Part III

CHAPTER 1

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03/23/01 FRIDAY 8:30 P.M.
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Detective Warner was outside the station smoking a cigarette, talking to a man whom Helen assumed to be another detective, as she drove up. He dropped his cigarette to the asphalt, blowing smoke out one last time, and stomped it out.

Helen had a wild urge to run him down. Instead she stoically parked, took a deep breath, and looked around. She’d hoped Marguerite would be here already—she was so grateful she’d managed to reach the DA at home—but apparently she hadn’t arrived yet. Much as she’d hoped Marguerite could walk into the station with her, Helen had been too tense to wait longer at home, she had to come. She’d have to do this on her own; she just hoped her friend showed up in time.

She got out, prepared to be all businesslike about this. The other DT went back inside the building before Mrs. Morgendorffer had stepped out of her car.

“Thank you for coming down so promptly,” said Detective Warner, almost sounding sincere. There was a bit of a hard smile at the left corner of his mouth that offset the apparent sincerity in his voice.

It took all her will not to yell at him. What they did to Daria was an outrage, but now that she knew just how responsible they were for this mess getting started in the first place, she wished them all a horrible death. She smiled a cold smile to match Detective Warner’s mocking one and said, “Let me get my daughter, Detective.”

“I’m not sure that’s a possibility,” said Warner, sounding regretful.

“Anything is a possibility,” said Helen brusquely, “including criminal charges against Lawndale’s finest with a colossal lawsuit by several families that you wouldn’t believe.”

“Well, let’s see what happens,” said Warner shrugging, heading into the station.

Helen Morgendorffer was led through an entrance and into a nondescript hall with multiple doors off it. There were very few cops here at all. She wondered how many were out at the site of the shooting and drug bust.

“Do you have the boy she made the mistake of dating in custody?” asked Helen tightly, “Or did you let him go to find bigger drug dealers for you?”

Detective Warner almost spun on her then, a cold glare set on his face, but he controlled himself and acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He stopped by a door and stuck a key into it. “We have him,” he finally said in a noncommittal tone of voice. The door opened and he motioned Helen in. Helen went in to see a table with two chairs on one side and one chair on the other. A mirror covered the wall behind the two chairs. Detective Warner came past her and looked at himself in the mirror before turning around and facing Helen. He did not sit down.

This is the room, Helen thought, where they handcuffed Daria to a chair and... and... Helen put it out of her mind as she heard the footsteps of two people outside the open door. She gasped as a female police officer escorted Quinn into the room.

Quinn was a tussled mess. She looked at the floor, crying softly as she was brought in. Helen went over to her, and Quinn looked up at her. Helen stopped amazed, her mouth hanging open as she saw her daughter’s face. A huge bruise was already swelling under her left eye, another bruise was forming almost beside her right eye, and the right side of her jaw was swollen and discolored.

“Has she seen a doctor!?” exclaimed Helen. She didn’t trust herself to say anything else. She looked down prepared to demand the handcuffs be taken off but saw she was unrestrained. The index finger on her right hand was in a bandage.

“I should think so,” said Warner coldly. “Have my orders been carried out, Sergeant Lanny?” The “sergeant” was said with a slight mocking emphasis.

“Yes,” said Sergeant Lanny. “Her face is marked up. Too bad. It was quite pretty.” Quinn started crying harder then. “She’s got another beauty mark on her left ribs. Doc doesn’t think any ribs are cracked, but you should get her to see a REAL doctor, ASAP.” She looked Quinn over. “She has a little blood in her hair, but it’s not hers. It belongs to the guy who attacked her. Her mouth was busted enough to bleed, but only a little. I doubt she’ll need any dental work done.” She said this without a trace of feeling in her voice, except her contempt of the doctor, and her despite of Warner.

Quinn’s escort seemed oddly dispirited for being a sergeant, and Helen couldn’t figure out why she was doing grunt work. Not that she cared. She wanted to claw her eyes out, right along with Detective Warner’s, for laying a hand on Quinn. As far as she was concerned, since these cops had let Matthew go and thus started the chain of events that led to tonight, they had assisted that boy in beating Quinn—and then had the gall to arrest her!

“Thank you, Sergeant Lanny,” said Warner gruffly, “that will be all.”

Lanny turned and left without a word, closing the door behind her. Helen went up and drew Quinn into her arms, who started crying harder.

“Oh, rest assured,” said Detective Warner coldly, “Scott Rhodes looks a lot worse than she does. Unlike Quinn, he DOES require medical attention. They think she may have broken his finger, in addition to the nasty beating she dealt him. Shot at him, too, by her own admiss—”

“An admission inadmissible in court!” Helen cried, almost in a shriek.

Warner shrugged. “Hardly matters. She failed to kill Scott as she intended, leaving a valuable witness, and forensics think there’s enough evidence to show she did, in fact, try to murder Scott.”

“If anything, it was justifiable as self-defense,” said Helen. “I know my daughter, and she’s incapable of attacking anyone!”

Warner rolled his eyes. “Have a seat,” he said, “and we’ll get started.”

“My daughter is not saying anything to you. I want to speak to her alone. And I’ll have you know, Reid technique or not—” She didn’t trust herself to say anything beyond that for fear of being arrested for terroristic threats. She was sure he’d love it if he could get her in jail and have Jake monitor the interrogation.

Warner frowned. “We’re still gathering evidence at this stage, Mrs. Morgendorffer, but it’s clear your daughters are involved in some very serious crimes. I’m not sure I can let her go. If we talk about it now—”

“No,” said Helen coldly, “you’ve done quite enough as it is. The truth will come out in court, and I will test the validity of your ‘evidence,’ or lack thereof, in a court of law!”

“I’m sure you’ll try. That’s why—” He frowned at a knock at the door.

Helen moved away from the door and Detective Warner, pulling Quinn with her.

“What is it!?” yelled Warner, approaching the door. He stopped when he saw the door was being unlocked.

The door came open and Marguerite entered, escorted by another detective. Helen smiled gratefully.

Detective Warner’s brows rose, and he threw a suspicious glare Helen’s way. “It’s not often that the District Attorney sits in on an interrogation,” said Warner coldly.

“I’ve already looked at the evidence,” said Marguerite just as coldly, “and decided that until more conclusive evidence comes in, I’m not pressing charges. Since Mrs. Morgendorffer won’t let the victim say anything anyway, I came down here to tell you that you can save yourself the trouble.”

“The evidence,” replied Warner in a voice of restrained rage, “is still being collected and processed as we speak. There is no way you could even know what it is!”

“Au contraire,” said Marguerite, in a rare show of what she liked to call her ‘French’ upbringing in Louisiana. “There are plenty of officers concerned with the way some matters are being investigated, and they complain to anyone who will listen.” She met his cold glare with her own. “You have ample evidence that the boy hid drugs in his home. Drugs you had to uncover. By the way, what made you think to bring drug dogs to a domestic dispute?”

Detective Warner’s breathing increased. “Earlier intelligence told us the boy was probably a dealer, and he maintained a cordial relation with Matthew Foster before his untimely demise at the hands of the SUSPECT’S sister. Drugs were found in a hollowed-out compartment between the mattresses of Scott’s bed. Dogs seemed prudent, as they turned out to be.”

“Spare me,” said Marguerite, “your department is known for its lackadaisical attitude. You went in looking for drugs specifically. Otherwise, you’d simply throw the two feuding love birds in jail and let them post bail or call their parents.”

“Weapons were found on the scene, including a gun used by the suspect,” added Warner.

“A weapon, I’m sure, that belonged to the boy you brought in.” Marguerite looked at Quinn’s face. “I’ve seen pistol whippings before, Detective, and I recognize that mark by the VICTIM’S left eye.”

“Be that as it may,” replied Detective Warner a bit more calmly, “she still took the gun away from him and tried to shoot him while he was unarmed. If she were so innocent, why didn’t she just hold him and call the police, instead of emptying the mag through three bedrooms, including five into the master bedroom down the hall, which was in the other side of the house from the room in which the alleged beating took place?”

“Maybe because she had already been fired upon barely over a week ago, despite the quality law enforcement in this town, and she was not thinking clearly due to past trauma,” said Marguerite scornfully. “Or maybe she was scared and in a life-threatening situation, Detective. Especially as I’m told she was being fired upon by a Benelli M3 super 90, semi-auto pump shotgun, from the same master bedroom!”

Detective Warner coughed as he saw Helen’s furious gaze settle on him with a new intensity. “The other gun jammed after firing once.” He shrugged. “I’m waiting on forensics to tell me more.”

“So did you catch Quinn with a gun in her hand? Since she’s alive, I’m assuming the answer is no. Given the reputation of Lawndale’s finest, it was probably a good thing she didn’t pull a cell phone out.”

Detective Warner shook his head coldly. He hated the bad case of “contempt of cop” this black bitch demonstrated. Not much he could do about it at the moment, either.

“No,” said Marguerite, as if she were cross examining a defendant on the stand. “You found her, beaten to a pulp, barely holding her assailant down, in a neighborhood she didn’t know, wondering how she was going to get away.” She cleared her throat. “Unarmed.”

“As was the boy,” replied the detective.

“A boy in good physical health that weighs nearly twice as much as Quinn and is a whole head taller than she is.” She shook her head and added sarcastically, “I’m sure Quinn had nothing to worry about.”

“Quinn has already been found in the company of one drug dealer,” replied Detective Warner. “I find it very odd that she was in the company of another, so soon after the prior shooting, too.”

“So you think Quinn is a dealer, too?” Marguerite asked in surprise.

“Or a user,” the detective replied. “I’m waiting on the results from the urine sample.”

“So what did the strips say?”

Warner coughed. “The strips are temporarily not to be found. We’ll either get them when we can spare a man to look, or do it the old fashion way.”

Marguerite rolled her eyes, wondering if this was incompetence or something worse. She thought about telling him she wanted his urine analyzed after the strips were found, but decided against it. Instead, she said, “I assume you had her take a breathalyzer, too.” When the detective merely nodded, she added, “Well?”

“Trace amounts of alcohol in her system. Itself a crime,” he added.

“But one you can release her into her mother’s custody for,” Marguerite responded, “since your test found no other drugs?”

“Even now, we’re gathering evidence,” added Detective Warner meaningfully. “I know we have Quinn’s fingerprints on a Glock 32. I also expect we’ll have another warrant soon. Maybe a warrant for you, too, Mrs. Kramer, seeing how you’re tied into all of this somehow.”

“So you have nothing but purely circumstantial evidence to make even a probable cause for the charges you’re levying against the victim.” It was a statement more than a question.

“Since Fillman is prosecuting this case, I think I’ll leave that to his discretion,” he replied disdainfully.

“I thought Fillman was prosecuting the shooting at Lawndale High?”

“In which the suspect’s sister was the shooter. I’m sure Fillman is just covering the bases,” said Detective Warner, who was growing very uncomfortable. He’d never been interrogated in the interrogation room before, and found he didn’t care for it.

“Oh, Fillman is about to have much bigger problems. Unless you want to join him, I suggest you cover your ass, which includes releasing Quinn into her mother’s custody right now.”

A silence settled on the room. Marguerite and Warner glared at each other, while Helen glared at Warner herself as she held a crying Quinn, and the other detective stood by quietly.

The other detective cleared his throat. “I think we should let her go,” he said.

Detective Warner blinked in shocked surprise, while the others showed no reaction. “Excuse me, Cartwright,” he said, “but why by all that’s reasonable would I want to do that? We should get the information now!”

Detective Cartwright shrugged. “We can press charges later when we have all the evidence in, and can measure it against the statement Quinn Morgendorffer has already given us.” He raised a brow. “I assume she’s already given a urine sample?”

Detective Warner nodded. “Yes, and she’s scheduled to take a lie detector test Monday morning, too.”

“There you go,” said Detective Cartwright. “We can still arrest her and press charges after the evidence has been investigated, and the results of the lie detector are in. And if our suspicions prove to be grounded in fact, our case against her will be the stronger for it.”

“And if the suspect runs?” asked Detective Warner, deciding that this was the best course of action after all.

“If she runs, we know who to go after,” replied Detective Cartwright nonchalantly. “She’s not going anywhere. I’m more interested in dealing with the other suspect in custody before he can concoct too much of a cover story. We already know he’s clever.”

Detective Warner narrowed his eyes as he thought a bit. Finally, he pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and wrote on it before handing it to a furious Helen. “Monday, 10 A.M., Quinn Morgendorffer will have to take a lie detector test. Be there, or I’ll send someone to get you. If I haven’t already.”

Helen fought back the urge to leap at him and beat him until he lay dead. She took the paper with a free hand without a word.

“Okay,” said Detective Warner, “cut her loose.”

“This way, Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said Detective Cartwright.

“But this isn’t over,” added Detective Warner, just as all three women were starting to leave.

“On that much,” said Marguerite, “you are absolutely right.”

Once outside, Helen gratefully began to thank Marguerite for coming down, but Marguerite stopped her and led them to her SUV and motioned them to get in. Once inside, Marguerite said, “Quinn, I don’t want you to say anything. I’m going to just say a few things to your mother and you talk to her later. Alone. Got it?”

“Oh... okay,” she said. Her voice still held tears in it, and she was obviously exhausted.

“Helen,” said Marguerite, “this doesn’t look good at all. I bought you some time, but I’m afraid that’s about all I can do for you.”

“Thank you for all that you’ve already done,” said Helen.

Marguerite let out a pent up breath. “I’ve got a P.I. investigating the events. Believe me, after years of working with the local law enforcement, I’ve found him useful more than once. Especially as he’s not as bound by red tape like the more proper law enforcement.”

“Has he found anything out?” asked Helen.

“Yes,” said Marguerite. “Problem is, he’s not sure what’s going on. Something big, though, and it looks like your daughters are involved somehow. But,” she added quickly, “he does NOT believe that your daughters, or anyone they know, are drug dealers or users of any kind. But the local alpha of the methamphetamine market is nervous about something.” She added emphatically, “For now on, keep your daughters at home! At all times!”

“But Quinn has to go to school!” protested Helen.

“Have someone drive her to and from school,” replied Marguerite, “someone other than Daria, because that wouldn’t look good at all.” Not to mention what the press and Fillman would make of Daria being on school grounds.

“What’s going on in the police station, Marguerite?” asked Helen. “I detected a lot of hostility between officers. What are the office politics there?”

“Sorry, Helen, I can’t share that, yet,” was all she would say.

Helen was hurt, but accepted it. Marguerite had done far more for her than she had any right to expect. “Thank you for the help you have given me,” she said sincerely.

“I’m still helping, Helen,” she responded. “I just can’t say how I’m helping just yet.”

After that, they said their good-byes, and Helen started to drive Quinn home. In a dispirited voice, Quinn honestly told her everything, even about Buffy (which Helen decided to ignore for now), on the way home. Helen had to park in the driveway and let Quinn finish talking for fear she would stop once she was around other people.

“Did you know this boy was friends with Matthew?” she asked.

“I knew they talked,” said Quinn. “I had no idea they were close friends or even partners in anything.” That was partially true, though Helen caught something in Quinn’s voice that made her suspicious.

Helen cleared her throat and said, “I hope you can say all this for the lie detector.” When Quinn said nothing, she sighed. “Well, it’s getting cold out here. We’ll talk about that test later. Right now, I want you to go upstairs to bed and get some rest. I’m going to try to get you a doctor’s appointment as soon as I can. Tomorrow, if possible. Are you hungry?”

“No,” said Quinn.

“Then I want you to go up and get some sleep, okay?” Helen hugged Quinn before getting out.

Quinn quietly got out and followed her mom inside. She looked at the floor with a feeling of guilt when she saw Daria’s eyes open in shock at the sight of her.

“What happened to you?” asked Daria shocked. She knew Quinn had been arrested, but she had no idea she had been beaten up.

“Bad date,” she said in a low voice. “Do you mind if I just go up and go to bed?” she asked. When Daria shook her head, a concerned expression on her face, Quinn went up to go to bed. She did nothing more than pull her clothes off and get into bed, not even bothering to clean herself up. She was asleep less than a minute later.

But back downstairs, the day continued for Helen and Daria. “Where’s your dad?” asked Helen.

“Still upstairs, sleeping off the valiums,” said Daria.

Helen frowned. Jake was getting addicted to those uppers and downers. It might be wise to let those get out of his system for awhile. “Okay,” she said. It was still good not to have him freaking out right now. She could deal with him tomorrow.

“What the hell happened to Quinn?” asked Daria.

Helen sighed, and then summed up the high points. “Do you know this boy at all, Daria?”

Daria shook her head. “I knew of him, like Matthew. Which is to say I knew he existed in Quinn’s grade, and that’s it.”

Not long after, Helen and Daria were eating lasagna on their own, sitting on the couch as they ate, watching the sordid incident being played out on the news.

“The sister of the shooter,” said a female reporter, “Daria Morgendorffer who shot a boy last Wednesday, has also been arrested for shooting at a friend of Matthew Foster tonight. A boy she had also been dating, just as she had dated Matthew Foster.” The scene switched to police as the reporters asked, “Were any Nazi flags or other hate paraphernalia found at the scene of the shooting?”

“At this time, we have not completely gone through all of the evidence,” said Detective Warner.

The scene changed to show a house surrounded by police tape and police cars. A gleeful account of drugs were given, along with footage showing bullet holes in several walls, including a big round one at the end of a hallway.

“The question we must all ask ourselves,” said the reporter grimly, “is why have our children become so obsessed with sex, drugs, guns, and hate?”

“I hope they don’t show less restraint than they already have,” mentioned Daria, as the scene changed to that to show Mayor Grant. “Or the problems THEY’RE obsessed with might turn them into the same kind of talking head as Jerry Springer.”

“Yes, we’ve had another shooting,” stated Mayor Grant on TV. “This time, either a domestic dispute or a drug related one. Police are sill looking into the matter. This is what we have police for. I say let them do their job. I’ll have answers when they give them to me.”

“Is the shooter’s sister, Daria Morgendorffer, a vigilante likely to come after the boy who attacked her younger sister?”

“Daria Morgendorffer is a disgruntled vigilante, but I doubt she’ll have a chance to take another life. As your new mayor, I am seeing to it that law and order are coming back to Lawndale, and with more funding to hire new police and upgrade their equipment, these young hoodlums will be taken off our streets once and for all!”

“Are stalking cases still going to be a problem?”

“Stalking? Oh, yes, those were a problem. But not for long. Not while I’m mayor.”

Daria rolled her eyes. “Tell me, isn’t violence, not to mention other things like the economy, worse since he became mayor?”

Helen didn’t stop watching the TV. “Yes, Daria, but as long as he can prosecute you, it looks like he’s doing something, and people feel better.”

Daria replied, “Who says human sacrifice to appease the gods for better fortune and prosperity ever went out of fashion?”

“Shhh!” said Helen, still listening.

“Are the accessibility of guns a problem, Mayor?” asked one reporter.

Mayor Grant seemed to laugh a bit. “Of course not, and with the Eddie Eagle program run by the NRA, and Project Safe Home, guns will become even less of a problem. The real problem we have is the media and its sick, sensationalist trend to glorify the very things our kids are doing. The AMA has proven the Brady Bill useless, but the Free Congress Foundation has done a study showing our music and movies are teaching our kids to act violently, promiscuously, and to misuse guns.”

“Huh?” asked Daria. “Did that make sense?” When no answer came, she added, “I wonder if Mrs. Brand’s group, Handgun Control or whatever, will try to buy off the AMA now.”

Speak of the devil thought Daria bemused, as Mrs. Brand came on the screen.

“What Mayor Grant would have you ignore is that this recent crime wave of youthful violence that is happening under his shift is exacerbated by the accessibility of guns. I share Mayor Grant’s antipathy towards a media that glorifies sex and violence in music and movies, but the point remains that guns are far too accessible. As your new mayor, I will work to correct BOTH problems which have been overlooked for far too long.”

There was an instant babble of voices. One then asked, “So you ARE running for mayor then?”

“That is correct,” said a proper Mrs. Brand.

The scene changed to Mr. Fillman outside. “Since the District Attorney Marguerite Kramer is doing nothing but protecting the kids who commit these acts,” said Fillman, “it is up to me to do what she will not. Furthermore, I will see to it that all goths, punks, and antisocial loners with guns are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law to get them off our streets. I also propose to help shut down centers that attract these hoodlums to our area, such as The Zen and McGrundy’s.”

Helen wondered why he didn’t make his announcement that he would be running for mayor. Didn’t matter much. Helen hoped he’d be disbarred before long anyway. Finally, she turned it off as the news went into a report on the stock market, which was still falling.

“Daria,” said Helen, “you can’t go sneaking off anymore. I’ve got it from good authority that there are people you don’t want to meet who are curious about you. Like with Quinn, they may think you’re drug dealers who aren’t paying a percentage or whatever these people tend to think. Promise me you won’t sneak out of the house again.”

“I promise not to sneak out of the house again,” said Daria solemnly.

Helen sighed. There was something in Daria’s tone that she didn’t like, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “I hope you don’t, for your own sake,” she finally said, getting up.

I didn’t say WHICH house I wouldn’t sneak out of, thought Daria without a smile. But I will sneak out of THIS one as I’m going to have to look into means of disappearing. I’m so sorry, Mom, Dad, but I can’t wait around for this and do nothing to take care of myself.

Daria, the assigned scapegoat, went up to her own room then to wonder if she should include Quinn in her plan to run and hide before she could be sent to prison as some trophy conviction for opportunists like Fillman or Brand to make mayor on.

Soon, she comforted herself.

CHAPTER 2
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03/24/01 SATURDAY 11:00 A.M.
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Quinn, lying on her bed as she talked to Sandi on her cordless phone, was stunned at what she heard. Detective Warner had just left Sandi’s house, after asking Sandi and her entire family what they knew of Quinn! He’d left, presumably to talk to Tiffany and Stacy, and their families next (since neither had called Quinn or Sandi yet). Quinn felt ill, and it wasn’t just from the painful throbbing radiating through her.

“Quinn,” Sandi was saying, annoyance in her voice, “I told you not to date him. And now you have placed the fine reputation of the Fashion Club in peril.”

“I know you told me, Sandi, but he was so cute, and I had no idea! I wish I had listened to you now.”

“Your arrest has made the Fashion Club look most unbecoming. And all your friends are now suspects in major crimes. My mom is all over me for hanging around you after your thing with Matthew and Scott. She doesn’t want you over here.”

Quinn laughed weakly and very nervously. “I can’t leave the house anyway,” she said, “except for school.”

There was silence for several moments. Then Sandi added, “And the police may take you away. You have not only brought shame to yourself, but onto the Fashion Club.”

Several more moments before Quinn asked, “Are you kicking me out, Sandi?”

There was more silence before Sandi replied, “Well, Quinn, you can stay, but you are most definitely on probation. And you can only date people after I, President of the Fashion Club, have approved them.”

Quinn laughed weakly. She wasn’t going on anymore dates in the near future anyway. “Okay, Sandi.”

“Nothing is okay about this, Quinn,” replied Sandi testily. “You were almost killed, and you may go to jail or prison. Do you know what people wear in prison?”

Quinn noticed that the question barely bothered her. “Yeah, Sandi,” said Quinn in a tired voice.

“Are you okay, Quinn?” Sandi truly sounded concerned.

“No,” said Quinn. “I’m... Scott hurt me, Sandi. I look really ugly right now.” She was silent for several more moments before she added, “Mom managed to get me an appointment to see Dr. Baur at one today.”

“Do you think you will need plastic surgery?”

“No,” said Quinn, “I don’t think so. But my face is... it’s pretty banged up.” After several moments, Quinn noticed Daria staring into her room. She covered the phone with one hand and asked, “What?”

“I need the phone for a minute,” said Daria. “I want to call Jane.”

“Okay,” said Quinn, before saying into the phone, “Sandi, Daria needs the phone. I can call you back when she’s done.”

“No, don’t call over here,” said Sandi. “If my mom finds out... well, it’s just better if I call you.”

“Oh, well five minutes or so should be fine. Right?” When she saw Daria nod, she added, “Yeah, five.”

“I think I should call the other members and warn them about the detective coming over.”

“Oh,” said Quinn. “Okay, then. Bye.” She hung up feeling depressed. “Okay,” said Quinn, “phone’s yours. Take as long as you want.”

Daria came in and looked at her, making Quinn very self-conscious. “I heard you hurt him pretty bad back.”

“Yeah,” said Quinn. “I can’t even believe I did that! It just happened.”

“Good,” said Daria, the coldness in her voice startling Quinn. “I’m glad you hurt him, Quinn. I wish I could hurt him, too.”

Quinn let out a breath that she had been holding, relieved that Daria wasn’t speaking coldly to her. “Oh, Daria, he’s not worth it.” She shook her head. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like I won or anything. I mean I KNOW I took care of myself and I should feel good over that, but after the thrill of it went away, I’ve just felt tired and beaten ever since.”

“You’re alive. You’re whole. What he did do to you will heal. And that’s because of what you did. You didn’t even... well, you didn’t use a gun to beat him, even if you did shoot at him.”

Quinn snorted. “He sure ran when I took his gun from him!”

“Hmph,” said Daria, crossing her arms. “So you CAN take someone’s gun away from them.”

Quinn smiled a crooked smile which had an appealing roguish charm, even if Daria hurt just looking at her face. “I used my charms and got him close.”

“He tried using another gun on you, didn’t he?”

“Another gun?” asked Quinn as if she couldn’t believe the question. “Not just any gun, Daria, it was a SUPER gun!”

“A super gun?”

“I heard Mom’s friend call it a super shotgun! Pump AND automatic! I can’t remember anything else about it. But it was LOUD. My ears didn’t stop ringing until after Mom got there!”

“Hmph,” said Daria, not sure what to make of that. But she was very glad Quinn didn’t have to endure Warner and Cartwright the way she had. “Well, I better call Jane, so maybe she can come over here and keep me company while you’re away.” When Quinn smiled at her sadly, she added, “And I’m glad you hurt him, Quinn. It’s worth something to me.” Then she left to call Jane.

Quinn lay down and almost went to sleep. She felt comforted as she felt Buffy near. Except for emergencies, Buffy only came around when she was about to sleep now. “Hi, Buffy,” she whispered.

Hi, Quinn! replied Buffy warmly. Don’t worry about the nightmares. I’ll keep them away.

“Yeah,” muttered Quinn. She couldn’t remember dreaming anything last night. She just lay down and didn’t get up until her mom woke her for a late breakfast, and to tell her she would be seeing a doctor later today. She cleared her head and thought at Buffy, I still can’t believe everything that happened last night. And he tried to use some kinda super shotgun on me, too!

Yeah, said Buffy, but I made it so it couldn’t shoot!

Quinn smiled a little at that. “Thanks, Buffy,” she muttered out loud, “you’re the best.” She was asleep almost right after.

She was woken up by her dad a little later. She blinked as he helped her get up out of bed. He hugged her and she yawned. Then, blinking groggily, she followed him down the stairs. He looked back at her and smiled reassuringly more than once.

Daria was watching some cartoon downstairs. Quinn was mildly curious, but the pain in her head was too much to think through. It’s funny, she thought, I barely even notice it now, and yet it’s still something that affects me.

Following her dad into the kitchen, she saw her mom in the process of making sandwiches, with mayo, tomatoes, lettuce, and slices of cheese. Quinn couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her mom do that.

“Hey, sweetie,” said Helen, “we’ll be having sandwiches soon. And then we’ll be leaving. Don’t bother doing more than dressing okay. He won’t be looking at your clothes, and makeup will get in the way.”

“Um, okay,” replied Quinn in a low voice. She hadn’t even thought about makeup. She didn’t know what to think about that. But while she was thinking about it, she said, “Mom, I won’t ask for a gun, ‘cause I promised not to—”

“Quinn,” Helen interrupted, “you don’t need a gun. Haven’t you learned that?”

“Um... no,” said Quinn. “But that wasn’t what I wanted to ask. I want to take more classes. I’m not sure what, but I’d like to learn more.”

Helen smiled nervously. “I think that’s a good idea, Quinn.” She lost her smile. “But first you see a doctor! Luckily, Dr. Baur works weekends, but I still had to work hard and agree to pay extra to get him to see you today. And we can’t be late!”

“I’ve been reading that self-defense book we got from that class,” continued Quinn, “and it has some good stuff in it, but... I need something more.”

“Okay, Quinn, I will find something out on Monday, okay?” When Quinn nodded, Helen went into the living room where Daria was still watching TV. “Quinn is going to some more classes. I think you should go, too.” She let out a breath when Daria just shrugged. “But you’re not to leave this house for anything else.”

“Yes, Warden.”

“Daria,” said Helen, “you’re not a prisoner. You’re in protective custody. Remember that.”

“Luckily, visiting hour is almost upon me.”

Going to get her purse, Helen pulled out a twenty. “Here’s to ORDER a pizza. You’re not to leave this house, Daria. Jake will be around and while he may be distracted, he hasn’t had any valium today, and won’t have any until I get back. So don’t even think of sneaking out!”

“He may be awake, but he’s still too slow and clumsy to catch the likes of me and Jane.”

“Daria,” said Helen putting her hands on her hips, “are you sure you’d rather spend time here with Jane instead of coming with Quinn and me?”

Daria blinked. “In the house we’ll be, and cause no trouble, you’ll see.”

“Ugh, Daria,” said Helen shaking her head, hoping Daria wasn’t planning on becoming a poet. “I left sandwiches in Ziplocs in the top drawer in the fridge. Should you and Jane prefer something more nutritious than pizza.” She left for the kitchen again then as Daria rolled her eyes.

Daria hurried to the door when she heard Jane’s knock moments later. She couldn’t keep a smile off her face, though she did manage to twist it so it looked somehow dangerous. They went up to Daria’s room and ordered a pizza. And for a short while, Daria almost forgot the dire future she faced.

Then they decided they had better go down to the living room. Jake wasn’t the best person for catching things like pizza delivery men, at the door. Even when he did answer the door, he might not be coherent and could end up scaring them away. Especially of late.

“Hey,” said Jake joining Daria for a little one-on-one time. He was hip enough to let Jane take part, too. “You’re the art chick, right? It’s chick now, right?”

“Actually Dad,” said Daria, “it’s ‘ho’ now. As in, ‘ho, ho, a hot babe’ or something like that.”

“Really?” asked Jake excitedly. “So you’re the art ho, right?”

Jane crossed her arms and glared at Daria. “I paint a little,” she said noncommittally.

“I did some art back in my day, too,” said Jake reminiscing. “The others, they made fun of me and called me a sissy and a dirty hippie. But I showed them,” his voice was rising, “I married a wonderful ho and had two beautiful hos for daughters, while those who made fun of me are dead, or wish they were!” He clenched a fist as he added, “Or that’s one way to look at it, anyway.”

“Uh,” said Jane swallowing, “so, um, what was your best work?”

Jake looked confused a moment before he admitted, “I’m not sure. I was usually tripping when I did something really good. Not that the day trippers could relate to it. Hey, it is ‘tripping’ now, right? Where you do LSD?”

“That would be ‘charge the battery’ today,” said Jane helpfully.

“Right,” said Jake, “I’d get the most amazing inspirations when I charged my batteries, and everyone else loved it. Helen especially loved to charge batteries with me and we’d finger paint some of the exquisite works of arts with our paints.”

“That’s, uh, uh,” Daria was blushing very red.

“Sounds like an interesting time,” said Jane with a straight face. “So you charged your batteries with her, your most beloved ho? UMPH!” That time, Daria hit Jane in the stomach with her elbow.

“You bet’cha!” shouted Jake. “Ol’ Jakey can share some stories of my own youth.”

“Tell us about the pot and the hooker you did in college,” suggested Jane.

“What?” asked a disturbed Jake, “how did you know about that?” He looked truly upset that anyone knew and blushed as Jane smiled at him, and Daria continued to blush on her own.

Daria finally sighed and said, “There are a lot of reporters in town, aren’t there, Dad?”

Jake blinked at the sudden change in conversation and frowned in displeasure, muttering, “Lousy talking heads always distorting what I say! Oh, ‘can you spare a moment, Mr. Morgendorffer,’ well no, I can’t!”

“... and all kinds of politically active people, too,” continued Daria the moment Jake paused. “They’re going to put a strain on the market. Maybe you should look into investing with some of the entrepreneurs that would provide film and tape and other things they would need? Or the local temp service?”

“And escort service?” piped in Jane helpfully.

Daria glared at her for moment, but returned to her dad when he said, “You know, that’s a great idea! Everyone is into beefing up the security right now, that I don’t think many people have thought of that! Thanks, Daria!”

“Sure, Dad,” said Daria, “I just hope someone isn’t already working on profiting from this situation right now.” She spoke a little more slowly. “As we speak. Getting a corner on the market.”

Jake’s eyes were getting wider and wider. “Say, Daria, do you think you and Jane can talk amongst yourselves while I make a few calls?”

“Well, since we’re not in the DMZ school, I guess that’s okay,” said Jane before Daria could say anything.

“Great!” he cried, before trotting upstairs.

“What?” asked Jane innocently as Daria glared at her.

She sighed. “I never realized how useful all those years of playing with his head would turn out to be,” mused Daria. “All this time I just thought it was fun.”

“But are you sure it wouldn’t be more fun to have pulled a gun and yelled at him to leave?” asked Jane.

“Not anywhere as challenging,” answered Daria.

“Either way,” said Jane lightly, “you’re due for a karmic zapping.” Jane instantly felt bad for saying that, as she remembered what Daria was facing. Just then the doorbell rang.

Pizza box in hand, they returned to Daria’s room. She pulled the plug on her phone and put on a CXS CD to muffle their conversation (without agitating them too much to think clearly) and asked, “So have you talked to him yet?”

Jane swallowed and shook her head. “It’s hard, and the one time I tried to go, the same car kept turning down streets all around me.”

Daria frowned. “Cheap bastards. They can’t even afford more than one tail.” She shook her head in disgust, though she was glad they were that easy to sniff out. “Still,” she said, “it’s not like you can’t think up a reason to see him.”

Jane blinked and nodded her head. I just don’t want to do it, thought Jane. And if I go with her, I become a criminal along with her. If I stay, I lose her, and might become a criminal anyway.

“Why do you want to run?” asked Jane. “You might get off, but not if you run.”

Daria stared at Jane awhile before answering. “I won’t get off. The media is trashing me everyday. The jurors know that if they acquit me, they’ll be trashed. Best to just sacrifice me and hope the world is a little better for it.”

“But,” said Jane, “your family, your life!”

“I have no life anymore, Jane,” replied Daria. “And all I’m doing in bringing pain to my family. If I disappear, the media will have a field day with it. But if I can stay gone, they’ll eventually find something else to blow out of proportion. Someone missing just won’t keep the interest of the sheep. Then it will be over for my family.”

“But not for you,” said Jane, “or those who love you.”

“I’m getting burned any way I go, Jane,” said Daria. “Might as well end it now. Besides,” she added bitterly, “if I manage to escape, neither Fillman nor Brand can make mayor on me.” She shook her head in disgust at how the world worked. She looked back up to Jane and asked, “Will you help me, or not?”

Jane sighed long and hard. “I’m your friend, Daria. Of course I’ll help.”

While Daria and Jane began discussing plans of an illicit nature, Jake was eating a sandwich Helen had left him. He put the sandwich down on a saucer when he heard a loud knock and headed for the door hoping it wasn’t another reporter prepared to take his comments and twist them into something that would later infuriate Helen. By the time he got to it, it was obviously two people knocking on it. He couldn’t help but be a little nervous, even if it didn’t sound EXACTLY like cops trying to break the door in.

Opening the door, he blinked as he saw two boys Daria’s age on the step. One had thick, blond hair while the other had dark hair and both were poorly dressed. The dark-haired boy wore an AC/DC shirt, while the blond wore a Metallica shirt. There was something disturbing and vaguely familiar about them. But he’d once looked rebellious, too, and didn’t want to act as if he had forgotten all about that stuff. “Hey!” said Jake, “can I help you, dudes?”

“Uh...” said the dark haired one, “Yeah. Does Dia-ria live here?”

“Yeah, yeah, Diarrhea!”

They both chanted, “Diarrhea, cha, cha, cha!”

Jake didn’t know what to make of this and vaguely wondered if this was another valium-induced dream. “You need the bathroom?”

“Or your tool shed!” said the excited blond, “boiiiiinng!”

“Uh...” said the dark-haired boy. “Dar... uh... Daria?”

“Oh, Daria!” shouted Jake. Was this some kind of slang they were using? Or did they have a speech impediment? “You want to see her? Are you here to have pizza with them?” As the two boys continued to laugh and mutter to each other, Jake invited them in and yelled up, “Daria! Hey, Daria! You got more friends!” Jake couldn’t believe it. He did hope Daria would pick up better friends soon. He briefly wondered if Daria met them in jail. That’s ridiculous, she wouldn’t be placed in a cell with boys, he thought as he went back to his sandwich. “Just go on upstairs!” said Jake as he went back into the kitchen.

Snickering, the two ascended the stairs. They heard The Cruxshadows through a door and stopped.

Mother of motion, the eyes can’t capture time,
falling emotion, the blind now lead the blind,
we commit indiscretions, and omit our sins from sight,
in a world of intangibles, too many things seem right

No hand to scribe, the sinking sickness I have seen,
no face to judge until you’ve been the monster I have been,
to hunger is noble, where beauty is silent sleep,
my hunger is noble, but my pain is driven deep.

Cruelty and consequence cannot eliminate this relevance
Your selfishness, your hatefulness cannot take away my
immanence
Cruelty and consequence cannot eliminate this relevance
Your selfishness, your hatefulness cannot take away my
innocence from me

“That music sucks,” said the dark-haired boy, “Must be Daria’s room, huh, huh, huh.”

“Yeah, yeah, Daria’s room! Heh, heh, heh! And she’s sucking in it, heh, heh, heh!”

Then, as the blond opened the door, they both chanted loud enough to be heard over the music, “Diarrhea, diarrhea, cha, cha, cha!”

Daria and Jane, both sitting on the bed eating a slice of pizza, looked toward them in shock. Then Daria’s mouth dropped open, and a mix of anger and confusion crossed her face. She turned the CXS off and shouted, “What are YOU two doing here!?”

The two walked in, chortling still, while Jane continued to stare wide-eyed. “Your dad said we could like have some of your pizza,” said the dark-haired one.

“Whoa,” said Jane to Daria, “I think your dad just figured you out and is giving you some serious payback. Or maybe it’s karma?”

Both took a slice of pizza and sloppily ate a slice while the blond one started rummaging through Daria’s CDs. “Hey!” shouted Daria to make them stop, but she was still too stunned to act appropriately. “What are you doing here!?”

“They’re here to eat pizza, Daria, don’t you listen?”

The blond one stopped rummaging through the CDs long enough to say, “Yeah, we’re suppose to ask about guns and bombs and drugs and stuff.”

“Shut up, Beavis!” shouted the dark-haired one, slapping Beavis on the head.

“Ow! Cut it out Butt-head!”

“Where did you come from?” asked Jane with a mix of caution and curiosity.

“They’re from Highland,” said Daria annoyed, “and I have no idea why they followed me here.” She looked back at the duo. “Who told you to ask about all that stuff?”

“Uh...” started Butt-head. “It was like on TV and stuff.”

“Hey!” shouted Beavis raising a hand in the sign of the horns, “Metallica!” He had recognized the cover art of Ride the Lightning. “Hey!” he shouted again as Daria, still on the bed, snatched it from him. “Give it back! OW!” The last was from when Daria’s right Doc kicked him in the face, knocking him back.

“So you came all the way from Highland to see if I had any guns or drugs?” asked a disbelieving Daria. “Aren’t there enough people in Texas with that kind of stuff?”

“Yeah,” said Butt-head, “but we don’t like them.”

“Awwwww,” crooned Jane brightly and almost sincerely, “they like you!” Only Daria heard the dark humor underlying her comment.

“Yeah,” said Beavis, “she has a cool name! Diarr—”

“Do you mind!” shouted Daria. “Damn, you’re like 18 and you’re still carrying on as if you were six!”

“She said ass,” said Butt-head to Beavis.

Beavis chortled a bit and added, “And sucks, too! She said... sucks ass!” They both started chortling like demented gremlins.

Jane looked to Daria. “Don’t you wish you still had your gun?”

“Yeah, baby, I have a gun for you, cocked and loaded,” said Butt-head, drawing a surprised look from Jane and an annoyed one from Daria.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Beavis. “And what’s the deal with the chick? You lesbian or something?”

Butt-head’s eyes went wide. “Cool!” His face went back to normal. “Just pretend we’re not here, baby, and act naturally.”

Beavis wasn’t done. “Hey, Butt-head, look! Daria’s girlfriend doesn’t have any tits, either!”

“I definitely wish I had a gun,” said Jane, losing her patience.

“Look,” said Daria, “it’s been interesting and all, but this isn’t a good time. So if you don’t mind, you can take another slice of pizza, and I’ll even give you the Metallica CD, as long as you go back home right now.”

“No, no!” shouted Beavis, “I want to see you and the chick do each other!” He went tense then, with his fists clenched tightly, as he shouted, “Boinnnnngg!!!”

Daria marched past them angrily and shouted out of the doorway, “DAD!”

Butt-head, only a few feet away, reached out and grabbed her arm. “Hey, baby, let Butt-head make it all better. OW!” This last as Daria hit him in the chin with the heel of her hand.

“GET OUT!” Daria wasn’t kidding.

Beavis was laughing, “Holy shit! She’s a dyke, Butt-head! A total dyke!”

Butt-head rubbed his chin, frowning. “Bitch. No one treats Butt-head that way.”

Beavis chortled some more, looking between Daria and Jane. “Yeah! Daria’s like the bitch, ‘cause she’s wearing the dress and stuff! And the chick here is like the guy cause of her pants and short hair! So, uh, Butch, do you like do Daria doggy-style or what? Make her get on her knees for you or what?” As he chortled some more, Butt-head joined in with him.

Jane reached under Daria’s bed until she found the aluminum bat Daria started keeping there. She stood up brandishing it. “I think you should leave.”

“DAD!” shouted Daria again.

“I’m your daddy,” said Butt-head, grabbing Daria’s arm again. “Don’t make me spank you.” Beavis started laughing again. “At least until I show you delights such as you have never known before.”

Daria saw Butt-head was tense, waiting for her to strike. So instead she hmphed and stroked his hair with her left hand. As he moaned and came in closer, she twisted her right arm out of his light grip and brought her elbow to his face, getting him right on the nose, causing him to shriek and pull back. Before he got too far, Daria followed up with a kick to his knee. As he bent reflexively, grasping at his nose with one hand while reaching down with the other, Daria brought the bottom of her fist into Butt-head’s face in a downward hammer blow.

“AAAAAA!!!!” This was from a surprised Beavis who had been too busy laughing at Butt-head getting his butt kicked by Daria to notice Jane swinging the bat at the back of his knees. He fell moaning, unable to get back up right away.

A minute later, Daria, holding Butt-head by his shirt and hair, and Jane, dragging Beavis by his shirt and ear, were at the front door.

“Open it,” said Daria coldly to Butt-head in front of her. Butt-head held both hands over his bleeding nose, and while he wasn’t crying, tears of pain still fell down his face.

“No way, dyke,” he finally replied. Then Daria shoved his head into the door. “OW! Cut it out!” Then he twisted his head to try and see a laughing Beavis behind him. “Shut up, Beavis!”

“Hey, Daria,” said Jane casually, “remember your saying you wanted to experiment with cock and ball torture?”

Butt-head opened the door. Both were taken out on the step and thrown screaming onto the sidewalk.

“GO HOME!” shouted Daria. She looked up and took a deep breath trying to calm herself when she noticed an old car parked across the street and down a little ways with two men inside of it. She swore she could see one of them taking pictures. She was about to say something to Jane when Jane gave a light cry of surprise.

A fire engine red 2001 Chevrolet Corvette, about to pass by, suddenly stopped and parked. Daria touched Jane’s arm and nodded to go inside. They quickly shut the door behind them and went to the front room window to watch the two cars.

Beavis and Butt-head slowly sat up, moaning. “Beavis, you dickweed, I was about to score but you kept messing it up and stuff.”

“No way, ass munch! You were like getting your ass kicked by the Daria chick and stuff! I was gonna score with Daria’s lesbian girlfriend, but she like got all mad over you acting like an ass goblin and stuff! OW!” The last was when Butt-head slapped him.

“Shut up, butt monkey... uh, hu, hu.” Butt-head forgot what he was about to say as he finally saw the Corvette, and the hot babe getting out of the car.

Both boys sat silent as they watched her approach, her walk seductive. She had long, blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and a figure that was a perfection of feminine curves. She smiled, the expression seemed both pleasant and threatening. Both boys slobbered as she slowly approached them.

Suddenly, Beavis’s eyes went wide. “Hey, Butt-head! It’s that chick! The one we were gonna do in Washington or Seattle and stuff! The one I lost the picture of!” He scrambled to his feet.

“Forget Daria,” muttered Butt-head, jumping up beside him, “we can do her.”

“Oh, we’re gonna ‘do’ it, all right,” said the woman as she came within touching distance of them. With the speed of a striking snake she lashed out at Beavis as he came close to her, an upward heel of her palm that knocked Beavis’s head back. She followed that a mere second later with a punch to the side of his neck, causing his body to suddenly bend over backward from the angle of the blow, then followed with a knee to his exposed crotch. Beavis was gasping, down on his knees and clutching his neck with one hand, his crotch with the other. He fell all the way over as the woman stomped the back of his head with her right foot, and then slowly twisted into a fetal position. He continued to twist and thrash as he struggled for breath. This happened all in the span of five seconds.

Butt-head, done blinking at what he had just seen, lunged at the woman and tried to punch her. She deftly blocked his clumsy blow with her left arm, then wrapped it around his right arm, twisting it down while bringing her right elbow up to his throat. He tried to back away, but she moved her elbow so that her right arm locked at his throat to the side of his neck, holding him firmly. While he was trying to regain his equilibrium lost due to the two grips, she brought a foot to his knee, then her knee up to his crotch. Twice. Then she brought the arm she had been holding at his neck back and lashed out with the palm in an upward thrust, letting go as she connected. Butt-head fell backwards and sprawled on the ground, apparently unconscious, his face a bloody mess.

Inside the Morgendorffer home, Daria and Jane, who had seen everything, stared wide-eyed. “She’s going to kill them!” cried Jane in disbelief, “with her bare hands!” She turned in shock as Daria went to the door. “Hey, where you going!? DARIA!” Daria had run outside. Jane ran after her. All too quickly, they were outside, a mere six or seven feet away from the woman standing over the prone and injured Beavis and Butt-head.

“They’re not worth... it,” went Daria. She barely got the last word out as the woman trained a pistol in her direction. Jane stopped right beside her. All three women then noticed two men on the street—the ones that had been in the older car.

“Police!” one shouted, pulling his gun. Before he could get it to bear on the blonde, she had turned to him and two shots from her own pistol rang out. He fell as one bullet hit him in the head.

The other man, jaw hanging open and fear evident on his face, clumsily reached for his own side arm as he stared at his fallen partner. A moment later, when he remembered, it was too late. Three more shots rang out. His own gun, which he had just pulled, fell when a bullet struck his forearm beneath the Zylon body armor he wore. Another grazed the side of his ribs. It hurt like fury. Then the third creased a bloody line across his cheek. He had no idea how badly he was injured, only that he was hurt bad. “Fah-give me!” he cried hysterically as he fell, “fah-give me!”

The woman, who had knowingly shot two police officers without a trace of hesitation, instantly brought her gun back to bear on Daria and Jane. Both were speechless and accepted that they were about to die as there was nothing else they could do.

“Damn, damn, damn, damn!” shouted the woman with the gun. Then she smiled cynically at the two younger women staring at her gun with resignation. “Don’t worry, Daria. It was just personal with these two idiot boys. A debt I owed them. I don’t plan to kill them as they’ll suffer far more alive. But I had to show them a little pain. The two cops interfered when they shouldn’t. As long as you both stand perfectly still, I won’t shoot you. Bye.”

Daria and Jane just stood rooted to the spot, while one cop continued to cry in a low, incoherent moan, and Beavis and Butt-head started moaning softly themselves, still lying motionless on the ground. The woman with the gun lightly jogged to her car, her gun arm tense. She moved with the grace of a dancer and neither Daria or Jane doubted that she could aim and fire with deadly precision in a split-second. She got into her Corvette, spun around to avoid damaging her tires on the fallen police officers, and sped away. She was obviously as good with a car as she was with a gun.

The moment she was out of sight, Daria told Jane, “Call an ambulance!” It didn’t occur to her to say, “Call the police.” Without stopping to see what Jane was doing, she ran over to the cop who was still moaning. “You’re going to be all right,” she told him as she bent down to see just how badly he was hurt.

In a very faint voice, he moaned, “Fah-give me, faht-er, fah-give me.” He looked at Daria as she took off her jacket and her shirt and began to hold the shirt against his face. “You,” he said softly. “You... should run.”

“What?” asked Daria, wondering why a cop should tell her to do what she was planning anyway.

“They want you, Daria. Not... your fau’t. It wa’ an accident. But... they want you now and you need to run! Fah-give me.” The words were muttered.

Daria took in a breath and thought fast. “Why should I run? What was an accident?”

He shook his head, not seeming to be aware of her anymore. He was fading. “Fah-give me,” he almost whispered.

“I’m here to hear your last confession,” said Daria. She didn’t know much about Catholic last rites, but she guessed that was what this cop had in mind. And she had to know what he said, as blasphemous as imitating a priest right now might be! “I need to hear about the accident.”

He just muttered, “Fah-give me,” one last time, almost inaudibly, as he fell into unconsciousness. He still breathed, but Daria knew he would die if the ambulance didn’t get there soon.

Jane came up to her with some towels. “Your dad’s on the phone with 911,” she said breathlessly. “He thinks you’re hiding up in your room. He was so into some call over some money deal that he didn’t even realize what was going on.”

Daria blinked at that, but wasn’t surprised. With the towels, they bandaged up the dying officer as best they could. The wound in the forearm didn’t seem that bad, so Daria canceled her plan to use her shirt as a tourniquet. Still, she doubted if she would wear it again. She had a couple of more almost just like it anyway. She suddenly noticed she was wearing nothing but a bra from the waist up and put her jacket back on.

Two squad cars showed up almost immediately. They came out with guns drawn, but they put them away and got a first-aid kit when they saw what was happening. Several more police and a couple of ambulances showed up not long after. Both cops were alive but in serious condition—one with the head shot not expected to make it. Beavis and Butt-head, both beaten to a pulp, were also carted away.

Both Daria and Jane gave as complete a report as they could, leaving out how they beat up and threw out the two guys themselves, along with an accurate description of the woman.

Daria didn’t mention that the woman had known her name, a fact that creeped her out. It’s possible she recognized me from the news, Daria thought, but she had a very bad feeling about it. And why did she let us, as witnesses, live?

Daria and Jane even talked to Detective Cartwright. To their surprise he didn’t seem to hold them in any suspicion, and even thanked Daria for her attempt to help the fallen officer. Daria and Jane both were bemused by that. News teams showed up, and Daria knew she would be on the TV again. She hoped they would say something nice about her this time, but suspected that was a vain hope.

Jake had been questioned in the house. When he finally realized Daria wasn’t inside, he came out and ordered her back in. Daria and Jane both went in. The cops were obviously preparing to do a statewide search and ignored them. Even though no one could tell them the plate number, a new model Corvette driven by a “striking” blonde couldn’t be that hard to find.

Helen showed up as the last of the police and reporters were leaving. She hurried inside. She was stunned at hearing of two cops shot outside her home, and that Daria and Jane had been held at gun point. She insisted on Jane having someone pick her up, and Trent came inside for awhile before she left with him. Helen shared that she’d seen a car following her almost all the way to the doctor’s office, but not on the way back. She didn’t know if they had a better tail on the return drive or if they’d forgotten about her.

Only Daria and Helen were still up when the news came on later that night. Jake was upstairs, sleeping on a valium, and Quinn was fast asleep on her own. Daria and Helen didn’t say much as they watched the footage. They heard that the first cop shot had died, and the other was in critical condition. A drawing and computerized portrait of the woman described was shown on the screen, already with a reward of $10,000. To Daria’s relief, beyond insinuating that her house was dangerous, the talking heads didn’t say anything about her.

But even Daria and Helen were shocked speechless when they learned of another homicide that day: Mrs. Brand. From the wounded survivor, Mr. Preston (the one Daria had suspected was Mrs. Brand’s lover), they got that Mrs. Brand had been driving and they were stopped at a stop sign when a car pulled up alongside them.

Mr. Preston, riding shotgun, hadn’t been able to see the driver. In the passenger seat was a man with long, unkempt blond hair, wearing a blue-plaid shirt and black bandanna tied over his face. Only his blue eyes and dirty hair showed. He aimed a short shotgun of some kind out the window and blew Mrs. Brand away, killing her instantly. Mr. Preston was also wounded when at least part of the slug went through Mrs. Brand and cut into his arm. He was expected to make a full recovery. A mostly useless sketch was given of the shooter, along with the description of an older model car used by the assailants.

Helen kept shaking her head. She’d hated Mrs. Brand, but she hadn’t wanted anything like this to happen. “What’s happening in this town!?” Helen cried rhetorically. Daria only shook her head and went upstairs for bed.

CHAPTER 3
—————————————————————
03/26/01 MONDAY 9:00 A.M.
—————————————————————

Agent Fleming, BATF, entered the meeting room where his team was assembled, sitting around a table. Agent Bork was already there, the only one standing, checking the slide projector.

“Tell ‘em, Bork,” he said sitting down at the head of the table.

Bork nodded just before the lights dimmed. He had a carousel loaded and advanced it to the first slide.

“As most of you know, Daria Morgendorffer was arrested on multiple charges. The charges we are interested in are the violations of Project Safe Neighborhoods and Gun Free Zones Act. The details of this are all in the file. The gun, made by Autauga Arms cannot be traced past its original sale. It apparently was sold to a ‘hobbyist’ at a gun show and somehow ended up in the possession of Ms. Morgendorffer. She used it to fire on the drug dealer that she claims was stalking her sister, and was, in fact, about to shoot her. I assume everyone has read the files and seen the footage on this?”

When no one admitted to having skipped this part of the assignment, Bork continued. “The interesting part is that this girl was trained to shoot and shoot well by someone unknown at a place unknown. Her gun was also coated with Teflon to hide fingerprints. It is surmised that she is involved in the sale or distribution of methamphetamines, and that she has armed escorts that provide bodyguard service for her. This was particularly helpful to her in that Matthew Foster, the boy she shot later at Lawndale High, had pulled a gun on her earlier at a place called The Zen and her armed bodyguards intervened. And as of Friday, her sister, Quinn Morgendorffer, got into another shooting with Scott Rhodes, the supposed partner of the young man Daria had shot in her high school. Quinn was supposedly dating both of them at the time of the shootings.” A few agents laughed lightly.

“Quinn fired upon him with a Glock 32. We know that it was stolen, but we are not certain if it belonged to Scott Rhodes or Quinn Morgendorffer. Each claims it belonged to the other. Both left prints on the gun.

“Rhodes attempted to return fire with a Benelli M3 super 90 shotgun. It belonged to his mother, Mary Rhodes, who had purchased and registered it seven and a half years ago. Benellis are expensive, and some are suspicious where she came up with the money for it, as she is in a low income bracket. She claims to have ‘saved up’ for it. She kept the gun, along with a few other firearms, unloaded but in easy reach in her closet, along with several kinds of ammunition.

“The boy apparently doesn’t know much about guns: he tried using the cheap birdshot ammunition and it failed to cycle. The result was he was able to get off one shot before the shotgun jammed.”

The photo switched to one of Helen. “Here we have a picture of the defendant’s mother, Helen Morgendorffer. A former leftist activist, she still dabbles in political actions. She was once called ‘Hippie Helen,’ or ‘Helen the Hippie.’ A little over three years ago, she threatened national security by filing suit against the ATF. She was persuaded to drop the suit. Her name was flagged in the database.”

Another pic was shown, this time of Beavis and Butt-head. “These two young men, Beavis and Butt-head, were involved in the incident over which Mrs. Morgendorffer attempted to file suit. Also involved was a middle-aged neighbor of theirs, Tom Anderson, of Highland, Texas. He was charged but later released. When we were not able to bring him to trial, we began to look into other acquaintances of these two boys. There were few to speak of; one of them is Daria Morgendorffer.”

Bork coughed and added, “What only a few of you know is that these boys were made honorary members of the BATF. I am not at liberty to discuss the reasons for this, only that these two are much more resourceful and talented than they appear. They were instrumental in averting a colossal disaster in an incident that remains classified.”

The photo changed to one of Beavis and Butt-head in a hospital with heavy bruises on their faces. “Because of the former relations with Daria, the boys were recruited to go in and gather intelligence. Apparently, Daria ascertained their true motives and beat them to a pulp.

“Now, here’s where it gets even more interesting.”

Bork switched the photo to that of Beavis and Butt-head on the sidewalk outside the Morgendorffer residence. An annoyed Daria and Jane look down on them, and Daria is yelling something. “It would seem that Daria and her associate, Jane Lane, knew the boys were working for us.”

Another photo switch, and a picture of a blonde approaching the boys. “Enter Dallas Grimes. We first met up with her in the incident that Beavis and Butt-head helped us to avert. Her ex-husband, Muddy Grimes, was holed up in Highland for awhile, although we didn’t know why he went there or whom he met. Until now.”

A mug shot of Dallas Grimes appeared. “We successfully convicted her of stealing the X-5 Unit, a biological weapon of mass destruction, from an unspecified Army base…”

“Bork!”

“Um, yes, forget you heard that. Anyway, we never did learn of her connections or who had contracted the theft. She was sent to Alderson, a minimum security prison for women in West Virginia—”

“Excuse me,” asked Agent Riley, “did you say MINIMUM?”

“Plea bargain,” said Agent Bork, “and maybe some tampering with the judge. We’re not sure about that. But she was put under extra guard as she was known to be a skillful cat burglar and manipulator, not to mention handy with disguises.” Here Bork coughed a bit and asked, “Chief?”

“Tell ‘em, Bork,” said Agent Fleming.

“Yes. Fears of her escape proved to be unfounded. She was released. The paper trail is muddy, but apparently she was sprung by the CIA. The CIA, of course, won’t answer our questions about why, or even if, it happened. They simply express a polite ignorance on the matter. Even more confusing is that one CIA agent in the field asserted to one of our agents that Dallas Grimes was a bad apple not to be trusted. He also said Dallas Grimes was not her real name and gave us two other identities, that of Dorothy Gill and Leslie Slate, both with documentation. However, she has used these identities only infrequently, and the electronic footprints are few and confusing. At this time, we don’t know what alias she is going by, or what she is doing, or if she’s even working with the CIA, someone else, or herself.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Agent Bentley, just a little nervously. “Are you saying this woman now works for a kid?”

Bork blinked at that. “Unknown, but the two young men told Agent Butler that they were attacked by all three females. However, it’s more likely Dallas Grimes works for someone else but receives her orders through Daria.”

Agent Bentley shook his head. “I’m sorry, but this is just too unbelievable.”

“Agent Bentley,” said Agent Fleming, “do you have any idea what kids these days are capable of? Don’t you read the papers?”

“A girl has a bad day and shoots up a school is one thing, but a girl that commands a criminal operation with armed bodyguards involving drugs and weapons and employing CIA spooks is another matter.”

“Agent Bentley,” said Agent Fleming, making a note to recommend Agent Bentley not be promoted for such insights, “I suggest you talk less and listen more. The security of our nation is at stake here.” He turned back to Bork and demanded, “Tell ‘em, Bork!”

“Yes,” said Agent Bork, a little nervously himself. “The reason we have delayed pressing charges on Daria is that she faces more serious consequences by the local laws. More importantly, we’re hoping to find her source. Sooner or later she’s going to go to him, or her.”

“Shouldn’t this be a matter for the DEA then?” asked Agent Riley.

“The DEA is more concerned with pot and cocaine. Methamphetamine is mostly done by drug dealers that specialize in it.”

“Even so,” said Agent Riley, “this seems to be more involved with drugs than weapons.”

Agent Bork took a deep breath. “It gets even more interesting.” Taking another breath, he hit the button again six times. Each mug shot showed a man of Middle Eastern appearance. Bork read off the names of each. “They were intercepted by FBI after attempting to make a deal to buy samples of diseases from CDC. More importantly, they were found with several bomb-making materials, including large quantities of anhydrous ammonia, lye, hydriodic acid, ethyl ether, hydrochloric acid, and toluene. Many of you are familiar with these and know that, like Teflon, several innocent domestic products and uses are known for these chemicals. However, they can all be used for criminal, and murderous, purposes. And when mixed together, you have all that you need for methamphetamines.”

Agent Bork saw he had the team’s interest with mentioning the chemicals and fertilizers, but some were furrowing their brows again at the word methamphetamines. He decided to get to the point. “During interrogation, the suspects all claimed to have gotten the materials from methamphetamine dealers in Virginia—”

“Lawndale?” interrupted Agent Bentley again, skepticism still evident in his voice.

“Newport,” corrected Bork. “Further investigation and anonymous tips to the BATF have shown evidence of an organized effort to corrupt the police and politicians throughout Virginia, and even in DC. The M.O. is similar to that of the Mafia, using standard bribery and blackmail, but these people seem to consider themselves separate from the mob, led by a shadowy individual referred to as ‘Wild Card’. For unknown reasons, they seem to have an interest in vice cops especially. Even more disturbing is the assertion that they are willing to ignore certain long standing, unspoken agreements, such as refusing to do contract killings on police officers and politicians. And they’re also willing to do contract killings on drug lords and Mafia figures. People on either side of the law can apparently make deals with them to kill individuals and set off bombs. There have been minor busts, but the greater organization behind it remains a mystery.”

Agent Riley asked, “So it’s a job for the FBI then?”

Another click showed a pic of a restaurant called The Thai House. “Using the information gained, FBI raided a meth lab that was hidden under a Thai restaurant. It seems the smells of the solvents were piped out along with the cooking, and the owners had a lot more cash than their business was making. Still, no one suspected a meth lab operating underneath the restaurant, until the apprehended terrorists revealed the information to the FBI during interrogation.”

“FBI, then,” said Agent Riley.

“Several accelerants not used in the production of methamphetamines were also found. The same kind of accelerants used in some recent firebombings, including that of multiple churches, not to mention suspicious insurance claims. More disturbing are several new forms of methamphetamines called ‘Ice Cold’ that are quickly being labeled CDS.”

“CDS?”

“Controlled Dangerous Substance.”

“DEA, then,” said Agent Riley.

“The CDS and methamphetamines seem to be part of the operation, but not the operation itself. The actual operations seem to be the arson, criminal and political violence for a price, and the smuggling of bombs and firearms and methamphetamines.”

Agent Riley asked, “Why isn’t the DEA handling this from the drug angle?”

“They use informants like everyone else. The informants trade information on their rivals for getting the competition off the streets. In return, the cops who bust the competition rack up a lot of arrests. This works to the benefit of both the officers and the criminal informants: the officer has a good arrest record; the criminal gets rid of his competition and avoids arrest himself. Regrettably, personal chemistry often develops out of this alone that compromises the officer’s dependability to enforce the law.”

“Add to this that some are dumb enough to partake of the drugs, particularly those working undercover,” added Agent Fleming, “and the gift giving common in business deals, as well as the blackmail that can easily arise out of such situations, and you have a lot of compromised officers.”

“How bad is it?” asked Agent Bentley.

“Unknown,” said Agent Bork, “but it seems to be getting worse. And a DEA agent recently died from snorting too much of the new ‘Ice Cold’.”

“Those looking into the evidence rooms of the DEA report that missing evidence is common,” stated Agent Bentley, “so how do we know this just isn’t business as usual?”

“We don’t,” said Agent Fleming, “but this is one stone we can’t afford to leave unturned!”

“I should also point out,” said Agent Bork, “that multiple federal agencies have undercover agents investigating this right now. Probably along with the local police.”

Agent Bentley added, “And we don’t know how many have been compromised.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Not only that,” said Agent Bork, “but those who haven’t been compromised are still ineffectual for this investigation. Why pursue a tough case when you get paid the same to monitor meaningless intelligence that allows you leisure, as well as a greater chance of living long enough to collect retirement?” Shaking his head, he added, “The DEA, IRS, and FBI are particularly notorious for lackadaisical investigations.”

“It gets worse,” said Agent Fleming, slapping the table once. “Tell ‘em about the runners, Bork.”

Agent Bork cleared his throat. “Local police officers working their informants have repeatedly stumbled across CIA operations running into Central America, something Dallas Grimes is said to have participated in herself years ago. While the informants are typically criminal, they are also ordinary civilians for the most part.”

“If civilians,” interjected Fleming, “can tell who the CIA are, not to mention can acquire the same informants, possibly through compromised officers and agents, then any foreigner could use this network to launch attacks on America’s intelligence agencies. More importantly, successful attacks would inspire attacks on other agencies. I’m sure I don’t have to point out that we here at the BATF are considered particularly noxious by some extremists right here on American soil.”

“So we will be taking over this investigation?” asked Agent Riley.

“The FBI and DEA are conducting their own investigations. The BATF has been invited to play in this game because of the weapons and crimes involved. And because we are the ones who have the anonymous tipper who has never steered us wrong.”

“What’s in it for this informer?” asked Agent Bentley.

Agent Bork didn’t know, and that made him nervous. But instead of saying that, he said, “The informant is a person who uses a voice modulator to disguise his or her voice, and never speaks for more than a single minute. This informant managed to attain Agent Fleming’s private cell phone number, which suggests he or she is an agent in the field who doesn’t trust the agency he or she works for. So far, the information has always proved accurate. And then there’s Daria Morgendorffer.” Bork flicked the switch to show another pic of Daria. “Our informant told us to watch Daria and Dallas Grimes would show up, who could lead us to ‘Wild Card’ if we made her a deal.”

“Okay,” said Agent Bentley, “you have this Daria Morgendorffer involved with some shady characters. But is there anything other than this informant that makes you think she’s with ‘Wild Card’ and his group?”

“Daria Morgendorffer claimed to have obtained her gun from a gun show in Newport, Virginia. Yet we had agents there and none recall seeing her. There is, in fact, no evidence that she even went there. But she still knew details of Newport’s activities. So surely she went. Can you see where this is going?”

There was some muttering, but one asserted, “Coincidence?”

“Maybe,” said Bork. “But according to our tipper, there’s a much bigger stake at play. The methamphetamine is not only to build capital for the greater operation until it’s self-sustaining, but to create addicts that serve as expendable assassins. That’s the beauty of it. The hit man doesn’t know the target and doesn’t care. They barely know the person who gives them their drugs. It’s essentially a re-creation of the assassins of the Old Man of the Mountain, killers that were devoted to him due to their dependence on hashish and other drugs. Not too mention that today this ‘Ice Cold’ gives the users feelings of megalomania and rage.”

“How does this group get established in an area?” asked Agent Bentley. “And how do people employ their services?”

“By aggressively replacing local meth dealers and supplanting them,” said Agent Bork. “They then put the word out. The FBI has already made a handful of busts of people who agreed to pay for assassins and arsonists, but none of the busts could go any higher. It seems the cabal itself uses a lot of disguises and unlikely representatives—like Daria Morgendorffer perhaps—that leave packages of material off while dressed as a delivery person, or drop off cards with pictures and addresses of targets.”

Then Agent Bork flicked to a new pic, this one of a man in cuffs, escorted by federal agents. “Posing as members of this new underground reality, FBI agents were contacted by a Mr. Wayne Miller, who wished to blow up the ‘mom & pop’ store he ran with his wife in Washington DC, so he could end his marriage, get out of business at the same time, and collect an insurance settlement to boot.”

He shook his head. “In order to avoid suspicion, he requested the entire block be blown up! He expected to be able to buy this!”

“Sounds like a nut to me,” said Agent Riley.

“FBI posed as such agents based on the information that others out there are offering such services for sale, right in our nation’s capital. All the evidence points to a new player, one not bound by the old rules. This new player could generate chaos, violence, and anarchy on an unprecedented scale. And the worse it gets, the more money they stand to make.

“Interrogation also showed that this group was willing to do favors without regard to the unspoken agreements between law enforcement and organized crime. For example, contract killings against police officers aren’t allowed by most crime families, who attempt to maintain courteous, if not friendly, relations with the police. This group doesn’t care about that. And they’re willing to take jobs—from Colombians to Mid-East terrorists, from neo-Nazis to the CIA. We’ve already found members of the Russian and Serbian mobs buying and selling weapons, and the FBI claim to be watching a member of the Camara family seeking to do business... though whether the Camara family is sincere in wanting to do business or trying to sniff out the competition for retaliation is unclear.

“In the words of one, ‘Wild Card’ is an example of American free enterprise in action; he sees a service that others are willing to pay for and he provides it. As Wild Card is taking over the market, he can charge exorbitant fees for his services.”

“So, is this Daria involved in selling this ‘Ice Cold’?” asked Agent Bentley.

“So far,” said Agent Bork, “no ‘Ice Cold’ has been found in Lawndale. But the local alpha for methamphetamines is nervous because he claims someone is intruding on his territory, winning his lackeys away.”

“If he’s a user, maybe he’s just paranoid,” said Agent Bentley.

“That’s not an IF we can afford to trust in,” interrupted Agent Fleming. “Especially as Lawndale is experiencing a dramatically increased murder rate this year!”

Do you think the local alpha might have something to do with it?” asked Bentley. “After all, maybe he’s Daria’s boyfriend, which could explain nearly everything else around Daria.”

“The FBI is investigating Garfield Edwards, a.k.a. ‘Evil Eddie’”

Agent Riley asked, “So what are the other drug lords and mobsters saying about this?”

“Methamphetamine dealers are normally separate from your other dealers. The trade seems to be dominated by the alternative white subcultures, particularly the ‘biker’ people. Most dealers use their own product and are prone to unpredictable and violent rages. The labs can often be found by the smell alone, and if not by the pungent smell, then by the dead plants and wildlife in the immediate area around the meth lab.”

Agent Bentley asked, “Why aren’t more drug lords and crime families into this market?”

“The more organized crime families usually avoid these drugs as it entails more risks and less profit than the other drugs,” replied Agent Bork. “When they do involve themselves, dealers are more prone to robbing and killing each other—another reason for the more cautious and organized criminal to avoid it.”

“So how are these drugs different from the, uh, more standard drugs?” asked Agent Bentley.

“One quarter of a gram will keep a newbie, ahem, ‘rocking’ for about 48 hours, or more, and is sometimes called the ‘poor man’s coke.’ It’s also more addictive than either coke or heroine. Crystal meth is the favored form for snorters, ether-based meth for shooters. Shooters will often work out deals with diabetics to buy needles, which they refer to as ‘rigs,’ but also as ‘points’ or ‘darts’.”

“At least is sounds easy to catch,” said Agent Riley. “Why not hunt down the meth labs, kick ass, and take names?”

“More and more, meth labs are becoming mobile. They will make one batch and move their lab. Meth labs are also frequently guarded by booby-traps of a chemical nature, and sometimes by attack dogs that are almost insane from having methamphetamines used on them.”

Agent Riley nodded. “So these chemicals are a growing menace in Virginia, despite the risks in creating and using these methamphetamines?”

Agent Bork nodded. “Not to mention that this new ‘Ice Cold’ showing up in Virginia is the most addictive and long-lasting yet, and also more prone to driving people to berserk rages and delusions of grandeur.”

“Did this Scott Rhodes sell this new ‘ice’?”

“No. If ‘Ice Cold’ is in Lawndale, it hasn’t been found yet.” Unless Wild Card already owns Lawndale’s vice cops, thought Bork.

Bork switched the pic again and this time a mug shot Jim Foster appeared on the screen. “This is Jim Foster, whom you also have read the files on, the father of the young man Daria Morgendorffer shot, the man with an arsenal in his cabin. Connected, at least peripherally, to multiple white supremacist and neo-Nazi groups, he becomes another link. Especially in that one of the neo-Nazi groups, close to Newport, have a taste for the new ‘Ice Cold.’ The FBI busted three such people in Newport not long ago trying to make contact with the group under investigation.”

“So if this is a neo-Nazi group” asked Agent Bentley, “why are they selling to Muslim terrorists then?”

Bork shook his head, though few saw him do it. “Whoever ‘Wild Card’ and his cabal are, they are businessmen first and foremost. They see a market and provide for it. They sell death and destruction to anyone who can pay, be that person a native or foreign terrorist, of any ideology. They seem to be reaching out to such extremist groups, however, and it’s interesting that the father of the boy shot by Daria Morgendorffer, and dated by Quinn Morgendorffer, was connected to one of those groups.”

“Yes, sir,” said Agent Bentley, “it is. But I can think of other explanations that sound more likely. All except for Dallas Grimes showing up.”

Bork nodded. “On the night of the beating of our operatives, two Lawndale police officers attempted to intervene and both were shot by Dallas Grimes. One was killed by a well-placed shot in the head. The other suffered a grazing wound to the head, another to the forearm, and the poorly cared for soft body armor made with Zylon was hit and penetrated by one bullet. However, Ms. Grimes was obviously aiming for the head, and maybe even the hand. “

“I know this,” said Agent Bentley. “Do you think Dallas Grimes is the one who armed Daria and taught her how to shoot?”

“Unknown,” said Bork, “but what is known is that she shot those officers with Teflon-coated KTW bullets.”

There was some muttering over that. KTWs were illegal for civilians to use due to their armor piercing qualities.

“About the very same time, in Lawndale two unknown white males, faces and arms covered up and wearing gloves, drove up beside Mrs. Brand, nationally active in Handgun Control, Inc., and opened fired with a .20 gauge shotgun using slugs. The car the killers used was found the next day. It had been stolen just the day before and given false plates. Mrs. Brand had just announced that she was running for mayor shortly before the hit. More importantly, she was dedicated to bringing Daria Morgendorffer to justice and apparently had a heated disagreement with her a few days before.”

“Maybe the killer at large is this ‘Evil Eddie’?”

“No, Evil Eddie was under surveillance at the time of the slaying. This is someone different.” He paused a moment. “The car was stolen from Newport.”

“I see what you’re saying, sir,” said Agent Bartlett, who was obviously disturbed by this revelation, “but are you sure it’s enough? Why don’t we just go in, clean up, and pass on whatever information we find to the FBI and let them deal with it?”

“Agent Bartlett,” interrupted Agent Fleming , “are you willing to leave our national security to accountants with delusions of being streetwise? Are you aware of the chaos a bunch of drug-crazed and completely deniable assassins seeming to strike at random could have? Especially in DC?”

“Kill the head,” added Agent Bork, “and the body will fall.”

Several blinked at that. “You mean we’re dealing with revolutionaries?” asked Agent Bentley.

“It hardly matters,” said Agent Fleming. “Anyone can buy political violence with deniable assets for assassins. Revolution is what’s for sale, whether it’s ordered or not. Not even the President of the United States himself is safe.”

“Especially,” added Bork, “because he seems to be so unpopular, with accusations of stealing the election haunting his presidency.” Bork swallowed. “And with the growing disrespect for authority by the people whom the government serves... well, extremists might finally get their way.”

“Not only that, but in Langley, Virginia,” added Bork, “our tipper has said a few were disaffected CIA agents, who hold a grudge against America, and the CIA in particular. And as it stands, even two-bit vice cops come across drug- and gun-running schemes supposedly done by the CIA. They are ignored for a variety of reasons, but once found—and they’re easy to find once you’ve got a good informant—then the damage done to the CIA, and to the rest of us as a result, could be incalculable.”

Agent Bentley asked, “Doesn’t the CIA have its own defenses?”

“The CIA is fucked up,” said Agent Fleming in disgust. “They couldn’t find their own ass with a flashlight. They use the Top Secret label for purely bureaucratic purposes while refusing to ‘flag’ serious reports of terrorist activities with it. Even their web site has been hacked and crashed by hackers who are most likely kids pulling a prank. No, it’s up to us to stop this menace threatening our nation.”

“How?” asked Agent Bartlett.

“By finding Dallas Grimes. According to our tipper, Dallas Grimes is in the inner-circle of this cabal. And to find her—” Bork flicked the switch repeatedly, showing the pic of Daria, Jane, and Dallas Grimes standing over Beavis and Butt-head, “we go where Daria Morgendorffer goes.”

“Everyone,” added Agent Fleming, “this is top priority! The President of the United States wants constant appraisal of the situation! We’re to find Dallas Grimes and bring her in, preferably without the CIA knowing about it. To find her, we will watch the Lanes and the Morgendorffers. Especially Daria Morgendorffer!”

Somehow, Agent Fleming managed to say that with enough gravity that even Agent Bentley lost his skepticism. Everyone got up to prepare to go to Lawndale.

“Everyone, get your gear,” added Agent Fleming just before he left to prepare himself, “we’re going to Lawndale and kick some ass!”

CHAPTER 4
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03/26/01 MONDAY 3:00 P.M.
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The Russian was mad about something. She tried calming him down. “N’yee byeespahKOYtyeess!” she said over and over. But he kept talking faster and faster. Damn! Why does the Russian tongue have to be as fucked up as English?

Well, the English and Russian speaking people had been exposed to enough alien cultures, it shouldn’t be much of a surprise, but it was frustrating now. “Look!” she said, but stopped as he blinked in confusion, his annoyance still there. She sighed and slowly said, “GahvahREET zhyehs’ KTOnyeebood’pah ahnGLEEskee?”

Fuming silently, he turned and stalked away. After a few steps, he began cussing in Russian. Dara caught the gist of it anyway. Dara, known to the BATF as Dorothy Gill, Leslie Slate, and Dallas Grimes, sighed and glanced around the bleak but busy chop shop. She was in the quieter section, near the office and away from most of the noise. The Russians can be intense she observed, but they can be really useful when you get them on your side, too.

She had been dropped off here after getting back to Newport; she’d abandoned the Corvette in Lawndale, turning it over to Russian operatives. She had planned the entire assault and realized from the beginning that she might need to ditch her car. Since the only reason she had gotten the Corvette was to be recognized as Dallas Grimes by the BATF, this was of little concern to her. She’d had a member of Borislav’s group ready with an auto transport, and the Corvette was probably already shipped out of the country by now.

Russians are quite good with shipping cars to other countries, she thought with some assurance. She smiled remembering that cars were smuggled into Russia, too, and that the cars often had other contraband in them, because the border guards “aren’t looking for cars, which were taken care of by someone else.”

She herself had been dropped off at a mobile meth lab that had just made a batch of Ice Cold in Lawndale and was now ready to be moved back near Newport. While in the lab, she had gladly dissolved the long blonde wig in anhydrous ammonia, since it had served its purpose of identifying her to the BATF. Now her hair was chestnut brown, shoulder length, and curly.

Unfortunately, last time she was here in Borislav’s chop shop, she had still appeared to be a blonde. Her change in appearance now spooked some of Borislav’s workers. Even worse, the Russian who met her was belligerent and paranoid. And didn’t seem to speak English at all.

It was only a few minutes later, when an older, overweight man in an Armani suit came down. With him were four rebyata, the elite bodyguard favored by those who could afford them, who looked at her the way snakes look at a mouse. This was Borislav.

She had only met him a couple of times when she was escorting Wild Card, but she relaxed a little. His English wasn’t great, but between his understanding of English and hers of Russian, they should be able to communicate. And he was ever the businessman first.

She also had an understanding with his “faction” (for want of a better word) of the organizatsiya in Russia, having done a job for them in Moscow, having a secure offshorski in Latvia that she got with their help, and giving them a percentage when she used Vladivostok to meet with Chinese and Japanese interests for weapons smuggling. She had delivered weapons to them on more than one occasion, but that had always been in the States.

As usual, Borislav seemed friendly enough, if a little patronizing. After getting her to sit in a chair, he sat beside her, put a half-smoked cigar to his lips and lit it up. He pulled another cigar out of another pocket and offered it to her. “SeeGAHro?”

“No,” Dara replied as calmly as she could. I’m not gonna say, ‘Nyet’, she thought with annoyance. I know you can speak some English, so do so! She thought it, but did not say it. One could be casual with Borislav if one were profitable. But one NEVER gave him an order. Not more than once anyway.

He sneered. “You probably like Amereecanskeyah seegaritti, too, eh?”

She shook her head. “I don’t smoke.” Why is it so many people assume I do?

He raised his brows in surprise at that and then shrugged. “Your loss,” he said in much clearer English, if still heavily accented. “Forgive me for my smoke, but you, my dear, need a bath.”

Dara smiled in bitter understanding. Some of the chemical smell from moving the mobile meth lab still lingered about her. Worse than used cat litter, she thought, ‘Ice Cold’ might be one of the hottest things on the streets right now, but it sure does stink! “If you need help in finding some locals for a translator, I can find someone for you.” She said that as politely as she could, nodding her head to him, as if offering to do him a favor.

“No, no,” he said with a heavy accent, “I’ll be goot. My current interpreter is in your DC, among your nomenklatura.” He shrugged. “I’m still learning English, but I have more to learn. So, Darya, how may I help you?”

“It’s DARA, not Daria.”

“My apologies, DARA. How may I help you, Darya?”

“Have you got my car yet?” she asked. It wouldn’t do to force the name issue. Dara was a masculine name in