of the prescription." The doctor smiled and went back into the exam room, where he began cleaning off the table.

"The car's across the street," Mickey said to Reva, "I'll take him over there and you just meet me when you're through, okay?" Reva, seeing the willingness to help in his eyes, sighed and nodded. Mickey glanced down at the big brown tabby in the carrier.

"If you're good, I'll by you an extra stash of catnip!" He winked at Reva as he backed out the door with her cat. "What do you feed this guy? Steroids? He's huge." The receptionist giggled.

"We grow Maine Coon Cats big around these parts, buddy!" She looked at Reva with a sly smirk. As the door shut behind him, she looked at Reva.

"Very nice, Reva! Where'd you find him?" Reva blushed and pulled a checkbook out of her back pocket.

"Down at the docks," she mouthed. The receptionist busied herself with the prescription.

"Remind me to go trolling down there more often," she smiled at Reva, who busily wrote her check out. "He's not bad, and he seems to like you." Reva looked at Bonnie in exasperation.

"Don't give me that look, girl! You've lived alone too long. Enjoy it while you have a chance."

"I don't even know him." Reva barely mouthed again. She caught the catch in her voice.

"Well, get to know him! And you'd better get that throat taken care of soon, girl. You won't have anything left to speak with, if you keep using it." Reva rolled her eyes and passed the check to the girl. Bonnie handed her the prescription, which Reva promptly shoved into a pocket, followed by the checkbook.

"Yes, mother." she mouthed back as she picked up the two cups.

"What's his name anyway?" The other asked, hugely enjoying Reva's discomfort.

"Mickey Kostmayer," Reva barely whispered before the catch in her voice turned into the cough. Bonnie grinned.

"Mickey Kostmayer. I like it," she replied. Reva rolled her eyes and backed out the door, gingerly carrying the coffees.

In the exam room the doctor had stopped and listened intently. No one saw the start in his eyes at the name of Mickey Kostmayer. He let himself into his office a few seconds later and picked up the telephone.

Reva spotted Mickey where he sat in the car across the street. He was out of it in a flash, opening her door for her. Toby sat, huddled in his carrier, in the back seat. She handed Mickey his coffee as he slipped back in the driver's side.

"Tires'll be a couple of more minutes. Thanks." He flashed a grin at her and took his cup. Reva raised a skeptical eyebrow and simply pointed at her cup, her own lips curled in a smirk. He looked at her quizzically.

"It's coffee, two sugars and cream."

"How do you know I like my coffee that way? How do you know I even like coffee?" she signed.

"The cream and sugar dispensers next to your coffee pot," he replied non- chalantly. Reva's grey eyes just looked at him. Mickey laughed gently.

"Weren't we just saying something last night about being around spies? I'm trained to notice stuff. It's part of the job." He looked at her. "Besides, you look tired and I feel kinda responsible for it." Reva exhaled softly and cautiously took a sip. Her eyebrow lifted. Mickey grinned.

"Did I get it right?" he asked. She nodded a yes and sat back. Her shoulders dropped and she sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kostmayer..." she signed as she set the cup on her leg. "I feel stupid about yesterday. I really thought you had been sent to watch me. My talent at drawing had been used before by..." She shrugged, smiled a little and raised a 'tell-all' eyebrow. "My throat injury was the result of a screw up in security," she admitted. Mickey looked thoughtful.

"Had a few of them myself," he murmured. "And don't ever call me Mr. Kostmayer, again," he chided. Reva let herself giggle.

"Are you really just on vacation?" she asked. Mickey threw his hand up in a Boy Scout salute.

"Honest! I've needed a vacation for a long time. Finally got the old man to give me one."

"Why here?" she asked, waving a hand at the whole town.

"He didn't want me straying too far... Bangor's just up the road, I can catch flights out of the base there, if need be."

"Military?" she asked. Mickey bobbed his head in mid sip.

"Navy," he admitted after a slight pause. Reva caught the hesitation.

"Navy, eh? Had a grandpa in the SEALs." She looked a tad distant, thinking. "He was a great man," she added. Mickey looked a hair uncomfortable.

"Some of 'em are," he commented dryly, seeing movement in the rear view mirror. "I was in the SEALs too. Tire's are done."

He popped his door open and she followed suit, looking curiously at him because of his somewhat short comment. He looked at her.

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

"They're my tires, I need to pay for them," She signed.

"I'll get 'em," he replied, releasing the latch on the trunk.

"No way," she flatly signed. "You are not buying everything for me! I can more than afford them."

"You can pay me back by letting me borrow your kitchen," he shot back. She blinked in surprise.

"What?"

"Pay me back by letting me use your kitchen. That place of mine over there doesn't have anything decent to cook on. I want to be able to eat some of those fish I've been catching." He looked at her expectantly. "Of course, I wouldn't mind sharing..."

Reva closed her eyes, dropped her head and smiled.

"You're determined aren't you?" she signed. Mickey just smiled sweetly and shrugged.

"Is it a date?" he asked. Reva shook her head with a silent laugh.

"Only if you tell me why the SEALs make you so uncomfortable," she signed, raising a daring eyebrow. The faintest hint of long held pain drifted across Mickey's face, but he smirked at her, rising to the challenge.

"Maybe we should wait 'til after dinner before I tell you that."

Fixing her window was easy, so was bribing her cat with the catnip ball Mickey had purchased at the card shop earlier. Toby, all 18 pounds of fur and purr, liked Mickey right off. Reva still had to be worked on. She had busied herself with an elaborate project for her publisher as she had been commissioned to do the artwork for a book about "The Flying Dutchman." Drawings were scattered all over her dining room table. Slowly the ice broke between them as he commandeered her kitchen.

Reva, a bit surprised, found his cooking to be rather good. Nothing beat fresh grilled fish fillet in garlic and butter, on a hot summer night. Add a salad, drinks, good company, and the day slowly came to end on a well- rounded note.

Their conversations were tentative and cautious. Reva didn't reveal much about herself before coming to Wiscasett, sticking mostly to discussing various illustrating jobs. Then again, on his part, he didn't let on much either, other than being a transplanted Texan in New York City, who had a navy background, and did odd jobs in security for the government.

Despite the lack of details he was able to gain a little bit of her trust, enough for Mickey to persuade her to walk down the beach with him. He even left his gun where he had stashed it on top of her refrigerator.

A glorious sunset greeted them as they wandered away from the town. Reva, being a born beachcomber, had immediately begun scanning for shells and other bric-a-brac, while Mickey enjoyed the never-ending rhythm of the surf. As they walked, he kept a steady eye on her, to read her sign language, and impulsively engaged in a rock-skipping contest. Nearly a mile out, Reva finally broached the subject he didn't particularly want to tackle.

"So..." she signed. "It's after dinner."

Mickey let fly with his stone, seeing her remark yet not answering it right away. He counted skips, feeling her eyes on him as if they could get behind his very carefully constructed walls.

"You would have to remind me of that," he grumbled lightly, fingering another stone in his hand. Reva saw the dark cloud as it drifted over his features, it suddenly gave him a world-weary air. He twisted slightly, slinging the rock underhand to skim across the surf. He couldn't bring himself to look in her eyes.

"You don't have to tell me, you know," she signed. His lip crooked when he glanced at her. Reva had decided to let her long, wavy, blonde hair loose to blow in the breeze.

"Tell you what, you tell me what scares you so bad and I'll tell you why the SEALs are such bad news," he said, watching for her response. Reva's lips curled slightly.

"I asked first," she signed, her movements clear and precise. He gazed at her. It had taken him all day to get her to relax around him. How on earth was she going to react to his past? She waited patiently, thumbs hooked in her jean pockets, watching him intently. What had Robert drilled into him all these years... be honest.

"I...uh," he started, looking away, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. His shoulders hunched. "I...uh, I did time," he sighed. "Few years back... in Leavenworth." His shoulders and his head dropped in defeat. He figured if he had to blow it, now was the time to do it, before he really got lost. Reva said nothing, just watching him soberly. He could still feel those grey eyes trying get past all his defenses. She moved.

"For what?" she signed slowly. Mickey swallowed, gently bit his lower lip and looked away from her. One at a time he let his handful of small flat rocks drop to the ground. He looked everywhere but at those grey eyes. He sucked in air.

"Um... my partner got killed," he stopped. Reva could see something low, dark, and deep move across his suddenly aged face. She watched as he struggled a moment, then he abruptly looked her in the eyes. "It was for murder," he said. "I was convicted," he added softly. She literally felt the discomfort emanating off of him.

"A very good friend of mine in New York, he...uh, he found the evidence needed to prove I didn't kill him." By the tone in his voice Reva could hear that something very special existed between Mickey and this friend. "I was exonerated and released." Mickey swallowed again and glanced away from her. He looked utterly defeated. His stomach had curled itself into knots.

"Well, that would explain why you're standing here..." she signed, catching his eye. Mickey looked back at her in surprise. "I mean, not many convicts would be allowed to carry weapons, and you certainly don't act like a fugitive..." She stopped and just gazed at him. He stared back, momentarily speechless.

There and then, Reva decided that Mickey Kostmayer really had been telling her the truth all along. An admission such as this, only three days into a somewhat rocky acquaintance had to come from an honest heart. She had seen a light die in his eyes, replaced quickly by resolve, and resignation. Face the fire and act like a man. A soldier's bearing. Yet the thing that had reached out and touched her had been the look of terrible loneliness which had surfaced in his hazel eyes. Knowing full well that this thing was a burden he had to face the rest of his life. That light in his eyes earlier had gone out. Reva suddenly found she did not want to see it extinguished.

"You know..." she signed. "That took a lot of guts to admit to something like that." She bent down and picked up one of the rocks he had dropped. Spinning on her heel, she sent the stone skittering and skipping across the top of the waves. Neither spoke, they just watched the rock go before it slipped under the surface. She turned and looked at him.

"11 skips, beat that!" she grinned and it lit her face with radiance. Mickey could only gaze at her, his face somber. Then he slowly smiled his lopsided grin. Reva saw the barest of flickers in his eyes. He started resuming their walk. Reva gently slipped her hand around his arm, and ducked her head shyly.

For several long moments they didn't speak, but then he finally said, "So. Now that I've spilled the beans, it's your turn." He slid her hand into his own to gently clutch her fingers.

She didn't answer right away. She enjoyed watching the sun go down, walking slowly with him, just being near him, really. Finally, left handed, she signed.

"What would you like to know?"

He didn't respond right away either. The feel of her hand in his being something he marveled at. To be near another human being, in a non- threatening situation, was an idea so novel to him that all he wanted to do was soak in it. He studied her a moment as she watched the sun go down, trying to figure out what had happened to her. Living alone, sometimes scared witless, (enough to arm herself), and literally speechless. She never had mentioned any family to him, or friends for that matter. How could she stand being so isolated?

"What happened to you?" he asked and pointed at his throat. "You said something earlier about a mess up in security?" She nodded and studied his hazel eyes a moment.

"You already know I did some government work." She smiled wryly, and signed one handed. "I used to work in New York, too. Maybe 5 years ago. I was trying to get on with any publisher then, and to help out my income I took a job as a clerk at one of the federal buildings." She pursed her lips, looking out at the surf.

"In due time, I became one of the drivers for one of the upper level bosses." Mickey frowned.

"Wait a sec. Only folks with several years of military or police type training are allowed to be drivers... Not to mention some damned high security clearance!"

"I know that," she signed. Mickey shook his head.

"Reeve... I know you don't have that much ability. I could have taken you out six different ways the other day."

"Truth?" she queried, looking at him. "I don't have more than three months worth of karate'. But now I do know how to handle that gun." She smirked at his disbelief.

"Okay, how did you get to be a driver?" he asked. She squeezed his hand, grinning.

"Let me finish telling you," she mouthed. Mickey returned the smile.

"This ought to be good..." he drawled.

"You're right, I had no training for it. I took it on as a challenge."

"You what?"

"There was this person in the office. He was a real jerk. He kept wanting me to do things for him. Especially when he found out about my ability to draw what I see." She shrugged her shoulders. "We didn't get along," she added, looking at him. He listened patiently.

"One day he wanted me to do something I knew was immoral, especially as it affected one of the bosses. I told him no. He told me I'd never amount to anything but a pencil pusher and he'd see to it that I would stay that way. Well, the cards were on the table, I certainly wasn't going to be humiliated that way." She smiled at her escort.

"So I arranged to get promoted to the job he wanted."

"The drivers job," Mickey stated. She smiled.

"How did you arrange that?" he asked. Here, Reva's smile grew very coy.

"I got the necessary paperwork and signed my way in." Mickey stared at her.

"You forged your way in?" he exclaimed. "Impossible!" Reva silently laughed.

"Not only was it possible, I actually had been driving nearly a week, before I got caught."

"Ahh.. . There is a catch," he commented.

"Well yes and no," she responded. He looked a little surprised.

"That's got to be at least a court martial, if not losing your job," he said flatly. Reva nodded.

"It so happened I was chosen to be the driver for one of the top guys. He let me drive him around all day, then he had me pull over in Central Park." Mickey watched as she tugged at the throat of her sweater. As her head was turned to gaze out at the ocean, he didn't see the troubled look which flashed briefly across her eyes. She gripped his hand, signing with the other,

"This guy was very scary! He sat there and told me that what I was doing could earn me about 10 years in prison. That I was a damned fool, and that I had better come up with a good explanation as to why I was driving him around!"

"Met a few guys like that myself!" Mickey cracked. "What'd he do?"

Reva's light bantering tale began to take a more somber side. "He wanted to know how I did it, and why. I told him the truth."

"And?"

"He let me keep the job." Mickey blinked in surprise.

"You're joking?

"No, he let me keep the job, but it had some strings attached..." Mickey stopped walking. He gazed steadily at Reva.

"There's always a string attached..." he murmured. She nodded her head in agreement.

"He arranged for the training I did receive and began teaching me some other things after I had showed him how I signed my way into my job." Mickey felt an icy chill run up his spine at her signing of 'other things...'

"He didn't," he asked involuntarily. Reva quickly shook her head no, clutching at his hand.

"Oh no! Not like that! No. He had seen what I could do as an artist and I started doing things for him. On occasion I drove, but after he found me out, I did most of my work in his office complex. I stayed on there for almost a year..." she explained. "He sort of took me under his wing and began training me to..." she simply let it drop and smiled knowingly at Mickey. He nodded and they resumed walking.

"Go on," he prodded.

"Well, one day he came to me needing an assignment done." Reva signed slowly. Mickey could see the play of old memories across her features.

"Seemed there were a few undesirables, terrorists really, who were attending a very ritzy gala at the mansion of some media tycoon... I never did know who he was..." she let it trail off. She grew quiet, thinking about the events of that night. Mickey watched the shadows in her eyes. Finally she looked askance at him.

"My boss was my escort that night. All he wanted me to do was get a good look at the two people in question and draw them for him later. Apparently these guys never allowed cameras near them," she paused a long time again, just walking.

"What happened?" Mickey murmured. She swallowed, her hand lightly touching her throat.

"I had a notepad with me and when I had excused myself to use the ladies room, I got the drawings down there on the spot, instead of waiting. It was a very stupid mistake on my part. Apparently I never saw one of the men's wives in there with me." She looked out at the beach, but Mickey could tell that she wasn't seeing it.

"The security that was supposed to be in place that night had been changed at the last minute. As I tried to get back to my boss, the wife went and told the husband what she had seen me do..."

"While I was trying to get back the crowd began to push and shove me around. I couldn't seem to get to him. I looked for the guys who were supposed to be there for security, but I couldn't see any of them. I remember seeing my boss watch me from across the room... I saw him look around, and he began to move my way..." Reva had come to a stop. "I remember hearing a woman scream something in Arabic at me... and the sound of a glass breaking."

Reva stopped signing altogether. Mickey had seen her face just go blank.

"Reeve...?" he asked quietly. She looked at him with eyes that were haunted.

"I saw her coming at me but someone else had grabbed me from behind. I couldn't move. I never even saw him. I never saw my boss..." she whispered out loud. "I never saw him..." she repeated, her voice trailing off, a hint of bitterness tracing her words. She swallowed, clearing her throat, shaking herself from the grip of the thoughts.

"When I woke up, I was in the hospital, with about 150 stitches in my throat." Other memories lingered in her eyes. Mickey could say nothing. She looked at him.

She whispered. "I was told that she had jabbed a broken wine carafe, straight into my neck. All the nerves had been severed... I nearly bled to death on the way to the hospital." She stopped for a very long moment. Slowly she whispered "I've never told anyone what happened."

Mickey let go of her hand to reach up and gently pull her hair back over her shoulders. His hand slipped behind her neck and he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms silently around her. She curled her arms protectively in front of her as he tightened his grip around her slender form. He said nothing and did nothing more. Reva closed her eyes, feeling the strength in his arms and chest, as he cradled her head to him. Pent up tension caused her to begin to shake involuntarily. For a long time the two just stood there, saying nothing. Finally Mickey murmured in her ear.

"C'mon, you need to go home."

Mickey pondered over Reva's tale on the long walk back to her home. They said nothing, only holding one another's hand as if life itself depended on that tenuous contact. In vain he tried sorting through his feelings on the matter. Disgust at whomever let an untried, untrained, girl participate in such a hideously dangerous game, and a nearly fatal one at that. Shocked that she had obviously kept bottled up 4 years worth of sorrow, hurt, bewilderment, and fear. Then the underlying bitterness towards who ever was responsible for abandoning her at the time of tragedy. With the knowledge that she believed she was still being watched, Mickey wondered how she had managed to keep it all together. Plus he was beginning to wonder about his own feelings towards her.

Mickey frowned. After 4 years, why would she still be watched? Now wasn't the time to ask the questions. He looked down at her. She looked pale and exhausted in the starlight, which filtered through a light mist that had shrouded the bay. Something in him naturally wanted to protect her. He did not want to leave her that night, yet things were still so new between them that he didn't dare push it, either.

As they came within sight of her gazebo, he let go of her hand, laying his arms around her slender shoulders. Hesitantly, she eventually responded by slipping her arm around his waist. She allowed him to take the initiative, leading her docilely home.

Only her stove light was on, casting a blue white glow over anything it could reach. She sat down slowly on the couch as he retrieved his gun and holster from the top of the refrigerator. She stared at the dark fireplace, hands clenched between her knees, perched on the edge of the couch. Her thoughts miles away.

"Reeve?" he murmured as he knelt in front of her. Her eyes blinked slowly then looked at him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking remorseful. "I've ruined the evening." Mickey's lip crooked as he gazed at her. He set the gun down at his foot. Reaching past her, he tugged a pillow over.

"You didn't ruin anything," he said quietly. Gently he lifted her legs up onto the couch, guiding her over onto her side. He carefully took off her shoes, then snagged the blanket off the back of the couch and covered her with it.

"You're tired." He murmured as he pulled the blanket up around her neck and allowed himself to stroke back her hair. "Go to sleep." She sighed, tucking an arm under her head. Rising, he picked up his gun, and leaning back over, whispered, "I'll be back tomorrow." Smiling softly, he lightly kissed the top of her forehead and left.

The ice had definitely broken. For the next couple of days Mickey and Reva spent most of their time just getting to know one another. She took him exploring around the different sites around Wiscasett and he took her fishing, several times. It wasn't too hard to convince her to let him grill, and on one occasion she handled a meal for them, herself. A tenuous, but easy friendship developed. In the evenings, they'd walk the beaches, talking about "things", until he'd escort her home, before heading back to his place.

On what turned out to be his last evening, they both spotted the river otter, happily munching on fish at her own float. Never without something to draw on, Reva proceeded to capture the antics of the creature in over a dozen rapidly executed drawings, stunning Mickey into a respectful appreciation of her talent. Then one of them moved, and the otter, with a powerful flip, sank beneath the surface of the waters and vanished. That simple act on the animal's part seemed to set an ominous mood on the both of them that evening, which proved true when Mickey returned, alone, to his cabin.

That night Mickey didn't get much sleep. He sat in the open doorway of his cabin, chair tipped back against the doorframe and watched the surf pound on the beach. He stared at one fixed point, mouth set grimly, eyes dark and brooding. His left hand lay slack across his knees, his fingers holding a note card from the resort. In his right hand he rolled a quarter across the backs of his fingers in a hypnotic gesture used by magicians to keep their fingers nimble. The quarter rolling and vanishing in a smooth, repetitive movement. Mickey's vacation had been abruptly cut short. A flight time had been scrawled hastily across the card, having been received by the manager from an unidentified caller just a few hours earlier.

A coincidence? He wondered, his thoughts dark and foreboding. He heads out for three weeks of R&R, meets a girl who just happens to have had some government training, and suddenly his leash gets pulled? Mickey chafed at it all. It smacked of being watched, but by whom? And why? And why would she be so scared of it all? Too many questions. He felt intrigued. Here was someone who came up with more questions to each one that got answered. Sort of like Robert McCall. Mickey smirked. Now there was one complex and deep individual. Sighing, he watched as the sun began to rise, lightening the dark skies.

Reva knew when he pulled up in the driveway that morning that he had to leave; he hadn't bothered shutting off the car. Dark circles under his eyes gave him a doleful, weary look. He didn't enter and looked withdrawn as he stood in the doorway. It killed him to see the look of disappointment in her eyes.

"I... uh," he stammered staring at his feet. "I, uh, have to go," he said quietly. She didn't respond, but just gazed at him, instead. Mickey clenched his teeth and heaved a sigh.

"I got called back last night when I got to my cabin," he explained. Reva reached up to grip her arms tightly, leaning in her doorway. "I'm sorry, Reeve."

"Don't apologize," she whispered, as her own eyes grew dark before him. "It's what you have to do," she added with resignation. Mickey scuffed a toe, his fists clenching in his jacket pockets.

"Reeve..." he started. She drew in air.

"Look, it's okay. Really!" She forced a smile. "I understand; I certainly have been around it enough."

"Reeve,"

"Please, Mickey!" she implored. "Don't make this harder for either of us. It's your job. Go."

"Reva," he looked at her, pained by the disappointment in her voice. He pulled an object out of his pocket. In his hand sat an otter beanie baby and a small rumpled card. Reva stared at his hand, confused.

"I don't want to have to go," he said, reaching out to take her hand. He curled the little toy into it. "If you need anything, just send something with an otter on it, here. I will get it." He squeezed her hand around the toy and card. Reaching out he pulled her closer to him. She started to speak, tensing up, but he lay a finger on her lips.

"I'll send you word when I get back," he said moving his hands to cup her delicate face. One thumb lightly caressed a high cheekbone as he intently studied her eyes. "That's if you want me to come back?" he murmured. Her grey eyes seemed to look right into his very soul. Slowly she nodded yes, her chin barely trembling. Leaning forward, he kissed her, gently, lingeringly. Then he turned quickly and was gone.

For some time afterward Reva stood in the doorway of her home, long after his car had disappeared, the fingers of one hand lightly touching her lips.

End of Part One.

Part two

Several months later.

Wiscasett locals wondered about Reva Cheney. Already a semi-recluse, after the rumors of her being seen with a young man during the early part of summer, she grew even worse. She was seen about town only for necessary purposes. On occasion, people would catch a glimpse of her, usually at sunset, wandering alone up and down the beaches, notepad constantly tucked under one arm. Mostly, Reva secluded herself in her home. The computer age being what it was, she maintained constant contact with her publishing company, and Fed Ex trucks were seen fetching and delivering packages to her home. She buried herself in work, doing everything she could to avoid thinking.

In those quiet times when she sat in her drawing room surrounded by rough drafts, inks, pens, and completed drawings, Reva would get an eerie feeling that she was being watched. She'd scan the surrounding trees and beach, searching for anything; a shadow, reflections from binoculars, people where they shouldn't be, boats in the bay anchored for too long. Nothing. Yet she knew somebody watched the house.

Her first hard evidence came as October ended and garden work brought her out of doors. Cleaning, dead-heading, mulching, pruning and other winter preparations kept her grounds in shape. In the garden near her bedroom window a very rare, Japanese Full Moon Maple grew humbly. Its nearly round, chartreuse-green leaves had turned a glorious yellow before dropping. She discovered it was damaged one day when she had gone into to town for groceries. At first she thought a large animal had crashed through the garden, but then she found the edge of a footprint in the recently turned soil next to the tree. She knew right away that it belonged to a foot far larger then hers. A cold dread settled over her like a mantle.

Reva cautiously went inside, turned right into the kitchen, set the grocery bags on the bar, her every sense straining. She moved to stand in the junction of the dining room and living room, her eyes searching. The quirky quality of her photographic memory knew precisely how everything in the room had been left. Anyone from her former job would be aware of that fact and never touch a thing. This wasn't the case.

Drawings from her latest project, 'Ring of Bright Water', were not in the same position they had been when she had been working on them that morning. Several dozen drawings, spread around her dining room table, had been shifted ever so slightly. Knowing she stood in the most exposed part of her home, surrounded by windows, she refrained from glancing at her computer desk. A ghostly voice echoed in her ears... 'keep calm and don't react.' How she hated hearing that voice after all these years.

She proceeded to go about putting the groceries away, her eyes locating those things in her home that had been moved and put back. No doubt remained in her mind that someone had gone through her house and that they were not from her previous job.

Late that night, she started up a fire and pulled the curtains closed. Going to the computer desk, she opened up a cabinet and removed its contents. She reached in and poked out the back panel and then drew out a large, thick, leather-bound and locked notebook.

Sitting down on the hearth, she set the strange book on her lap, gently tugging the fire screen open. She thumbed the tab, unlocking the book. Inside was a place for drawing paper; the other side held drawings.

The first few were intricate floor plans and bits and pieces of different handwritings, she barely glanced at them as she tossed them into the fireplace. The increased glow of flames illuminated her face. The other drawings were of one man. She hesitated over one and studied it, her features still and emotionless.

They were of an older man. He had a face that could have been carved out of granite. Long and angular with a prominent brow and short-cropped hair. Square chin, high cheekbones and light colored eyes. Where visible, his hands appeared large and capable. Most of the drawings were of the man bent over his desk, the background full of books. He'd either be propping his head up with one hand, staring at something, or peering directly at the viewer over the top of his glasses with a gaze that could cut a person in two. In one drawing, he was talking with someone not pictured, pointedly using his glasses to get a message across. In most he wore plain shirts, with a sweater vest, and usually with a loosened tie, but there were several in which he had on a bow-tie, looking oddly appropriate on him. In all of the drawings, there was one common thread. The eyes. Something sinister, mysterious, and intimidating gleamed from them, demanding attention and respect. They were the eyes of a very powerful man. A man you most certainly never messed with. One by one, Reva tossed them into the fire, until only a few remained.

Reva's face changed as she looked over the last three drawings. In one, the same man looked transformed as he sat back in his chair, the glasses held in his hand, the earpiece of one side resting lightly on his temple. He smiled, rather warmly, his gaze looking down, contemplating. The second showed him with his fingers steepled together, elbows on his desk, lost in deep thought. The last showed him sitting back in his chair, relaxed, the glasses held down loosely, the tie gone, collar unbuttoned and a soft warm smile on his face. The normal malevolent look was gone. His gaze appeared full of deep and sincere fondness. It was a look of both compassion and care. Reva stared at that drawing as she absently tossed the previous two into the fireplace. Finally, a look of bitterness and anger drifted across her features and, with a scowl, she viciously crumpled the drawing in her hand threw it into the fireplace and watched it burn.

The little tell-tale signs of being watched continued as November came to an end. By then, Reva had postponed the surgery to her throat long enough. She made arrangements for the necessary operation. Reluctantly, as she dearly loved her big Maine Coon cat, she boarded Toby at the vet's, knowing full well that she'd not be able to care for him properly in the days following.

As she packed her belongings, her eyes fell on the otter Beanie Baby Mickey had given to her. She sighed; it had seemed like ages since he had been there. And she had heard nothing from him since then. She had missed him terribly at first, then became resigned to the idea that he probably would not return. She picked the toy up off her nightstand. Despite Mickey being there such a short time, he had made an impact on her. She had never felt so lonely before in her life. The toy got slipped into her suitcase, along with a leather case holding her gun. Nobody in the hospital would know she had that. She then took Toby to the vet's.

She remarked in passing to Bonnie, the receptionist, that she felt like someone was watching the house, and would she mind keeping an eye open for strangers? The receptionist gladly agreed, neither noticing Dr. Lasker's look of alarm.

A few days following surgery, (with a reluctant doctor's agreement), Reva was released; sick, gaunt, and grey, but mobile. The doctors had forbidden the use of sweaters until the ten-stitch incision could heal. The nausea barely kept under control with medication, Reva loaded herself in her old pickup and began the long drive back to Wiscasett. She didn't fail to notice a car following her at some distance almost all the way back. She tried to bury the paranoia, knowing full well that the highway leading to Wiscasett was the only one to get you there.

As luck, or lack thereof, would have it, her truck began spluttering, then died twenty miles from home.

For several minutes Reva tried in vain to get it started. No matter what she did, all she got was a dull click out of the starter. Just as evening fell, she found herself stranded, as the car behind her came and went. She slapped the steering wheel in frustration, feeling the cold seep into her cab. Not for the first time, she kicked herself for not getting rid of the old truck and buying a new one. She shivered under her long wool coat, wondering if it was from cold or weakness. She sighed in disgust and climbed out of the cab. Her body shook from the effects of the weather and the surgery, as she popped open the hood of her truck.

She propped it open in the typical sign of distress and looked in disgust at the engine. Mechanics was definitely not one of her strong points. A deathly stillness had settled around her in the remote countryside, with the lowering clouds promising snow. Reva looked around her, all too uncomfortably aware she was totally alone. Icy prickles other than from cold raised the hair up on the nape of her neck. She went back into the cab, popped the glove box opened and searched for her gun... and did not find it.

"Damn!" she whispered out loud, actually having a bit more voice now that the scar tissue had been removed. She thought frantically, trying to remember what she had done with the gun. She knew it had to be in the truck. Knowing she'd be down a few days she had moved it to a different location. A search through her suitcase produced nothing. She searched under the seat and felt the familiar leather case. With relief, she then remembered having moved it, just that morning, out of her luggage. As her hand found the grip, her ears caught the sound of feet on gravel. Reva jerked upright, pulled the gun out of its holster and turned to face the back of the truck. That eerie ghostly voice in her head urged her to 'stay calm, maintain your bearing'. She leveled the gun, double handed and very sure at a shadow that moved her way along the road's edge.

"Stop right there!" her voice croaked out, sounding pathetically weak. The form stopped.

"Don't think for a minute I won't use this," she hoarsely added. She felt the weakness creeping up her legs. In the gloom she realized the form was a man, dressed head to foot in black, including the full-face mask. Reva stared at him, appalled. He looked like something straight out of the X- files. She thumbed the safety off.

"Get out of here!" she grated. He held his hands out, saying nothing. She took a step towards him. She then heard movement behind her and her reflexes took over.

As she spun around towards the front of her truck, she barely caught sight of a second man reaching out for her, swinging a club. The club connected just as the gun went off, simultaneously. The report echoed loudly through the darkened woods. The second man flew awkwardly backwards, the club flying from his hands, as a blinding flash of light exploded in Reva's vision. It was the last thing she remembered.

She crumpled to the ground, gun still held in her hand, as the first man vanished. Stillness crashed over the scene. Soon snow began to fall and nothing moved.

New York City

Lazily, Mickey blinked his eyes open. A moment of disorientation washed over him as he stared at the ceiling and walls in some confusion. Half a breath later he realized he was lying in his own bed, in his own apartment; he sighed in relief. With a groan, he sat up, looking about him in the gloom of pre-dawn light. He'd slept too long in one position, his aching body told him. Unsnapping the shoulder holster he had been wearing when he had fallen asleep, he slid out of it, wrapped the straps around the gun and set it on the night table. An ankle holster quickly followed suit. One tug on a stiff sock convinced him it was time to bathe. With typical bachelor disarray, he shed clothes and immersed himself in a long, hot, steamy shower.

He felt a world of difference when he emerged into his living room a short while later. With clean jeans, an off white cable knit sweater and freshly shaved, he finger combed his wet hair out of his face, grateful that it didn't need cutting for a while. He gazed with dismay at the wreck of his apartment. Never having been too orderly in his personal possessions, what now greeted him, however, was depressing. The kitchen needed sanitizing and everything had at least a ½ inch of dust on it. The only order to be visibly seen, lay on the coffee table. A southern antebellum mansion lay under construction, an incredibly detailed piece of architecture that was slowly being built of toothpicks. A bottle of glue, several boxes of toothpicks and a set of his very expensive wire cutters sat neatly to one side. Yet none of it escaped the coating of dust. Mickey sighed.

"My son," he could hear Robert McCall's ghostly voice echoing in his ear, "you are a slob." He smirked. Too true. He retreated back into the bedroom, somehow locating a pair of clean socks. Upon re-arming himself, he put on his winter gear and fled his apartment, ironically recalling how badly he had wanted to get there the night before. After all, it had only been six months since he had last been home.

Getting dropped off by a cab near Central Park, Mickey began to walk with no particular destination in mind, although, inevitably, he'd end up in Manhattan. The whole city seemed grey and frigid. It would snow anytime, now. Mickey wondered what Wiscasett looked like under snow. During all his time away Reva had never left his thoughts.

As he wandered about the park, he pondered over his latest deep cover operation that had been somewhere in Bulgaria. In the slack moments, his mind had constantly gone back to the summer and the strange, troubled blonde he had met. He hated admitting it to himself, but he found himself lying out in the open fields at night staring at the stars, wondering what she was doing, and missing her. The questions that surrounded her had refused to be resolved. More than anything, when he finally was allowed to return home, he wanted to see her again. Having flown east from Bulgaria to the US, he had landed first at LAX en route to New York. It wasn't hard to locate a post card in the many gift shops, with a grizzled sea otter floating contentedly in a kelp bed. He scrawled a day on it, signed only his first name, and sent it off to Reva's home.

He eventually found his way to Robert's brownstone apartment and now, to his dismay, saw that the windows were darkened, indicating the other wasn't home. He settled himself, leaning, in the doorway of a building across the street, and waited.

Presently, Mickey spotted a familiar Jaguar as it approached the brownstone's separate parking garage and to his relief saw that the other man was alone. He moved out from the doorway, let himself be spotted, and followed the car inside. The Jaguar was parked one level down and an older man climbed out, elegantly dressed in a dark suit, his silver hair combed neatly back. A pair of wire rim glasses eloquently added to the man's natural dignity. The man was nearly the same height as Mickey, his build more stocky compared to Kostmayer's leanness; however he carried himself very well, shoulders back, head up. A proud, confident man. Intense hazel eyes glanced quickly around as the younger man approached. He wrapped his long, overcoat about him to ward off the garage's chill.

"Mickey." His clear, very British accent greeted him. "Been playing a long while in the Balkans again, I understand?"

Mickey smirked at him. "Jealous?" he cracked back.

McCall snorted, smiling slightly, gently shutting the Jaguar's door. "Not in the slightest. When did you get into town? You look as if you haven't slept in a week."

Mickey smiled wryly, hunching into his army coat. "Only last night."

"And obviously you did not sleep very well," Robert said dryly. Mickey could only shrug in agreement and smirk. Robert smiled slightly, clapped him on the shoulder, and led the way to the garage elevator.

"Come along then, I'm sure I can find something to feed you."

"I didn't come over here to eat!" Mickey protested.

"Of course you didn't," McCall murmured, nodding sagely.

"Does my coming over here always have to do with food?" Mickey protested.

"Not at all, not at all..." Robert replied soothingly, pressing the button for the elevator. He smiled slightly at him. "Scott is far worse about that than you."

Mickey gave him a pained look, as if to say, 'Give me a break!'

The elevator doors whooshed open, Robert held out a gloved hand and tipped his head for Mickey to go first. Mickey entered, grateful that he had found McCall in an amiable mood.

Robert smiled paternally, loneliness, or something he had asked Kostmayer to do, were the usual reasons Mickey came to Manhattan. Kostmayer rarely sought advice, and somehow it touched Robert that he came to him for it. Only around himself had Robert ever seen Mickey relax. Robert noticed Kostmayer looked tired, and he had heard rumors through the grapevine that Mickey had been responsible for several key demolitions at strategic points. Then of course he had to come home to that apartment...

"I take it things went well?" he ventured as they rode up.

"I'm in one piece," Mickey commented, his face looking angelically innocent.

Robert shook his head, knowing full well whoever was on the receiving end of Mickey's "expertise" certainly would not be in one solid piece. The crooked pixyish grin on Mickey's face spoke volumes to the older agent.

"I guess we should thank Him for that!"

"What are you doing out so early?" Kostmayer asked.

"I was visiting with a client," Robert replied easily. "Works the graveyard shift at one of the textile factories. Turned out I was able to help him solve his problem there on the spot."

"I wondered why you were in such a good mood," Mickey commented, carefully not looking at him.

Robert blinked once, "Are you implying..." he stopped, then smiled. "Kostmayer.." he warned.

Mickey grinned, "So what's for breakfast?" he asked and glanced at him.

Robert shook his head.

They lightly talked shop on the stroll to Robert's brownstone and continued over their meal. Robert mostly caught him up on his various cases. Many times he had solicited Mickey for help, and as the younger agent owed his very life and freedom to his mentor, he helped without being asked twice. Discounting the fact that he did have a screw or two loose, Robert had seen him change a bit over the years, a gradual healing. And his work as an operative was beyond measure.

Robert noticed, through the meal, that Mickey seemed preoccupied. There were very few people Robert ever trusted and Mickey had been his protege' for many years now. McCall was constantly aware of that delicate tightrope Mickey walked between working with him at 'Equalizing the odds' for people and his dedication to the Company. Robert pondered on whether or not that was what troubled him. He itched to ask questions, but waited patiently for Mickey to come around.

"I...uh, met someone," Kostmayer eventually said when they had settled in the living room with coffee. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. Robert almost sighed in relief; he didn't want to play mediator between Mickey and his old friend, Control.

"Someone?" Robert asked, raising an eyebrow. He sipped at his drink. Mickey gazed at the fireplace while his expressive lips curled.

"You know what I mean..." he drawled, stretching out on the couch, as Robert elected to sit in his favorite chair.

"Ah... a girl." Robert carefully kept his face neutral. Mickey coming to him for advice on a girl? Especially after the bawling out he'd given him several years back about Sydney? This indeed was novel. "I certainly hope this one isn't anything like what Scott brings home." Robert dryly remarked.

Mickey snorted, clasped his hands behind his head and found a spot to stare at on the ceiling. "I hope you don't think I'd go that low!"

Robert chuckled. "Sometimes..."

"This one is different," he said, his thoughts drifting to his encounter with Reva on the viewpoint of Wiscasett. Mickey smiled, twisting his shoulders a bit.

"They always are." Robert lightly baited, seeing the memory play over Kostmayer's face.

Mickey's thoughts returned to the living room. "I met her last June. Up in Wiscasett, when I was on vacation. She's an artist," he said.

"Not as in, say, body art or..." Robert egged.

"Commercial art, McCall. Kid's books!" he retorted.

"Well, that's a relief!" Robert sipped his coffee. He could not help the corner of his lips curling impishly at the other man. "This sounds serious," Robert ventured.

Mickey shrugged, blinking his eyes lazily. "Not very. We'd just met. I've only kissed her once."

Robert wisely bit back the teasing jab he sorely wanted to speak. Mickey's debacle with Sydney needed to stay properly buried in the past. Kostmayer had learned that lesson well. Besides, it was a calm, relaxing day, so far.

"Cautious, is she?" Robert asked, watching Mickey's face. Something deep swam under the surface.

"Yep."

"Bright girl." Robert murmured.

Mickey shot him a look.

"So, what is on your mind?" Robert finally asked.

Kostmayer shrugged again. "I'm just thinking, I mean, I've got some time coming to me."

"Will she let you?" Robert pointedly asked.

Mickey looked a little perplexed, his whole mouth shifting left, briefly. Would she? Mickey wondered. "Yeah, I think she will."

"How serious are you about this?" Robert asked gently.

Mickey blinked at his spot on the ceiling. "I don't really know," he replied.

McCall felt a slight chill in the room. Mickey? Not bloody likely, but then Robert had been wrong on these things before.

"Does she know anything about you?"

"Some," the younger man admitted, not wanting to tell Robert what she really knew. Mickey blinked lazily. "I met her at the grocery store... sort of."

"Sort of?"

"She was dropping a bag of cat food."

"Cat food?" Robert's eyebrows rose a notch. "Er... did she say anything to you?" Something about the smile playing across Kostmayer's face piqued Robert's interest.

"Nope."

"She didn't?"

"Not a word."

Robert drank his coffee, gazing at the younger man, who was stretching out comfortably on the couch. Something in Kostmayer's voice struck a very faint nerve..

"So, how did you get to know her?"

"Met her at the boat rental place a few days later. Found out she lived next door to where my cabin was at."

"Aha... and you just happened to wander over."

"You could say that..." Mickey replied, stifling a yawn. Careful, Robert noticed; Mickey was being very careful. He hadn't mentioned the girl's name yet. Robert found he actually approved, though he wondered just how far Mickey wanted to go with this.

"I haven't been able to get her off my mind since I met her..." Robert looked curiously at him. This was serious. Mickey had been gone since June. Kostmayer shifted his holster slightly and wrapped his arms across his chest.

"I take it you're wondering if you should take your vacation time and go and visit?" Robert asked cautiously.

Mickey nodded. "You could say that."

Now the older man felt puzzled. Why ask him?

"I don't see why you shouldn't, if she wouldn't mind?"

"That's what I'm wondering about," Mickey mumbled through yet another yawn. "I didn't expect Control to ship me off for six months."

Robert sighed.. The specter of the Company surfaced, again.

"Mickey, just how serious are you about this girl?" he asked somberly. Mickey didn't respond. Robert glanced at him. His eyes were closed. Robert frowned, not quite rolling his eyes. Then he grew solemn as he gazed at him with a look of deep care and friendship, while a few ghosts from his past whispered faintly in his ears.

"Take great care, Mickey," he murmured. "In this line of work, they never last."

"Mmmm?"

He dropped off to sleep.

When he awoke hours later, Mickey was still sprawled on McCall's couch. At some point in time Robert had draped a blanket over him. He yawned, sat up, and listened for the sounds of the other man. Not hearing anything, he got up, looking around. A note sat propped against a centerpiece on the dining room table. Next to it lay the New York Times. Mickey picked up the card as he tugged his holster back into place. It simply told him that Robert had been called out, but would be home soon and to just make sure he locked the door if he left. Mickey glanced at the paper as he set the note down, and idly pulled it over to him. It contained the usual assortment of death, murder, and mayhem, along with football news and holiday shopping plans. The normal assortment of crap. He was about to shove it aside when his eyes caught a small headline.

"Illustrator kills assailant, left for dead."

Story on A6

Frowning, Mickey flipped the paper open and suddenly felt as if somebody had sucker punched him. A small black and white photo of Reva, smiling delightedly, greeted his shocked eyes.

"Illustrator kills assailant in apparent

car-jacking attempt."

Bath, Maine. Caldecott award-winning illustrator Reva

Cheney was in serious but stable condition at Sacred

Heart Medical Center in Bath, after apparently killing

the man who had tried to attack her on a deserted

stretch of Hwy 95 Tuesday night. Dead was an unident-

ified white male, mid thirties, of a gun shot wound to the

face. The man apparently attacked Miss Cheney after

her car had broken down on a remote stretch of highway.

Miss Cheney suffered from lacerations and contusions to

the head, and mild hypothermia after lying unconscious

for several hours, before being found by State Troopers. Miss

Cheney, who won the prestigious Caldecott Award for

her illustrations in the Native Am. Children Novel "Raven

the Trickster", recalled no details of the attack and

refused comment.

"She is resting comfortably, but understandably

cannot remember details of the events," Lt. Matt Greene

reported. "She did have a concealed weapon permit and

by all accounts reacted to a life threatening situation

with deadly force."

The assailant was described as a white male, 30-35,

175-180lbs, 5' 11", with blonde hair and blue eyes. No

identification was found on the man who, was dressed

in guerilla-style clothing. Investigators are looking for

any clues to the man's identity.

"Apparently the assailant attempted to strike Miss

Cheney from behind, but was caught unawares when she

turned and fired her weapon," Greene reported. No

further details will be released until investigators can

conclude their case.

Upon his return home, Robert, to his dismay, found his apartment door unlocked. He frowned, cautiously edging the door open.

"Mickey?" he called out. Nothing greeted him, and nothing seemed out of place, until he entered the dining room. Sprawled open was the newspaper, lying where it had been dropped hastily. Robert scanned the headlines and located the article on Reva Cheney. His eyes focused intently on the piece as he read through it rapidly. Mickey had said something about the girl he had met being an illustrator. A cold knot formed in his stomach. He studied the girl's picture. Reva Cheney? Why did that name sound vaguely familiar? Maybe it was the book award. His gaze drifted to the window, where approaching dusk darkened it. He didn't have to be told where Mickey went. Yet a sickening sense of foreboding descended on him. Somehow he knew he'd soon be seeing Reva Cheney.

Mickey pulled major strings to get into Bangor International Airport as quickly as he did. Not to mention a lot of rank, which he could do when needed. He even bribed his way onto a Lear jet and touched down shortly after 11:00pm, in Bath, Maine. A quick trip in a cab and he was walking into Sacred Heart Hospital, hunching deep into his army jacket and scarf, trying to ward off the cold.

Following arrows indicating the different wards and elevators, Mickey made his way to the trauma ward. Several things met his eye as he cast a glance at the lobby and hallways. On the ward display board directly behind the nurse's station, he quickly spotted Reva's name and room number. Two nurses didn't even look up as he walked calmly by them. Several doors were opened to various patients' rooms, with the occasional blare of television sets, or the low moans of people in pain to be heard. Mickey scanned carefully around him as he searched for the room Reva was in.

He was about to turn the corner where her room was when he spied a lone man in a rumpled business suit, sitting in the lounge, reading a People magazine and yawning in boredom. Mickey pulled back before the guy could see him. He reeked of Fed so strongly Mickey couldn't help but shake his head. He backed up to a through-way section of the hospital that connected parallel hallways, where there was a miniature lunchroom and storage for cleaning supplies.

His face set in grim determination, Mickey pulled open a cupboard, which held snacks and personal food items for individual patients. His eyes developed a strange gleam as he reached and grabbed for a box of tinfoil wrapped Ding-Dongs. He pulled a few out, jerked open a microwave, and put them inside. He purposely left the tinfoil on as he set the microwave for 10 minutes. He turned and grabbed a bedpan from the cupboards below and filled it with water. Carefully he moved the door on the lounge side of the hallway almost shut, then reached up and balanced the bedpan on the door's upper edge. Mickey searched a second and spotted a stack of towels. He snagged one, turned around, jabbed his thumb on the cook button of the microwave and exited out the other door. With the towel between door and jamb, Mickey effectively wedged it shut. He then went to where he could carefully watch the results, spying both the man in the lounge and a cop sitting near Reva's doorway.

Microwaves, tinfoil and large chunks of sugar, make a particularly smoky, fiery diversion. Mickey's was no different. Within minutes, the smoke came wafting down the corridor, reeking of carbonized sugar. The man in the lounge smelled it, looked up and immediately spotted the smoke. He was on his feet yelling. The cop, glancing over, saw it also and the two began running. As the Fed hit the doorway, down came the bedpan, soaking him. Mayhem erupted. As they shouted, nurses appeared from some of the rooms, while one rushed up with an extinguisher. With a satisfied smirk, Mickey casually slipped into Reva's room and thanked God she had a private one. Once inside, he shut the door and stopped.

The solitary glow of the florescent light above her bed provided the only illumination. Reva lay on her side, back to him, one arm stretched out towards the window, which carried an IV drip in the back of her hand. A self-administered pain medication unit blinked electronic eyes at him. The cord with the dosage button trailed over Reva and he could see she held the unit itself in her other hand. She was completely out.

Mickey's entire face changed. Usually looking open and boyish, it suddenly developed a grim seriousness, his eyes dark, mouth set in a firm line. Yet his eyes couldn't hide the horror and despair he felt when he walked quietly around her bed.

The first thing he saw were stitches, in a neat line parallel with her neck followed by three, angry, red lines where a broken wine carafe had left its permanent marks. They traveled across and down her throat. It was the first time he had seen the scars Reva carefully hid. Then his eyes caught the second set of stitches, high above her left eye, nearly into her hairline. Purple-black mottling ran into her hair from deep bruising. Strangely, there was only a little puffiness around the eye, the club catching her more across the top of her head than the side of it. Mickey couldn't move.

He just stared, and fought against a rage that built up in him and threatened to engulf him. He spotted the light gauze wrapped around her pinkie and ring finger of her left hand, and remembered that she had been unconscious in freezing weather before being found. Reva looked utterly exhausted, the circles under her eyes appearing like bruises themselves. Her paleness was shocking.

Mickey swallowed hard and forced the knots back down into his stomach. His ears caught the sound of feet. Turning from her, he opened the window, relieved to see that her room was on the same roof level as the hospital ventilation. Several feet away from them was the roof access door. The view might not be great, but for him, it would do just fine. He climbed out the window, pulled it shut after him, and hoped like mad that whoever saw it wouldn't lock the latch. His luck held. He ducked down behind one of the huge vent shafts, grateful for its cover, and waited.

Seconds later, the cop and the fed burst into the room, one turning to the restroom, the other jerking open the closet. Finding nothing, the fed looked out the window, while the cop checked under the bed. Both looked angry and annoyed. Mickey couldn't have cared less He waited.

Soon the two left the room, leaving the door open. A perturbed nurse soon bustled in, going to Reva. Mickey didn't see her move for several minutes, but eventually the nurse started out of the room. About to leave the door open he watched as she paused, then looked back into the room, apparently listening to something from the patient. She nodded her head yes and, to his relief, shut the door after her. Waiting another few minutes, he let himself back in the way he had come.

Reva had rolled over onto her back, her face towards the door, irritated at being woken up at midnight by yet another nurse. She was drifting back into her drug-induced sleep when she felt the bed shifting next to her. Somebody was sitting on it. She frowned, groaned, and turned her head, hoping she wasn't having morphine generated nightmares. She had started to slip into the blackness of sleep, when she felt a hand pick up her hand by her fingers. Reva flexed a knee and bumped into something very solid. If this was a dream, it felt real. Fighting it, Reva reluctantly opened her eyes.

She struggled to focus her vision and winced at a jab of pain across her skull. Somebody was sitting on her bed. As her eyes focused she still didn't believe what she saw. Somehow, she made a mental note, she had to tell the nurse to remove the pain machine, this was too real.

Reva could have sworn Mickey Kostmayer sat on her bed. That simply wasn't possible, he was long gone. However when he reached out to move her hair from her face, Reva realized it wasn't a dream. She stared at him so long Mickey began to get worried.

"Reva?" he asked quietly. A look of shock and disbelief appeared in her light grey eyes.

"Mickey?" she whispered thickly as her brows knit together in a frown. He barely smiled, resting his hand against her cheek and carefully clutching her good hand. Her eyes unfocused briefly, then swam back to clarity. She shook her head slightly, still not believing what she saw.

Mickey looked concerned, he had sent her a card warning of his coming, but she seemed to be in shock. Then it dawned on him. She never got it... she thought he had left for good.

"Reeve..." he said softly, "It's me." He lightly stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. She stared at him again. He had done that same move when he had left so long before. She reached up with her other hand and touched his. Mickey gently clutched at her fingers, bent forward and lightly kissed her forehead. She exhaled a soft exclamation of surprise. She slipped her arms under his jacket and wrapped them around his waist, as her hands slid across his back to grip two fistfuls of sweater. Mickey curled her in close, his arms tightly around her, and buried his face in her hair and shoulder.

"Mickey!" she breathed, feeling overwhelmed. That someone would even hold her in their arms was too incredible, that it was Mickey was unthinkable. She began to shake.

"Hey!" he murmured in her ear, as he carefully held her head to his chest. "It's okay. It's me. I'm here." She held on to him for dear life, gasping for air. He rubbed her back. "It's all right..."

When he gently pulled her away, he took her face in his hands, his eyes searching hers. Reva continued to look shocked, as she reached up with her good hand, and lightly touched his chin. It nearly tore him apart to see the tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. Yet Reva refused to cry, her chin only barely trembled. He could feel the unnatural shaking in her, caused no doubt by weakness and drugs. Mickey clenched his teeth, as his eyes took in the bruises and stitching.

"Who did this to you?" he asked in a voice barely louder than her own. Reva could only shake her head.

"I don't know, Mickey, I don't know!"

He saw the fear in her eyes.

"What is it?" he urged.

"They followed me from Portland. The truck broke down. Nobody was there..." she caught herself, swallowing back the tears, refusing to let herself cry. "Nobody was there!" She gasped. Mickey heard the combination of horror, despair and bitterness. She trembled like a leaf.

"They've been watching the house since October. People have been in the house when I'm not there." She looked at him. "The man that I sh..." Her head shook. "I didn't even see him. I just saw the club, all I could do was fire!"

"Who's been watching your house?" he demanded. She shook her head.

"I don't know Mickey," she pleaded. "They're different, I don't know who they are!"

"How different?"

"They're not from before." Her other hand moved to her throat. He didn't need to be told about who was before. He knew she had worked for a government agency.

"I couldn't get the truck to start! They told me the fuel pump is broken and they found metal in it. I saw somebody coming at me from the back of the truck. I had the gun," she rambled.

An alarm sounded somewhere in the back of Mickey's skull. Reva looked at him, appalled.

"That guy was dressed all in black. He... he had on a ... a black facemask... I couldn't see who he was. I told him to leave, that I'd shoot..." She stopped, looking down.

"It's all right Reva!" he said and pulled her back into the circle of his arm, tightening his grip around her shoulders, his mind racing.

"Why the guards?" he asked. She gripped his sweater, in the front this time, and laid her head against his chest.

"I don't know!" she whispered as she closed her eyes. He felt a bit of the tension release.

"They didn't happen to tell you what they found in the gas tank did they?" he asked, stroking her hair.

"Upper drawer," she barely gasped. Mickey frowned as his eyes glanced to the bedside stand. Mickey carefully leaned forward, eased the drawer open and grabbed a ziploc baggie from inside. With a free hand he held it up, his eyes intense as he studied it. All it did was leave him with a cold dread.

Inside the baggie was a flat metal disc, about the size of a button. Hanging off of it was a mouse hair with a tiny bulb no bigger than a pinhead.

"Do you know what this is?" he whispered. Reva pulled back, looking up at him. His whole tone had changed.

"They said it had gotten wedged somehow and blocked the flow of gas to the truck. I told them I wanted to see it."

"Good!" he said, rubbing her back. "Can you walk?" Reva looked confused.

"Yeah...? What is it?" She looked at the disc. Mickey looked grim.

"It's a tracking device. The satellites they have up now can position on these things." If she could have gotten any paler, Reva did as she took in the significance. Mickey stuffed it back into the drawer.

"Have you got clothes?" he asked. She nodded yes. He picked up her hand that had the I.V. in it. "When did you last dose yourself?"

"Eleven o'clock," she whispered. Mickey nodded.

"Get yourself ready. I 'm taking you out of here." The tone of his voice told her to not even question him. Bracing herself, she let Mickey take the I.V. out.

It took her several minutes to get dressed; being woozy, she needed help with a few things. Mickey helped where he could and when he couldn't he stared out the window, his eyes on the far access door to the roof. Face devoid of expression, only his eyes revealed a cold intensity. When she finished, she sat on the bed a moment as she tried to regain strength. Mickey found her long coat.

"We'll get this on when we get outside," he said quietly, as he opened the window. He turned back and snagged a blanket off the bed. He dropped both out onto the roof and turned back to her.

"Can you follow me out?" he asked. She nodded and got to her feet. Mickey clambered out. Reaching back, he gently protected her head as she ducked through the window.

"Grab my shoulders," he instructed, laying her arm across them. She obeyed, gripping tightly as he drew her completely out onto the roof, holding her in front of him. She gasped at the cold, and reeled. Mickey snatched up her coat, helped her into it while trying to hold her up, then he wrapped her securely in the blanket.

"Listen carefully," he said looking her in the eyes. "From here on out, you do exactly as I tell you. No matter what it sounds like. I'm getting you to a safe place somewhere and get