Day 31 - The New Revolutions - Part 31

Homer Barstow once believed that he was nothing but a small fish in a very large pond. But immediately after passing his CPA examination, he was approached by one of his former teachers, a man who spoke with a Russian accent. He extended to Homer an invitation to enter the employ of a very successful Russian businessman by the name of Rasputin. Homer quickly accepted, and that's a decision he celebrated nearly every day after.

This celebration was often held in a small, hole-in-the-wall bar, and he was always escorted by three men in dark suits, who usually waited outside by the front door. Rasputin had given Homer more than a job; he'd given him a responsibility. In fact, Homer knew little about his occupation aside from the small thumb drive he kept on his person at all times and the list of numbers he was forced to memorize on his first day on the job. Every once in awhile, he was given a new list to memorize, and occasionally, he was called upon to recite these numbers. Homer Barstow may have been a meek man, but he was no fool. He had realized that the numbers in his head were account numbers, but only partials, meaning that somewhere out there was another person like himself, cluelessly carrying the other halves of these numbers in his or her mind and living the same sort of life that Homer himself lived. Not that it was a bad life. He had money. He had personal bodyguards. But most of all, he had power.

It was the sort of power that radiated from his body like pheromones, drawing all sorts of women to him, like the one that now sat across the bar from him--the one that had been eyeing him all night. She wore a short, black dress and smiled at him, so Homer wisely sent a drink to her table. She soon joined him at the bar, bringing a drink she said she'd bought just for him. Homer Barstow was a lucky man, and he took great pleasure in that drink as he gulped it down, even though it did taste a bit funny.

***

Guarding Homer Barstow was a very long and boring job, but the men outside were far from carefree. This used to be a one man job, but in recent weeks, the security detail had been upped for every higher-up in the organization. They didn't know exactly what kind of trouble was going on, but they did have stories that they swapped as they smoked their cigarettes and waited for the short, fat man in the bar to finish his drinks.

"They have a vendetta to settle with Rasputin," said the veteran. "So they strike only at night, hitting his warehouses and businesses, and then poof! They vanish like ghosts."

The new recruit chuckled, but the other kept a very stern look on his face.

"You may think it's funny now," said the stern guard, "but just you wait until we're face to face with them. It'll happen sooner or later, you know. I heard that twenty men were killed at the port in Kamchatka."

The recruit blinked with a dumbfounded look upon his face and swallowed hard.

"Ha, that's nothing," said the veteran. "I heard that after that, they sank two pirate ships and made a clean getaway when the Coast Guard came to investigate. I told you--like ghosts."

A wiry man with his arm hanging in a sling approached, and all three of the guards took up their positions in front of the door.

"Excuse me," said the thin man in English. He held an unlit cigarette in his hand. "Do any of you gentlemen have a light."

The two other guards both looked to the veteran, who then nodded. The recruit pulled a lighter from his pocket and struck a flame, letting the American light up.

"Thanks."

"Welcome," said the recruit in heavily accented English.

The injured American lingered for a moment, glancing at the bar behind them and then up at the sky. "Look at all those stars," he said. "You've got to love a clear night like this."

While all three guards indulged in the offer to gaze at the heavens above, a woman in a short black dress turned the corner. She came from the alley that ran alongside the bar, but the guards didn't notice. Nor did they particularly pay attention when two other men, one old with a grizzled beard and the other with blond hair, passed by, walking along the other side of the street behind her. The American reached into his sling, as if to scratch an itch that refused to go away.

"Well, you boys have a good night," said the American. "I've got places to be."

The three guards waved goodbye and went back to their stories, not even bothering to check the status of their charge in the bar.

"Let him drink," said the Veteran. "Maybe then we won't have to hear him talk."

***

"What's the take?" asked Jenn.

Philip was hunched over a laptop. He looked up at her and grinned.

"Half a million," he said, and Jenn's face lit up like a child's (or that of any reasonable person, actually) on Christmas morning.

"That sonuvabitch Rasputin has to be steamed by now," said Hayes. "That's our second hit on his bank accounts this week alone."

Jenn jumped up and down. "I'll tell the boss."

She ran out onto the deck, and down by the picnic table, Vitus sat on the old settee, looking up at the stars.

"Half-a-mil, dear. I think we can afford that villa now," she said.

Vitus stared at her. "Come here," he said.

She sat beside him on their settee. The night belonged to them. This was the cusp of their own revolution--one in which they could all carve out a place for themselves in a world too absurd for its own good. This was where they belonged.

"So what do we do now?" she asked. "Vitus?"

He said nothing. He looked at the stars again--both those in the sky above and those reflected in the eyes of the woman he loved. And he looked down at the intricately carved arm of the settee they now sat on and ran his fingers along the grooves, thinking of what the future might hold.

Vitus Bethel smiled.

Day 30 - The New Revolutions - Part 30

A bullet to the shoulder had apparently become a very long and painful running joke in the life of Vitus Bethel. As he screamed bloody murder, which did not seem very far away at this moment, Vitus began to wonder whether his arm would ever be out of his sling. He also began to realize that although being shot in the shoulder seemed like a harmless enough wound for the heroes of action films and bad fiction, it still hurt like hell.

"Oh relax, Vitus," said Ivanovich. "It's only your shoulder. You'll be fine."

If Vitus had the ability to move his arm at that particular moment, he would have used it to strangle Ivanovich if only for those words. As it turned out, however, karma had its own way of catching up to Malcolm Ivanovich. From his current position, huddled up in a fetal position atop a pile of charred wooden furniture, Vitus noticed a small speck on the dark suit of one of the henchmen. He could just barely see it and thought his eyes might be playing tricks on him at first, and then the dot started moving. It passed from cloth to flesh, and now Vitus could make it out clearly--a red dot like a laser sight. Vitus knew what was about to happen. He stayed down, drawing his legs up toward his body and closing his eyes very, very tightly.

He could hear Ivanovich saying, "What's that on your face?" Then came the sound of six rifle shots in rapid succession and the sickeningly dull thud of several heavy things hitting the ground around him.

Then for a moment, there was only silence, the sort of silence that begs for some--any--noise to be made. It was soon answered. Vitus at first began to hear a low moaning that crescendoed into a full wail accompanied by the words, "My shoulder. Oh God, my shoulder."

Vitus looked up to see Ivanovich's small frame doubled over beside him, and sure enough, he bore the telltale bloodied sign of a bullet hole in his left shoulder. With every ounce of strength left in his being, Vitus lifted himself from the rubble, using his only good arm, and stumbled over to the figure that, only moments before, had been so unbearably smug and self-assured. With a sudden burst of energy, the antique-dealer began repeatedly kicking the fallen collector on his wound while shouting such choice phrases as, "Oh, relax. It's only your shoulder. You'll be fine."

Once he had completely exhausted himself, Vitus collapsed on his back. He lay there in the warehouse ruins, panting, waiting, hoping that this was, in fact, a rescue. A smell began to seep from the rim of his nostrils all the way into his brain; it was the odor of burnt things and fresh blood--tolerable at first, but it became agonizing once he realized he could not move no matter how hard he tried. It was as if the holes in his shoulder were still filled with guilt and bullets that weighed him down, pressing him to the earth so that there was no chance of escape anymore. Life, it seemed, had finally caught up to Vitus Bethel.

He heard footsteps, the sound of heavy boots crunching into charred dirt. There was more than one set, and they marched so hard and fast that Vitus could no longer discern how many people were coming toward him.

"You okay, kid?"

Vitus rolled his head toward the source of the voice and saw his crew standing around him. My crew, he thought to himself. Something about those words felt right, and in that moment, it was all he could think about.

Philip knelt down and examined the antique-dealer's new wound.

"He's losing blood fast."

"I'll be all right. Just help me up."

Jenn said nothing as she wrapped her arms around his chest, hoisting him up and supporting him with her own warm hands. Hayes put Vitus' good arm around his neck while Philip prepared a makeshift bandage and wrapped it around the antique-dealer's bleeding shoulder. Vitus, in the mean time, gestured to his now silent, former captor, now huddled on the ground beside him.

"He's still alive," said Vitus.

"I know," said Philip.

"Oh. Just seems a little anti-climactic, is all."

"What were you expecting?"

Vitus shook his head. "I don't know. Something more exciting. Possibly an explosion."

"Getting shot can be exciting."

"Not as much as you might think."

"Life isn't always exciting, Vitus. Sometimes things just happen, so be glad you're still alive," said Philip. "Besides, we may yet go out with a bang."

"What about him?" asked Jenn. Though she was overcome with the sudden urge to kick Ivanovich again while he was down and injured, she stayed with Vitus, where she felt she belonged. "You're not going to let him go, are you? Because if so, I swear to God, I will pummel you with my bruised and battered boyfriend."

"He's not going anywhere," said Philip.

***

While Hayes and Jenn helped Vitus aboard the boat named Bess, Philip disappeared with Ivanovich, reappearing only after the antique-dealer had begun to regain his strength with a lukewarm bowl of soup.

"Sorry about that," said Hayes. "I knew we should've gotten that microwave when we had a chance."

Vitus didn't mind at all. In fact, looking back in the years to come, he would rate this soup as the best he'd ever had. His wound was quickly cleaned and re-bandaged, his arm once again hung in his sling like a dead thing. When he'd finished dressing Vitus' shoulder, Philip handed the antique-dealer something small from his pocket. It was the derringer he had previously liberated from Ivanovich's collection.

"I thought you might need this."

"Thanks," said Vitus, but he had more to say--a question that had been eating at him since he had laid in the rubble with fallen bodies all around him and all the time in the world to contemplate his existence. "When we reached you on the radio, you said you were heading back to the manor."

"That's right."

"Why?"

"To pick up the settee," said Philip.

"You were going to go through with the trade?"

"Well, we were hoping to keep both you and the settee, but yes, we would have gone through with it."

"But it means so much to you. It meant so much to Jacobi."

"You're part of our crew, Vitus. You and Jenn both. We wouldn't leave you behind."

There were those words again, following him, haunting him. Our crew. Jenn cleared her throat. She stood behind them with another bowl of soup in her hands.

"I'll leave the two of you alone," said Philip. "Oh, and Vitus, do me a favor and give your sister a call. I made her a promise."

"Oh God, Vera. Was she okay?" Vitus asked, frantically.

"She's fine. I told her everything would be okay. Now enjoy the show." At that, Philip stood up from the picnic table and vanished into the boat's cabin.

"Thanks, but I really don't think I could eat another bowl," said Vitus as Jenn sat down beside him.

"What? This is my soup, shoulder boy. I got kidnapped, too, you know."

"Right. Sorry," said Vitus with a grin. "So what do we do now?"

Vitus didn't elaborate, but Jenn knew what he meant. He was asking whether they should stay or leave. Ivanovich had been taken care of, and the promise Vitus had made to the rest of the crew had been fulfilled. They were free--free to go anywhere they wanted. Figuring out exactly what they wanted, however, seemed to be the problem.

She shrugged as she slurped her chicken noodle soup. "I don't know," she said. "Ivanovich is gone, but Rasputin is still out there. I get the idea that he has a very long memory, too. This might be the safest place for us, for the time being."

Vitus nodded. "For the time being."

They sat quietly for a moment, mulling over what they had become. Vitus spoke first.

"Our friends are murderers and thieves. What does that make us?"

"It makes us us," said Jenn. "We've done the same things they have. We've had to. Out here it's all about surviving. That doesn't make us bad people."

She sounded confident. Vitus liked that about her.

"It makes me think about all those stories where the heroes end up becoming villains or villains end up becoming heroes, except there's no clearcut black and white. I never saw this coming. I guess you're right. It's all gray out here," said Vitus.

They stared out across the water where Ivanovich's yacht drifted aimlessly. They could just barely make out the squirming figure tied to the chair on the top deck. It was a sight that made the both of them smile. Then there came a small flash of light.

"Here it comes," said Vitus. He put his one good arm around Jenn and held her tight.

With a building rumble and an enormous bang, the yacht exploded. It was a burst like fireworks--bright and colorful, lighting up the darkening sky with flares of white and yellow and red. The antique-dealer and his partner barely saw it. It merely served as the backdrop for their kiss--long, deep, draining, and explosive in its own way. Their timing may have been cliche, but they didn't care. The moment was all that mattered. They held each other as the light dimmed, replaced only with the glow of distant fire. The night slowly surrounded them, giving them a place to hide and a place to belong, embracing but not consuming.

***

"This isn't at all what I thought it would be at first. I thought, Oh, this might be fun and exciting. Yeah, it's not. It's all looking over your shoulder with a heavy dose of gun-pointing. Not exactly my style."

Jenn sat on the edge of the bed, watching Vitus dress. His shoulder was much better now, but it still hurt when he used that arm for prolonged periods of time. He'd taken to the sling, though, deciding that instead of hindering him, it gave him an edge. No one would ever expect trouble from a man with a bad arm. He tightened the know of his necktie, examining it closely in the mirror, and deciding that he could do better, he pulled it loose and began again.

"What were you expecting?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "I thought maybe I'd get to wear some slinky dresses and seduce strange men. You know, that kind of thing."

"You want to seduce strange men?" Vitus stared at her reflection in the mirror with raised eyebrows.

"Only for personal gain."

"Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better."

She threw a pillow at his back.

"I meant so that maybe I could drug him and snatch some blueprints or something. I don't know. Espionage stuff," she said.

"I don't think we're spies, dear."

"Oh, then what the hell are we?"

"I'm not sure," said Vitus. "I've been tossing the word caper around. What kind of people go on capers?"

"Thieves, maybe?"

"No, see, you're thinking heist. But I thought the same thing at first, too."

"How about no-goodniks? That's nice and non-specific."

Vitus nodded. "I can live with that. Did you sell all your paintings?"

"Most of them. Philip wanted a few for the museum. He said Mister Jacobi would have approved."

"That's great! Next time we're in the area, we'll have to swing by and see them."

Satisfied with his tie, Vitus slipped on a tan waistcoat and made some final adjustments to his collar.

"How do I look?"

"Amazing," said Jenn.

"Good. Now come on, we've got a caper to plan."

Vitus left the bedroom, descended the stairs, and opened the front door, exposing a small Alaskan street that they never thought they would see again. Waiting out front was a yellow taxi but nothing else. There were no burly men in dark suits waiting for them--that they could see, at least. The antique-dealer and his partner had no doubt that they were being watched. They were special. They were valuable. But most of all, they were dangerous, and Rasputin now knew that. They each ate a slice of toast as they descended the front steps, and then the both of them were whisked away by the taxi, which shot off like a rocket in the direction of Anchorage and a waiting crew.

Day 29 - The New Revolutions - Part 29

Jenn scrambled up a sandy hillside, muttering a few choice words as she struggled with her footing. She regretted her choice in attire, wishing she had opted for anything other than the bright sundress she wore today, even if the day had started with a calm, pleasant break from the constant running and the culmination of deeds she could only describe as mischief. The thong sandals on her feet were filling with sand that grated against her instep. If only she'd worn the dark, drab outfit Philip had given her, she thought to herself. She might have looked a bit conspicuous running around in it, but at the very least, it would have been more comfortable.

With the help of a patch of surprisingly sturdy sea oats, she breached the top of the steep hill and looked out over everything. She could see the entire area where Ivanovich's warehouse once stood and imagined she could make out the tiny shape of Vitus Bethel standing amid the ruins with his good arm raised. She could see the yacht now docked alongside the pier and the whole of the bay, which stretched out as far as she could see. There was nothing around her--no one nearby to help or even chase after her. It was a lonely place to be. Her eyes scanned the shore, tracing a line from Ivanovich's pier all the way to the section of beach closest to her, where a small private pier that had no obvious use hung out over the water. She had an idea and immediately began to dig through the bag formerly belonging to the man once called Hemingway. She found the handheld radio Vitus had used to contact the rest of their crew, held down the button on its side, and spoke.

"Um, Hayes?"

"Jenn? That you? Something wrong?"

"No," she said. "Well, yeah, but just Vitus' plan and his impending demise. That's about it. But I do have an idea."

"Do tell."

"There's another pier near the warehouse," she said. Her finger slipped from the button as she looked around, as if trying to gain a sense of direction for the first time ever. "South, I think. Maybe southwest, just down the coast."

Hayes was quiet, but Jenn had come to realize that Hayes was never in too much of a hurry, even when it came to thinking. A minute later, a prolonged "Hmm" came across from his end of the radio.

***

A group of five men, each dressed in a dark suit and carrying similar pistols, emerged from the yacht and buzzed around the dock like flies until settling on Vitus. He had only the one good arm to raise, so he held it high in the air to show that he had no intention of putting up a fight. When each of the five guns had settled into position (each pointed at a different part of his body), one of the men spoke a few words in Russian into a headset.

Malcolm Ivanovich stepped onto the dock. He primped his blue, pin-striped suit, which appeared infinitely more colorful than the black suits of his compatriots. He wore a bandage across the bridge of his nose and sported several large bruises elsewhere on his face. He walked with a smirk and an air of superiority and invincibility that immediately made the antique-dealer want nothing more than to punch his already-broken nose despite the guns currently trained on him.

Ivanovich swatted at his men, pushing a hole for himself so that he might have a better look at the antique-dealer and the fearful face he had hoped to find. Ivanovich was sorely disappointed, however, to find that Vitus looked rather amused by the entire incident, and this saddened him greatly.

"Where's Hemingway?" asked Ivanovich. "He was supposed to be here."

Vitus shrugged. "Haven't seen him," he said.

"And your girlfriend? Don't think I've forgotten what she did to me."

Vitus shrugged again. "She's not here."

Ivanovich sighed. "This is nowhere near as satisfying as I thought it would be."

One of Ivanovich's henchmen, who had apparently gone off to survey the premises, reappeared at his employer's side. He tapped his massive finger on Ivanovich's diminutive shoulder, nearly creasing the pin-striped jacket.

"Hemingway is dead," he reported, pointing toward the abandoned sedan parked along the warehouse ruins. "No sign of the girl."

"Dead? Really? Well, Vitus, I must admit that I'm rather surprised. I didn't think you had it in you," said Ivanovich. "Where's the gun?"

Vitus, whose good arm was still in the air, gestured at his bad arm with his head. "In the sling."

Ivanovich smiled confidently, belying his caution and concern, as he reached into the sling and pulled out the small derringer. Then he studied it closely, wondering where he had seen it before.

"Is this one of mine?"

"Possibly," said the antique-dealer. "We did take quite a bit the last time we were here."

Ivanovich shook his head. "This is a real mess you've made here, Vitus," he said. "It took me years to build this place. I'm a rather obsessive collector, as you know, so when I was approached with an invitation to purchase several antiques that I had already paid for once, I was rather displeased. I knew it had to have been you, and it pains me to say that. It really does."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Malcolm, but you were the one that brought me into this to begin with and... well, let's just say that displeased doesn't quite cover what I'm feeling at this very moment."

Ivanovich grinned as he put on a pair of white latex gloves and took a gun from one of his goons. Vitus was nervous, but he kept his newly-found cool demeanor wrapped around him, like a projection of a far braver man.

"Now what should I do with you, Vitus?"

"I suppose you could always let me go," said the antique-dealer.

"You had your chance to run away, but you're still here. Why is that? What are you up to?"

"I'm just living up to my end of the bargain, Malcolm. You are here after the settee, aren't you?"

"Well, of course I want the settee, but that doesn't mean I can't settle some personal business at the same time. I'm a business man, Vitus. I know how to multi-task. I also know when someone is not being completely honest with me."

Vitus said nothing.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this so soon, but you've really left me no choice." Ivanovich sighed and raised his pistol.

"You need me," said Vitus, just when he thought he'd never have the opportunity to speak again. "You need me if you want to make the trade."

"Most of you, anyway," said Ivanovich. "Sorry, but I like to cut to the chase."

The antique-dealer's heart began to beat just a little faster. He stared down at Ivanovich and the smug grin currently plastered across his face.

"Oh, Vitus, is that what this is about? You give yourself to me, and I stop chasing your hard-fisted little girlfriend? Is that a fair summary of your plan? Because if it is, let me assure you how completely flawed it is. I still want her to suffer very, very much. You as well, of course. That's all part of that pesky, aforementioned obsessive nature of mine. In fact, I've been looking into taxidermy so that I might stuff the both of you and keep you in my living room as trophies. I've been practicing on squirrels--really not as difficult as you might think."

Ivanovich paced slowly in a circle, the gun waving back and forth as the sociopathic collector spoke with emphasized hand motions. Vitus merely watched, deciding that there was no reasoning with his captor following that particular insane rant.

"Okay, I can honestly say that I was not expecting that," Vitus commented to himself.

"Now, as a rule, I don't ordinarily shoot people. I have men to do that for me, and I find the entire idea rather repulsive, to be perfectly honest. But for you, Vitus--for you I'll make an exception."

"Malcolm, wait!"

It was no use. Ivanovich raised his gun, his face expressionless and his eyes cold, and fired.

Day 28 - The New Revolutions - Part 28

"Where are you taking us?" Vitus asked.

The man called Hemingway did not answer. He simply dug the barrel of his gun into Vitus' back as they marched down the street.

"You can at least tell us that much, right? I mean, you did arrange a meeting place in the note you sent to our friends," Jenn added.

Still, the man called Hemingway did not answer. Soon they approached a car on the side of street. It was a late model white sedan. The man called Hemingway fished the keys from his bag and tossed them to Jenn.

"You'll drive," he said. "Your boyfriend can ride shotgun. How's that shoulder doing, anyway?"

Vitus looked down at his arm, still bound in the sling.

"I've had worse," he said. He had not had worse. The antique-dealer summoned every last ounce of courage, embracing the sort of manly, sarcastic quips one would expect from a pulp hero caught up in the same ordeal. But the man called Hemingway was not fooled. He could smell the fear in the air, and he smiled, not at Vitus' wit or charm, but at his vulnerability.

"Get in the car," he commanded.

Jenn climbed in behind the wheel. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Just drive. When you need to make a turn, I'll tell you to turn, but you'll know nothing else. Understand?" said the man called Hemingway. "Just because our last encounter ended on different terms does not mean I am incompetent. I'll promise you this right now: you will not get away from me. I am very good at what I do. You will not distract me or catch me off guard. Not anymore. So if you're expecting a villainous monologue, you are sorely out of luck."

Vitus was disappointed only because he was, indeed, hoping to be on the receiving end of a villainous monologue at least once in his life. He didn't press the issue, though, and instead settled quietly into the seat of the car, staring at Jenn as she began to drive back toward the south.

The ride barely lasted an hour, until they finally came in sight of the wide, beckoning waters of the bay. The man called Hemingway guided Jenn as they approached each and every intersection. After two more right turns and a left, the car pulled alongside the smoldering ruins of Ivanovich's warehouse. Charred, fragmented walls of thin metal still stood, marking out boundaries where there had once been walls. Vitus imagined that the largest pile of ash and twisted metal near the dock was what was of Ivanovich's collection.

"I bet Malcolm's pissed," he said with a whistle.

"Ivanovich is a nobody," said the man called Hemingway, breaking his now-characteristic silence. "Do you think Rasputin honestly cares what you've done here? Ivanovich is a flunky--nothing more, nothing less. It's the big boss you should really be worried about, and he doesn't much care for the word no."

"Great, now he talks," said Jenn.

"Only because there's been a slight change of plans," said the man called Hemingway. He had been reading the screen of his cellular phone, which he then flipped shut and tossed into his shoulder bag.

"What kind of change?"

"Get out of the car," said the man called Hemingway.

Jenn and Vitus complied, though they weren't anxious to find out what would happen next. Vitus straightened his sleeve and sling properly, as if reverting to a not-so-distant lifetime in which he was constantly concerned about his respectable appearance.

"It seems I have a conflict of interest," said the man called Hemingway. He examined his handgun, making sure it was properly loaded and ready to fire at any moment. "You see, I'm employed by Mister Rasputin by way of Ivanovich. We're about to make a trade--the two of you for the settee, but it seems that Ivanovich wants me to kill you after the swap anyway. Not exactly honorable, but let me assure you, I'm more than willing to oblige. Mister Rasputin, on the other hand, would like to offer you a job."

"A job?"

"Now don't get me wrong, I'll be taking the money from the both of them, but, well, I've already told you how Rasputin feels about no. Apparently, he's been watching you quite closely, and he's impressed with your ingenuity and resourcefulness--the sort of qualities he looks for in his employees."

"You're about to tell me about his feelings for the word no again, aren't you?" said Vitus.

The man called Hemingway grinned and held his handgun aloft. "Now you're using that brain of yours. Did I mention you would be taking the position currently occupied by Malcolm Ivanovich? It seems he's been more trouble than he's worth, and, well, I guess you could say he's about to be terminated. He'll be joining us shortly, by the way."

"What about Jenn?" asked Vitus.

Jenn punctuated his question with a resounding, "Yeah."

"She'll be fine as long as both of you do as I say, but at this point, she's nothing more than a bargaining chip. No offense."

Jenn was, in fact, unsure of whether the statement in question was offensive as much as it was horrifying.

"So here's what's going to happen," said the man called Hemingway. He checked his watch--a circa 1900 gold pocket watch, Vitus judged with a cursory glance, similar to the ones that had been liberated from Ivanovich's warehouse and now found themselves at the bottom of the bay. "In about ten minutes, Ivanovich will be here to collect you. He personally wants to make the trade with the remainder of your crew. Instead of his original plan, I'll take care of Ivanovich for you. You're welcome, by the way. Then I'll trade the girl for the settee, and you come with me of your own free will. Understand?"

Vitus said nothing. Neither did Jenn. In fact, the both of them were quite tired of all the guns that had been pointed in their general direction over the past few days.

"Oh, come on, where's your spirit? Your girlfriend goes free, Ivanovich is off your back, I don't ruin my new suit with your blood, and you get an exciting new career. We all win, see? So what do you say?"

The man called Hemingway pulled his gun away for a brief second, just long enough to scratch his nose, but Vitus took advantage of the opportunity. He reached inside his sling, pulled out the small derringer he had concealed within, and pulled the trigger. He should have aimed for the head, he knew, if he wanted to kill the man called Hemingway quickly and efficiently, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, the bullet went through the professional's chest, and he stumbled back into and over the hood of his sedan.

"Brutal, too," sputtered the man called Hemingway. "No wonder he likes you." Then he coughed, spraying a film of blood onto the car. He reached out with a finger, smearing the blood into a small dot before collapsing entirely. It was a period--the punctuation mark of his life. The man called Hemingway had written his last sentence. Jenn retrieved his handgun for herself as Vitus immediately set to rummaging through his bag.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

Vitus stared blankly at the small gun still in his hand.

"Yeah."

He was lying. Pulling the trigger was easier than he thought it would be. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd shot a man, but it was the first time he'd killed one. Mentally, he had prepared himself for this moment, but that had done little good.

"He deserved it," she said.

"I know."

Jenn thought back to the night she'd taken a life. There was a feeling that still resonated deep within her, that still hung on like a phantom limb though the act itself had long ended. She knew it was something that would never fully go away. Now she simply had to live with it. Though she was glad someone else could understand what she was going through, she hated that it had to be Vitus--that it had to be the person she loved most who had to pull that trigger and feel the things she had felt. Yet there he was, staying by her side just as she had stayed at his through every shifting state, like two revolving key words in the world's most depressing sestina--changing positions, but always there. Now they had become Vitus Bethel and Jenn Korova, murderers.

"Here we go," said Vitus as he pulled both a handheld radio and a cellular phone from the satchel of the recently deceased man called Hemingway. He passed the phone to Jenn and began fiddling with the dials and settings on the radio.

"No good," she said after attempting to make a call. She'd had no idea what number to dial for help (except, of course, for 911, which would have done them absolutely no good in their current situation), so she'd tried the only other number she knew--the one at Vitus' house, half-expecting to hear an angry Russian voice pick up on the receiving end. But there was nothing. The phone was absolutely dead.

Vitus muttered as he experimented with the radio, trying desperately to remember the exact channel Philip and Hayes often used.

"Philip? Hayes?" he would say as he tried various combinations of the numbers Philip had once given him until he found the correct one. It wasn't exactly the most efficient plan, but it ultimately paid off.

"Vitus?" asked a voice from the other end. It was Hayes.

"Yes!"

"Are you kids all right?"

"We're fine, Hayes."

"And Hemingway?"

"Dead."

"Hell," said Hayes, "I wanted dibs. No matter. Tell us where you are, and we'll come get you."

"Ivanovich's warehouse," said Vitus, his eyes scanning the waters of the bay. A large, white yacht was approaching. "You may want to hurry. It looks like Ivanovich just pulled in."

"Vitus," came Philip's voice across the radio. "Do whatever it takes to keep him there. We're en route. We were headed to the manor anyway, so we can be there in twenty minutes, half an hour tops. Understood?"

Vitus nodded before realizing how pointless that particular gesture is when talking over a radio. "Understood," he said. He calmly placed the radio back into the satchel and handed it to Jenn.

"So what's the plan this time?" she asked.

"You need to get out of here," he said.

"Okay, clearly you've gone crazy. That's a horrible plan. I'm not going anywhere, Vitus."

"Please, just take the bag and run. Find someplace safe and wait for Philip and Hayes to get here. If I'm going to stall Ivanovich, I don't want to have to worry about you."

"You're not getting all overprotective on me, are you? You know I can handle myself. Do you want to see me wrestle a large animal to prove it? Because I swear to God, I will wrestle a bear right here and now."

"It's not that," said Vitus. "Look, I can't pretend to know everything about this way of life or the people that live it, but I know logic. I know that if Ivanovich finds both of us here, he might see one of us as leverage and the other as expendable. We already know he wants us both dead, so who's to say he won't kill one of us at the first available opportunity?"

"I'm pretty sure I broke his nose, too," said Jenn. "All right, you might have a point. So what's your plan?"

"You meet up with Philip and Hayes and bring them back here. I'm going to let Ivanovich take me, let him think the trade is still on."

"Okay, we're back to this being a horrible plan again. He's going to know that something's up."

"I guess you'd better hurry, then."

Day 27 - The New Revolutions - Part 27

Vera Bethel left work early. She had to skip lunch and agree to switch shifts for a night to do it, but she felt it might be worth it in order to spend a little more time with her brother, who was apparently seeking to make amends. She went to the grocery store first, already planning out the perfect dinner--one she'd had in mind for three months now, just in case a special occasion presented itself. She always made advance plans for special occasions, but very seldom did she have the opportunity to use them. This time was different, though. This time she had actual guests. She realized how desperate and lonely that sort of thinking seemed but refused to let it damper her spirit this day.

Her cart was full. The original main course was to be chicken parmesan, but she wondered whether Vitus had become a vegetarian in the years he was away. She decided on eggplant instead. She should have been a chef, she thought to herself, suddenly jealous of Vitus without even knowing where he'd been or what he did for a living. She had practically had been preparing for it her entire adult life, starting with the dinner parties she organized in her younger days. When the opportunity to attend a culinary school presented itself, she very seriously considered it. After all, the New Bakersfield Baking Academy was one of the leading pie-based educational institutions in the entire world. The founder, one Hieronymous Apple--whose claim to fame was his discovery of a new kind of dumpling-- personally visited Vera's home when she was twenty years old. It seems another of Apple's students had spoken of Vera's famed dinner parties and the spectacular chess pies she often prepared for them, but Vera declined the invitation. She had become a part of Tristesse, and though she had no one there to care for, she could not bear to leave it just yet.

Before her shopping was done, Vera rolled her cart down the baking aisle and stared at the pre-made pie crusts. Tonight would be a good night for a chess pie, she thought to herself, though she had not made one in several years. Maybe Vitus' visit was exactly the push she needed to get out on her own and finally leave Tristesse behind. She wondered whether Apple's invitation was packaged with an expiration date.

Vera left the market with several large and loaded paper bags in her hands. As she rounded the corner of Elm and Maple Streets, she saw a familiar figure up the road. Vitus was out for a walk with Jenn and a strange man in a brown suit.

"Vitus!" she yelled. "Vitus over here!" She was thrilled to have some help with her bags.

Distantly, she saw Vitus shake his head and apparently argue with the man in the brown suit, who slipped something into his suit pocket and whispered in Vitus' ear as she approached.

"Here, you can take this one," she said, handing one of the larger bags to Vitus. "Be careful, it has eggs."

Vitus stumbled for words. "Um, okay," he finally said.

Vera smiled at the man in the brown suit, and he politely grinned back. "Hello," she said. "I'm Vera, Vitus' sister."

"Of course you are," said the man in the brown suit. "What a nice surprise. I'm an old acquaintance of your brother's."

"Well, then, let's get these groceries to the house."

Neither Vitus, Jenn, nor the man in the brown suit spoke as they marched in a single file line to Vera's house. She fumbled for her keys and then let them all inside.

"Well, now," said the man in the brown suit. He pulled a handgun from his coat pocket and pointed it back and forth between the three others. When Vera saw it, her eyes opened wide, and she felt the sudden urge to scream bloody murder. Her cooler head prevailed and simply stared at the man in the gun, memorizing every feature of his body in order to give the police a more accurate description. She at least hoped she'd have the chance to tell the police, anyway.

"I was going to let one of you go," he said to Vitus and Jenn, "but this is even better. Looks like I get to keep you both. You." He pointed the gun at Vera. She fought the urge to faint. The gunman then slipped a folded piece of paper into the one grocery bag Vera still carried in her hands. "There's a boat at the dock. I want you to go there and deliver a message to the men on it. One is young and blond. The other old and gray. Can you do this for me?"

Vera nodded slowly.

"Good," said the man in the brown suit. "And one more thing..." He bent in close and whispered something in her ear. She nodded again. "Good girl. Now go."

As Vera left the house that she and Vitus had shared for the one brief year they both lived with their grandmother, she flashed Vitus a look. It wasn't one of hatred or disdain, like the ones she had previously been practicing and saving in case she ever did run into him again. No, this was a questioning look--one of fear and confusion, though with just the slightest touch of anger. It was a look that said, "Vitus, what have you done?"

***

Hayes was sitting at the picnic table aboard the boat named Bess when the girl approached. He'd left Philip alone inside with the comics to give him time to be drawn in, no matter how briefly, to a fantasy world that wasn't as bleak as the real one. Philip had been in for awhile, Hayes thought, long enough to finish that Silver Surfer he'd given him and long enough to read a few others if he was so inclined.

"Damn," he muttered to himself. "Wish I'd brought me something to read."

He heard the sound of footsteps against the wooden plank that led from the dock to the deck of the ship. He turned to see a girl climbing aboard. She was tall and wore a pair of glasses with a thin black frame. She also looked familiar, but Hayes had definitely never seen her before. It was more of a family resemblance. She carried a bag of groceries in her hands, which Hayes found particularly peculiar.

"Excuse me," he called out. "I believe you got the wrong boat."

She didn't say anything until she walked up to him, and then she looked at him with bloodshot eyes. Hayes knew she had been crying.

"Where's the other one?" she asked. "The one with the blond hair?"

Hayes stood up slowly and shuffled to the cabin. "Phil," he called inside, "you better get out here."

Philip put away the copy of Ghost Rider he'd just started on and peeked out onto the deck to see the girl with the groceries and Hayes staring at him with a more-confused-than-usual look on his face.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"This girl wants to see ya."

"I have something for you," she said. "A note--it's in the bag."

She approached Philip cautiously and held the bag out for him to see. Philip thought a moment and then plunged his hand into the sack, searching for the supposed note, but he could find nothing.

The girl leaned in. "It might be under the pie crust," she whispered, as if it was a dark, terrible secret.

Philip shrugged and checked under the pie crust, and sure enough, there was a folded piece of paper. He pulled it out and began to read.

"What is it?" Hayes asked.

Philip looked up at him but said nothing. There was a certain intensity in his eyes that Hayes could only describe as very, very angry.

"Are you Hayes?" the girl asked the old captain.

"Yeah. How do you know me, kiddo?"

"I have a message for you, too. I'm sorry, but he said to do this," said the girl, and she very slowly held up her hand and extended her middle finger.

"Son of a bitch," said Hayes. "Hemingway."

"He's got them," said Philip as he passed the note to Hayes. "He wants to arrange a trade--Vitus and Jenn for the settee."

"Wait," said the girl. "What's going on? What does my brother have to do with any of this?"

Philip and Hayes exchanged glances.

"Vitus is your brother?" asked Philip.

"Yes, and if he's in trouble, I want to know about it."

"What's your name?" asked Hayes.

"Vera."

"Vera, your brother's fine. Don't worry about him. Just head on home and forget any of this ever happened. That'd be best for you," said Hayes.

"I'm not going anywhere until I know what's going on."

"Excuse us for just a second," said Philip, pulling Hayes into the cabin for a short talk. "What do you think?" he asked. "Should we tell her?"

"What the hell do I care? Might not be too good for her health if she knows any more," said Hayes. "But Hemingway already knows what she looks like and probably who she is."

Philip nodded and pulled Hayes back out onto the deck.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Vera," he said. "Your brother is on the run from a Russian antique collector."

"That doesn't sound very honest," she replied.

"It is the complete, utter truth, and I'm only telling you this because you're already too far involved. We've been helping him, and he's been helping us. Just believe me when I say that we know what we're doing, and we're going to get him back in one piece. He's been in much, much worse than this. The best thing you can do is go back home, go to bed early tonight, and pretend this was all a dream."

"More like a nightmare," she said. "What's your name?"

"Philip."

"How do I know I can believe a word you say, Philip?"

"Because I'm not pointing a gun at you," he said.

"That's a good start. How will I know when Vitus is okay?"

"He'll call you. I'll make sure of it."

So the antique-dealer's sister finally agreed that perhaps leaving this behind was in her best interest, and she returned to her home, where she prepared eggplant parmesan for one and a fresh chess pie that would go mostly un-eaten. She thought much differently of her brother after that. He was no longer the cruel, selfish man she'd hoped he would be. Now she could only wonder if he was all right.

Day 26 - The New Revolutions - Part 26

Meanwhile, Philip and Hayes decided to do a bit of exploring on their own. With Bess securely docked along the river, they wandered the streets of Tristesse, peering in through every shop's window and marveling at the town's perfection. Mister Jacobi would have been proud of a town like this, Philip thought. It was a town that stuck to its ideals without lusting after the money large corporations dangle from their pocketbooks.

"Hot damn," said Hayes, after taking a quick glance through a particular window. He quickly shuffled inside the store, leaving Philip to linger on the sidewalk before following him inside.

Philip looked around at the shop. There were long, white cardboard boxes all along the walls and several shallow bookshelves that stood near the counter.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"This is a comic shop," said Hayes. "A damn fine one at that." He nodded politely at the apathetic clerk behind the counter. "Alright, first thing's first--I gotta find me some goddamn Ghost Rider."

Hayes spent the next forty minutes browsing through the boxes, purchased a large stack of comic books, and then immediately headed back to the boat.

"Where are you going?" Philip asked.

"Back to the boat. Got some reading to catch up on."

"We have a whole day off, and you want to spend it reading comic books? Great."

"You coming?"

Philip sighed. "I guess."

When they boarded Bess once again, Hayes immediately shuffled into the cabin and plopped down on the old cot. He sorted through his plastic-coated stack of thin paper books, arranging them in the order he found most appealing.

"You ever read comics, kiddo?" he asked, his eyes already fixed on the colored panels of the comic in his hand.

Philip paced back and forth across the room. "Not since I was a kid, I guess," he replied. "My father used to bring me some back every time he and Mister Jacobi were away on a job."

"You should give 'em a try sometime. You'd be surprised at what you're missing. You got your action, your drama, your romance. You name it, you can find it. Though I still think some of 'em take themselves too seriously. Sometimes you wanna read something that ain't got no subtext or metaphor. Sometimes you just need something to absorb yourself into--the kind of pure emotion that fuels ya. Entertainment for the sake of entertainment. Something just plain fun. You know what I mean?"

"No, not really."

"Well, you should. It'd do ya some good. Go ahead and rummage through my stack here, if you want, and see if there's anything that catches your eye. We've got plenty of time," said Hayes.

"I'd rather not."

Hayes ignored his response altogether. "Some people stick with a writer or artist they like," he said. "Then some just like the characters. I like to think that when you follow the characters, it's because they say something about you. Me, I'm a Ghost Rider fan. Have been since 'Nam. You don't mess with a flame-headed skeleton son of a bitch."

Philip relented, sat on the edge of a stool, and stared down at Hayes, who was sprawled out on top of the cot like a half-empty sack.

"So what does Ghost Rider say about you?"

"Dunno," Hayes replied. "Maybe that somewhere along the line, I know what it feels like to have sold my soul."

"I didn't know you were in Vietnam."

Hayes tossed the comic he was reading to the side and again shuffled through his stack, looking for something in particular. "Yeah, well, I don't much like to talk about it," he said. "I'd barely been out of school a week when they shipped me over. They told me I'd make a good soldier, and by God, I did. But I hated that damn place. Every few weeks I got a package from my folks--mostly pictures and a few comics if I was lucky. Guess dads are good for that stuff, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Anyway, when I came back home, there weren't many things waiting here for me. Couldn't find work for the life of me. Then I met Jacobi, and he offered me a job. At first I's just so happy to have something to do and some money to show for it. Didn't ask any questions either--just like a good soldier. But yeah, don't let nobody lie to ya. That place was a living hell, and I've got the dead buddies to prove it. Never would've made it without them, though. A man's gotta have friends."

Finally, he found what he was looking for and pulled it free from the others. He rocked himself to his feet and ambled over to where Philip sat.

"Here, I got something for ya," he said, tossing a comic into Philip's hands. "I'm gonna go get some fresh air. It'll still be awhile until the kids get back, so try not to get too antsy to get back on the job."

Philip stared at the cover, which featured a silver man atop a surfboard in outer space, appropriately titled Silver Surfer. "What's this one about?"

"It's all about isolation," Hayes replied. "You'll love it." Then he stepped up onto the deck, leaving Philip alone with the comic.

He studied the art on the cover for a moment longer, then pulled the book out from its plastic sheath and began to read.

***

The cemetery was greener than Vitus remembered. He seemed to recall a prevalence of earthy tones, like mud covering the entire ground. Seeing it now, though, it seemed to be a very peaceful place, and as strange as it sounded, he was quite happy to be there. The antique-dealer had not visited his parents graves since before he became an antique-dealer, and as he approached, the hand of his partner was held tight in his own.

They spent several moments just standing beside the headstones. Luckily, Jenn had had the foresight to bring along a small collection of flowers she had liberated from gardens along the way. She gave them to Vitus, and he placed them in the stone vases attached to the markers. They said very little and then left quietly.

From there, Vitus led her through several of the nearby parks that were scattered all across the landscape of the town. Jenn imagined that this would have been a wonderful place in which to grow up, and though she didn't dare mention it to Vitus, she wished she could call it home. They wandered up and down the streets--a two person parade of their very own that had no clear starting or stopping place. They passed the schools he had attended as a boy, and the antique shop that had sparked his interest in antiquities in the first place. Jenn stared at every location as if it was an exhibit at a museum, albeit it one devoted entirely to an obscure antique-dealer who was on the run from a bench-obsessed Russian hoodlum.

"Isn't it amazing how something so simple as a walk around town can take your mind off of everything?" Jenn mused.

"It is nice for a change," Vitus agreed. "No gunfights, no narrow escapes, no getting shot and falling into a large body of water. I could get used to this lifestyle."

"So what will we do when this is all over?"

"I don't know. Do you still want to live in Europe?"

"I suppose," said Jenn, though her voice had just the slightest hint of reluctance embedded within it. "It's so far away, though, and I'll have to replace all my appliances with ones that have a funky plug. That'll be a bitch."

"I don't know if that will even be an option anymore," said Vitus. "Before long, we're going to have to take a few odd jobs transporting goods to even have enough money for fuel--if this crusade Philip's on drags out any further."

"So what, then? We don't run away and settle down? Do you want to stay on that boat forever?" Jenn asked.

"God, no. A life on the run isn't much of a life at all. I don't want to lie awake every night, wondering when Rasputin will send the next hitman after us. I don't know. It's complicated," said Vitus, but Jenn felt entirely the same way.

"Don't worry," she said, "we'll figure everything out eventually. If something's meant to be, it'll be--even if that something makes us look over our shoulders every day for the rest of our lives."

Another voice spoke up from behind them. It was one that had a distant familiarity to it. "Or you could just look over your shoulder right now," it said. Vitus and Jenn both turned to face a bruised man with a gun in his hands. He grinned and adjusted his fashionable brown suit and the strap of the bag over his shoulder with his free hand.

"Hey, guys," said the man called Hemingway. "Miss me?"

Day 25 - The New Revolutions - Part 25

Vera Bethel's life did not turn out the way she'd expected. She was supposed to have been married by now, with two children (one boy, one girl) and a small yellow house with a white picket fence. She never could decide if they would have a dog or not. She hadn't had one since Duke, the German shepherd she and her brother had raised when they were young, and frankly, she wasn't sure she could raise another, knowing that it would simply die a few years down the road.

But no, Vera Bethel was not married. She did not have children or a small yellow house with a white picket fence, and she most certainly did not have a dog. She wasn't the housewife she always imagined she'd be. Instead, she had a job at one of the local garment factories. She was in charge of an automatic pleating machine--that is, a machine that automatically creates pleats in men's slacks. It was an easy enough job, and the pay was adequate. Still, she somehow found herself lacking any passion in pleating.

On this particular morning, Vera found herself making breakfast before the trip to work, which consisted only of a piece of toast she would eat while walking to the factory--a habit she had picked up from her brother when they were both young. Breakfast was the only time she ever thought of her brother anymore and for good reason. He was selfish and unreliable and completely oblivious to the world around him.

There came a knock on the door while she spread a thin layer of butter across her single slice of toast. She imagined that it was the paper boy, back again to beg for a tip so that he could further his education or make a sizeable donation to a charity that either funded children's heart transplants or planted trees in an effort to reclaim the Sahara Desert--whatever scheme his greedy little heart had cooked up this time. So it came as a complete shock when she opened the door to find her brother standing before her. For the first time in eight years, Vitus Bethel had returned to Tristesse.

"Vitus?" she said.

"Hi, Vera," he replied.

"What are you doing here?"

He cast his eyes around at the ground and the walls inside her house, anywhere but into his own sister's. He was taller than she remembered, and he wore his right arm in a sling.

"Oh my God. What happened? Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine. I was just passing through, so I wanted to stop in and see you. You look great, by the way. How are you?"

"I'm fine, too," she replied. "Would you like to come in?"

He hesitated. "Actually, I'm here with a friend."

A girl with short hair peeked from around the frame of the door and smiled. "Hi," she said. "I'm Jenn. Pleased to meet you."

Vera smiled back politely. "You, too. I'm Vera. Would you both like to come in?"

"We'd love to," said Jenn. Vitus forced an awkward smile, and they both stepped into the small house that had once belonged to Vitus and Vera's grandmother. They were an odd pair--he in his suit and she in a bright sundress.

Vera checked the clock on her wall. She calculated the amount of time it would take to walk to work if she took the shortcut and decided that she had just enough time to catch up with her brother and send him on his merry way. It wasn't that she was unhappy to see him, but in that moment she opened her front door and found him standing on her front porch, she could not help but see him once again as selfish and unreliable and completely oblivious to the world around him.

"You have a lovely house," said Jenn, and Vera noticed that the girl with the short hair seemed to be taking charge, attempting to make conversation where Vitus was failing miserably.

"Thank you," said Vera. "So are you two seeing each other?"

"Yes," said Vitus.

"More or less," said Jenn.

"How about you?" Vitus asked. "I mean, are you married or anything?"

Vera shook her head. "No," she said. "So, Vitus, what did you say you were doing here again?"

"I'm sorry," Vitus blurted out. "I'm sorry that we haven't been on the best terms. I know I let you down when I left town--and again when I didn't come back for our grandmother's funeral and again for everything after that I might have missed. I'm very, very sorry. It seems I've been saying that a lot lately, but only because I mean it."

Vera smiled and turned to Jenn. "How long did it take you to talk him into this?" she asked.

"A few hours," Jenn replied. "He's learning, though. He must have been a stubborn one growing up."

"You have no idea," said Vera, hardly able to understand exactly why she said what followed. "Well, Vitus, it's okay. I forgive you, and believe me, that's really not an easy thing to say."

"I appreciate it."

Vitus began to wonder how an awkward pause could ever be deafening. He was definitely putting the idea to the test and was starting to form a reasonably good explanation as he and his sister stared at each other for a moment that felt like eternity.

"So how long are the two of you going to be in town?"

"Just for the day," said Vitus, "then we really have to get going."

"Well, listen, I've got to get to work before I'm late, but why don't you come over for dinner late this afternoon? I'm off at five."

"That sounds wonderful," said Jenn, flashing a gleaming white smile.

"Great. Make yourself at home. If you have to leave, lock the door behind you," said Vera, before disappearing out the door with her slice of toast in hand.

"So what do you want to do?" asked Vitus once they were alone.

"Why don't you take me for a walk and show me around town?" suggested Jenn.

"Okay. Is there anything you'd like to see first?"

"Yeah. Let's go visit your parents."

Day 24 - The New Revolutions - Part 24

The town of Tristesse was founded in 1820 by a small group of wayward Bonapartists that had fled from France to the United States after the abdication and exile of Napolean I. Originally part of a much longer congregation that included Count Lefebvre Desnouettes and went on to found the city of Demopolis, the Tristessian Bonapartists denounced the plans of their brethren in Demopolis as much too idealistic. Originally, the land had been purchased from the United States Congress for the founding of a city whose economy was to be based almost entirely on olives and grapes, but the would-be Tristessians argued in favor of more local crops like cotton and corn that would actually have a very good chance of growing in that area. So a small splinter broke off from the main body of French pioneers and founded their own town on a river not too far away, where they could live more sensibly. When the Congress learned, however, that Demopolis fell outside of the bounds the Bonapartists had been given, they were forced to abandon their city altogether. The inhabitants of Tristesse, however, escaped forcible removal by simply pretending to not be French.

In the years that followed, Tristesse thrived by simply being accessible to Mobile by waterway. Because cotton had long been its major economic resource, the textile industry took hold in the town and transformed a large portion of its population from poor farmers to relatively less poor industrial workers. It was a joyous time for Tristesse.

During the American Civil War, however, Tristesse was not so fortunate. Since it was a valuable Confederate port, the town's main docks and the main bridge that led into and out of town were destroyed, effectively shutting it off from the rest of the world. Nevertheless, life in the town continued on as if nothing had happened, and so it was that when the South underwent its period of Reconstruction, during which railroads replaced waterways as the main form of transportation for goods, a train station was constructed in Tristesse, opening it back up to the world around. Tristesse was ready for it, and it flooded the market with its stockpiles of cheap grain and textiles. "The Town that Disappeared" had reappeared and flourished. Almost overnight, the inhabitants had become secretly wealthy.

At the turn of the 20th Century, a small private college was founded in the town. Originally, it was intended to become a premier agricultural school, but it soon switched its focus to the liberal arts. Tuition was high--even as far as private college tuition goes, yet scholarships were offered for any Tristessian who wished to attend. This became a sort of pattern with the town--always favoring its own over outsiders, which in a different sort of way again cut the town off from everything else.

By the time Vitus Bethel was born, Tristesse had become the sort of idyllic small town that Norman Rockwell paintings were based on. The town had a population of approximately twenty-five thousand, not counting the additional twelve hundred students living in the dormitories of Elba College. The majority of the town's inhabitants earned their upper middle class wages at the garment factories on the edge of town. The rest worked in the privately owned shops that lined the town streets. The city planners had been careful to keep Tristesse a small town that had room for later expansion, so the streets were designed in a simple grid pattern that allowed residents to easily walk from one end of town to the other without the need for a car, a flaw that proved problematic for other small Southern towns in the mid 20th Century.

Every morning when he was a boy, young Vitus would leave his house at 1492 Maple Street and walk the three blocks to Swaney Elementary School. After school let out, at precisely three o'clock every afternoon, Vitus would venture to one of two places--the comic book store, which was exactly four blocks away, or the antique store, which was also exactly four blocks away in the opposite direction. It was a choice that sparked a constant battle for supremacy of his mind. Would he choose the action and adventure he so very much desired? Or would he be tempted again to look at the artifacts of a mysterious past--where every item could have once been owned by an eccentric mad scientist or a world-wandering adventurer. Then after he made his daily decision and spent the following forty minutes rummaging through books or items that he certainly could not afford, young Vitus Bethel returned home.

Very little could be said about Vitus' home life that would interest anyone beyond those who know him on a personal level. His parents, Victor and Violet Bethel, were kind and loving. They taught him wrong from right, to respect others no matter what, and how to tie his shoes, among a myriad of other things that bored him and had no place in the life of a future action hero. Then there was his sister, Vera, who was three years younger and nothing at all like her brother. Young Vitus had always dreamed about leaving Tristesse and seeking his fortune elsewhere--like the deserts of Egypt or the plains of the Serengeti or even the red mountains of Mars, if the opportunity presented itself, but young Vera was content in Tristesse. She played with her dolls and hosted neighborhood pretend-tea parties, which were renowned among all the proper young ladies of Tristesse. Her dream was of becoming a house wife, and settling down on the very same street she grew up on with a home of her own. Every once in awhile, though, something big comes along that seems to pause all dreams to the point that one is never entirely sure that they were dreams at all.

When Vitus was seventeen and Vera was fourteen, Victor and Violet Bethel were involved in a tragic accident. On the way home from a parent-teacher conference, during which Vitus' teacher expressed concern over his distant and imaginative behavior, their car was struck by a man who had fallen from the sky. It seems that at the very moment Victor and Violet Bethel left the campus of Tristesse High School, a skydiver named Jerome Reno had leapt from his plane and realized that his parachute had failed to open. So Jerome Reno panicked, and as a result, he crashed straight into Victor Bethel's windshield, causing him to lose control of his vehicle and plummet over the side of the road into the river below. A memorial service was held for all three victims in the town's main park, but young Vitus was too unnerved by the steady stream of skydiving mourners that landed nearby to stay for the entire duration.

Now orphaned, Vitus and Vera were sent to live with their grandmother, who lived in a house exactly one block south of their previous home. Neither of the Bethel children were ever the same after that accident, and yet they pretended that it had never happened. Vera, now too old for the tea parties she had thrown as a girl, took to throwing real parties--though not the wild, disorienting parties one would expect a teenager to host; rather, these were dinner parties, where everyone was expected to be on their best behavior and dress accordingly. It was as if all the manners and values of the tea parties were transplanted into something slightly more grown up.

Vitus began to question his own mortality, yet he absorbed himself even further into a fantasy world where he was an unstoppable force of nature, someone that could defy death and all the conventions of society in the same breath. When he graduated from high school, Vitus left Tristesse. Though he had been offered a full scholarship to Elba College, as was still the tradition of the town, he took another offer instead, one that took him far away from the town and river he had once loved yet grown to despise. He left his sister behind. He and Vera were never very close, but he felt ashamed of himself for snipping one of the few familial bonds he had left on this mortal coil. He never offered an apology, and he knew Vera resented him. They seldom spoke after that. The last time he'd heard from her was when their grandmother died--Vitus was nineteen and Vera sixteen. He did not attend the funeral.

Day 23 - The New Revolutions - Part 23

"What are you so afraid of, anyway?" Jenn asked him. "You can run away from bad guys, dodge bullets--well, some of them, but the moment you mention going back home, you look like you're about to vomit."

"Thanks for that lovely imagery," said Vitus. "Really, there are just some things I don't want to face right now. You know how it is, right? Doesn't everyone react the same way when they have some skeletons in the closet--or inner demons hiding under the bed?"

Jenn, however, was not paying attention. "Is your family still there? What are your parents like?" she asked.

"Dead, mostly. That's actually one of the things I don't want to face. Thanks, though."

"Oh, God," said Jenn, instantly mortified by her own words. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Vitus. I didn't know. I didn't even know you had a family. Well, I mean, I knew you had a family because everyone... oh, God, I'm babbling. I'm babbling, and I'm very, very, very sorry."

"It's okay. Really."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me before I put my foot in my mouth again?" she asked.

"I also had a dog that died when I was a boy," said Vitus.

"Gotcha. I'll stay away from families and pets."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Jenn asked.

"For everything. For dragging you into this whole mess in the first place. I just realized that I've never told you that I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she replied. "In a weird, masochistic sort of way, I'm having fun. Plus, this whole thing is really giving us a chance to get to know each other better." Indeed, it did. Like two survivors swept into the ocean, they clung to each other with their desperate hopes and desires, unwilling to let go and unsure if those feelings would remain when they eventually came ashore.

"Then I'm glad you're here," said Vitus.

"Me too." The conversation threatened to become awkward, so with a single question, Jenn unknowing switched their focus to an even more uncomfortable topic. "How's your shoulder?"

"It hurts when I think about it. The painkillers are very nice, though," he replied. "How are you? You've seemed a little more quiet since the shootout."

"Honestly, I've tried not to think about it much," said Jenn. Though no matter how hard she tried to push the memories from her mind, she could think of nothing else. The pain came in rapid succession, like two quick beats of a drum. Again she saw the Russian with his pointed gun. She saw him die when she pulled her trigger. She'd taken a life. Again she saw Vitus stumbling, helpless, and falling into the water below. Those were two things she never wanted to see again and the two things that would haunt her dreams that night. Still, she hid her pain away where no one could see it--not even Vitus.

They looked out over the side of the boat as Bess traveled up the river. The banks on either side were lined with large houses and marinas, trophies for the wealthy to enjoy. It reminded Vitus very little of the river he knew as a boy. Back then, he was Huckleberry Finn, steering an old raft down the mighty Mississippi, but now they had both been tamed. Tristesse waited for him on the riverbank ahead, and he wondered if it would be the same place he remembered.

Day 22 - The New Revolutions - Part 22

The water was lovely, dark and deep, and Vitus Bethel indeed had promises to keep. But the cold bay waters enticed him to sleep, for what one sews, one must also reap.

But fate had other designs on Vitus. When he was pulled from the water, the lips of the woman he loved pressed against his own, and her next breath became his. Vitus sat up, and water trickled from his mouth. But the immediate pain he felt came from his right shoulder, which was now wrapped his several layers of thick gauze. While he was regaining consciousness, Philip had taken the opportunity to swab the wound with pure grain alcohol. The bullet had passed clean through, fortunately, so once cleaned, the hole in the antique-dealer's shoulder was dressed with just enough pressure to stop the bleeding.

"Am I dead?" Vitus immediately asked. The others were standing around him, so he naturally figured that either he had survived or they had all perished. As always, Vitus chose the most pessimistic of those possible answers.

"Not yet anyway," said Jenn. She hugged him, and Vitus noticed that they were both still soaking wet. His socks felt suddenly uncomfortable.

"The bullet grazed your shoulder. You'll be fine as long as you don't move it too much," said Hayes.

"How did we do?" Vitus asked.

"We did well," said Philip. "It isn't much, but we have enough to send a message. As soon as we get back to Côte Verte, Big Mike will take it the rest of the way."

"And the warehouse?"

Philip held up a small detonator. "No longer there," he said.

"So what do we do now?" Jenn asked.

"I don't know," said Philip as the others all turned to him for the answer, and he was being completely honest. His momentary revenge had certainly made him feel a smidgen better, but he knew that this was only the first step in reaching Ivanovich. There was still a long, long way to go.

"How about we take us a well-deserved break first and figure the rest out later," suggested Hayes.

"Like a vacation?" asked Jenn.

"I'm not sure one can take a vacation while running for one's life," said Vitus.

"But we aren't running," said Philip. "Not anymore. Not now that we're taking the fight to them."

"Then let's call it shore leave," said Hayes.

"I can live with that," said Jenn.

"Then we'll go back to Côte Verte and finish our business there," said Philip. "As soon as everything is taken care of, we'll leave, find somewhere safe to recoup. Any suggestions?"

Vitus spoke up, almost reluctantly. A small bell that he alone could hear rang in his ears, reminding him of a place he had left and had almost completely forgotten about. It was a place he once called home. "I know a place," he said. "It'll be safe, and it isn't too far away."

"Where's that?" asked Jenn.

"It's the place where I grew up."

Immediately, Jenn knew she had to go there, had to be there to see what made Vitus the man he was. She wanted to know everything about him, everything that he never spoke about. She wanted to know about his family, his friends, the pretty girl she was sure must have lived next door, how old he was when he experienced his first kiss--everything.

"Great," she said. "Let's go!"

Vitus grumbled under his breath.

***

Once the crew returned to Côte Verte, they immediately set about finishing up this particular job. A medic examined Vitus' shoulder, leaving his arm in a loose sling while Philip and Hayes loaded their meager haul into the trailer of Big Mike's truck, and then, with the salute of a massive hand, Big Mike left the manor and set off toward the secret meeting place Bezoar had chosen for their business transaction to take place. Quite honestly, the crew very much needed the money. Though they had a great amount of resources at their disposal, they no longer had the cash they would need in the field now that Jacobi was gone. Philip was briefed by a lawyer representing Aristotle Jacobi's estate who revealed that very little of Jacobi's wealth was liquefied. Rather, most of it was tied up in the antiquities he had collected, all of which had been left to Philip in the last will and testament.

Philip was humbled by this discovery. He knew that Jacobi had cared for him like a son, especially since his father was killed in the line of duty, but he never expected to be left everything. There was only caveat--with his newly acquired wealth and power, Jacobi requested that Philip do, in his words, great things. Though what great things implied was left up to interpretation.

Philip conferred with Vitus on what should be done with Jacobi's vast collection. There were several pieces that he knew Jacobi would have wanted him to keep, including the settee, but the rest, he imagined, could be sold or traded for the right price. Vitus took a rudimentary inventory of the part of the collection that was kept at Côte Verte (unfortunately, the part that was kept at Costa Verde was already lost) and determined that Jacobi's obsession with the past made the displays Ivanovich kept at his warehouse look like a bored housewife's weekend hobby. More than anything, what Vitus learned by looking at this collection was that Jacobi loved the human spirit above anything else. There was an entire room filled with early printing presses and telephones--the first technological advances that brought humans, from those who lived next door to those on the other side of the world, closer together. Another was decorated with athletic memorabilia, every piece of which was labeled with an imprinted metal marker that bore its significance. Vitus found himself marveling at Jack Dempsey's first pair of boxing gloves, the set of golf clubs Bobby Jones used to win the 1923 U. S. Open, and an entire wall of medals from the Olympic Games--all the things that represented man at the height of physical achievement. The garage contained a Ford Model T and a circa-1880 Marcus Car. In the library across the hall from the art gallery was an entire wall of well-read first edition novels, each one showing wear from multiple readings, the way old books should look.

Vitus wandered through the manor from top to bottom like a child on his first trip to the zoo. Everything was so magnificent, something to be admired and gawked over. This was not just a collection of antiques and antiquities; this was a monument to the progress of mankind. Yet somewhere along the way, Aristotle Jacobi believed that this progress had gone awry--that though man was ever reaching outward and upward, he was also losing the very things that made him human in the first place.

"So what do you think?" Philip asked as Vitus finished his tour.

Vitus shook his head. "Philip," he said vacantly.

"Can we get much money from this? What do you think it's worth?"

For the first time ever, the antique-dealer saw more than dollar signs and tropical vacations. He saw something that could not replaced. Many things in this world are labeled priceless; so much so that the word tends to lose all meaning. Its usage had always irritated Vitus to no end, yet at this very moment, it slipped from his tongue.

"This is priceless," he said. "Philip, this is worth more than money."

"What do you mean? What can we do with it?"

"This--all this--it belongs in a museum. Philip, if you really want to do great things, give this to the world, let them see what man is capable of doing. I can't claim to know even a small fraction about Mister Jacobi, but if this is what he wanted--if this is the revolution he wanted to spring on the world--let it happen. Just look for yourself. Go through this house and look."

"But the money..."

"We'll get it some other way," said Vitus. "I still have connections. I can turn one dollar into a hundred overnight, but this cannot be touched. Please."

Few things had ever meant as much to Vitus Bethel as the manor at Côte Verte did at that moment--except, of course, for Jenn Korova, who had very little else in common with the house. It was as if the spirit of Aristotle Jacobi haunted the halls, rattling the chains of his philosophy until it was all that its victims could see and hear. Already it possessed Vitus, and it seeped into Philip's mind as he nodded.

"You're right," said Philip. "Mister Jacobi would have wanted it that way, even if he was too afraid to show it to the world before."

"I guess some kids just don't like show and tell."

"From the look on your face when you mentioned your home town, I'd say you don't either."

"Was I that transparent?" Vitus asked.

"Yes," said Philip. "Why do you think Jenn agreed to go so quickly?"

"Mainly because she loves to torture me."

"Any reason why we shouldn't go there?"

"Do bad memories count?"

"No."

"Then no," said Vitus.

"Good," said Philip. "So which town is it?"

"Tristesse. It's along the Tomsmallbee River."

Philip nodded. "It won't take long to get there, then. Anything else?"

"No. Just try not to blow anything up," said Vitus. "Though on second thought, I'm not sure I'd mind."

Day 21 - The New Revolutions - Part 21

The warehouse was dark--as black as pitch in most places, but security lights dimly illuminated the hallways and corners that Vitus now found himself lost within. He imagined himself as a modern Theseus, conquering the labyrinthine paths of a massive utilitarian building. The thought of a monster waiting for him inside, though, was admittedly unnerving. He soon found himself at the door to an office, where three men lay sprawled out on the ground. Vitus hoped they were unconscious, but he honestly didn't expect it to be true.

"There you are," said Philip, emerging from the shadows.

Vitus jumped, and his finger rattled against the trigger of his pistol. Luckily he gained his composure instead of firing blindly at the source of the voice.

"Sorry," said Philip. He then pointed at a set of heavy double doors connected to the security office. "The main storage room is through here, but we might have a problem. The doors are sealed. I might be able to override them, but I expect that meddling with them at all will trigger an alarm. Before I open them, I need to know that you're ready."

Vitus searched for the proper response. He knew what Philip was actually asking him--if he was ready to kill. It was a question he had been asking himself after the night in the alleyway, and until now, he'd never been able to answer it. This was the moment of transition. Vitus realized that if he said yes, he'd never be the same person he once was--Vitus Bethel, mild-mannered antique-dealer. But would this stop him from being a good person? He knew that only his actions could determine that, and if the ability to take another life meant crossing the line of moral ambiguity, Vitus was finally ready to cross that threshold. After all, the world isn't always black and white, and the time for romanticism had come and gone. The time had come for a revolution in Vitus' own life, and he made his choice.

"I'm ready," he said.

"Good," said Philip. "Be quick."

As Vitus tucked away his pistol, Philip pulled both of his free from their holsters and typed away at a console using only his little fingers. Vitus could hear the sound of a latch releasing within the doors, and he pushed them open to reveal a wide room filled with antiques. Vitus felt at home as he jogged down the aisles. Everything was arranged carefully, like exhibits in a museum.

One entire row was devoted to furniture, divided up by decade--the oldest being a late Victorian era armchair, unvarnished and simple. Vitus may have found Malcolm Ivanovich himself to be a murderous psychopath, but he certainly admired the man's taste in antiquities. As he dashed down each aisle, casting quick glances all around him, numbers and figures ran through his head, estimating values based on factors like age, condition, rarity, and demand of each piece in Ivanovich's collection. He had already made mental notes of several items he felt were worth taking, including the aforementioned armchair, a signed first edition of G. K. Chesterton's The Man who was Thursday, several Chinese vases from varying dynasties, a drawer full of gold pocket watches and other assorted time and distance-based instruments, and a glass case filled with more jade figurines carved in the likenesses of Biblical characters. There were, of course, pieces worth far more in this particular collection, but Vitus also took into consideration the size and maneuverability of every item. He knew they didn't have much time left, so he based his decisions on what would hurt Ivanovich most both financially and emotionally and could be carried in a single trip.

"Vitus," yelled Philip from the doorway. He held the radio in his hands. "We're about to have trouble. We need to move."

"I'm ready," Vitus replied.

Philip ran into the room, placing several small packages along the aisles. Vitus began placing the vases in a heavy cardboard box and then placed it with a small stack of books on the seat of the late Victorian armchair, ready for Philip to haul back to the boat. As he ran back toward the jade figurines to prepare a load for himself, something caught Vitus' eye. Behind a nearby glass case was a small derringer pistol. Vitus felt an impulse take control of his body, and before he knew it, he had shattered the glass with his elbow and pocketed the gun. He then loaded the case of jade atop the drawer of gold watches and joined Philip, who was waiting at a large overhead door with the loaded armchair in his hands. Philip kicked the wall, triggering a button that raised the door and exposed the pier beyond.

"Follow me," said Philip, leading the way with the chair hiding most of his torso.

Vitus could see their boat docked at the far end, but escape still felt so far away. Off to the north of the pier, where the road swung around to the rear of the warehouse and joined the dock itself, three cars were heading toward them. Apparently, Ivanovich had invested in more security since his last run-in with Vitus.

"Stay down. Keep behind the crates," Philip told him as they wove through an obstacle course of empty shipping crates and other large objects that were strewn across the pier.

The cars, all of which were black sedans, pulled as far onto the pier as they could, and then three men burst from each one, wearing black suits and carrying identical handguns. They yelled in a language that most definitely was not English and gave chase, pausing every so often to fire off a few rounds.

"Russians," Philip muttered to himself.

Vitus ducked behind an empty metal crate and could hear the sound of bullets ricocheting off the other side and feel the vibration of every shot. The sound of more gunfire erupted from the boat as Jenn and Hayes fired their rifles in rapid succession, suppressing the advance of the Russian security force. As the antique-dealer and his compatriot drew nearer the boat named Bess, Hayes switched on a spotlight that had been bolted to the deck of the boat and shined it at the Russians to blind and distract them while his cohorts ran across the open space between the flock of standing crates and the docked boat. Philip ran first, holding the chair as high as he could without spilling the items bundled into the seat. He crossed a wide plank that led him straight to the deck of the ship, where he proceeded to pull his twin pistols from their holsters and fire wildly back at the Russians to buy Vitus some more time. The antique-dealer, however, was lagging far behind. He emerged from the behind the very last crate, which had contained a very large shipment of tea at one point and still bore the strong fragrance of green tea, and began his mad dash toward safety.

Unfortunately, he did not count on the one Russian to sneak through the maze of the pier unharmed with a gun still in his hand. The Russian yelled and aimed his weapon, and then there came the sound of two gunshots that rang out simultaneously like stereophonic destruction. Jenn had seen the Russian slip in, and as the man pointed his gun at Vitus, she pulled her trigger without further hesitation. The Russian dropped to the ground. This was no shot to the arm or leg; this was a shot to the heart, and for the antique-dealer's partner, so was the moment that followed.

Vitus Bethel stumbled. He'd felt a tingling sensation in his right shoulder, and then a sudden warmth. But it was the force of the blow that knocked him off of his feet and over the side of the pier. The glass case shattered against the edge of the dock, and the drawer of golden instruments was swept over the edge along with him.

The crew of the boat named Bess reacted quickly. Hayes wheeled the spot light around so that its light illuminated the water below, and Jenn dropped her rifle and dove into the bay while Philip dealt with the remaining Russians, which took very little time.

The last thing Vitus remembered seeing was the water above him and the beam of light that encompassed him. He was falling, and all around him were incandescent fragments of jade and gold that sparkled in the light. They fell with him, as if he was caught up in a strange sort of rain that never fell to earth, and then there was only blackness.

Day 20 - The New Revolutions - Part 20

Not long after midnight, the boat named Bess drifted along the coast of a place called Starfall, and on this night, it was a place that lived up to its name. Vitus and Jenn stood at the bow, leaning against the metal railing in their black clothing that reminded them entirely too much of the stuff bad guys are supposed to wear, and watched a meteor shower overhead. It felt momentous, as if the entire universe was trying to tell them something or warn them of their impending destinies. It didn't help, though, that the spectacle was accompanied by a sound track of obscene sea shanties spewing from the cabin, where Hayes was making preparations of his own.

When Philip emerged from the cabin, he wore night vision goggles that were pulled up against his forehead. Holsters filled with guns were scattered strategically across the sleek, tight suit that revealed a physique that instantly made Vitus ashamed of his own. Of course, when Hayes emerged, Vitus suddenly felt much better about himself.

"Vitus, do you know what we need to do?" Philip asked.

Vitus nodded. "Just buy me some time to look through his collection. I should be able to identify the items worth the most relatively quickly. Then it's just a matter of moving everything back to the boat," he said.

"It's a good plan, kiddo," said Hayes.

Jenn squeezed his elbow as if to say, "See? I told you it was good."

"I agree," said Philip. "If you don't mind, though, I have a tactical suggestion."

"Be my guest." Vitus didn't mind at all. In fact, he was happy to simply be useful for a change. He was proud to imagine his idea as the basis for their entire plan, like the foundation of a terrible, violent house that commits burglary and arson.

"I should go first to clear the path," said Philip. "When I've completed my initial recon, I'll radio back. Hayes, you'll then dock the boat at Ivanovich's pier. Then you and Jenn stay here. Keep watch and keep us covered. If there's trouble, use the radio and let us know. If there's more trouble, well, you both have rifles, and you both know how to use them." Though he was speaking to them both, Jenn was relieved to realize the latter statement was deliberately pointed more toward Hayes.

"Vitus, at that point, you'll need to breach the warehouse. Hopefully, I'll have already disabled the security and be inside, so once we rendezvous, I'll stay with you and make sure you're covered while you make your appraisal. Then we'll gather what we can and fall back to the boat."

"How long we got?" Hayes asked.

"Depending on security, I'd give us an estimated max time of twenty minutes to get in and out," said Philip. "So, do we agree?"

"Okay," said Vitus, rather stunned at Philip's apparent knack for spontaneous tactical planning. "I'll go with that." Jenn, speechless, simply nodded.

"Good," said Philip. "Now get ready. We're heading in."

***

Though he felt more than a small amount of confidence in his plan, Vitus Bethel was uneasy as his scheme was enacted. Perhaps, he thought, this anxiety was brought on by his blooming love for Jenn Korova or, at the very least, by his discovery of a dead mouse in the cabin of the boat. It reminded Vitus of what Robert Burns had written some three hundred years prior--that the best-laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.

Philip had been gone a mere five minutes after slipping off toward the shore in a small inflatable raft, and Vitus already expected to hear the sounds of gunfire and ringing klaxons. But there was only silence. Jenn and Hayes were in the cabin below deck, preparing their rifles and minds as Hayes gave her some last minute advice about how and where to aim. Needless to say, Jenn was not looking forward to whatever would happen within the next hour. Vitus, then, was left alone with his thoughts, which is often a terrifying place to be.

The radio in his hand crackled, and from the static came Philip's whispered voice. "I'm in. Dock the boat," he simply said.

So the antique-dealer ran to the cabin to rouse the grizzled captain, who had already started drinking in celebration.

"Helps keep the edge off," Hayes replied when questioned about his decision, and then he offered Vitus a sip of whiskey, which Vitus immediately took before his common sense could stop him. It did, indeed, take the edge off.

As Hayes piloted the boat toward the main pier outside Ivanovich's coastal warehouse, Vitus and Jenn sat at the picnic table and searched for words. Neither of them liked to say goodbye, which became apparent every time they tried to part.

"Promise me you'll be okay," she said.

"I promise."

They pulled alongside the pier, and Hayes tethered the boat on a large pillar. When everything was ready, he walked up to Vitus to let him know it was time.

"Philip's been in there a long time now," said Vitus. "Will he be all right?"

Hayes laughed. "Philip Renard had been Jacobi's only bodyguard since he was thirteen years old. His dad had the job before him and zigged when he should have zagged. That boy turned himself into a living, breathing weapon when he signed on. It ain't his fighting and sneaking I'm worried about. Just get in there and be glad he's on your side."

Vitus hugged Jenn and took one deep breath, summoning all his courage, before stepping up onto the dock and disappearing into the shadows. He held his pistol in his hand and hid behind the large crates and objects covered by tarps as he ran toward the warehouse. He stayed low and before long, he'd reached the main building without any sign of trouble. A heavy metal door was ajar. Figuring this was Philip's point of entry, Vitus squeezed through.

Back on the boat, Hayes had watched the antique-dealer's progress through the spotting scope that had once belonged to the man called Hemingway. Once Vitus reached the warehouse, though, Hayes turned to see Jenn pacing up and down the deck of the boat

"Here," said Hayes, handing her a pair of high-powered binoculars, "have a looking glass, and keep your eye to the north. It'll keep you busy."

Jenn agreed and began scanning the area around the warehouse for any movement. She was worried. She couldn't lie to herself and pretend she wasn't, but she felt even worse just sitting there and waiting. She felt useless.