It is a miserable state of mind for man to lose the few things that are truly desired and retain the many things that blind fear feeds to the heart. To lose one's will when it comes to the heart and ignore the fire that the fates has placed in our soul's life giving organ is to have never lived and to die the loneliest death of all.

****

1145HRS EST 
JAG HEADQUARTERS 
FALLS CHURCH, VA   

"Good morning, Commander." 

"Mornin', Gunny." Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr., glanced absently through the messages that Victor handed him, messages which had accumulated during his morning absence. Turning toward his office, he noticed the closed blinds and door of Mac's office. "Gunny, is the Colonel not in?"

"She's in, Sir, but she has been sequestered behind closed doors since her meeting with the Admiral this morning."

"Something up?"

"I don't know, Sir."

Dropping his cover and briefcase on his desk, he stopped by Mac's office on his way to the kitchen and knocked softly before entering. Standing in the doorway he smiled, when he saw her totally absorbed in her reading material. She apparently neither heard his knock nor his entrance so entranced was she in the large volume that lay on her desk in front of her.

"Fascinating." The words escaped her as a whisper as she remained oblivious to Harm's entrance.

Taking notice of the title of the book that had her so distracted, he stood motionless and simply watched her expression, a slight smirk appearing on his face before he spoke. "Looking for an alternative lifestyle since Brumby's return, Colonel?"

Abruptly brought out of the mystical world that seemed to have enthralled her at the sound of Harm's voice, Mac's internal clock told her that she had spent the entire morning wrapped up in her research. As she glanced up, noticed her partner's demeanor and registered the meaning of her partner's words, she bristled visibly at his inference. 

"Hardly, Commander. But perhaps you should be the one to consider an alternative?"

"Mac, I'm sorry. I know we promised each other to . . . "

Ignoring his attempt at an apology, she stood straightening her uniform and moved toward the door. "Nice of you to finally join us."

"Mac, you know I had to take Renee to the airport this morning."

"Oh, that's right, the video princess is not the shuttle type."

This time it was Harm who bristled at the comment. The truce they had promised each other shortly after Brumby's return was obviously not working. The war of words against their personal partners of choice had continued between them, neither being able to control the barbs that they inexplicably persisted to throw at one another. They were still in step professionally, complimenting each other's strengths and weaknesses, but personally they had grown further apart. The personal relationships that they had both chosen, that Fate had put in their lives still open sores between them.

"Mac, that was . . ."

"The Admiral has asked to see us the minute you arrived. Shall we?"

As she breezed past him into the bullpen, Harm heard her mumbled "sorry". He turned to follow her to their CO's office, knowing another personal barrier had gone up between them. "Care to tell me what's up before I go into the lion's den?"

"The little I know, you wouldn't believe."

****

"Glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence, Mr. Rabb."

"Sorry, Sir, but I had some personal business to take care of this morning."

"So I understand. Playing chauffeur for Ms. Peterson, wasn't it? Next time try not to let your alternative career interfere with our Monday morning briefings, Commander."

"Yes, Sir." Turning toward his partner, he shot her a glance dripping with annoyance, which Mac seemed to ignore, her attention focused on the Admiral. For years they had covered for the other, but that was apparently another part of their relationship that seemed to have deteriorated over time and circumstance.

A.J. noticed Rabb's stiffened posture and his sidelong glance at the Colonel. Normally, he didn't interfere with his officers' personal lives, nor did he question his officers' personal commitments when planned. But this case that had been presented to him before dawn had attacked his logical sensibilities like no other, and the biting comments of the SECNAV had left him apprehensive as to its possible favorable conclusion.

"At 0530 this morning, the Commanding Officer at NAS New Orleans contacted me concerning the arrest of one of his officers for the off base murder of a civilian. Shortly after the call from Captain Rawlins, I was also contacted by the SECNAV concerning the same incident."

"With all due respect, Sir. Is the alleged murder not a case for the local civilian authorities? Why is JAG involved?"

"No, Commander. This case will not be handled by civilian jurisdiction nor are the charges "alleged", and JAG's involvement is at the insistence of the SECNAV and the office of the Louisiana Attorney General." 

"Sir?"

"Colonel, could you please enlighten the Commander?"

"Apparently, Commander Mark Hawkins has signed a confession admitting to the stabbing death of one Gloria Patton. The murder took place in Ms. Patton's apartment in New Orleans last night, sometime between 2300 and 0130 hours. There was no evidence found at the crime scene or on his person to implicate Commander Hawkins, no evidence that he knew the victim, nor a motive found for the crime . . . "

"Then, what was the . . ."

"Let the Colonel continue, Commander. Mac."

"Commander Hawkins turned himself in to the New Orleans Police of his own volition, shortly after 0130. He reported the crime and was familiar with crime scene, down to the most minuscule details of the crime itself. Details only the killer would know, such as the number of stab wounds and their respective position on the body."

"Well, that would do it. But why the high profile?"

"Though he confessed to killing Gloria Patton, he also professed that it was not his physical body that performed the act but his immortal soul."

"Excuse me, Admiral? His immortal what?"

"Soul, Commander. His immortal soul." If the situation hadn't been so bizarre, A.J. would have openly chuckled at the look on Harmon Rabb's face and the incredulous intonation in his voice. "The man claims that he was guided by an unknown dynamism to commit the murder, and it was his soul that left his body to do the bidding of the strange force."

"Admiral, you can't possibly believe his story." They had investigated many weird instances over the years some that still remained unexplained. But the possibility of defending or prosecuting a man's "soul" was by far the most bizarre to date.

"His 'ti bon ange'."

"Colonel?"

"His 'small guardian angel'. The followers of Voodun believe that each person has a soul which is composed of two parts: a 'gros bon ange' or 'big guardian angel', and a 'ti bon ange' or 'little guardian angel'." 

"Voodoo, Mac? You can't possibly believe that a Commander in the United States Navy was involved in the practice of Voodoo and interacted with voodoo dolls and zombies."

"Voodun. The religion is called Voodun. Voodoo is a term that was created in the imagination of Hollywood directors who found the mysticism a rich source for their screenplays. Horror movies began in the 1930's and continue today to misrepresent Voodun. As far as zombies and voodoo dolls are concerned, the dolls are still being used by believers in certain parts of New Orleans and South America, and there have been documented sightings of the walking undead."

"Actually, people, it doesn't matter what any of us think. We have received our orders and you are to report to NAS in Belle Chase, Louisiana, in the morning. As I was reminded by the SECNAV, the Navy is tolerant of alternate religions, as long as they do not end up in the death of a civilian at the hands of a Naval Officer."

"Aye, Sir."

"Go down there and find out what the hell this mess is all about. Colonel, you will act as defense counsel. Take Mr. Roberts with you as second chair."

"Yes, Sir."

"And, Commander, you will prosecute. Lt. Singer exhibited quite an interest in this case during our morning briefing. She needs the field experience, and she has voiced a desire in working with you, so take her with you as second chair."

"Sir, respectfully, I don't feel . . ."

"That will be all. Dismissed."

"Aye, Sir."

As Mac and Harm made their way to the door, both lost in their own thoughts concerning the case, their CO's voice brought them to an abrupt halt.

"People, let's go down there and find the truth, whatever that may be. But I don't want either of you to open a can of worms, alienate base command or start an insurrection among the civilians around the base. Let's wrap it up quickly and quietly. Do I make myself clear?"

As the door quietly closed behind them with their last "Aye, Aye, Sir" Admiral A.J. Chegwidden, the strong Seal and the formidable Judge Advocate General, felt the cold chill of fear and apprehension ripple through his strong body. It was not just another Jag Man investigation that he was sure of. The trepidation as to want was waiting for his two investigators down the mystical road of this bizarre case, left him with an inexplicable uneasiness. Something he had never felt before and something that was as unexplainable as the act of cold blooded murder performed by the career New Orleans Naval Officer. 

****

After asking the Gunny to book their reservations and summon Lt. Roberts and Lt. Singer, they settled in Mac's office with the case files, surrounded by a stilted silence, both lost in their own ruminations of what lay before them.

"Hey, Mac. I'll flip you for Singer."

"No chance, Flyboy. Besides she has a 'desire' to work with you." Mac purred the words and fluttered her eyelashes, eliciting the exact reaction of discomfort in Harm she had intended.

"Now you sound just like Renee."

"Well, Renee I'm not." 

Silence hung in the air, the brief exchange of familiar playful banter shielded once again behind the walls that they had so expertly build between them. But their gazes still held, as they had on so many other occasions, each unable to leave the other's eyes, as though they were trying to see through the barriers into each other's souls. As if they were trying to tempt the fates that they had accepted as their individual destiny.

Harm was the first to break the contact, suddenly uncomfortable with what he was seeing. "No, that you're not, Marine. No more than I'm Brumby."

Mac regretted that the contact was broken and replaced by the masked perfection he wore like a shield, but held her tongue. <Yes, Harm, you're not Mic, and no one knows that better than me,> she thought with a tinge of buried regret. Trying to return her attention to the Dictionary of Cults, Sects, Religions, the Occult and Their Respective Rituals" she had been reading earlier, she was interrupted by Harm once again breaking yet another uncomfortable silence between them.

"I was quite impressed with your knowledge of the 'ty bone ange'."

"'Ti bon ange', Harm, and don't be, it's all right in here," indicating the book she had gotten earlier that day. "To tell you the truth, it is all quite fascinating."

"Mac, you can't seriously believe that Hawkin's soul separated from his body and killed Gloria Patton. Could you?"

"I'm not sure what I believe, but there are 60 million people worldwide who practice Voodun as a religion. They believe that the 'little guardian angel' leaves the body during sleep, usually when the person is possessed by a 'Loa' during a ritual. There is a concern that the 'ti bon ange' can be damaged or captured by evil sorcery while it is free of the body and forced to perform unnatural acts."

"Well, murder certainly qualifies as an unnatural act, but one that is usually committed by flesh and blood, not floating avenging souls." Harm stretched back with a raised eyebrow, unable to believe one Colonel Sarah Mackenzie was buying Hawkin's story.  

"Colonel, Commander, you wanted to see us?" Bud entered the office with Singer following close behind, a mixed air of anticipation between them.

"Pack your bags, Lieutenants, we're going to New Orleans."  

"Really? The Hawkin's case, Ma'am? Wow!"

Harm rolled his eyes. Bud's expected enthusiasm and Singer's hopeful demeanor were not the least unexpected. "Bored with your usual cases, Bud?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean no, Sir. It's just this case is so different from our normal cases and it . . . "

" . . . Piques your interest of the paranormal." Harm had to chuckle, remembering the last case they had handled when Bud had spent hours researching alien abductions, the Bermuda triangle phenomenon and driving him crazy with his ludicrous theories.

"Well, I am so honored to be working with you, Commander, on any case, especially a field investigation." Singer gushed on, her entire attention focused on Harm, ignoring Mac and Bud completely. "Your investigative techniques are legendary, and I know I won't disappoint you with my . . ."

"Lieutenant, what makes you think you are paired with the Commander?" Mac suddenly felt a twinge of jealousy, but she successfully managed to dismiss it before it crept into her response. All she felt like doing was slapping the drooling Singer senseless . . . but even the manipulative, over-ambitious Lauren Singer wasn't worth it.

" . . . I just assumed that you and Mr. Roberts would . . ."

"If you have learned anything, you should have learned that one in the military never assumes."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Excuse me, Colonel, Commander, I have your flight details." Gunny handed Harm the electronic ticket confirmations. "You all leave at 17:35 hours from Dulles. Concerning your accommodations, I have some bad news, Sirs."

"We all have to share one room in Louisiana?" Harm dismissed immediately, the thought of sharing a room with Mac, seeing her again in . . .<Rabb, bury it and forget it. Nothing exists between you anymore except a working relationship at best. Renee is your destiny now, and Brumby is Macs.> Why all of a sudden, feelings he had long dismissed, long buried deep within him . . . were suddenly finding their way into his consciousness. Why?

"No, Sir. The BOQ at the base is full and so are the limited number of decent motels in the Belle Chase area. I have booked you the only two suites left in New Orleans at the Queen and Crescent Hotel."

"That doesn't seem like bad news, Gunny." <A shared suite in the romantic French Quarter and Garden District, long walks down the romantic cobblestone streets, romantic carriage rides along the banks of the Mississippi with . . .> Mac immediately dismissed the thought of sharing a room with Harm, seeing him again half naked and . . .<Marine, bury it and forget it. Nothing exists between you anymore, except a working relationship at best. Mic is your destiny now and Renee is Harms'.> Why all of a sudden, feelings she had long dismissed, long buried deep within her . . . were suddenly finding their way into her consciousness. Why?

"It will be when the Admiral gets the bill. You all may be sharing a room on your next ten investigations. Will there be anything else?"

"No, Gunny. Thank you."

"Aye, Sir."

As Gunny left, Harm and Mac stood and started gathering the Hawkin's case folders, their notes and the research materials they had accumulated. 

"Well, people, I suggest we get a move on it if we want to make our flight."

Lt. Singer lingered, allowing her superiors and Bud to exit before her. This was going to be another opportunity, and she swore to herself, she would make the best of it. She wasn't going to waste a minute. She wasn't going to waste a second . . . when it came to Commander Harmon Rabb.

****

Mac and Harm crossed the parking lot to their cars, parked next to each other in their assigned spaces. Harm opened Mac's car door and waited for her to get situated in the 'vette before he spoke.

"Want to ride to Dulles together?" 

"No, thanks. Mic will take me. Besides I'd like to spend as much time with him as possible, since we aren't sure how long we'll be away. Plus it is going to be hard enough for me to explain why you and I will be sharing a suite again."

"An assumption, Colonel?"

"No, a fact, Commander."

"Well, in that case please leave the lingerie home."

"Don't worry, Commander. I will. Besides, I haven't worn anything to bed since Mic's return, and I'm used to it now."

Mac couldn't explain what force drove her to utter those words nor could she explain her body's intense reaction under Harm's heated gaze. Pulling out of her space, she glanced once, while she drove off, in her rearview mirror at her partner . . . who stood in the same place, stone still, as if he were suspended in time. <Please, God. Don't let me feel anything again. Please.>

Harm couldn't explain the pain that seared his soul or the burning heat that suddenly consumed his body at the exploding visions her words had created in his mind. He couldn't explain why he had guided her, with his hand on the small of her back, since they left her office. He couldn't explain why he had opened her car door, waiting for her to get settled. Behaviors he had never allowed while they were both in uniform in the past. Once the welds that held him in place seemed to melt away, he entered his SUV and headed toward home. <Please, God. Don't let me feel anything again. Please.>
 

2130HRS 
FRENCH QUARTER 
NEW ORLEANS LA 

The Bokar stood at the ceremonial altar in the darkened cellar, surrounded by the remnants of the animal sacrifices still present on the sacrificial altar. Consumed by his evil sorcery, he prepared the potion that would once again be administered to do his "left handed" bidding, as the chanting and dancing of the hounsis continued around him, growing to a frenzied intensity.  

Perhaps he would use the same "ti bon ange" as before, who had done his bidding well, or perhaps he would command the aid of the undead this time. An evil smile spread across his face as he continued the chanting ritual. No this time, perhaps this time, he would use one of the weak ones . . . who already had evil in their soul . . . one of the strangers that were coming to destroy them.

As he turned to his minions and raised the vessel before him, he chanted the "left-handed" prayers that would possess the next innocent "ti bon ange" that he would capture. Capture to send his warning. Send his warning to the strangers who were on their way to destroy him.  
 

****
 

2145HRS (CST) 
SOMEWHERE OVER LOUISIANA 
AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 777

The 737 was tossed by the sudden storm like it was a rubber duck in the hands of a playful toddler in a bath tub. It had been violently bucking and rocking for the last twenty minutes before the Captain's voice came over the intercom with the traditional "there is no cause for alarm" message.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Lowne, and there is no cause for alarm. We are just encountering some unexpected weather. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts securely fastened. Flight attendants please take your seats."

Mac still hated to fly. She cursed her weakness when it came to flying. She was a Marine who had served in combat, dodged her share of bullets, bombs and psychos during her duties at JAG, but when it came to the least bump and buck on a commercial airliner, her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest. She tried to focus out the window, through the rain and lighting that split the night sky and pelted the airliner unmercifully, her hands gripping the seat, her knuckles white from the pressure, when she felt his strong hand cover hers from across the aisle.

"Hey, it could be worse. Relax we're just going through some turbulence. We should be landing in New Orleans soon."

She glanced down at his hand covering hers and heard the first words they had spoken since they had boarded. Quickly she pulled her hand away from what once she would have considered her lifeline. Loosening her grip from the edge of the seat, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "Yeah, I guess it could be worse. I could be ejecting from a MIG-29 over Russia."

Harm withdrew his own hand at her unexpected rebuff and settled back in his seat. He closed his eyes, listening intently to every sound the aircraft made, every moan, every shudder as it fought its way through the sudden violent storm. Honed instinctively to its war with the wind and the rain. But his thoughts were not of the floundering aircraft. His primary concern was trying to sort out in his mind why the distance between them continued to grow . . . grow in immeasurable proportions . . . afraid that eventually it would affect their working relationship, and then there would be nothing left. Lost somewhere between the past and present, he felt the light touch of a hand on his arm.

"This isn't normal. Is it, Commander?" The voice was soft, but filled with apprehension and fear, as the airliner bucked and suddenly lost altitude, dropping into the menacing darkness below.
 

2145HRS (CST) 
THE FRENCH QUARTER 
NEW ORLEANS LA

The clay pot suspended on strings of woven goat-hair and filled with the blessed personal possessions teetered as it swung precariously over the edge of the altar. Standing before the altar, the cosmic door to the beyond, the Bokar's chanting rose with vehemence. Summoning the dark spirits on the other side to cross over, to come to him, to hear his prayers and to aid him in the ultimate destruction of those that were coming to destroy him.
 

2230HRS (CST) 
NEW ORLEANS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 
KENNER, LOUISIANA

They looked like ghosts passing through the portal between the dead and the living when they deplaned into the near deserted terminal. Mac had recovered her stoic Marine composure as she and Bud followed Harm, who supported a still disorientated Lauren Singer down the Jetway. Seething with emotions she didn't understand, her body stiff enough to crack, Mac brushed pass Harm, ignoring his attempt to help her, as she re-adjusted her carry-on, briefcase and the case files stowed separately in an additional bag.

"I got it. Besides, you seem to already have your hands full." She hated herself for her fit of jealousy, but she couldn't control the darkened emotions that seemed to rise uncontrollably within her. She had survived Anne, she had survived Jordan, and all the other mindless women that seemed to have passed through her partner's life. She was even surviving the video princess. She had a wonderful man who loved her unconditionally. Who wanted to marry her and make her happy. A man who would give her everything she wanted. Why now? Why Singer? What was happening to her?

Harm watched Mac quicken her pace, increase the distance between them, Bud following closely behind, and disappear down the escalator to the baggage claim area. 

"Commander, I apologize. I just never experienced . . ." 

"No need to apologize, Lieutenant. It's understandable. Here let me get that." Harm smiled his brilliant smile, though it never reached his eyes, as his gaze wandered to the empty escalator, and his thoughts took him to the disappearing form that had slipped away from him again.

"Thank you, Sir."

He thought he saw the fear still in her eyes. He thought he still heard the apprehension in her voice. He thought he still noticed the tension that seemed to radiate from her. But as he grabbed her bag and turned, he didn't see the smile of satisfaction that slithered across Lauren Singer's face . . . a smile that slithered across her face with all the venom of a snake returning satisfied to it's nest for another night . . . to rest for another day.
 

0030HRS (CST)  
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL 
ROOM 777 
NEW ORLEANS LA

"Damn it!" Mac made her way to one of the bedrooms in the suite they were sharing, dropping her briefcase and carry-on as she went, and flung her garment bag on the bed with an unnatural fury. Exhausted and still seething with the rage she didn't understand, she collapsed on the bed. "Always the weak and the mindless! Damn it!" What was happening to her?

As Mac closed her eyes, she relived the scene in the lobby, and she knew . . . she knew . . . that Lt. Lauren Singer was neither one of the weak nor one of the mindless. The woman knew exactly what she was doing, she knew exactly what she wanted and she knew exactly what to do to get it, at any cost. Mac hated her obvious manipulation, and she hated her obvious tactics . . . but what left her cold and incensed was Harm's obvious oblivion to the transparent. What was happening to him?

What was happening to all of them?

****

One hour prior . . .  

They had arrived exhausted and soaked to the bone, looking and feeling like they had been traveling for days rather than just under eight hours. They started to check in, their rooms ready and then before any of them knew what was happening, they were involved in a heated discussion.

"Mac, look at her. She's still obviously shaken by the flight down here. Maybe it would be a good idea."

"I don't think so."

"Mac, she could probably use the comfort of a woman. You could use your motherly instincts."

"My motherly what? You are kidding . . ."

"Respectfully, Ma'am, perhaps the Commander is right. I could bunk with the Commander, and you could stay with . . ."

"Et tu, Bud?"

"Mac, be reasonable."

"Look, if you are so concerned about her well being, Commander, why don't you hone your fatherly instincts and stay with her! If those are the instincts you want to hone!" 

"What the hell does that mean!"

"Make of it what you want. I'm going to bed . . . the three of you straighten out the sleeping arrangements. Flip a coin, if you'd like. To tell you the truth, right now I don't give a damn anymore. Right now I'm tired enough to stay with Satan in the next room!"

****

Back to the present . . .

Mac must have dozed because the next thing she knew she awoke with a start, chilled to the bone. Her internal clock told her it was 0130, but it wasn't her wet cold uniform that had woken her . . . it was the closing of a distant door, quiet yet definitive. She focused on her surroundings, illuminated only by the dim light of the bedside lamp. Shuddering as she stood, remembering the outrageous scene in the lobby with a twinge of guilt she wandered unsteadily into the living room, in search of her mystery roommate. 

The living area was dark, shadows playing in all the corners of the large room. As she looked for a sign of a light under the closed door of the other bedroom, a sudden chill, stirred around her causing her to back instinctively toward the door to the suite where the light switch was. The light flooded the room, but the shadows in the corners remained, and the chill air she had felt earlier swirled more intensely. But just as suddenly as she had felt it, it disappeared in the light that now bathed the room.  

"Harm?" She whispered his name and was answered only by the stillness.

"Bud?" She called out his name and was only answered by the stillness and her labored breathing.

"Lauren?" She yelled her name and was only answered by the stillness, her labored breathing and the rapid beating of her heart.

"This is insane, Marine." She walked towards the second bedroom, but just as her hand reached the knob, she stopped, her breath catching in a slight gasp. The door was shut . . . it was now shut . . . but it had been wide open when she had first come to the room, she was sure of it. Suddenly angry at what she thought was a trick being played on her by Harm, she flung the door of the darkened room open "Harm, you may think this is cute, but I don't find it the least bit humorous!" 

But as in the main living room, the only thing that engulfed her in the still darkness was once again the chill, numbing coldness, but this time . . . this time . . . a dim image stood framed in the window's eerie moonlight shrouded in the a misted haze of a dim contrasting glow. 

Mesmerized by the ethereal stranger that approached her, she froze, unable to move, unable to scream, her body possessed by the cosmic presence that moved slowly toward her in the encroaching glow that surrounded him and threatened to engulf her. The glow that emanated both heat and cold . . . both fire and ice . . . both love and hate . . . both passion and desire. His aura emanated all that was of the living, all that was of the dead . . . all that was to be feared and all that was to be desired. He came from the light . . . he came from the darkness and Sarah Mackenzie couldn't move. Even when he touched her with the scorching fingers of heaven and hell . . . even then . . . all that split the numbing stillness, like thunder in the darkest of storms, was her surreal moans of the pleasure and of the pain.

He bore deep into her soul and saw the pain of the past, saw the pain of the present and saw the raw desired pleasure of the future . . . the knowledge and what he took were the tools . . . the tools that would be used to destroy them.
 

0130HRS (CST) 
O'BINNIONS TAVERN 
NEW ORLEANS LA

"But it's true, Sir. There are documented journals by renowned experts that support it. Even the University of Florida has documented their existence in Haiti. Look, here it says that . . . "

Harm rubbed his tired eyes and downed the last beer of the night. What the hell was he doing here, listening to Bud drone on about Voodoo, about . . . when he should be with . . . "Bud, until some dust ball in human form with glowing eyes taps me on the shoulder and . . ."

"Their eyes . . ."

"Their eyes what, Bud?" 

"Their eyes don't glow. They are vacant, as vacant as their souls . . . uh, Sir."

"Bud . . . I . . . let's just get out of here. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow." 

Bud quickly gathered all the information he had downloaded from the Internet and crammed it into his briefcase, bulging and straining under the pressure of all the documents. Harm chuckled as he watched with amusement, admitting to himself that Bud deserved an "A" for effort and enthusiasm, if nothing else.

****

They walked along the cobblestone streets back toward their hotel in silence, the humidity-filled New Orleans air surrounding and suffocating them like a huge, damp sponge. They listened to the sounds of the city, still alive with revelers enjoying the Jazz Clubs, which dotted the Quarter and provided continuous entertainment in the city that never slept. The city steeped in tradition and history . . . the city with a true and mystic past.

"Commander, I . . ."

"Give it a rest, Mr. Roberts."

"No, this has nothing to do with . . . I was just surprised with the Colonel tonight."

"Surprised? How?"

"Well, Commander, the Colonel certainly seems to have a strong dislike for Lt. Singer."

"Bud, the Colonel is too much of an officer to allow her personal opinions of those under her in the chain of command to influence her likes and dislikes. I don't think tonight had anything to do with Lt. Singer. I think it had to do with . . . "

"You, Sir?"

"Me? Look, I don't profess to understand Mac's reaction tonight or her foul mood, but hell, what man ever understands a woman, and for that matter what woman ever understands a man?"

"When, they're in love, Sir. That's when the final understanding comes. When they're in love."
 

0200HRS (CST)  
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL 
ROOM 777 
NEW ORLEANS LA

Harm entered the suite quietly, the dim light of the lamp next to the door orientating him to his new surroundings. He wished Mac had been awake, fighting her usual bout of insomnia. He hated the idea of leaving another heated issue between them to fester.  Another issue that would mortar the barriers they had placed between themselves during the last five months. But the suite was dark, damp and silent as a tomb.

Knowing instinctively that Mac had taken the bedroom on the left, he went into his own room and deposited his garment bag on the bed. It was late, he was dead tired, but he knew if he couldn't talk to her, he would at least check to see that she was okay. Crossing the living area, he quietly opened the bedroom door.  

What Harmon Rabb saw when he entered the room, bathed in the filtered moonlight that shone through the thin curtains, and focused on the still form, made his heart beat wildly, his pulse quicken and his breathing become labored. He cautiously and silently moved closer, trying to steady the emotions that suddenly raged within him while his mind screamed in deafening proportions to stop . . . to turn and run. But he didn't run. He didn't leave. He just stared at what lay before him. Why had he been so stubborn? Why had he not gone after her? He shuddered, the chill air surrounding him, as he continued to move forward, as he continued to ask himself why . . . 
  

0200HRS (CST) 
FRENCH QUARTER 
NEW ORLEANS LA

The Bokar stood in the chanting silence of the "Peristyle." The drums now silent, the sacrifices now ended, the evening's possessions now successfully completed . . . except for one. The mumbled prayers of his worshippers as they knelt on their knees around him on the cold dirt floor, the only sounds needed to complete the first night's ritual, to end the first night's cosmic drama, to aid in the positioning of the dolls.  

The four strangers lay side by side on the altar . . . he picked up the middle one and moved it off to the side . . . he moved it off into the distance . . . he took her away from the others that walked in her world. He picked up the second, the strong one, and held it as his chants grew to a level of frenzied intensity once again. 
 

****

0200HRS (CST)  
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL 
ROOM 777 
NEW ORLEANS LA

Harm stood spellbound as if in a trance, hypnotized by the peace and serenity of the scene, possessed by her beauty. She emitted a strength, an intelligence, a fire, a passion, even while she slept. Like the peace and serenity of a thousand sleeping virgins. The beauty of a face and a body that could tempt the most pious, that could make a man forget his vows of abstention. The strength of conviction that could infuse the weak and the intelligence that could challenge a Rhodes Scholar. She was all there was, she was all she could be, she was all he had ever wanted.   

It was like he was seeing her for the first time, clouded by the demons that possessed him, and he couldn't help himself. His body ached with emotions he had never felt before, with an intense fire burning deep within him, as he continued to move toward her. Kneeling by her bedside, he let his gaze slowly roam the length of her, her body barely covered by the thin sheet. Savoring with a scorching hunger all that was visible and imagining with a consuming need all that was not. Her tanned muscular thighs and her long legs seemed to go on forever, freed from the confines of the sheet that covered her, sleek and glistening under his wanton gaze . . . and he couldn't stop the demons that now raged within him.

With each breath she took, the sheet fluttered seductively and seemed to mold more to her, accentuating all that lay hidden from him. That lay hidden from his wanton sight, from his sensual touch, from his warm  lips. His eyes blazed with molten desire, his fingers reaching to push the errant hair that now partially hid her full lips. Lips he longed to tease with his own  . . . to tantalize and tease their sweetness and arouse the woman in her.

He groaned with an animalistic need, when he grazed her bare shoulder. Electricity shot through his body at the sound of her soft moan, as her eyelids fluttered against the softness of her cheeks, and as she shifted, the sheet slipping further away from the treasures it hid from him. Heatedly, he watched the pleasure palace that lay before him, thinking he was going insane as her subtle movements seemed to feed the growing insatiable hunger within him, driving and teasing him even while she slept . . . and he couldn't stop the demons that raged within him.

But . . . somewhere . . . somewhere in the distant corners of his soul, he found a bright light buried deep and cloaked behind the hunger of his body and the desires of the moment. Somewhere in the distant corners of his mind, he saw who they were, where they had been, and what they had meant to each other. Somewhere in the far reaches of a world now governed by evil dark mystic forces, he found the strength to fight and defeat the urges manifested through the demons that had tried to control him . . . to manipulate him . . . to consume his will and to force him to commit the unthinkable.

****

Trembling, Harm leaned heavily against her now closed bedroom door, remembering very little but remembering enough. He slid to the floor his head pounding as he held it in his shaking hands. Thoughts of what he had almost done beating against his rational, his logic, the sanity of what was his ordered world. His world where he insisted all the pieces fit in an orderly fashion . . . and if one piece ever came along that tested the order, he simply made it fit . . . made it mold to what he believed should be.

The woman who lay in peaceful slumber was his world, and the years of self-denial and of suppressed feelings washed over him, their waves as strong as the forces that had held him, that had overwhelmed him. The dark demons that had brought to the surface his insatiable need for her. That had awakened all the denied desires that he had buried while they had allowed themselves to slip further away from each other . . . slip further away from each other into the arms of those they didn't love. Surrogates of fate that they had permitted willingly to fill the personal voids that were their lives apart, dismissing the desires that they desired most . . . their desire for each other.

What was happening to him?

What was happening to them all?
 

0330HRS (CST) 
1437 RUE DOMINIQUE 
NEW ORLEANS LA   

The "veve" had been drawn in cornmeal for "Ayra," offerings placed on the altar for her supreme guidance and the "Loa" had passed through the cosmic altar . . . she had possessed one of the worshippers and answered the Mambo's prayers for salvation. She brought her bright spiritual essence to the world of the living and had cast her protective light on the stranger, on the strong one.

But the Mambo knew this Bokar's power had proven to be strong . . . stronger than any she had encountered in her many years practicing the ancient religion. There was only one way to stop his "left-handed" black magic . . . to stop the spells and possessions that would destroy the innocent lives that he now held so precariously in his hands. She would have to do the unthinkable if they were all to survive.
 

0600HRS (CST) 
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL 
ROOM 777 
NEW ORLEANS LA

The light of dawn played through the moss-covered ancient tree that beat heavily against the window to Harm's room, the moving moss sending tendrils of sunlight across his sleeping form. He stirred, trying to focus on the light that danced across his eyes. As he turned on his back, moaning into the early morning stillness, he shook the sleep quickly from his mind and sat up when he realized that he had fallen asleep in his uniform sprawled across the still perfectly made bed. "What the hell?" Muttering he tried to stand, but his sea legs wouldn't hold him. He must have drank more than he thought, though he couldn't remember . . . memory loss was certainly not a good sign he thought with self condemning disdain. 

As he tried to stand again, his world spun around him as if spurred on by the worst of hangovers. He grabbed the bedside table, and sat back on the bed, his head once again pounding mercilessly. "Damn it, Rabb, you know better!" 

Leveling his breathing until the spell of dizziness passed, he finally managed to stand, thinking a shower and a gross of aspirin was his only salvation. Stumbling unsteadily to the bathroom, he stripped himself of his clothes and stepped into the assault of the water. A slight smile of pleasure managed to cross his pained face, remembering the dream he had, recognizing his body quickly reacting to the memory. It had been months since he had been able to remember so vividly a dream filled with her.

Even with the distance that had grown between them, even with the constant warm body in his bed, he still kept his fantasies buried deep inside him, only allowing them to enter his consciousness when he slept. His fantasies of endless passion, continual pleasure, fires of desire forever lit. But never had the dreams been so vivid, never had they seemed so real . . . never had he awakened before with the taste of her still on his lips and the feel of her skin on his fingertips. Reaching for the shower knob and shutting the hot water, he shivered but stood his ground as the ice-cold pellets assaulted him and attempted to extinguish the ever-raging fire.
 

0700HRS (CST) 
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL 
ROOM 435 
NEW ORLEANS LA

Lauren Singer looked in the mirror at her reflection and smiled with a surreal satisfaction. Yesterday had been the beginning. Yesterday, she had won the first of many battles, and today she would continue the war.

The look in her eyes was not of the living. The look in her eyes was not that of a soul at peace. The reflection that stared back at the young Navy Lieutenant was the reflection of the timeless ancient tormented souls that had walked the streets of New Orleans for centuries. Along the paths of dirt and dust, consumed with the belief that they were immortal and that they would possess the souls of others for eternity.

She walked to the phone and dialed his room number impatient, for him to answer, impatient to start the next battle.
 

0700HRS (CST) 
QUEEN AND CRESCENT HOTEL 
ROOM 777 
NEW ORLEANS LA

"Hey, Mac. Get a move on it. We have to be at NAS at 0930 to meet with Captain Rawlins. Your breakfast is getting cold, Marine." He rapped on her door, waiting for her response. "Mac?"

"I'll be right there." She started to hum, slipping on her robe, and started to dry her hair. She hadn't slept better in months, even considering the night's scene in the lobby and her dream. <God, that dream. It was so real.>

She turned off the dryer and stared at her reflection in the mirror. It was as if she could still see him behind her touching her, his heated gaze following her every movement, as she imagined writhing against his strong muscular body. It was as if he was still there, cloaking her with his unique scent, the man with whom she craved to share her bed, the scent that she unrealistically craved, be the one left in the morning afterglow, surrounding her and mingling with the scent of their night of passion. She touched her lips with a reverence. Never had she awaken from her fantasies so vividly, still feeling his warm, his needy hands on her working his magic, caressing all she offered tenderly. Wanting to offer only to him all she was, even though she shared her bed with another. 

Even with the distance between them, she still held him tenderly in her dreams . . . only in the late hours of the night did she let herself give in to him and take all he had to offer in return, with a fire, with a passion, with an never-ending desire that she knew would never be satiated.

Feeling her body react, as always, to his imagined touch, she shook the memories of the night of passion, that never really was, from her mind, and made her way to the door. <Don't put yourself through this, Marine, especially with the object of your fantasies right in the next room. It wasn't real. It was just another damn dream. >

As she passed by the bed, her bare foot caught on something, causing her to recoil at the sharp prick of the item. "What the hell?" As she picked up the small glittering object, her brow furrowed perplexed, easily recognizing what she held in her hand.  

****

Exiting the bedroom, Mac's attention still partially focused on the item she had placed in the pocket of her robe, she saw Harm on the phone, heard the one-sided conversation and knew immediately who it was. A twinge of jealousy suddenly tried to find itself to the surface, but she immediately dismissed it, not wanting to re-live the scene of the night before. That wasn't who she was. That wasn't who she had the right to be.

"Good morning, Lieutenant . . . No problem . . . No, the Colonel and I will be having breakfast up here . . . That's not necessary, but thank you . . . We'll have all the time we need to discuss that on the ride to the base . . . I'm sure you do, but we will meet you and Mr. Roberts in the lobby at 0815 . . . 0815." Hanging up the phone with a bit of annoyance, he felt Mac's presence, her faint perfume always recognizable to him.

"So, tell me. Does she have the 'vapors' again, poor thing?" The sarcasm in her voice, while she fanned herself, mimicking their associate, spread a look of exasperation across Harm's handsome face.

"Mac. She simply wanted to know what time we were going to meet and to see if WE were going down to breakfast. Speaking of breakfast, let's eat."

"What brought this on?" Surprised at the lavish room service cart in front of her, something he had never done before on all their trips together. She almost forgot the small object in her robe, she almost forgot the phone conversation, until she heard his nonchalant response.

"A hangover I don't seem to remember getting."

"Oh?"

"Mac, don't even go there. Bud and I, alone, went out for a few beers, that's all."

"I've never known you to forget anything, Harm. Mind on something more interesting elsewhere?"

"Yeah, well. There's always a first time for everything and would you give it a rest, please. Let's just eat in peace then get dressed. Truce?" Taking a cup of coffee and some fruit he sat at the side of the make-shift table, hoping she'd follow his lead.

"Truce. But not before we talk about last night."

Suddenly, he almost lost his grip on the cup threatening to soak him with the still scolding coffee as it shook in his hand. "Last night? What about last night?" For some inexplicable reason, he suddenly couldn't focus. There was something that was trying to surface into the light . . . something from the back of his mind . . . something about last night . . . there was something that he needed to remember about last night.

"Harm? Earth to Harm! The scene in the lobby. I don't know what possessed me. I . . . just want to apologize for last night's scene."

"Sorry, I zoned for a moment. Maybe it's not me you should apologize to. Maybe it's Singer." He felt the heat of her pointed gaze and saw her brow furrow in annoyance. "Or maybe not. Apology accepted."

They ate in silence until Harm looked up, and noticed her arm. He reached out to take her hand in his across the table. "Your arm. Mac, what the hell happened to your arm?"

Obvious confusion wrapped around her, as she followed his gaze to her forearm. Trying to hide her surprise, she focused on the large, raw burn mark, the size of a tennis ball, that had suddenly seemed to appear on her arm. A visible shiver of masked distant recognition ran through her body as she withdrew her hand from his and tried to focus on the wound she was seeing and feeling for the first time. 

"I . . . I . . . must have burned it with the curling iron."

"Mac, you don't use a curling iron."

"Then it must have been . . . the hair dryer."

"The hair dryer? What was it blowing, the flames from hell?"

"Yes . . .I mean . . . I'll go . . . put something on it." 

She rose, suddenly shaken and cold, still fixated on the raw festering wound on her arm and hurried toward the bedroom. But before she left, she turned toward Harm and pulled the object she had found by her bed from her pocket and laid it in his open palm "Here. If you're going to get dressed . . . you may need this. I found it on the floor of my bedroom by the edge of my bed. It must have fallen out of my garment bag . . . you must have replaced it already . . . it must have been from another trip . . . it must have been mixed with my things." And then she was gone, disappearing quickly into what now seemed the sanctuary of her bedroom. 

Harm stared at the object in his hand, the voices of a thousand souls of light screaming at him to remember. He bolted to his bedroom and tore at the uniform that lay discarded in the corner of the bedroom, praying that her assumptions were right. Afraid to think what it meant if her assumptions were wrong. Straightening the front on his shirt, he closed his eyes at the discovery . . . it was missing . . . his shirt was missing his Navy "wings". And once again, a thousand souls of light screamed at him to remember . . . to remember how his "wings" had ended up at the edge of Sarah MacKenzie's bed.

He sat on the bed wondering once again what the hell was happening to him.

****

Mac raced to the bedroom, the wound on her arm now throbbing painfully. As she dressed it with the first aid kit she always carried, the voices of a thousand dark souls screamed at her to remember. To remember how she had managed to injure herself, what appeared to be seriously, and for her never to have noticed. Not in the shower, not when she was drying her hair . . . not until the electricity of Harm's touch surged through her had she noticed the raw, oozing burn on her forearm . . . and the thousand dark souls screamed at her, again, to remember.

She sat on the edge of the small settee in the bathroom and once again wondered what the hell was happening to her.
 

0915HRS (CST) 
NEW ORLEAN 
NAS JOINT RESERVE BASE 
BELLE CHASE LA

Not another word was spoken between them concerning Mac's arm or the found "wings." Neither oddity was shared with their associates as the confusion of the lost memories and the morning events were kept between them to ruminate. It was as if they both wanted to forget the discoveries, to forget forever the memories that they tried so hard to remember.

Located in the small Cajun community of Belle Chase, on the west bank of the Mississippi River and across from New Orleans, NAS New Orleans housed the Coast Guard Air Station, Fleet Logistics Support Squadron 54, Marine Air Group 46, Detachment Charlie, Patrol Squadron 94, Strike Fighter Squadron 204, 159th Tactical Fighter Group, Louisiana National Guard, and 926th Tactical Fighter Group. NAS New Orleans was a place like so many in the South, where Navy met Marine, where Marine met Army, where Army met Air Force, and where Air Force met Coast Guard. Active Duty Personnel and Reservists, all calling Belle Chase, Louisiana, home.

Like any other joint service facility, by 0930 the base was a buzz with activity, at what was considered a late hour. But even with all that was happening around them, when they exited the car in front of Base Command, they were greeted by the stares of both the commissioned officers and the enlisted men alike. Even the civilians who milled about the command center were not oblivious to their arrival. The arrival of the four JAG officers meant the court-martial was about to begin. The arrival of the four JAG officers meant the sure conviction of one of their own was eminent.

"Why do I feel like the enemy here."

"Because you are, Harm. You get to prosecute."

"Cute, Marine . . . I . . ."

"So what's the tact, Sir?" Gushing with false enthusiasm a naïve child could recognize and with the false sincerity a blind man could see, Lauren focused all her attention on the Commander. Ignoring Bud, ignoring Mac . . . for all intensive purposes cornering him in what was now her world. 

Before Harm could utter a response, Mac, with fire in her eyes, decided to answer Lauren Singer's question.  "The 'tact' is that the Commander, myself and Lt. Roberts will question Captain Rawlins and you, Lieutenant . . . you . . . will sit, listen and learn."

"Yes, Ma'am, I understand that. I just thought that since Commander Hawkins has already confessed, the truth as to what happened is already known. So what purpose is there in . . ."

Mac bristled at the tone in her voice and straightened significantly, adopting her best legal stance. "Lt. Singer, there is always more to the truth than meets the eye. That you will learn with experience. If you permit yourself to learn." Brushing past her, Mac stopped abruptly and turned back again to face the now seething Lauren Singer. "And the truth is everything."  

"Commander, I . . ."

"The Colonel is right, Lieutenant. The truth is always everything, no matter what side you're on."

"Yes, Sir."

Left to follow her three associates into the building, Lauren Singer's indignation at Mac's dressing her down fueled a dark rage that rose within her soul. She would make her pay. She would make sure she didn't lose the next round. For Sarah Mackenzie was all that stood in her way, to the Admiral, to the position she wanted and to Harmon Rabb. She would make her pay . . . he would see her for who she really was . . . no he would see what Lauren Singer, aided by the dark forces that had come to her late in the night, wanted him to see. 

The rage turned to satisfaction as a smile of anticipation slithered once again across her face.

****

Once inside, they were escorted immediately into Captain Rawlins office. A career officer, Captain Stuart Rawlins was a prime example of 25 years in the United States Navy. Stoic and imposing, he reminded Mac of the Admiral in demeanor, though in appearance they were as different as night and day. Stuart Rawlins was at least 6'6', and every bit between 250 and 275 pounds. His hair was dark, sheared to military perfection, with the most incredible icy blue eyes Mac had ever seen. But for some reason, she didn't quite fathom, she took an instant dislike to the CO that stood before her. And as their conversation progressed, she knew her instincts were correct and that he was nothing like the Admiral.

"At ease. Welcome to NAS, Commander Rabb, Colonel Mackenzie. I understand from the SECNAV that you two are the best JAG has to offer."

"Well, that's very kind of the SECNAV. Thank you, Sir. I'd like to introduce our associates, Lt. Lauren Singer and Lt. Bud Roberts."

"A pleasure, Sir." 

"Please. Sit. Scuttlebutt has it that the two of you are a pair of investigative 'pit-bulls' in and out of the courtroom. Is that an accurate description also, Commander?"   

"Well, Sir, you know what they say about scuttlebutt . . . "

"Yes, that it is usually true. Well, that is exactly what I need to dispose of this heinous situation quickly before it tears this base apart and further endangers our relationship with the surrounding civilian community."

"Yes, Sir."

"I need you two to also play damage control with the media. Damn reporters have latched on to this like hungry fleas to an old hound dog. They're biting into the order and discipline of this base and making my life hell! Useless parasites!"

"With all due respect, Sir. We have been sent here to investigate the incident and take Commander Hawkins to trial, if our investigation warrants it. Besides, Sir, being forthcoming with the media could very well serve to be a positive in our favor. They could serve . . . "

"Serve, as what Commander?"

" . . . as our own form of damage control." 

"That is a very interesting observation, but while you are on my base you will follow my directives. Are you questioning an order, Colonel?"

"No, Sir. I would never question an order, if you make it one . . . Sir."

"Then consider it one! You are to baby sit the press, make sure that Commander Hawkins receives a speedy trial, is convicted, and put an end to the high profile circus atmosphere on this base. Is that clear!"

"Aye, Sir!" 

The four stood, ready to take their leave, just as the Captain's Ensign came over the intercom, announcing that a call for him was on line one. Instead of dismissing them, he motioned for them to continue to stand at attention until he finished his call. Still standing, Captain Rawlins turned his back on the JAG officers, allowing Mac to surreptitiously survey her surroundings. 

The office seemed unusually void of any personal belongings . . . void of anything that would indicate who Captain Rawlins actually was. There were few citations adorning the walls, there was no personal memorabilia that would identify who and what the man had been. In the office there was just a single picture on his desk of a perfect family . . . a smiling blond women, a set of fraternal twins, and a dark haired boy. Other than that, the office was as cold and as austere . . . cold and austere as the man.

Hearing him end the conversation, she snapped to again, waiting for his parting tirade . . . but none came.

Eyeing the officers before him, Captain Stuart Rawlins, simply leaned over his desk toward them, his voice low and menacing. "Understand this also people, as for any type of investigation. There will be none. Don't waste my time by questioning the identity of the car that admittedly ran over the chicken. That will be all. Dismissed."

"Aye, Aye, Sir."

Harm tried to keep his tongue, but be couldn't. "With all due respect, Captain. Gloria Patton was not some barnyard animal. She was a living, breathing human being who allegedly was knifed to death by a Commander in the United States Navy, and if nothing else she deserves that the same Navy makes damn sure they have the right man in custody."  

****

As they walked through the outer office and out into the bright Louisiana sunlight, Mac leaned towards Harm and whispered, "Looking for a DOD charge, Commander."

"Not really, Colonel, but if I'm charged, I know one hell of a kick-ass Marine JAG who would defend me." He flashed her his brilliant smile, one that she had missed and that had not passed between them on this trip.

"I hated the chicken analogy, too, so don't count on that, Commander. I believe that same kick-ass Marine JAG will be up on the same DOD charge with you." She reacted to his smile like she always had: her knees weakened. And on top of that, the festering burn she had first discovered in the morning started to throb painfully.

"What now, Commander?"

"You take the car and go back to New Orleans. Get everything you can on Commander Hawkins and I mean everything, down to his underwear size . . . "

"We're going to investigate the murder?"

"Yes, Bud we are. Stop by . . ."

"But, Sir . . . Captain Rawlins specifically said . . ."

"Bud."

" . . . that there would be serious implications, if . . ."

"Mr. Roberts!"

"Sir?"

"You won't be disobeying an order that Captain Rawlins may have given, direct or otherwise, the Colonel and I will. You will just be following instructions from your immediate superiors, us. Understood, Bud?"

"Yes, Commander."   "Now. Stop by the Police Precinct and pick up a copy of the crime scene report. That report seemed to be mysteriously missing from the case folders we received. We're going to the brig to speak to our client."

Instinctively, Lauren Singer moved next to Harm, expecting Mac to run Harm's errands with Bud. However, the smile faded from her face when she noticed the Commander's perplexed stare. 

"'We' means the Colonel and I, Lieutenant. You go back to New Orleans and help Mr. Roberts."

"But, Sir! This is highly irregular. She is not part of the prosecution team . . . she should be going with Mr. Roberts."

"Stand down, Lieutenant. If by 'she' you are referring to Colonel Mackenzie, a superior officer, this is an investigation not an interrogation, so no lines of protocol will be breached. And besides, you can use this experience to learn how to properly gather information that is requested by a superior officer. Then maybe next time you won't require the Gunny's assistance like you did in the Andrea Granada case."

"Aye, Sir."

"How will you and the Colonel get back?"

"I'm sure the Colonel will be able to use her initiative to secure us a vehicle from the motor pool, if we don't end up in the brig first." They started across the base in the direction of the brig. "Hey, Bud. You might as well stop by the Coroner's office, too, and see what you can scare up."

"The Coroner's Office. Me, Sir?"

"You, Sir." 
 

Continue to Part II