Title:  An Office Romance
Author:  Scifinerdgrl
Category: Follmer/Reyes , Pre-XF
Rating: PG here, NC-17 elsewhere
Archive:  Ask first please
Feedback:  scifinerdgrl@mail.ev1.net, scifinerdgrl@hotmail.com

Summary: What was Reyes thinking when she got involved with Brad 
Follmer? This story takes place between her arrival at the New 
York Field Office (after graduation from the FBI academy), and 
her first meeting with John Doggett.  I started writing this story
before the Official site had updated the bios for Follmer and
Doggett.  In this story, the Luke Doggett murder case takes place
in 1997 (not 1993), and the Reyes-Follmer relationship begins two
years earlier, in 1995.
 

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

MONDAY

Brad Follmer, Special Agent in Charge of the New York Field 
Office's Crimes Against Children Division, sat at his new desk, 
surveying his new office with pride. He inhaled deeply, as if 
the air in the office could infuse him with the success his 
predecessor had enjoyed. His predecessor, now an Assistant 
Director at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., was both his 
mentor and the model for his own career aspirations. He looked 
toward the guest chairs on the other side of the desk, the 
chairs he had so often inhabited. He looked forward to being a 
mentor for the new agents assigned to his office. He would 
listen patiently to their troubles, then dispense just the right 
words, sending them back into the world with renewed confidence. 
Things were about to come full circle. 

"Mr. Follmer," the intercom interrupted his musings and he 
jumped slightly. 
"My intercom -- my secretary," he thought to himself pridefully. 
His eyes grazed the buttons on the phone until he found what he 
hoped was the right one. He pushed the button, held it down, and 
said "Yes, Janet?" No response from the speaker. He lifted his 
finger. "Yes, Janet?" Still no response. He put his hands on 
either side of his head, and gazed intently at the  buttons, his 
eyes moving from one to the other as he puzzled over each's 
function. Suddenly the door swung open. He looked up in 
embarrassment. "Janet," he started. 

She marched efficiently to his desk and fingered the button he'd 
dismissed as useless. "That one," she said conspiratorially. 
"Press it once and let go. And be sure to press it again when 
you're finished." 

He looked up at her sheepishly. "Thank you," he said. Then, as 
if to assert his authority and possibly also his manhood, he 
said, "What did you want?"
 
"Your new special agent is here. Monica Reyes. Should I send her 
in?" 

"Yes, of course." 

Monica Reyes sat in the outer office, crossing and re-crossing 
her legs, trying to push the morning's doubts from her mind. 
She'd felt excited and exuberant as she stepped onto the subway 
platform near her Brooklyn apartment, but as her subway car 
swayed and the experienced New Yorkers let their bodies sway 
with it, she started to feel even more like an outsider and a 
fraud. Her clothes, her shoes, her briefcase... she had agonized 
over her choice of each, yet they all felt wrong to her. In 
Manhattan, walking up the stairs to the street level, she felt 
the warmth of the sun on her face, and as that warmth fought 
against the cold winter wind for her attention, she searched 
deep inside herself for the optimism that had carried her 
through so many difficult days.

She paused in front of the field office, unbuttoned her coat to 
reveal the FBI badge on her blazer, and took a deep breath. "I 
can do this," she said to herself, and she marched toward the 
security guard. He nodded perfunctorily at her badge and let her 
through. She took comfort in being
treated so casually. "I belong here," she thought excitedly. 
"This is where I work!" 

As she stood in front of the directory, scanning the white 
plastic letters behind the glass, she noticed the reflections of 
the people passing behind her. One man caught her eye. He was 
tall, thin and authoritative. His demeanor said "FBI" and she 
couldn't imagine anyone challenging his
authority. She sighed. She would never have that demeanor. She 
turned to get a better look at the tall man and she gasped. His 
face was at once babyish and handsome, and his hair was a shade 
of light brown she'd never seen before. He turned in her 
direction, and seeing her looking at him, he
smiled. His teeth were bright and even, and his eyes sparkled as 
he smiled. She smiled back at him, blushing slightly. "He knows 
he's good-looking," she thought. "What a prick." He turned away 
from her, and she quickly turned back to the directory. "Get 
ahold of yourself, Monica," she
berated herself. "You're here to work." Yet even as she rode the 
elevator to her destination she continued thinking about the 
smiling stranger.
 
In the waiting room, she ran her hand across the top of her 
briefcase. Although it contained only make-up and a day-runner, 
it gave her a sense of purpose, of professionalism. "I'm a 
Federal Agent" she rehearsed in her mind. Suddenly the door 
opened and the secretary emerged, followed
by her new supervisor. It was the smiling stranger. 

Follmer stopped walking mid-stride. His mouth hung open for just 
a second, but it was long enough for Monica to know that he 
recognized her too. "Damn," she chided herself. "Why did you 
have to smile at him?" But he recovered is composure so quickly 
that she found herself wondering later if she'd read him right. 

"Ms. Reyes," he said warmly, smiling a more subdued smile than 
his lobby smile. "Won't you come in?" 

She walked toward his office, and he followed her for a few 
steps then paused. Out of the side of his mouth he whispered to 
Janet, "No intercom -- just knock, okay?" 

When Follmer walked through the door he noticed that Monica had 
taken the chair that he used to take in her position. He smiled 
inwardly. Perhaps she truly would be his replacement. He sat 
down at his chair and looked appraisingly at his new charge. 

"I've heard good things about you from the instructors at the 
academy, Agent Reyes," he started. 

"Thank you, sir," she said. She wondered which instructors he 
knew and what they had said about her, but she didn't dare ask. 
There was an awkward silence, and his face seemed expectant. Did 
he expect her to have heard of him?, she wondered. She smiled 
weakly. "I hope I can live up to whatever they said. 

He wanted to hear her say something about him, but then he 
reminded himself, this meeting is about her. "I'm sure you will. 
Just remember, you can always come to me for help. This is a 
tough division, and it can be especially difficult for new 
agents." 

"I know that sir, but I volunteered for this division because I 
like a challenge." She instantly regretted her words -- they had 
just spilled out, and she could see his lips fighting not to 
curl upwards in amusement. "I mean, of course, all divisions are 
challenging... and ..." 

"I understand," he interrupted. "Don't be embarrassed. You've 
just confirmed what I'd already heard about you. And now I also 
know that you're honest and self-aware. These are good qualities 
for the job." She relaxed visibly, and Brad congratulated 
himself on his first mentoring success. "But keep my offer in 
mind in case you face some... unexpected challenges, okay?"

Monica nodded. "Now, I'll show you around, and please, feel free 
to ask me anything." 

For the next hour he escorted her from office to office, 
introducing her to his colleagues. She blushed at first as he 
listed her credentials in the most glowing terms, but by the 
time they reached her office her back-story had become a well-
rehearsed speech on his part and a rather boring
exposition for her. They arrived at a non-descript door, its 
blandness marred only by its placard:

Brad Follmer, Special Agent. 

Monica looked at Brad in confusion. "This used to be my office," 
said in answer to her unasked question. "It's yours now. I'll 
have Janet order a nameplate for you."

He pulled a keyring out of his pocket, unlocked the door, then 
wound the key around the ring and gave it to her, smiling 
broadly. "Welcome to your FBI home." 

She stepped tentatively inside as Brad flicked the light switch. 
Two walls were lined with bookshelves, and framed pictures of 
children crowded the rest of the wall space. Monica felt drawn 
to the pictures, and she approached the closest ones. Her eyes 
looked at each face, scanning upwards then down, moving toward 
the black-and-white pictures at the other side. 

"That's what this office is about, Monica." Brad said seriously. 
"All of those children are dead." 

At his last words tears came to her eyes and she turned around 
to face him. "All of them? No successful cases at all?" 

"It's a success if we find the perpetrator. Most of these cases 
didn't come to us until the children were already dead." He 
studied her face carefully. "Are you sure you can handle this?" 
he asked, modulating his voice in a way that he knew would 
elicit an honest answer. 

She nodded. "It's sad, is all." She put her hand on one of the 
pictures and suddenly her mind's eye showed her the perpetrator, 
a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses and a greasy comb-
over designed to hide his balding pate. Suddenly her hand felt 
hot and she pulled it away as if from a
flame. She inhaled and looked at Brad. He seemed not to have 
noticed any reaction, and she exhaled deeply. "So," she started 
awkardly, stepping toward her desk. "When do I get my first 
case?" 

"I want you to study some old casefiles first. Then in a few 
weeks I'll partner you with an experienced investigator and 
you'll start with some parental kidnappings." He studied her 
face as she nodded. "It's the most common type of kidnapping, 
Monica, and the hardest to solve. I'm not
lobbing softballs here, okay?" She nodded again and sat down at 
her desk as his hand skimmed over several binders on the shelves 
to her left. She found herself looking at his back, wondering if 
he was muscular despite his thinness, wondering if he was 
single... He turned around quickly, as if
sensing her watching him. 

"Here," he said, setting two binders on her desk as he grabbed a 
pad of yellow post-it notes. "Read through the ones I'm marking, 
then make an appointment with Janet so we can discuss them." She 
nodded obediently. "I know you thought you were finished with 
homework, but in reality it's just beginning," he said 
sympathetically. 

"Thanks," she smiled and reached for the first binder. "I want 
to learn."

Brad strolled jauntily back to his office and paused at the 
door.  The nameplate read, "Crimes Against Children Division, 
Agent Michael Brennan, Special Agent In Charge."  Brad made a 
mental note to himself to order a new nameplate for himself then 
opened the door.

Janet was on the phone, her face relaxed and smiling.  When she 
saw Brad enter she said, "Hang on, Mike.  He just walked in."

"Mike's on the phone?" Brad said excitedly.

"Hold on I'll transfer you," Janet said into the phone.  She 
pushed a button, stood up, and followed Brad into his office.

He stood at his desk as Janet instructed him in the transfer 
process.  He was a little annoyed when it turned out to be 
simple, but he appreciated her efficiency.  She had been Mike's 
secretary, and he felt almost as much awe for him as for her.  
When she'd shut the door he sat down and snapped
up the phone.  "Mike!" he shouted gleefully.  "How is D.C.?"

"It's too soon to say," Mike started.  "I have taken a week off 
to unpack and get settled.  I wanted to see how your first day 
is going.  Have you met your replacement yet?"

Brad filled him in on the start he'd made with Monica.  "I think 
you've made a fine choice there. She'll be very helpful to you."

"How so?" Brad asked.  One of the last things Mike had done was 
help Brad select Monica from the stack of transfer requests that 
had come in.  Brad valued Mike's opinion but had not thought of 
an agent as being "helpful" before.

"Brad, you're going to be supervising a lot of men who are older 
than you are.  You're up to it, but it will be tough sometimes.  
This new agent has no agenda, no alliances...  Get her on your 
side, right from the start.  She can't help you now, but her 
loyalty will pay off down the line."

Brad felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach.  "I was 
planning on putting her on parental kidnappings at first."

"Good move," Mike offered.  "Difficult cases, but few dead 
victims.  You need to get her started on something safe."  They 
spoke about Reyes' training for a few more minutes, then Mike 
abruptly said, "I'm leaving the division in good hands.  And 
remember, the A.D. is always happy to help the division.  Cases 
with children can make or break a field office's reputation.  
Keep that in mind."

"I will, Mike," Brad said.  He felt a little sadness welling up 
in him.  He knew Mike would not be as available now.  "And, 
Mike..." he started.

"Yeah," Mike answered, a little skeptically.

"Thanks for all your help over the years.  I wouldn't have made 
it this far without it."

"I know, kid," Mike answered.  "Make me proud."

They ended their conversation and Brad sat staring at the only 
folder on his desk, Monica's personnel file.  After thumbing 
through it for a minute, he reached for the phone and pushed the 
intercom button.  "Janet?" he said.  No response.  He let go of 
the button. "Damn" he swore to himself.  

"I heard that," Janet's voice came over the intercom.  "What did 
you need?"

"Call the A.D.'s office.  See if he can see me tomorrow."

Monica sat at her desk, the binders staring up at her, 
threatening to swallow her self-confidence. She looked at her 
watch.  10:30.  She wondered if she could take a coffee break 
first.  After a few minutes wandering around, trying to remember 
where a ladies room might be, she found herself
back at Brad Follmer's office.

"Excuse me, um Janet?" she said tentatively.

Janet looked up and smiled welcomingly.  "Agent Reyes, do you 
need  something?"

"Yes, I need to find the ladies room.  I've found three men's 
room and no ladies room yet."  Her hands moved from her hips, to 
clasping each other, to crossing over her chest as she spoke. 
"And, if you could tell me where I might get some coffee..."

Janet stood and smiled.  "Let me show you.  Just a second."  She 
knocked on Brad's door and opened it.  "Agent Follmer, is it 
okay if I take my coffee break?"  Follmer stood and went to the 
door.  Janet stepped backward and revealed Reyes standing behind 
her, smiling awkwardly.

"Agent Reyes," he said warmly.  "Is there something you need?"

Janet positioned herself next to Monica.  "I was just going to 
show her where to..." she looked at Monica and winked.  "find 
some coffee."  

Brad looked from one woman to the other then smiled with forced 
empathy.  "Good.  I guess I forgot a few things on our tour, eh, 
Agent Reyes?"

"Nothing that critical, but..." Monica stuttered.  "Yeah, there 
are a few things."

In the elevator Janet filled Monica in on the bathroom 
situation:  Two floors up or three floors down.  And the best 
coffee was at a deli a block away.  The two women chatted 
cheerily on the way back from the deli, their coffee cups 
warming their hands.  At the front door Janet stopped. "You go 
on, Monica," she said, reaching into a pocket.  "I'll drink my 
coffee here."  Janet pulled a pack of Morley's out of her 
pocket.  She shook out a cigarette, grabbed it with her mouth, 
then put the pack back in her pocket and pulled out a lighter.  
The cigarette dangling from her lips, she added, "Can't smoke 
inside anymore.  I'm getting used to it, though."

Back on her floor, Monica roamed around, sipping her coffee, 
looking for company.  She found a room lined with file cabinets, 
a large conference table in the center.  She sat in a seat that 
would be visible from the door, and listened eagerly for the 
sound of footsteps.  Hearing nothing, she scanned the labels on 
the fronts of the file cabinets.  Case numbers -- impersonal 
labels attached to personal tragedies.  Above the cabinets, 
framed awards for the division lined the walls, with pictures of 
children interspersed throughout.  One child's picture caught 
her eye.  She stood to see it more closely, and found herself 
almost floating as her hand reached out to the little boy.  He 
had blond hair, and was wearing well-worn  pajamas.  He looked 
so normal, yet she felt a shiver as she looked into his eyes.  
"Agent Reyes," she heard a voice at the door say.

"Agent Follmer," she looked up, startled.  "I'm sorry, I thought 
it would be okay to have my coffee here.  I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay, Agent," he said soothingly.  He walked toward her, 
his eyes on the picture.  "Do you recognize him?"

"No, should I?" Reyes answered.

"That's Etan Patz," Follmer said, then paused to see if she 
recognized the name.

"Was he killed?" Reyes asked.

"We don't know.  All these pictures are of unsolved cases -- 
missing children who have been missing for a long time.  Etan 
Patz has been missing since 1979."  (This is an actual missing 
child:
http://www.ci.nyc.ny.us/html/nypd/html/missing/patz.html)

He looked almost wistfully at the picture.  "I tell ya, Monica.  
If you could solve this case, your career would take off like a 
shot."  Monica stared at him in disbelief.  "Of course, we all 
want to find this little boy, or I guess now, man, if he's still 
alive..." he said awkwardly.  "At least give his family some 
closure if he isn't, but..." he studied her face as he spoke.  
"If you could boost your career in the process, so much the 
better."

Monica looked into his eyes, not sure how to interpret what she 
saw.  "This is my first day," she said with deliberate 
lightness.  "I'm not thinking that far ahead yet.  So far I 
haven't been able to find the ladies' room!"

He laughed.  "Is that what Janet needed to show you?  I'm sorry 
about that.  I wasn't thinking..."

"It's okay," Monica said, trying to ease his discomfort.  "At 
least you didn't show me the men's room, either."

He smiled.  "No chance of that," he assured her.  "I noticed you 
were a woman right from the start."  He put a finger to his eye 
and added, "Trained investigative eyes.  I never miss a trick!"

She laughed lightly, and it seemed to him her eyes were 
sparkling.  Instinctively, he quashed the feelings her smile 
elicited, but he still found himself liking this woman.  They 
stayed in the file room, and as she sipped her coffee he filled 
her in on all the unsolved cases represented by the pictures on 
the walls.  Then he patted the file cabinets.  "Here are the 
rest of the unsolved cases.  No danger of running out of work, 
unfortunately."

Monica spent the rest of the day reading through casefiles in 
her office, the door propped open in the hopes that fellow 
agents would stop by. None did. At 4:30 she closed the binder on 
the last of the casefiles that Brad had flagged. The cases all 
ended the same way: the special agent, often
Brad himself, rescued the child and apprehended the perp. Reyes 
leaned back in her chair and glanced at the other binders, then 
went to a shelf and started thumbing through one. Pictures, 
interviews, autopsy reports and rape kit analyses... The 
investigator's routine was clear to her by
now, and none of the cases in the binders held any appeal for 
her. She found herself thinking about the cases in the file 
cabinets instead. Those agents had done all the right things, no 
doubt, but still weren't successful. She grabbed her briefcase 
and purse and left the office, being careful to lock the door. 
She went to the room with the file cabinets, which she now knew 
was the conference room. She opened a drawer at random and 
pulled out some files: 

Case #83-1024: Child abducted from playground. 
Case #83-1068: Runaway teen. 
Case #83-1133: Homeless child missing from father's van. 
Case #84-0105: Child missing from hospital emergency room. 

She sat at the conference table and focused her mind on the 
stack of folders. An unpleasant feeling, somewhat nauseating, 
yet oddly compelling, suffused her soul. Evil was reaching out 
from within the folders, and it angered her. She opened the top 
folder and placed the palm of her hand
over the child's picture. She closed her eyes and saw a group of 
teens playing basketball in a park, a younger child looking on 
through a chain-link fence. A shadow passed over the child's 
features and Monica felt an icy cold wind on her face. Suddenly, 
her hand felt hot and she pulled it off the picture. The image 
of the basketball court and the child vanished, and she was left 
staring again at the picture. If only she could have held the 
image longer, she thought. She might see what the investigators 
had missed. She put the four folders in her briefcase and pulled 
another three from a file drawer. She closed her briefcase, and 
rubbed her hand over the side. She could feel the evil passing 
through her palm, to the pit of her stomach, then to the back of 
her neck. "I have to try," she thought. "I can't ignore these 
feelings." 

She looked at her watch: 5:00. Time to go home. Home, where she 
might have the strength to hold the visions longer. On the 
subway, she could feel the force emanating from her briefcase as 
she clung to the pole with her other hand. She swayed with the 
motions of the subway, and felt the heat of her briefcase 
approaching then leaving the side of her leg. 

She exited the Carroll Gardens subway stop and looked around, 
getting her bearings. The two-story brownstones cast long 
shadows across the street, and the winter wind swirled 
newspapers and other trash around her feet. She grimaced and 
tightened her grip on her briefcase, defiantly bringing its evil 
closer to her person. The picture of a two-headed baby caught 
her eye,
and she stopped at a newstand to buy the Weekly World Tattler. 
As she fumbled in her purse for her wallet, she brought her 
briefcase up onto the counter protectively. After paying, she 
tucked the newspaper under her arm and walked on toward her 
apartment. 

She turned down her street, a residential street lined on either 
side with rowhouses that had been divided into small apartments, 
like hers. The sun had dipped just below the horizon and 
everything, even the brick facades of the houses, had turned a 
gray-blue in the twilight. She pulled her briefcase up under her 
arm, and hugged it to her side. With one arm clasping the 
newspaper and the other clasping the briefcase, she felt a 
little clumsy, and she decided to stop and put the newspaper 
into the briefcase.. As she lowered the briefcase, she felt it 
get lighter, then felt it disappear into nothingness. She looked 
up and saw a tall, slender boy running down the street with the 
briefcase. She started to run after him, but he ducked into an 
alley and disappeared from her view.

Monica ran as far as the corner, then stopped and looked around. 
Even though she knew she wouldn't see him, she strained to peer 
as far as she could. Feelings of anger, helplessness, 
embarrassment, and fear overwhelmed her, and her lower lip 
started to quiver.  Suddenly she saw a police patrol car 
approaching, and she ran into the street to flag it down. The 
car slowed and stopped at the curb. The officer in the driver's 
seat rolled down the window a few inches.  "Someone just 
snatched my briefcase," Reyes said breathlessly. "He's tall, 
thin, dark-skinned, but I'm not sure how dark... He's wearing a 
black sports jacket and blue jeans. Fancy sneakers -- expensive 
designer stuff..." 

The two officers looked at each other and the driver said to his 
partner, "You take the report, I'll look for the perp.... And 
don't say I never did you a favor." He winked and his partner 
opened the car door. 

"Thanks, John," he said. "Don't hurry back." 

The officer walked around the rear of the car to the shaken 
young woman. His partner watched for a moment, then drove off. 
Monica looked up into the penetrating brown eyes of the officer.

He smiled broadly and held out a hand. "Officer Costello, 
ma'am." He was tall, and had obviously made body-building a 
habit. His hair was nearly black and slightly wavy. Monica 
resisted the urge to check his hand for a wedding ring, but 
resolved to sneak a glance soon. She held out her hand
and he took it, shaking it vigorously. 

"Monica Reyes," she said, her voice a little shaky. 

"So tell me what happened, Mrs. Reyes," Costello said, his voice 
the model of compassionate efficiency. 

Monica told him what she could, and when she'd finished, a tear 
sneaked down one cheek. She brushed it away quickly and sniffed. 
"I'm sorry," she said in embarrassment. "I've never been robbed 
before." 

"That's okay," he said. "Everybody gets shaken up when they're 
robbed." She smiled at him gratefully. "What was in your 
briefcase?" 

"Files, from work," she started. "FBI casefiles." 

Costello raised his eyebrows. "You work for the FBI?" 

"Yes," Reyes admitted. "Today was my first day." 

Costello flashed a compassionate smile, then continued 
questioning her about the crime. He interspersed his questions 
about the crime with chit-chat about the FBI, her recent move, 
her education. He pulled a business card out of his pocket and 
wrote on the back. "Here's my card, if
you have any questions feel free to call. And here," he turned 
the card over. "Is my home phone number. You can call me 
anytime." She took the card and grinned. Her demeanor seemed 
more relaxed to him, and he felt hopeful that she might call 
him. Then, as if on cue, his car pulled up. 

The driver rolled down the window and shouted. "Couldn't find 
him. Want me to keep looking?" 

Costello looked at Reyes and said, "I think we're done here. 
Want a lift home, Agent Reyes?" 

She sighed. "Yes, thank you. Even though it's close..." He held 
the rear door open for her and she slid into the patrol car. The 
driver turned around and smiled. 

"This is my partner, John Doggett," Costello said. Monica and 
John nodded to each other and John turned back to the front.

****************************************************************
********** 
TUESDAY

The next morning, Monica's legs felt heavy as she climbed the 
stairs out of the subway station. Janet was standing by the 
front door, smoking and chatting with a fellow smoker. "Monica?" 
she said. "Are you okay?" 
Monica mustered her strength and replied stoically, "I've had 
better days." 

Janet's companion stomped out his cigarette and said his 
goodbyes. Janet asked with motherly compassion, "What happened?" 
Monica spilled the whole story as Janet lit then smoked another 
cigarette. Janet's reaction was not what Monica expected. She 
took the news of the lost files in stride, and when Monica's 
anxiety and Janet's cigarette had both been extinguished, she 
ushered Monica into the building. "C'mon. We'll tell Brad 
together." 

Brad Follmer sat at his desk, the private personnel folders of 
all of his agents stacked before him. He knew all these agents 
personally, and found reading their personnel files an eye-
opening experience. He looked up, surprised, when Janet ushered 
an embarrassed Monica, trenchcoat buttoned against his wrath, 
into his office. 

As Monica told her story, Brad tried to maintain a supportive 
demeanor, but he couldn't help his groans, sighs, and 
disbelieving interjections.  "Those files aren't supposed to 
leave that room..."  

"You told a *beat* cop?"  "He's making an official report?..."  
He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling, 
hoping this was a bad dream.

Monica steeled herself and kept her composure throughout.  When 
she was finished, she stood quietly and waited for the 
explosion, the tirade, the veiny-necked tonge-lashing, that she 
felt she deserved.  Instead, Brad offered her a patronizing sigh 
and an exasperated expression.

"I'm so sorry," she added.  "I really shouldn't have..."

"No, it's not your fault," he said.  "I should have told you not 
to take those files..."  He brought his eyes to hers and saw the 
pain in them.  He sighed loudly then pursed his lips in thought.  
"Did the cop give you his card?" he asked.

Monica pulled Costello's card from her pocket and handed it to 
Follmer.  Brad picked up the phone and dialed the number.  
"Officer Costello, please," he said officiously.  As he waited 
he absently played with the card, turning it over to reveal the 
officer's home phone number.  Follmer
shook his head and thought "This keeps getting worse and 
worse..."

Monica remained standing as Brad talked to Costello.  She 
started to feel warm but didn't want to attract his attention by 
removing her coat.  She stood as still as she could, as if by 
not moving she could disappear.

"If you do find those files," he said with finality.  "Don't 
call Agent Reyes, call me, okay?  Those files are my 
responsibility."  He gave Costello his phone number then hung up 
and looked into Monica's eyes.

She seemed nervous and looked flushed.  He felt a little flushed 
himself, both from the challenge of fixing this mess, and from 
the power he held over her emotions.  He paused to think, unsure 
of the proper way to respond to Reyes.  He squinted slightly and 
studied her face.

Suddenly, she fell into a heap on the floor.

She came to laying on her back, her coat unbottoned and spread 
to her sides. Brad and Janet knelt at either side, concerned 
looks on their faces. Janet was reaching toward her face, a 
wetted paper towel in her hand. Reyes' eyes widened and she 
rolled to her side to avoid Janet's hand. 

Brad grabbed her upper shoulder and pushed her back onto her 
back. "Relax, Agent Reyes. You just fainted," Brad said kindly. 
He took the wetted paper towel from Janet and laid it across 
Monica's forehead. 

"I fainted?" Monica whimpered. "That's not like me..." 

"What do you remember?" Janet asked. 

"Just, feeling warm, and..." Monica thought back to the moments 
before her faint. "That's all, just warm." 

"Well, you did have your coat on..." Janet offered. Monica 
nodded in response. "I'll get you some water." Janet rose and 
left the office, leaving Monica on the floor with a concerned 
Brad looking on. 

"I think I'm fine," Monica said as she raised herself up on her 
elbows. Brad took one of her hands in his and helped her up. He 
walked her to the nondescript naugehyde sofa that occupied the 
far corner of the office. She sat down and looked gratefully up 
at him. "Thank you. Really, I was just
overheated..." she stammered. "And I didn't eat any dinner last 
night." 

"Or breakfast this morning?" Brad asked.  Monica shook her head. 
Brad felt a surge of sympathy for her.  She was so worried about 
the files she couldn't eat? He imagined what it must have been 
like for her the night before. He pulled at the collar of her 
coat and her shoulders folded over to help him remove the coat. 
"Feeling better?" he asked. 

She nodded, feeling both excited and embarrassed by his 
attention to her. Janet arrived with a paper cup of cool water, 
and Reyes drank it down in a few gulps. "Thanks," she said 
softly. "That helped a lot. I think I'm ready to work now." 

"First, you need to eat something," Brad said paternally. "And 
then we're going back to Brooklyn to look for those documents." 

Reyes was relieved to hear him assigning her a task, especially 
one that might help her redeem herself after her mistake. She 
started to stand, but Follmer was standing in front of her, 
blocking her way. "Give yourself a minute, Agent. I need to tie 
up a few things before we go." To Janet he
added "Get her some more water, and reschedule that 
appointment." Janet nodded and left the room again as Brad 
walked to his desk. "Just relax, Monica," he said. She couldn't 
help watching as he reorganized the files on his desk, put them 
in a file drawer, tidied his desk, and checked his
calendar. She found it hard to believe he'd been in his position 
only a day and yet had such a grasp of his space and his 
authority. 

As they exited his office they saw a pair of agents escorting a 
somewhat disheveled middle-aged man out of their office.  Brad 
and Monica paused to let them pass, and as they did Monica felt 
a flush of warmth come over her again, along with a wave of 
nausea.  She swayed slightly and put her hand against the wall 
to steady her.  Brad put his arm around her shoulders and 
righted her.

"Do you need to rest some more?" he asked solicitously.

She watched as the three men walked down the hall and entered 
the elevator.  "No," she said, shaking her head.  "I'm fine.  I 
just felt warm again for a minute."

He took her to a noisy cafe with a glassed-in extension built 
over the sidewalk.  They ordered coffee, and Reyes studied the 
menu.  She didn't feel hungry, but felt pressured to eat. She 
ordered an omelet and picked at it as Brad sipped his coffee and 
watched her.  Finally she said, "Being
watched isn't helping my appetite."

He smiled, and she could see where his crows' feet would someday 
be.  "I'm sorry...  Please, I didn't mean to make you nervous."

"You're my boss and this is my first job.  And I've already 
screwed up.  Being watched while I eat is just one more 
thing..." Monica said, almost defiantly.

He leaned forward on his elbows and looked directly into her 
eyes.  "This is the first time I've been a supervisor, so we're 
even, okay?"

She looked away, blushing slightly.  "Okay," she mumbled, and 
returned to her food.

Brad continued looking at her, trying to think of the right 
words, words that would make her feel better, not worse.  He 
waited until she raised her eyes again and said, "Really, 
Monica, I'm not an ogre.  You can come to me with any problem, 
any time.  Okay?"

She could see that he was sincere, and that she had hurt his 
feelings with her embarrassment.  She stopped chewing and stared 
at him for a moment.  Finally she swallowed and said, "Okay."

An awkward silence fell over them and they each sipped their 
coffees, keeping their eyes on each others' eyes.  Monica was 
the first to break the silence.  She put her fork on her plate 
with finality and said, "I really can't eat any more."

Brad stood and watched carefully as Reyes did likewise.  When he 
was satisfied she was alright he paid the bill and they left.  
They walked to an underground parking garage and after Brad 
started his car he said, "Now, where did that brief-case 
snatching happen?"

Brad parked where the squad car had been the day before, and put 
an FBI placard on his dashboard.  Monica stared at it, impressed 
with her new parking status, until Brad tapped on the window.  
She hurriedly opened the car door, whacking Brad in the process.  
They both grimaced then laughed.

"Okay," Brad started when the car was safely locked.  "Which way 
did this guy run?"

Monica gave him directions and they walked along the sidewalk.  
They came to an opening into an alley and Brad said, "This one?"

"It might be," Monica answered.  "I'm not sure."

Brad sighed and said resignedly, "We'll start with this one."  
They walked into the narrow alley, the two-story brick walls of 
the rowhouses forming a narrow canyon around them.  They saw 
nothing unusual but as they walked Brad briefed her on what to 
look for.  "Dumpsters, any garbage laying around, abandonned 
cars...  He wouldn't have wanted to be caught with any I.D. of 
yours.  He'd stop somewhere dark, someplace he could hide, and 
then check the contents.  He probably thought from your body 
language there would be something valuable in there -- that's 
why he didn't take your purse..."  Brad paused as they came to 
the alley running behind the row
houses.  He looked in both directions then chose one.  "You take 
the left, I'll take the right..." he said.

Monica went to a dumpster and tentatively opened one of its two 
lids.  She looked over her shoulder to see what Brad was doing, 
and seeing that he was looking under a car, found no clue how to 
proceed.  She pushed the lid a little further up, and held it 
with one arm as she hooked the other arm over the edge.  She 
peered in, but the other lid cast a shadow and she couldn't see 
anything.  Still holding the lid, she slid her hand down the 
inside until it came upon something wet.  Instinctively, she 
pulled back, then checked to see if Brad had seen her.  He had.

He was by now two rowhouses down the alley, and she was still 
where she'd started.  He walked back and said, a touch of 
condescension in his voice, "Maybe we should work on this 
together."

Monica tried to smile but her frustration furrowed her brow and 
the resulting expression was so pitiful Brad had to suppress a 
laugh.  "They don't teach dumpster diving at the Academy yet, 
eh?" he asked.  Before she could respond, he flipped the lid 
backward, and it clanged loudly against the back.  He repeated 
the lid trick then said, "Well?"

"You really mean *in* the dumpster?" Monica said, incredulous.

He put his hands together, interlocking them into a stirrup, and 
lowered them to Monica's mid-thigh.  "I'll give you a leg up 
because you're new."

She put her foot into his hands and he lifted her up with more 
power than she would have expected.  She jumped over the side 
and landed with one foot on something slippery and the other on 
a plastic garbage bag that ripped under her weight.  As she was 
looking down she saw Brad's feet land nearby.   "Let's get to 
it," he said with boyish glee.

They dug through the top layer of trash, Brad talking the whole 
time about investigative techniques:  how to tell how long trash 
has been in a dumpster, the trash pick-up schedules in the 
various parts of their jurisdiction, the kinds of things that 
look like nothing but might be
evidence....

By the time they had searched three dumpsters Reyes had become 
expert in entering, searching the top level of trash, and 
exiting a dumpster, and Follmer was quite proud of her.  "She's 
a quick study," he thought.  In his office he had been having 
doubts about the choice he made, but Monica
was quickly earning his respect.  They split up again, and she 
searched her side faster than he searched his side this time.  
He looked over his shoulder to see her ass poking up as she 
heaved herself over a dumpster.  It disappeared into the 
dumpster and he sighed, hoping that some new
and unwelcome feelings would disappear also.

They finished their first block and were half-way down the 
second block when Reyes jumped out of a dumpster and fell to her 
knees.  

Brad rushed to her side and helped her up.  "Are you okay?" he 
asked.

Monica didn't answer.  Instead, she returned to the dumpster, 
her face expressionless.  She hopped over the edge easily, and 
Brad ran to the side and peered over.  Monica felt her feet 
getting warmer, until it felt like they were on fire.  She 
gritted her teeth and walked gingerly around the dumpster, 
stopping to rest for a second in one corner.  She stepped 
backward, dropped to her knees, and frantically started digging 
through the trash to the lowest layers.

Brad hopped over the edge and knelt next to her.  "What are you 
looking for, Monica?  What is it?" he said, infected by her 
frenzy.

"Help me, Brad," she said, annoyed at his questions.

Instinctively, he obeyed her command and started digging in the 
same spot.  When they were both up to their elbows in trash they 
both felt the same thing.  They paused and looked into each 
others' horror-stricken faces, then continued digging.

When they reached the bottom, Brad looked with sadness into the 
beaten yet serene face of a toddler, then he looked to Reyes in 
the hopes of an explanation.  Her forehead wrinkled up and she 
turned around, vomiting over the side of the dumpster.

Brad pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed for help 
as Monica leapt over the side.  She leaned against a brick wall, 
then slid down to a squat, her back against the wall, her head 
in her hands.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  Feeling 
the gentle touch of a hand on her
shoulder, she looked up to see Brad Follmer's face looking down 
on her.

"After the cops are finished with us, I want you to take the 
rest of the day off," he said.  "Come to my office at eight 
tomorrow morning."  Reyes' eyes teared up, and she fought to 
keep her lower lip from quivering.  "No, you're not fired," Brad 
added gently.  "I want to discuss your training
with you."

Monica pulled her lips inward in an attempt to smile, her eyes 
looking up with such gratitude that Brad had to turn away.  He 
walked back to the dumpster and leaned against it.  She watched 
him from the corner of her eye.  When her stomach had settled, 
she stood and walked to his side. 
Almost immediately, she felt warm and nauseous again.  She 
walked around the side of the dumpster and heaved again. 

"Monica," Brad said from behind her, close to her ear.  "Why 
don't you go home now?  I can manage here."

She nodded, still not facing him.  He put his arm across her 
shoulder and led her away from the dumpster.  "I'll see you in 
the morning," she said, looking only briefly into his eyes.

She walked to her apartment, not knowing that Follmer was 
watching her as she walked to the end of the alley.  She made a 
bee-line for the bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and took a 
long, hot shower.

As she was brushing her wet hair she heard a knock at the door.  
She threw on her robe and raced to it, expecting to see Brad 
Follmer.  She opened the door and was surprised to see Officer 
Costello instead.  "Officer Costello," she said nervously, 
pulling her robe more tightly around her.

"Ms. Reyes," he said politely, a smile letting her know he was 
pleased she remembered his name. "I'm investigating a child 
abuse case in the neighborhood..."

"Yes, I know about it," she said.  "Please come in."  She 
ushered him in and closed the door.  He followed her to her 
futon, which was spread out for sleeping.  She pushed against 
the frame and returned it to its couch form, then sat down at 
one end.

He sat at the other end, his notepad poised on his knee.  "Which 
child abuse case have you heard about?" he started, a little 
skeptical yet intrigued.

"I thought you meant the baby discovered in the dumpster today," 
Monica started, a little puzzled by his question.  "How many 
cases are there?"

"No, that's the case," he assured her.  "How did you know about 
it?"

"I'm the one who found it," she said matter-of-factly.

He stared at her, dumbfounded.  "You were there?"

"Yes, why?"

He flipped several pages in his notebook.  "Someone named Brad 
Follmer from the FBI found him.  He didn't mention you."

Monica felt both hurt and relieved not to have been mentioned.  
She wasn't sure how to respond, and decided to stick with the 
truth.  She told him about searching for the files, and digging 
through the trash.

"How did you know the baby was there?" Costello asked.

Monica gulped.  "I know this sounds strange, but I sense... 
things.  I sense when something evil has happened.  I knew there 
was something there, but I didn't know what."

Costello continued staring at her, his hands poised to flip his 
notes back to her page.  "Like a psychic thing?" he asked 
finally.  She nodded.  "Did you tell Follmer that?"

Monica shook her head.  "We haven't talked about it at all."

Costello sighed and flipped the notebook pages over.  "That's 
good," he said as he started to write.  "So, tell me again.  You 
sensed something bad in the dumpster... then what?"

"That was it," Reyes said.  Costello looked into her eyes, 
looking for reasons to suspect her.  Instead he saw an innocence 
a New Yorker rarely saw.  Monica kept her eyes on his, unsure 
why there seemed to be a problem.  She continued, "Agent 
Follmer, he's my supervisor, he told me to
go home."  She watched as he studied her face, then admitted, "I 
threw up."

He smiled.  "First case?" he asked.  She nodded.  "We all do 
that.  Don't be embarrassed.  If this didn't get to you I'd 
wonder about you."

Monica relaxed her shoulders and tried to smile back at him.  
"Thanks.  I was starting to wonder if I was cut out for this 
job."

"My partner isn't on this case.  He's an experienced cop, but he 
has a little boy himself, and he just can't deal with cases 
involving children.  The guys out there today are single guys 
like me.  We don't like it either, but we can handle it." He 
paused to study her reaction.  "Does that make you feel any 
better?"

"Yes, it does," she confessed, smiling more easily now.  "I 
volunteered for this division, and to react this way..."

"You volunteered for the Crimes Against Children division?" he 
repeated, incredulous.  She nodded.  "Why?"

"Well," she said slowly, a blush crossing her face.  "It's these 
feelings I have... about evil...  I've had these feelings since 
I was a child, but I could never do anything about them...  you 
know, prevent that evil."  She struggled to get the words out, 
but his patient, listening expression
encouraged her to continue.  "One time, I sensed this... 
presence, an evil presence...  and I ignored it.  I was about 
thirteen, I guess, and I was playing basketball on a 
playground..." Her eyes started to tear and her voice quivered 
slightly as she continued, "I ignored what I felt.  I was the 
tallest girl, and I was the center, you know?" He nodded  
sympathetically.  "Well, one of the children at the other side 
of the playground, on the swingset..."  She clenched her lips 
shut and her face
crumpled as she struggled to continue.

Instinctively, Costello put his hand on her shoulder.  "I 
understand," he said softly, and her teary eyes responded by 
looking gratefully into his.  She put her hand over his and 
tried to grin.

After a moment she took her hand off his, and he responded in 
kind.  "I was hoping that in law enforcement I might be able to 
do something about it.  But what did I do for that child today?" 

Tears rolled down her cheeks and Costello felt a lump rise in 
his throat.

"You found him," he said in a raspy voice.  "You have no idea 
yet how important that is, but you will."

Reyes smiled gratefully at the burly cop.  "You don't find my  
experiences... odd?" she asked tentatively.

He took a moment to regain his composure, then said, "Special, 
maybe, but  not odd.  The best cops rely on their instincts.  
Usually it's really experience.  But some have a special gift...  
Don't apologize for that."  Reyes took a deep breath and let it 
out slowly, her eyes beaming at him 
appreciatively.  He continued, "My partner -- he's a natural, 
like you.  When he has a hunch, I always follow it."  He looked 
at her  sympathetically, and she felt a little flutter in her 
stomach. His voice growing more gentle, he added, "If anyone's 
told you to ignore your instincts, don't believe them.  The rest 
of us only wish we could be like you."

"Thank you," she said.  "I needed to hear that."

"If there's anything else you need... anything at all," he said 
softly.  "Just let me know.  You still have my number?"

She nodded.  "Can I ask you a favor?" she asked.

"Sure, anything," he said eagerly.

"Do you know where I could get some self-defense training?  Or 
maybe karate?"

"My gym offers classes," he answered quickly.  "I can get you a 
guest pass if you want to check it out."  As she opened her 
mouth to answer, he hurriedly added, "But you'd have to go with 
me."

She grinned broadly.  "That would be great!  When?"

"I could pick you up at six-thirty.  There's a seven o'clock 
class you could observe...  You can use the whole gym if you 
want, too.  Bring some work-out clothes and I'll show you 
around."

Janet watched as her boss threw open the door, and she knew 
things had not gone well in Brooklyn.  "Hi Brad," she said 
neutrally.  "How did it go?"

"Don't ask," he retorted.  "It was a disaster."  She nodded 
understandingly and he felt the need to don a more businesslike 
demeanor.  "Did you reschedule my appointment with the A.D.?" he 
asked, emulating Mike's efficiency as well as he could.

"It's a half-hour from now," she answered, looking up and down 
his suit, noting its new stains and wrinkles.  "Will that be 
enough time?"

"That's fine," Brad answered.  He entered his private office and 
locked the door behind him. Leaning against the door he felt a 
wave of panic.  He had a sensitive agent to train, he'd lied to 
a cop, and he had to admit to the A.D. that some files were 
missing.  He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.  Did 
Mike have days like this, he wondered.

Thirty minutes later, Brad appeared at the A.D.'s office, 
wearing the spare suit he kept in his office, the smell of men's 
room soap emanating from several parts of his body.  The 
secretary nodded for him to sit, and he reclined nonchalantly on 
the office sofa, his briefcase at his feet.  She
was a tall, lean African-American woman with graying hair and 
bright red, immaculately kept fingernails. She busied herself at 
her computer as he sat silently, mentally rehearsing what he 
would say to his new boss.  Brad had been the cocky, fast-track, 
up-and-coming fair-haired child, and he knew it.  He also knew 
that the agents who had once been his equals considered him a 
suck-up, Mike's chosen successor.  Gaining their trust would be 
critical for his career.  Earning the respect of A.D. Williams 
was even more critical.

Suddenly the door swung open.  "Agent Follmer," came the booming 
voice of a tall, athletic man with red hair and freckles.  Brad 
snapped to attention and stood up, knocking his briefcase over.  
He bent over to grab it with his left hand, holding out his 
right hand to shake Williams' unextended hand.  He pulled his 
hand back in embarrassment as Williams said, "Come in," and 
turned away.

Brad rushed inside.  He had only been to the A.D.'s office one 
other time, his interview when Mike had announced his promotion.  
It had been a pleasant interview, short and perfunctory.  As his 
colleagues had suspected, Williams would rubber-stamp Mike's 
choice for a successor. 

Williams' demeanor showed Brad his mental rehearsal was wasted 
time.  Williams already knew everything.  They stared at each 
other across the desk for a long, awkward moment.  Finally 
Williams said, "Special Agent in charge of the Crimes against 
Children division...  You are in charge now, Brad.  I expect you 
know what that means?"

"Not entirely," Brad answered.  "Mike trained me well, but I'm 
sure I have a lot to learn."

Williams smiled and nodded.  "Yes, you have.  For instance, the 
special agent in charge does not go dumpster diving.  Further, 
he does not lie to local P.D. about who was on the scene when 
the corpse of a child is discovered."

Brad raised his eyebrows and stopped breathing.  He said 
nothing.

"Yes, I heard about that.  Would you care to explain this, 
agent?"

"I assume you know what Agent Reyes and I were looking for?" 
Brad asked.  Williams nodded. "I was hoping to find those files 
before anybody knew they were gone.  Not for my sake, for hers. 
I want her to make a good impression."

Williams pursed his lips and studied Brad's face.  "And telling 
the P.D. you were in that alley alone?"

"At the time, I was.  I sent her home.  She got sick at the 
scene, and she'd fainted earlier in my office.  She didn't need 
the stress," Brad answered.  "It's not going to be her case 
anyway.  It'll be local, or I'll assign it to someone else if it 
comes to us.  I didn't see any reason to involve her."

Williams's face showed no changes, and Brad squirmed in his seat 
wondering what would happen next.  Suddenly Williams bent 
forward and pulled something from the kneewell of his desk.  
Brad gulped as he saw Williams pull it up and shove it across 
the desk towards him.  It was a briefcase.

"Fortunately, street criminals hate child molesters as much as 
we do," Williams said.  "It was turned in at the security gate 
this morning."

"Thank you, sir," Brad said, not sure what else he could say.

"Don't let it happen again," Williams said sternly.

"No, of course not," Brad answered quickly.

"Have we covered the reason you made this appointment?" Williams 
asked.

Although Brad could tell Williams wanted him to say "yes," he 
answered, "No, sir.  I'd like some advice on how to handle Agent 
Reyes' training.  She was at the top of her class at Quantico, 
but..."

"I'm sure you'll handle it," Williams said curtly.  "You know 
the demands of the job.  Be sure she can meet them before you 
send her into any more alleys."  Williams picked up a pen and 
pulled some papers from a drawer.  "And don't let me hear that 
*any* of your people are causing trouble for the bureau."

"Yes, sir," Brad said.  He stood, one briefcase in each hand, 
and backed away from the A.D.  "Thank you for your time."

Williams nodded once then turned his attention to the papers on 
his desk.

Monica jumped at the loud, sharp, knocks at her door and looked 
at her watch:  6:25 p.m.  She ran to the door and flung it open.  
Costello stood there, his massive chest and arms wrapped in a 
brown leather jacket.  Monica smiled into his smile, and said, 
"Officer Costello... Hi!  Just a second..."

She ran back into her apartment and grabbed her gym bag as he 
stood at the door, admiring not just her body, but her grace.  
"Call me Joe," he half-shouted behind her.

"Sorry," she said when she arrived at the doorway.  She slung 
her gym bag over her shoulder and said, "Joe.  Call me Monica."

At the gym, Monica changed into her carefully chosen gear, and 
emerged from the dressing room to find Joe waiting for her.  He 
was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, its sleeves hugging the muscles 
of his upper arm, the NYPD shield over his left pect.  He was 
wearing gray sweatpants that were mercifully loose, Monica 
thought.  She never thought she'd be one to fall for muscles, 
but she couldn't help notice this man's well-toned body.  She 
felt weak and waifish by comparison, and was starting to feel 
out of her element.

"You look great," Joe said, his eyes sparkling with 
appreciation.  

Monica blushed, then quickly said, "Oh, this?"  She pulled at 
the hem of her T-shirt.  "It's a souvenir from my college days."  
She fussed some more at the hem, then decided against telling 
the truth.  It was her good-luck T-shirt.

The gym was huge, and complex, with every possible piece of 
equipment and several rooms.  Joe showed her a few rooms then 
ushered her in to a large room with mats on the floor and 
mirrors on one wall.  Several men dressed in loose-fitting pants 
and T-shirts were practicing martial arts movements.  The 
instructor arrived and the students formed two lines.  The 
instructor bowed, and the students bowed lower in response.  
Monica leaned against the wall, feeling secure in her 
invisibility.  Joe leaned next to her, and whispered into her 
ear.  "It's an advanced class.  They offer all levels here."

She smiled and turned her head in his direction.  "Thanks," she 
said, her mouth only inches from his.  They both quickly turned 
their heads toward the class, and they watched the first several 
minutes of the class.  

To Monica's surprise, the instructor started the class by 
leading the students in meditation.  Monica breathed deeply, not 
understanding most of the instructions, but feeling a sense of 
centeredness coming over her.  The instructor gradually brought 
the students to a state of readiness for their exercises, and 
Monica felt as if she, too, were ready for them.  She smiled 
serenely and turned toward Joe.  He seemed bored, and he eagerly 
said, "Seen enough?"

"No," she whispered.  "I'd like to stay for a few minutes more.  
Do you mind?"

"No, of course not," he whispered back.  He pressed his back 
against the wall.  "Let me know when you're ready to go," he 
whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

She relaxed against the wall and whispered, "Thank you for 
bringing me here."

They stood and watched the class for another few minutes.  
Monica felt a sense of belonging, yet also a sense of 
detachment.  She loved this feeling.  As the students were 
reorganizing for a new series of exercises she turned to Joe and 
said, "Okay, let's see the rest of the gym."

As they walked toward a weight-lifting area, Monica said, "Thank 
you for bringing me here.  I think I like it already."

He smiled and said, "It's my home away from home."

She put her hand on his upper arm and tried in vain to squeeze 
it.  "Why am I not surprised?" she asked.

They passed through several weight-lifting areas and came to a 
bank of exercise cycles, and in each area several men and women 
greeted Joe enthusiastically.  He introduced Monica to many of 
them, and she became more comfortable as each welcomed her.  Joe 
seemed to be well-liked, and the smiles he elicited made her 
feel lucky to be with him tonight.

After they had seen the entire gym, he showed her some basic 
weight-training techniques and they worked out together.  She 
felt a little silly, moving the pins to the top of each bank of 
weights and still struggling to lift, as Joe easily lifted 
stacks of the iron bars.  After trying several pieces of 
equipment she sat at the end of a bench, watching Joe focus on 
his lifts.  She didn't understand it, but she could appreciate 
his dedication.  After several minutes he looked up and saw her 
watching him.  "I don't think this is my sport," she said 
meekly.

He sat up and said, "I'm sorry.  Have you had enough?"

Monica thought for a moment.  It was obviously part of his daily 
routine to work out, and she didn't want to upset that.  "I've 
had enough of the weights.  Do you mind if I do something else 
for awhile?"

He smiled.  "Not at all.  I'll be here."

"I think I'll try those bicycles..." she said, briefly putting 
her hand on his knee.  "I don't think I could do more than 
twenty minutes.  Is that okay?"

He nodded, and she walked away, confidently navigating the gym 
as if she were a regular.  She stopped at the martial arts room 
and watched the closing routine.  She could feel the serenity of 
the students and felt a kind of joy in this discovery.  "This is 
my sport," she thought.

Thirty minutes later, she was pumping the pedals of an exercise 
bike, sweat flowing over her face.  Her eyes were closed, and 
she emptied her mind, trying to capture the serenity she'd 
tasted earlier.  Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Having a good time?" Joe asked.  

She smiled in response then stopped pedalling.  "Yes, but I 
don't want to overdo it."  She hopped off the cycle and lost her 
balance.  He caught her in his strong arms and she laughed.  "I 
guess I've already overdone it."

"Everybody does on their first day," he reassured her.  "Do you 
want to come back again... build up your endurance?" he asked 
hopefully.

"I think I want to join this gym," she answered, walking back 
and forth to relax her legs.  "I like it here."  She stopped 
pacing and looked into his face.  "I like the people," she 
added, feeling a little bold.

He couldn't hide his contented sigh from her.  "Want to get 
something to eat before I take you home?" he asked.

"Sure, but I think I need a shower first."

They went to an Italian restaurant, and Monica marveled at the 
amount of food Joe could eat.  She ate only half of her food, 
and gave the rest to him after he had finished his.  They talked 
about weight training, the gym, Italian food, Brooklyn, Italian 
mothers, Mexican mothers...  Everything but law enforcement.

He walked her to her door and she felt light on her feet as she 
said, "I had a great time.  I can't wait to go back to the 
gym..."

"I'm glad," he said, his eyes starting to glow.  "I can't wait 
to see *you* again."

She smiled giddily but said nothing.  He leaned forward and 
kissed her on the lips, gently and briefly.  He pulled back to 
study her reaction.  She blushed and smiled, and said quickly, 
"Me too."  She turned the key in her lock and hurriedly entered 
her apartment.  On the other side of the door she sighed, and 
she heard him pause before walking back through the hallway.

****************************************************************
***********
WEDNESDAY

The next morning Monica bounded up the subway steps and walked 
briskly to the front door of the FBI's building.  Janet stood 
outside, smoking a cigarette and chatting with two other women.  
She motioned for Reyes to join them and Monica eagerly obliged.

Janet introduced her to the other women, both secretaries, and 
they chatted pleasantly about the weather for a few minutes.  
Janet stomped on her cigarette and said, "You seem to be in a 
good mood.  You're feeling better?"

"Better than better," Monica confided.  "I've met somebody."

The three women quizzed her on every detail of her evening.  
They were all older than Monica, and married.  They seemed to 
enjoy hearing about Joe as much as she enjoyed talking about 
him.  Suddenly the faces of the other three women lost their 
conspiratorial enthusiasm, and they focused their eyes over 
Reyes' shoulders.  

"What?" Reyes asked.  She turned around to see Brad Follmer 
taking his final few steps in their direction.

"Janet, Mary, Stella," he nodded to each woman in turn.  "Agent 
Reyes."

"Agent Follmer," Monica stuttered.  "Good morning."

"Feeling better?" he asked, the tone of his voice indicating 
some displeasure, but Monica had no idea what had caused it.

"Yes, I feel fine," she said, keeping her voice cheerful. "I 
just needed a little time off, I guess."

"Good," Brad answered.  "Come to my office in an hour.  We need 
to talk."  He wheeled around and walked quickly to the front 
door.

"Don't worry, honey," Janet assured her.  "It's good news."  The 
older woman winked at Monica, and Monica sighed.

"Thanks.  I sure hope so," Monica said resolutely.  "I'd better 
review those cases before... just in case...  Nice meeting you," 
she nodded to Mary and Stella.

Monica spent her free hour reviewing the flagged cases Brad had 
assigned to her, and by the time she locked her door she had 
memorized the most important details.

When she arrived at Follmer's office, his door was closed and 
Janet sat at her desk reading The Post.  She looked up and said, 
"Monica!  You're a few minutes early."  She took in Monica's 
worried expression, then added, "Relax!  Everything is fine."

Monica sat down, trying to relax as instructed, but finding her 
body stiffen as she anticipated a stern lecture, or even worse, 
looks of pity and concern from Follmer.  By the time the door 
opened she was almost hyperventilating.

"Come in, Monica," Brad said sternly.  Janet winked at Monica 
and mouthed "It's okay" as Monica walked past her desk.

"Have a seat, Agent Reyes," Follmer said, much more formal in 
his demeanor than he had been the day before.

Monica obeyed, choosing the chair that seemed pushed a little to 
the side, facing at Brad's chair less directly.  He sat down and 
stared at her for a moment, until she had to look away.  "You 
had a difficult day yesterday," he started.  She nodded and 
found the courage to look him in the eye.  "So let's start fresh 
today, okay?" he said, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of 
her compliance.

Her lips turned up slightly.  "Okay," she said, grabbing at the 
comfort he offered.

Follmer reached into the kneewell of his desk and pulled up her 
briefcase.  He slid it across his desk and said, "We got lucky 
this time.  Bad guys like child abusers as much as we do."

Monica grabbed at her briefcase as if reuniting with an old 
friend, and immediately opened it. As she reached for the files 
she felt a wave of warmth and nausea, but fought to suppress it.  
She shut the case again and stared at it, willing it to stop 
sending its evil to her.

"Is there something wrong, Agent," Brad said in an unsympathetic 
tone.

"No," Monica said hurriedly, and put the briefcase on the floor.

"Good," Brad said, closing the topic of Monica's condition.  "I 
want to talk to you about those files.  Why were you taking them 
home?"

"I read the cases you flagged, and I wanted to read more cases.  
So I chose these," Monica asserted.

"The truth, Monica," Brad said immediately.

Despite Joe's assurances, she didn't feel comfortable telling 
Brad about her experiences.  She hesitated, looking down.

"Well...?" he demanded.

"It's a long story.  It's more than just reading cases," she 
started.  He nodded encouragingly.  She continued, "I'm 
intrigued by these unsolved cases.  And...  I felt something 
special about them."  She watched his face carefully, and 
noticing his dubious expression, added, "I have a kind of 
sense... of evil, of evil things, evil people...  I know it 
sounds crazy, but I thought if I could focus on these I might 
develop an image of what happened...."

"You mean a psychic image," Brad said incredulously.  She 
nodded, and he responded by running his hand through his hair.  
"Monica..."  He paused, groping for words and at the same time 
trying to rid himself of the condescending tone he heard in his 
voice.  "Monica," he said more compassionately.  "That's not how 
the FBI works.  If that's what you were expecting to do here..."

"No, that's not it!" Monica began to panic.  "I want to do 
investigative work.  It's what I've trained for, what I've 
looked forward to... And evil... It's really not that common.  I 
mean, people do evil things, but sometimes they are good 
themselves.  I don't sense it often..." He seemed relieved, but 
she continued, "But when I do sense it, I'm right.  I know it.  
And I can't ignore it."

Brad sighed and leaned back in his chair.  "Okay," he challenged 
her.  "The playground abduction.  What do you sense from that?"

Monica opened her briefcase and thumbed through the files.  She 
pulled out one folder and put it in her lap.  She opened it and 
rested her hands on it, one hand over the picture of the child, 
the other over the typed report.  The heat of the image seared 
into her fingertips, but she breathed deeply, the serenity she'd 
found in the martial arts class rising from some unknown source 
and giving her more distance from the feeling.  She closed her 
eyes and saw a playground, children playing basketball, another 
child looking on.  She exhaled, her breath pushing the heat away 
from the image.  A cold wind blew across her face, and she saw 
the child pull up the hood of his sweatshirt and turn toward 
her.  She felt herself sliding backward as the child walked 
toward her, then she saw a car door open.  The child leaned 
toward it and something pulled him in.  The door slammed and she 
could see his face pressed against the window as it drove off.  
She could make out his words as he mouthed "Help me..."  Her 
mind's eye followed the car as it drove down a divided 
boulevard, then wound through traffic and crossed the Brooklyn 
Bridge.  She suddenly felt nauseous, and instinctively closed 
the folder and threw it on the floor.

"Well," Brad said skeptically.  "Sense anything?"

"The boy was pulled into a car -- a dark green four-door.  A big 
car...  It drove along a divided road, with trees growing in the 
median...  It crossed the Brooklyn Bridge....  I'm sorry, that's 
all I saw."

"Most of that was in the report.  Try another one."

She pulled another folder from her briefcase and repeated her 
procedure.  "This child went to the emergency room for an ear 
infection... she's in the waiting room, crying, playing with a 
toy...  a teddy bear, I think...  her mother is talking to a 
nurse...  a man with a moustache, dark hair, very short... he's 
watching the child...  someone rushes in with blood all over his 
shirt...  everybody's attention is on him..."

"Okay, that's enough," Brad interrupted. "ALL of that was in the 
report.  The witnesses described that entire scene."

"But I haven't read it," Monica said innocently.  "The report 
was stolen before I had a chance to..."

"Monica," Brad said, not attempting to mask his annoyance.  "We 
have fake psychics offering us their services all the time.  We 
don't need someone in the division pulling this crap."

Monica struggled to maintain her composure, but couldn't help 
raising her voice.  "I can prove it to you.  Pick a file at 
random -- one that I haven't read..."

"Monica, I want to believe you, but you have to admit..." he 
tried to calm her.

"Please, let me prove it to you.  In the conference room.  I 
won't sense something in every file, but I'll sense something 
there.  I'm sure of it.  It's how I knew that baby was in the 
dumpster."

Brad stared at her intently.  "What?"

"I sensed there was something there.  At first I thought it was 
the files, but it just kept getting stronger..."  Her eyes 
pleaded with him, even as her voice rose in anger.  "You don't 
believe me?  What do I have to do to make you believe me?"

"Okay," he said, standing up.  "Let's go to the conference 
room."

Monica picked up her briefcase and was at the door before he 
was.  In the conference room, Monica stood defiantly, her hands 
on her hips, looking him directly into his eyes.  "Pull out a 
file.  Any file."  She wasn't completely sure this would work, 
but she needed for him to believe her.

He pulled a picture from the wall and handed it to her.  "Try 
this," he ordered.

Monica took the picture in one hand, and laid her other hand 
over the top.  "This child is dead," she started.  "Her step-
father killed her, and he threw her body from a boat..." She 
sniffed.  "A fishing boat, I think."

Brad looked at her in disbelief.  "This is Catherine Cahill.  
Cathy's step-father is the prime suspect...  We've never been 
able to prove anything.  He tried to implicate her natural 
father."

Monica walked to the wall near Brad, and placed her hand over 
the picture of a boy.  "Nothing.  I don't sense a thing here..."

"Davon Smith, he disappeared from a beachhouse on Long Island.  
He'd been missing for several hours before his parents noticed.  
He may have drowned, but we never found a body."

Monica placed her hand on another picture and instantly felt 
heat.  She pulled her hand away.  "Something horrible happened 
to her.  I don't know if I can..."  She pushed her hand close to 
the picture, feeling heat rising from it as if from a flame.  
"Very, very bad..." She pulled her hand away and looked at Brad.

He shrugged his shoulders.  "Disappeared without a trace.  Her 
name is Keisha Campbell.  She was one of my first cases, and I 
think about her a lot.  You can't tell me more?"

Reaching out tentatively, Monica steeled herself against the 
heat, but needed to pull back.  "I'm sorry," she said, tears 
coming to her eyes.  "Can I try her file instead?"

Brad went to the file drawer, and to her file, in a matter of 
seconds.  Monica looked at the well-worn folder and then at 
Follmer's face.  "I want to believe you can do this, Monica," he 
said.  "Please try."

She sat down and put the file in front of her.  This was easier.  
She felt less heat, her legs were sturdier...  "She's dead," 
Monica started.  "She's been dead a long time...  She was 
stabbed...  Cut up..."  She looked up at Brad, tears moistening 
her eyes.  "Her body was put through a meat grinder."

Brad looked at her in horror.  "Can you see who did it?"

Closing her eyes, she forced her mind to look around, to look 
away from the child.  "It looks like a butcher shop...  Meat...  
A man is doing this... He's strong...  he has gray hair, but he 
isn't old...  He has a tattoo on his forearm...  No, both 
forearms..."

Brad grabbed the folder and flipped through the pages.  He laid 
it on the table.  "Is that the guy?" he demanded, nodding toward 
the picture looking up at her.

She gasped and looked from the picture to his face.  "Yes," she 
said, as amazed as he.

He turned and sprinted out the door and down the hallway.  
Monica followed the sound of his footsteps.  She found him 
standing at the elevators, pounding the call button.  "Damn him, 
damn him, damn him..." he muttered to himself.  He didn't notice 
her approaching, and when the elevator door opened, he didn't 
notice her slip in behind him.

In the elevator, Monica tugged at Brad's elbow.  He whirled 
around, surprised to see her.  "Agent Follmer," she said.  "Mind 
if I come with you?"

He thought for a moment, and decided her psychic ability 
overrided her inexperience at the FBI.  "Sure," he answered.  
"But let me do the talking."  She nodded.

They drove in silence, Brad's lips curled inward as he navigated 
the busy streets of lower Manhattan, passed through a long 
tunnel, and emerged on a highway in Brooklyn.  Monica sighed and 
rested her head against the window, trying to establish where 
she was, looking for landmarks.  They left the highway and drove 
onto a divided road, then to a residential street lined with 
large two-storey houses that contrasted with the pre-war brick 
buildings of the main streets.  "Where are we?" Monica asked.

"Flatbush," Brad answered.  His eyes remained focused ahead, as 
if seeing his destination while he was driving.  He turned onto 
a main street and parked next to a fire hydrant.  He pulled his 
FBI placard from the glovebox and threw it onto the dashboard.  
Monica could barely keep up as he strode to the front door of a 
butcher shop.

He approached the middle-aged woman behind the counter and 
flashed his badge.  "Where is he?"

She nervously glanced toward the back of the shop, and Brad 
raced to the doorway.  Monica followed behind, and the woman 
followed her.  

"What is it?" the woman cried out.  "What's wrong?"

Monica turned around and put her hands on the woman's shoulders.  
"Is he your husband?" Monica asked.  The woman nodded.  "We need 
to question him about a case."

"That little girl?" the woman asked anxiously.  Monica looked 
grimly back at her.  "We told the police -- we only saw her once 
or twice.  We don't know where she went."

"Stay here," Monica ordered, and the woman stayed where she was, 
as Monica raced to catch up with Brad.

She found him in a workroom, the workroom of her vision.  Brad 
grabbed the man by the neck and pushed him up against the wall.  
"Why did you do it, you bastard!" he shouted.

The man's face reddened instantly, but he managed to croak, "Do 
what? I didn't do nothing!"

Brad pulled the man away from the wall, then slammed him against 
it again.  "What did you do with her body?"

"Agent Follmer!" Monica shouted.  Brad seemed not to hear her.  
She ran up behind him and souted again, "Agent Follmer!"  The 
man's eye's started to bulge out, and Monica could hear him 
gasping for air.

Monica took a few backward steps and pulled out her gun.  She 
trained it on Brad and shouted, "Brad, let him go or I'll 
shoot."

Brad noticed the man's eyes looking over his shoulder, and he 
turned around.  The sight of Monica's resolute expression made 
Brad remember himself, and he let go of the man.  In the 
distance they could hear his wife yelling "He's killing him, 
he's killing him!"

Brad and Monica stared at each other for a moment as the butcher 
slid sideways against the wall, edging toward the doorway.  
Monica turned and pointed her gun toward him.  "You too," she 
said authoritatively.  "Don't move." The man raised his hands, 
the redness fading from his face, leaving him blanched and wide-
eyed.  Monica faced Brad and said, "Okay, ask him what you 
want," she ordered.

Brad was stunned by her reaction, and he looked from her to his 
suspect.  He walked slowly and deliberately toward the butcher, 
and put his hands into his pants pockets, as if to restrain 
himself.  In a low, controlled voice, he said, "You remember 
Keisha Campbell?"

The man looked puzzled.  "Who?" he said, with deliberate 
innocence.

"Seven years old?  Missing for two years?  Lived on the sixth 
floor," Brad's eyes looked upward as if to indicate the 
apartment building above the shop.

"Oh, yes.  Very sad.  What about it?" the butcher said, looking 
a little relieved.

Brad paused, a little confused by the suspect's reaction.  His 
silence was filled with the sound of footsteps and the voice of 
the butcher's wife saying, "In the back..."

Monica kept her gun pointed toward the butcher but readied 
herself to aim for the doorway.  A massive shadow grew on the 
floor in front of the doorway, until a man's silhouette arrived.  
From the doorway they heard a voice say, "Monica?"

"Joe?" Monica answered, subconsciously allowing her gun to 
follow the direction of her eyes. 

"What's going on here?" Joe asked, his hand on his holster. 

"We're questioning a suspect," Brad interjected. "Brad Follmer, 
we met yesterday..." Brad said in a saccharine tone, his hand 
exteded for a handshake. 

"Oh, yes," Joe responded, looking from Reyes' gun to Brad' face. 

"Agent Reyes," Brad took the hint. "Put away your gun." Monica 
did as she was told, but kept a wary eye on the butcher. Brad 
continued, "We are investiating a cold case. This man was a 
witness then, but..." 

Monica only half-listened as Brad filed Joe in on the details of 
the crime. She started to think about the crime, her vision, the 
meat grinder... She wandered to the side of the workshop then 
back to where she had been standing. Joe listened as Brad 
detailed the reasons why a beat cop needn't be on the scene, but 
he trained his eye on Monica's movements. 

Monica sensed something, something different from her vision. 
Was it being in that place that made it diffent? she wondered. 
Or was something else wrong here. She followed her sense as if 
following an odor, and felt herself feeling warmer and warmer as 
she walked further toward the back of the shop. She came to a 
metal door, and felt the handle. It was hot, as if the room on 
theother side were on fire. She slowly opened the door, and when 
it was opened an inch she could tell there was no fire. She 
walked in to the dark room, light from the doorway casting her 
shadow ahead of her. She felt heat under her feet, even as a 
cold draft cooled her cheeks. Stopping in the middle of the 
room, she closed her eyes and calmed her mind. Her heartbeat, 
which had been racing since pulling her gun on Brad, started to 
slow. She breathed deeply and let her body balance itself over 
her feet. Slowly, she felt the heat less, and started to develop 
a vision, different from the earlier vision. 

A child, about nine years old, a girl... with black hair, light 
skin, freckles, light blue eyes.. playing with dolls... Barbie 
and Ken?... No, G.I. Joe, and ... a little girl doll. G.I. Joe 
is putting his hands under the smaller doll's dress, and... 
Monica was horrified by the next part of her vision and shook it 
off. She opened her eyes, and gradually felt the heat return to 
her feet, then her legs... Voices from a distance were calling 
her. "Monica... Monica....' 

"Monica..." Joe said as he put his hand on her shoulder. She 
seemed not to recognize him at first. "Monica? Are you okay? 
What are you doing in the freezer?" 

Suddenly the light went on, and Monica could see the carcasses 
of frozen animals suspended from hooks. Brad stood in the 
doorway, a look of annoyance on his face. Monica could tell that 
he was talking to her, but she felt as if time had slowed down. 
She looked from Brad to Joe, then to the floor. She knelt down 
and pulled at a loose flap of linoleum, exposing a large 
stainless-steel box, the body of a dark-haired, freckle-faced 
little girl curled up inside, frozen solid. 

Brad approached and leaned over the opening.  "Maureen Cahill," 
he said matter-of-factly, and pulled his cellphone from his 
pocket.  He nodded in the direction of Monica and Joe.  Joe 
nodded back, and grabbed Monica by the hand.  They raced back to 
the shop, Monica gaining in consciousness as she ran.

Joe let go of Monica's hand and leapt onto the butcher's back.  
His left arm around the man's neck, he said, "You have the right 
to remain silent.  You have the right to an attorney..." as his 
right hand worked his handcuffs.

"What?" the man cried out.  His wife ran towards them, her arm 
stretched toward Joe's arm.  Monica instinctively intercepted 
the arm and pulled her back, sharply.

The older woman's eyes filled with tears and in a gurgling voice 
she said, "What are you people doing?  He didn't do nothing...  
Leave him alone... He's a good man.."  Monica continued pulling 
the woman, walking her backwards toward the front of the shop.  
She was still holding the struggling woman when she saw Brad 
come from the back.

Brad ran to Joe and said, "I'll take over from here.  You and 
your partner start securing the crime scene..."  Joe nodded and 
walked briskly to the front door.  Monica and Brad stared at 
each other silently.  Monica studied Brad's demeanor.  He was 
panting slightly, but he seemed to be in complete control of 
himself.  She couldn't believe it was the same man she'd aimed 
her gun at earlier.

Brad turned to the butcher and said, "How many?  How many have 
there been..." He added with sarcasm, "MISter Jeffries?"

Jeffries' eyes were half closed, and he looked coldly at Brad.  
"Talk to my lawyer," was all he said.

After the crime scene had been secured, and the victim had been 
removed, Brad showed Monica to a countertop and took out a small 
notebook.  "Here," he started.  "Before you leave, be sure to 
take down the details you'll need in case you're questioned..."  
He recited the basic facts of the case as Monica dutifully wrote 
everything in tiny, precise handwriting.  

She was mid-sentence when Brad stopped talking.  She looked up 
and saw Joe looming over her on the opposite side from Brad.  
She smiled broadly, exhaling loudly through her nostrils.  Brad 
couldn't help notice the gleam in her eyes, and he didn't like 
it.

"We're just about done here," Joe said, almost sadly.

"It was good to see you again," Monica answered, her eyes 
telling him the same things they'd told Brad.

"I don't think you need a self-defense course, Monica..." Joe 
started.

"I'm interested... Really!  And I definitely want to join the 
gym."

"I'm going again tonight," Joe said a little more softly, as if 
trying to keep Brad from listening.  Brad stood by, showing a 
carefully measured expression of displeasure.  Joe continued, 
"Want me to pick you up?"  Monica nodded.  "Same time?"  

She nodded again and smiled.  "This time I want to try out the 
whirlpool afterward, if you don't mind eating a little later."

Joe swallowed uncomfortably, the image of Monica in a bathing 
suit draining the moisture from his throat.  "That's good.  We 
can do that..."

Monica set down her pen and reached for his hand.  "See you 
then," she said, squeezing his hand gently.  His hand was so 
strong she wasn't sure she'd really squeezed it, then she felt a 
very gentle pressure from his hand.  "See you then," he 
answered.

She watched as he exited, her eyes on his triangular form, 
following the lines of his silhouette down to his well-defined 
ass.  She lost track of her surroundings, then felt the tug of 
Brad's hand on her sleeve.  "You're not going out with that ape, 
are you?"

Monica stared at him, open-mouthed, before defiantly answering, 
"Why shouldn't I?" 

Brad sighed and closed his eyes. "Monica," he started slowly, 
shaking his head slightly. He opened his eyes and looked 
pityingly into hers, "He's the cop who took your report when 
your briefcase was stolen..." 

"So?" Monica interrupted, both puzzled and angry. 

"So..." Brad said condescendingly. "You are a victim in one of 
his cases. There's nothing lower than a cop who takes advantage 
of a victim." 

"He's not taking advantage of me," she shot back. "We went to 
the gym together -- ONCE! -- That was it. And anyway, how do you 
know I'm not taking advantage of him?" 

He looked into her face, and he found her defiance exhilirating. 
Her eyes were gleaming with anger, their pupils wide and liquid. 
For the second time that day he felt he was under her control. 
He wanted to tell her she could do anything she wanted, but he 
also wanted to keep her from getting hurt. As he tried to think 
of the right words, she took a step backward and spread her legs 
slightly, as if preparing for a boxing match. He felt himself 
obeying her demand for respect, and before he could think 
through his approach, he said, "Just be careful, okay?" 

"Of course," she answered, tight-lipped. "Are we finished here?" 
she demanded. 

They drove back to Manhattan, and this time the silence was her 
doing. She leaned against the window, reviewing the morning's 
events. It seemed that everything she did was wrong in her 
supervisor's eyes. He was so sure of himself, so experienced, so 
knowledgeable... She wanted so much to be respected by him, and 
she felt that goal receding further and further into the 
distance. She glanced at him and he returned her glance, showing 
her the concern she'd seen far too many times already. He's 
worried because I'm not talking, she thought. She tried to think 
of something to say, but she couldn't think of anything that 
wouldn't make things worse. 

They emerged from the tunnel, and Brad drove a different route, 
along the East River, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. "Where are we 
going?" she asked, a little nervously. 

"It's lunch time. We're going to the South Street Seaport, where 
we can talk." 

Monica felt a flash of panic, as if she'd been kidnapped. She 
looked at him and could see the hurt in his eyes as he saw her 
expression. "There are a few things we need to straighten out, 
away from prying ears," he said, smiling the most comforting 
smile he could manage. She knew it was a phony smile, but the 
attempt was comforting nonetheless. 

They went to a seafood restaurant, and while they were waiting 
for their meal, Brad said, "Monica, you need to understand the 
difference between the local P.D. and the FBI." She looked at 
him quizzically and he continued, "Especially the beat cops. 
They operate on a more basic level than we do... I mean, look at 
their training. It isn't half what ours is..." 

Monica felt nauseous suddenly. Was she hearing right? "They were 
there for me when I needed them..." she started. 

"But who went dumpster diving for you?" Monica opened her mouth 
to object, but Brad quickly added, "And when they can't solve a 
case, who do they go to? Don't get me wrong, they have their 
place, but ... Monica, ..." he sighed again. "You can do better, 
is all I'm saying." 

She stared silently at him, her accusative expression making him 
feel like a small man in a tall body. He fought against the 
shriveling of his ego, but her displeasure won and he thought, 
well at least I tried. "Just be careful... promise me?" he said 
pleadingly. 

She nodded silently, her eyes fixed on his. 

After they arrived at their building, Brad walked Monica to her 
office and said in his most business-like tone, "About your 
training... There are some procedures I'd like you to review. 
Study them this afternoon then come to my office at about four 
o'clock." He pulled a large procedure manual from her desk 
drawer, marked some pages for her to study, then left.  She 
stood silently, watching him as he walked purposefully down the 
hallway.  She hoped he would turn around.  He didn't.

When Brad got back to his office, he found an 
uncharacteristically nervous Janet jumping up to greet him. 
"A.D. Williams wants to see you," she said grimly.

"Did you make an appointment?" Brad answered as unemotionally as 
he could, despite the knot that had just formed in his stomach.

"He wanted to see you as soon as you got back," Janet replied, 
knowing that the A.D. rarely made such a request.  Brad offered 
no answer, except a silent "Oh shit!" in his mind.

Follmer sat across from Williams, hoping for the best, yet 
fearing the worst. The A.D. had his arms outstretched on his 
desk, each hand resting on a manilla file folder. 

Williams pulled a sheet of paper from the thinner, brighter, 
file folder and handed it to Brad. Brad looked at him in 
confusion, and Wiliams answered, "Read it... out loud." 

He read the top line silently: "Investigative Request for 
Employment, Data and Supervisor Information," a form sent to 
previous employers by the Office of Personnel Management. Brad 
knew that there were several of these in Reyes' folder, as there 
were for most federal employees. He didn't remember any of them 
saying anything bad about Reyes. He furrowed his brow and looked 
again at Williams' poker face. Williams said, "Read the other 
side. Number 6" 

Brad turned the page over, and at Number 6 read, "Additional 
information... derogatory as well as positive information.... 
Monica Reyes is one of the best employees I've ever supervised. 
She is dependable, intelligent, and a model of self-control. She 
would make a fine addition to your staff." After he'd finished 
reading, Brad's brow was even more furrowed. "I don't 
understand," he said cautiously. "What am I supposed to be 
seeing here?" 
Williams reached for the page and put it back in its folder, 
then pulled an identical form from the larger, older, folder. 
"Read Number 6 on this one." 

Brad's face flushed immediately. "Brad Follmer is intelligent 
and quick to learn. He has a strong sense of duty and is easy to 
supervise. His main fault is that he sometimes acts without 
thinking, letting his emotions rule his actions. He has made 
some progress controlling his emotions, and I expect continued 
progress along these lines." Brad's voice started to crack as he 
neared the end, and when Williams reached for the page, it shook 
slightly in Brad's hand. 

"Agent Follmer," Williams said, eyeing Brad carefully. "Would 
you expect an agent who has been described as 'a model of self-
control' to point a gun at her supervisor without good reason?" 

"No sir," Brad answered. 

"What was her reason, then?" 

Brad's stomach was in knots as he realized Williams knew 
everything. "Because I had let my emotions rule my actions." 

"Oh?" Williams said with feigned curiosity. "In what way?" 

Brad gulped. "I was holding a suspect by his neck. Agent Reyes 
believed I was hurting him." 

"The suspect agrees with her. And so does the judge," Williams 
said sternly. Brad's face changed from a flushed and dappled 
pink, to a near-white pallor. 'Oh, crap,' he thought. 

"Fortunately, we have a body..." Williams continued. Brad 
exhaled and his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Unfortunately," 
Williams added, "there was no search warrant. You do know what a 
search warrant is?" Brad nodded. 

Williams' face reddened slightly, the first sign of anger Brad 
had seen. "And you do know how to go about procuring one?" 

Brad nodded vigorously and said, "I'm sorry... I..." 

Williams cut him off. "Just what were you doing there anyway? 
And with a rookie agent?" 

Brad, relieved at being given a chance for some damage control, 
took a deep breath and said, "I was going over some cold case 
files with Agent Reyes, when I suddenly had a hunch... I was 
following up on that hunch... and I was right." 

"That's the only thing saving your career right now, Agent 
Follmer. Even though the case will no doubt be thrown out, and 
the D.A.'s office is now reviewing every pending case we've 
brought to their office, and the Brooklyn P.D. is even less 
likely to cooperate with us, you were indeed correct. This hunch 
of yours may save a child's life. Don't think I haven't 
considered that..." 

"But...?" Brad interjected. 

"You're new to your position, so you're already on probation. I 
will be watching you more carefully now." He pulled a sheet of 
paper out from under Monica's file folder. "Here is Agent Reyes' 
training schedule. Note that she will not be going into the 
field for at least two weeks. Note that you will be accompanying 
her at every stage. You will not be going into the field for at 
least two weeks, either. Her training period will also be a re-
training period for you." 

Brad glanced at the schedule. It looked good -- better than what 
he'd been planning for her. "Thank you, sir," Brad said, his 
voice indicating a wish to close their meeting. "I'll get on it 
right away." He put his hands on the arms of the chair and 
started to push himself up. 

"One more thing," Williams said. "Why did Agent Reyes point her 
gun at a police officer?" Brad's face was ashen. Was there 
anything Williams didn't know? He was speechless, and Williams 
provided his own answer. "My guess is that she pointed her gun 
in the direction she was looking. Be sure she gets over that 
tendency. She's a model of self-control, remember? Make sure she 
learns how to control her gun." 

Monica arrived at Brad's office a few minutes before 4:00. Janet 
typed busily at her computer, and Monica felt as if she were 
intruding. She sat perfectly still, her eyes closed, mentally 
reviewing the procedures she'd been studying. They were all 
procedures that had been covered at the academy, and she was 
both bored and insulted by her assignment.
 
The sound of the intercom buzzer startled both her and Janet. 
Janet pushed a button and Monica could hear Follmer's voice say, 
"When Agent Reyes gets here, send her right in, please." 

"She's here now, Agent Follmer," Janet answered efficiently. 

There was silence from the intercom for a moment, then the inner 
office door suddenly opened. An overly cheerful Brad Follmer 
smiled and said, "Come in Agent Reyes." Monica could tell by his 
voice and by Janet's face that something was wrong. 

Brad ushered her in and shut the door behind them. "Agent Reyes, 
I have your training schedule prepared." He handed her a copy of 
the schedule and continued, "I will be training you personally 
for the next two weeks, except for a few sessions instructed by 
specialists, but I will attend those with you. I felt it best 
for me to know what you know first-hand before assigning you to 
a partner." 

Monica nodded. This wasn't bad news, she thought. Why did he 
seem so nervous? She looked over the schedule. It looked 
rigorous, but not more rigorous than the academy. "I've already 
had courses in..." 

Brad interrupted her, "This may seem like a mere review..." He 
walked around her chair and leaned over her shoulder from 
behind. He pointed at a few sessions and said, "Here, here, 
here, and... here. These sessions will concentrate on cases 
involving children." 

She turned her head to look up, and as she did he couldn't help 
looking into her eyes. Their faces were only inches from each 
other, and he suddenly felt a wave of desire for her. He closed 
his mouth in a tight-lipped grin and took a deep breath. Instead 
of relaxing him, the breath gave him a whiff of her scented 
shampoo, and he felt transfixed. 
She could see the desire in his eyes, and she felt both 
flattered and excited. After that first day in the lobby, she'd 
tried to rid herself of unwelcome feelings about him, but 
looking at him looking at her was weakening her resolve. 

They were startled by the sound of the door opening, and Janet's 
voice saying, "Agent Follmer, is it okay if I leave early today? 
I've typed that report for you, and unless you have something 
else..." 

"No, no, that's fine, Janet," Brad answered hastily. "Thank you 
for rushing that. You can go." 

Janet looked from Brad to Monica, and both flushed. She backed 
through the doorway and closed the door behind her. Brad went to 
the door and locked it, then sat behind his desk. Monica 
exhaled, relieved to have several feet between them once again. 

"About these procedures," Monica started. "I've read them. Is 
there anything else I need to know?" 

Brad's face was inscrutable for a moment, and he pulled at the 
skin under his nose as he thought about his response. Finally he 
said, "Yes, let's go to the shooting range. If you're going to 
be pointing your gun at your supervisor, I want to be sure you 
know what you're doing." 

Monica flushed and attempted to smile. "Sorry about that. Just 
instinct, I guess." 

Brad grabbed his coat and said, "Let's go." In the outer office, 
Janet hurriedly hit a button on the intercom. 

On the way to the shooting range Brad reviewed the kinds of 
distractions she would encounter, and how he would help her 
train for them. As he held the door open for her, he added, 
"Although in today's incident, shooting at the distraction might 
have been a good thing." 

Her angry glare told him he shouldn't have said it, but he 
couldn't help himself. He hated beat cops. He hated muscular 
guys. He hated cops who dated victims. And he was growing to 
like Monica. He mentally kicked himself for opening his mouth, 
but felt no regrets about his feelings. 
Later, as Monica stood facing a paper target, Brad moved behind 
her, making noises first on one side, then the other, trying 
vain to make her move her gun. He pulled his flashlight from his 
pocket and shone the beam near the target, first one side, then 
the other. Again, Monica's aim was true. He put the flashlight 
in his pocket, then crept up close behind her, pulled up on her 
ear protection, and whispered into her right ear, "The bad guy's 
coming..." 

Monica twitched and yanked her gun to the right, shooting a hole 
in another agent's target. "Don't do that!" she said, turning 
her head toward his. Again she found herself within inches of 
his face, and her heart started to race. 

"What happens when the bad guy does that?" Brad asked, keeping 
his eyes on hers. This time he didn't notice her shampoo; he was 
truly concerned for her performance. "Here, let's try this 
again," he said gently. 
He stood behind her and removed her ear protection. "Okay, now 
hold your gun out as usual..." he said, then gave her a few 
seconds to reposition herself. He placed his arms against the 
outsides of hers, and pressed inward. 

"Okay, now just keep shooting, and don't let anything make you 
move your gun. Ready?" She nodded. 

He let her shoot a few rounds then said into her left ear, 
"Who's that?" Her left arm pressed against his, and he pressed 
back, but the bullet still missed its target. She sighed in 
exasperation. "It's okay," he said patiently. Let's try again." 

He let her shoot one round, then in her right ear he said, "It's 
Bugs Bunny." Her right arm pressed against his, and she started 
shaking in laughter. 

"That's not fair!" she cried out. "Let me try again!" She felt 
determined to overcome this fault, and the image of Bugs Bunny 
in her mind's eye somehow made her feel better. 

She shot another few rounds as Brad tried to think of another 
trick. Having his arms around her, her body so close to his, was 
starting to make him feel uncomfortable. But he didn't want to 
let go. 

She continued shooting, anxiously awaiting her next distraction, 
when suddenly she felt his gun against the small of her back. 
She clenched her jaw and kept her eye on the target, firing 
nearly perfect shots. But when she felt him blowing gently 
against her ear, she lost her composure again, and the shot went 
wild. Instinctively, she whirled to face him, and the look in 
his eyes told her everything -- that wasn't his gun she'd felt, 
and his breath on her ear was no training exercise. 

She jumped backward, breathing heavily.  "What was that?" she 
demanded.

"Whatever it was, it made you lose your cool," he answered, his 
voice a little gravelly.  He stepped backward and took a deep 
breath.  He kept his eyes trained on hers, hoping she wasn't 
thinking less of him.  "And tomorrow you'll be in a simulator.  
I'm going to help set it up.  I'll observe, but I won't be with 
you."

Monica relaxed and put her gun in its holster.  She looked at 
her watch, as much to get his eyes off hers as to check the 
time, then said "I really have to get going.  Joe's picking me 
up at 6:30."

Brad sighed but said nothing.  He looked down at his feet and 
ground his teeth.  As Monica brushed past him, he said softly 
and apologetically, "I'll give you a lift.  I don't want you to 
be late."  He looked into her face and saw skepticism borne of 
betrayal.  "Really," he said sincerely.  "I didn't mean to keep 
you so long.  I don't want you to be late... Really, I don't" he 
said sincerely.

As they drove, Brad thought about Williams.  How many people had 
seen what he'd done?  How long would it take to get back to 
Williams?  In the tunnel the lights on the walls cast an eerie 
glow on Monica's face.  "Look," he said finally.  "Your training 
is important.  It's not just skills... It's socialization... 
into the profession.  It's not enough to know FBI rules, have 
all the right skills... you need a certain mindset."  Monica 
sulked but listened.  "So what I'm saying... he's a cop, they 
think differently... and he's not a particularly good one."

"Why do you think that?" she asked defensively.

"He didn't recognize my name the first time I met him, he didn't 
remember my face the second time I met him, and he didn't react 
when you pointed your gun at him..."  Brad looked toward her as 
they sat in front of her apartment. "He's going to get hurt.  
And if he gets hurt, you get hurt," he said significantly.

"Nice try," Reyes answered, and left the car.  Brad watched as 
she ran up the steps to the stoop and quickly entered her 
apartment.

When Joe picked her up, Monica was still feeling humiliated and 
angry with Brad, but she didn't say anything about him to Joe. 
Joe sensed her discomfort and tried to cajole her into smiling, 
but she looked wistfully at him and said simply, "Long day at 
work. I'm looking forward to burning off some steam." 

Monica was disappointed by the self-defense course. It covered 
techniques she already knew, so she left and went to the 
exercycles. She pedalled faster and faster, her mind stuck on 
Brad... She knew about sexual harrassment law, about why she 
shouldn't have feelings about her supervisor, how he'd put her 
in an awkward position... She repeated to herself 'Don't think 
about Brad... Don't think about Brad... Don't think about 
Brad...' and focused her attention on the poster on the opposite 
wall. Gradually her emotions calmed and her mind returned to the 
present. She slowed to a stop and sighed. They're adults, and 
professionals, she assured herself. Everything will be alright. 
Just then a woman wearing a Bugs Bunny T-shirt mounted the cycle 
opposite her, and Monica chuckled to herself. She left the cycle 
area, and checked in on Joe. He was doing leg exercises, and 
grabbed her hand as she approached. 

"All done?" he asked, smiling with eagerness. "I just have 
another ten minutes or so..." 

Monica smiled down at him and sighed. His pleasure at seeing her 
was 
intoxicating. "I'll meet you in the hot tub in ten minutes 
then." She turned to go but he pulled her back and downward, 
lifting his face towards hers. She felt giddy and flattered by 
his possessiveness, and leaned the rest of the way to meet his 
lips. She pulled back and they smiled at each other. 

"Ten minutes..." she said, and flitted toward the martial arts 
room. 
Monica found the schedule of classes and tried in vain to make 
sense of it. What wasn't abbreviated was in transliterated 
Chinese... She recognized a few words from her studies of 
mythology, but had no idea what they would mean here. A man 
approached her from the side and said, "Can I help you?" 
She turned and saw a muscular man, a little shorter than she, 
with nappy African hair, light brown skin, and green eyes. His 
unusual looks caugh her off-guard and she stammered, "I'm 
interested in some classes... I've had self-defense... and" 

"And you wish to pursue martial arts to protect yourself 
better?" the man answered calmly. 

"Yes... um, no," Reyes stammered. "I watched a class 
yesterday... at 
seven... they were doing a kind of breathing exercise first. I 
liked that. What is that?" 

"It is called Chi Kung, one of the components of the Shaolin 
Martial Art," he answered, "Breathing practices are united with 
combat arts. There is a saying: 'Before a foot or hand strikes, 
comes Breath.' Chi which is transferred with blood is the base 
of Courage and Strength. The heart is the marshal of the body 
and the Breath Chi is the dignitary who goes in advance. The 
eyes are standards and banners; if they are clouded, you loose 
orientation; they do not comprehend the meaning of enemy's 
disposition and can not determine movement and tranquility."

Monica was stunned. Could this be the answer to her problems on 
the firing range? "How do I learn that?" she asked eagerly. 

"We do not teach it as a single skill," the instructor replied. 
"When practicing Chi Kung, your thoughts must be in a state of 
full concentration. The concentration of the mind on Dantien, 
the Cinnabar Field," the instructor patted his abdomen, just 
below his navel. 
"... is the main secret and the basic principle of Chi Kung 
practice. It takes daily practice, not just a few lessons... 
And, we teach it as part of Shaolin Kung Fu, and Tai Chi Chuan, 
which are in turn part of a larger spiritual truth. Shaolin 
philosophy has three spiritual goals: Leading a morally upright 
and happy life. Enjoying heavenly bliss in the after-life. 
Attaining enlightenment in Zen." 

Monica nodded, transfixed, her eyes beaming with enthusiasm. 
"When do I start?" 

The instructor looked at her skeptically, "Most of our students 
come to us for instruction in martial arts, for fighting. You do 
not seem to be interested in fighting..." 

"I'm an FBI agent ... well, as of a few days ago," she 
confessed. "I've learned about fighting. But something has been 
missing from my training... I can feel it." 

A trace of desperation flashed over her face, and the instructor 
nodded sympathetically. "A new class begins in two weeks. But 
you may join my classes for the chi breathing excercises if you 
wish." 

"Thank you," she gushed. She grabbed his hand and shook it in 
both of hers. "I can't wait." She looked at the schedule, and 
before she could ask, he answered, "You may come to any class 
with my initials on it. My name is Dennis Gray -- DG." Monica 
was relieved to find he taught classes most evenings. "Thank 
you," she gushed again.
 
Monica hurriedly changed into her bathing suit and wrapped a gym 
towel around her waist.  Joe was sitting in the hot tub when she 
arrived, his flushed face telling her she'd kept him waiting.  
"Sorry," she said breathlessly.  "I lost track of time -- 
talking kung fu.."

Joe smiled up at her and held his hand up to do karate chops in 
the air.  "Monica, grasshopper... come to the hot tub... your 
chi awaits you..."  She threw the towel to the side then stepped 
toward him and took his hand.  His eyes were sparkling, and she 
couldn't help pausing to let him admire her.  She grinned and 
looked down on him, like a princess and her suitor.  She forgot 
all about chi breathing, and was almost hyperventilating as she 
stepped forward and dipped her toe into the water.  Joe stood up 
to help her, letting her see the ripples of his abdominal 
muscles, and the veins stretching against his arm muscles.  
Monica took in the sight, and giggled as the warm water swirled 
around her ankles.  She felt awkward and silly as her long legs 
tried to find their way.  Joe seemed not to mind -- he kept his 
eyes on hers, but they told her they'd taken in everything else 
too.  

They seated themselves gingerly, and Joe put his arm around her 
shoulders.  She leaned against him, helping him pull her to him, 
and her arm slid over his chest.  She slipped her other arm 
behind him, and their lips met for a tender, electric kiss.  It 
was brief, but powerful, and they pulled away from each other 
reluctantly.  He brought his far arm around to cup her chin and 
they gazed giddily at each other.  Joe broke the silence saying, 
"Isn't this relaxing?"

Monica hummed, deep in her throat.  "You'd think.  But I don't 
feel relaxed right now."

"No?" he teased.  "How do you feel?"

She chuckled, a throaty chuckle from even deeper in her throat.  
"Hot," she said, stretching out the "h."

He leaned in for another kiss, and this one was open-mouthed and 
sensuous, softness against softness, tongue against tongue.  Joe 
moved toward Monica until his broad shoulders and back were 
covering her body, blocking the view from the doorway, giving 
his hand permission to slide over places that shouldn't be 
touched in public.  She arched toward him and let her lips show 
him her appreciation for the movements of his hand.  He moved 
his mouth to her ear and whispered, "want to order Chinese 
instead of going out to eat?"

She put her mouth to his ear and murmured, "Moo Goo Gai Pan."

Joe dropped off Monica at her apartment and she hurriedly 
straightened things out while she waited for him to park his 
car.  After twenty minutes, the apartment was ready for company, 
the table was set for dinner, candles burned from several 
directions.  She started to feel anxious, wondering if she'd 
been teased.  She stood behind the door and listened for his 
footsteps.  Finally she heard his footsteps pounding toward her 
door.  She flung the door open and greeted him with a smile.  
His surly expression surprised her.  "It's impossible parking in 
this neighborhood," he grunted.

"That's why I don't have a car," she said cheerfully.  She 
locked the door and followed him into the living room.  "Relax," 
she said soothingly, running her hands over his upper arms.  
"It's okay now."

He turned and started to object, then felt the frustration of 
parking melt away into the chocolate pools of her eyes.  "Yes, 
you're right," he said gently.  He put his arms around her waist 
and pulled her to him.  They kissed, not as passionately as 
before, but sincerely nonetheless.  He pulled away from her and 
smiled appreciatively.  "Do you have this effect on everyone?" 
he asked.

"What effect?"

"Somehow," he kept his hands on her waist and rocked her from 
side to side.  "Somehow, you make everything seem okay.  Did you 
know that?"

She blushed.  "It must be just you," she said.  "Maybe it's 
because you have that effect on me."  She put her hands behind 
his neck and pulled him to her.  They kissed more passionately, 
their bodies grinding against each other, their hands grasping 
each other firmly.  He walked her backwards toward her futon, 
and when she felt the mattress against her calves she turned and 
looked down.  She let herself fall backwards onto it, pulling 
Joe down with her.  They sat there, kissing, touching, rubbing 
for what seemed like hours, when suddenly Joe pulled away and 
said, "I hate to say this, but where's your bathroom?"

She nodded toward it, then said, "Should I call for the food?"

"Sure," he answered.  She couldn't help feeling disappointed, 
but tried to be cheerful as he told her what to order for him.  
As she thumbed through the Yellow Pages she sighed, and felt 
nostalgic for the feel of his body.  She closed her eyes and 
relived the past few moments, feeling his lips, hands, and...  
Suddenly she opened her eyes, her heart racing.  That wasn't Joe 
pressing against her back, it was Brad.  She felt panicky.  What 
was she doing here?  How could she feel this way?  She hurriedly 
phoned the restaurant and put in her order, then slammed down 
the phone.  She looked anxiously toward the bathroom when she 
heard the flush, her feelings still conflicted.

Joe walked toward her, a spring in his step, as he shoved his T-
shirt into his jeans.  "Sorry that took so long..." he started.

Monica moved toward him, and tugged at the fold of fabric he was 
trying to shove into his pants.  "The food will be here in 
twenty minutes," she said, pulling sideways and out on his 
shirt.  "But we can always heat it up later..."  She started 
pulling up on his shirt and he grinned.

"Yeah, we could do that."

When his shirt was off, Monica ran her hands over his chest, 
shoulders, and abdomen, gently at first, then more firmly as she 
sensed his muscles flexing under her touch.  Even a man this 
buff held his breath at a time like this, she marveled.  She 
stepped back and pulled at the hem of her own T-shirt, exposing 
a few inches of her flat midriff.  His hand went toward it 
instantly, then slid under her shirt as far as it could reach.  
Monica was starting to feel frustrated with his teasing, and she 
grasped her shirt by both hands, pulling it over her head in one 
smooth motion.

Their next kiss was urgent, almost hard, and the 
ragged exhalations from his nostrils sent tingles up her spine.  
After gently massaging each breast, Joe found the clasp of her 
bra and expertly undid it.  ...

  She stepped 
backward and pulled at the front edge of her futon, turning it 
into a bed.  She sat at the edge and looked invitingly up at 
him.  ...

"That was incredible," he whispered into her 
ear.  He slid his hand over her body in absent, random 
patterns.  "You're so beautiful..." he whispered even more 
softly, then kissed her cheek.

Monica laid next to him, thinking 'Is that it?' She looked at 
her clock -- ten more minutes until the food came.  She sighed.  
"Thank you," she whispered.

They were dressed by the time the food arrived, and Monica tried 
her best to hide her disappointment.  He has no idea, she 
thought.  Well, there's time... Next time I'll tell him what I 
want...  

She chewed her food silently as he exuberantly described some of 
his adventures on the job.  Then, he turned serious for a 
moment, and said, "My partner asked for a transfer -- all these 
cases with children, he just can't take it -- and we're having a 
little party for him.  Can you come?"

Monica smiled and swallowed.  "When?"

"Saturday afternoon.  We're going to have a pot-luck, and his 
wife and kid will be there.  I'm bringing my mom's baked ziti.  
You gotta try it.  My mom makes the best baked ziti in 
Brooklyn!"

She found his enthusiasm infectious, and said "Just say when -- 
I'm there!"

After dinner, Monica cleared the table, and put the dirty dishes 
in the sink.  Joe came up behind her and wrapped his arms around 
her waist.  He nuzzled her neck, then said, "I hate to do this, 
but I gotta go... My mom will wonder where I am."

Monica wheeled around.  "Your mom?  You live with your mother?"

"Sure, at least until I get married, and even then, it will take 
awhile to save money for a house..."

Monica blushed at his use of the m-word.  "I'm just a little 
surprised...  You seem so independent..."

"Thanks, but the city's expensive, and besides," he stroked her 
hair gently as he spoke.  "Ma needs me since dad died.  She 
shouldn't be living alone...."  He bent forward and gave her a 
peck on the cheek.  "Want to come to the gym again tomorrow?  
Lots of guest passes left..."  Monica nodded and he kissed her, 
briefly, on the lips.  "See you at 6:30," he said.  He walked to 
the door and let himself out.

****************************************************************
***********
THURSDAY

The next day, Monica's performance at the simulator was dismal.  
Brad looked on from a distance, until she finally turned and 
asked for his help.

"Let me see what you've done," he said, and with a few 
keystrokes was able to see a computer read-out of her results.  
"Hmmmmm.  You've killed three innocents, and died five times 
yourself....  What do you think the trouble is?"

"Distractions," Monica said immediately.  "Just like yesterday -
- worse, in fact."

"Well, this simulator is designed to be realistic, and yesterday 
you were firing at a known object, with limited distractions.  
Maybe you need an easier simulation to start with." He typed a 
few lines of text, clicked his mouse a few times, then said, 
"Let's see how you do with this one."

Monica positioned herself and put her gun out in front of her as 
Brad looked on from behind.  The simulator started, and a street 
scene appeared on the screen.  Her eyes darted from one part of 
the scene to the other, and from person to person.  A dog ran in 
front of her and she started to breathe faster, her mouth 
grimacing.  Finally, a figure emerged from the left and she shot 
at it, leaving her defenseless against the figure from the right 
who had a gun.  "Bang, bang, you're dead," said Brad.

Monica turned to face him, tears welling up in her eyes.  "What 
am I missing?" she asked in desperation.

Brad walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.  
"It's going to run again, exactly the same, now put up your 
gun," he said.  Monica did as she was told.  "Okay," he said, 
shaking her shoulders gently.  "Now, the important thing is to 
know which guy is the right guy.  You don't want to nail the 
first guy you see...  The right guy could come at you from any 
direction, and you won't notice him if you're distracted by the 
wrong guy.  Now, watch..." he described the scenario as it 
unfolded, instructing her on what to watch for.  He ran his 
hands down her arms to her elbows.  As he did so, his body moved 
closer to hers, his voice speaking more and more directly into 
her ear.

She turned her head to face him, and their lips accidentally 
grazed each other.  She lowered her arms and his hands moved 
from her elbows to her waist.  Their mouths went to each other, 
and they kissed hungrily.  She dropped the simulated gun and 
turned to wrap her arms around his waist.  She ran her hands 
over his back, and he drew his hands up and into her hair.  She 
pulled back a few inches and whispered, "People can see us.  We 
shouldn't..."

"Who cares?" he answered.  He kissed her passionately, and let 
out a throaty groan.  He moved his mouth to her ear 
and said in a loud whisper, "God, you're beautiful...  I can't 
stop thinking about you..."

Suddenly a very loud "ahem" caught their attention.  There, with 
a very stern and disapproving look, was Janet.  Brad and Monica 
stared at her, saying nothing.

"I've been sent here to tell you," Janet said grimly.  "That you 
are fired.  Both of you."

Before Brad or Monica could answer...  the alarm went off.  It 
was 6:00 a.m., time to get ready for another eight hours of work 
and sexual self-denial.

*****

At 8:05, Monica rushed up the subway stairs, eager for a morning 
chat with the smoking secretaries, but they weren't at the 
entrance. She was running late, and she'd missed them. 

Janet sat at her desk, checking her e-mail while she sipped on 
her coffee. She looked up as a somewhat rushed and disheveled 
Monica threw open the door. "I'm late!" Monica announced, 
breathing heavily. 

"Relax," said Janet. "He's not here yet." Monica sighed loudly 
and sat down on the guest chair. "So tell me," Janet said, a 
glint in her eye. "Did you see Joe again?" 

"Yes," Monica said, smiling a little dreamily. "We went to the 
gym again..." Monica's mind drifted to the more pleasant 
memories of her evening with Joe. 

"When is he going to take you on a real date?" 

Monica was taken aback by this question. "He invited me to the 
farewell party for his partner. That's sort of like a date..." 
Monica's voice trailed off. "I get to meet his mother's baked 
ziti." 

"I bet his mother's baked ziti is the best in Brooklyn," Janet 
nodded knowingly. Monica looked at her with a startled 
expression. In answer, Janet added, "Every Italian boy's mama 
makes the best baked ziti in Brooklyn. Someday I'll bring some 
of mine in, and you'll see whose ziti is really the best." Janet 
winked, and Monica grinned. 

"Anyway, we're just getting to know each other," Monica said, a 
little defensively. "Going to the gym together is as good a way 
to get to know someone as going to the movies." 

"Just don't go too far too fast," Janet warned. "Italian boys 
don't marry hussies." 

Monica's jaw dropped. "Janet!" she exclaimed. "I'm not a hussy!" 
"I hope not!" Janet answered. "But I had to say it. If you 
didn't know about baked ziti..." She stopped talking when the 
outer door swung open. A flushed and panting Brad threw himself 
into the waiting room. 

Janet and Monica looked at him, then at each other. "I'm sorry 
I'm late," Brad said to Monica. It sounded to her as if he were 
truly sorry, not just making excuses for himself, and she was 
flattered. 

Janet interrupted, "A.D. Williams called. He wants you to call 
him right away." 

Brad's worried expression surprised Monica, but he didn't 
notice. He raced into his office and shut the door. Monica 
looked to Janet for an explanation, but Janet had assumed the 
professional demeanor of her office. 

A moment later Brad emerged, more calm, his color back to 
normal. 

"Agent Reyes," he said in his most professional voice. "We've 
had a change of schedule. Instead of the simulator, this morning 
we'll be observing an autopsy. It's the child from the 
dumpster." 

Monica swallowed and could feel panic threatening to overtake 
her. If merely being near that child made her vomit... "I'm not 
sure I can..." she looked at Brad pleadingly. 

"Surely you observed some autopsies at Quantico?" Brad replied, 
keeping his businesslike expression. Monica nodded. "Well," he 
said, "it's harder when it's a child, but it's part of our job. 
And it's part of your training. As A.D. Williams pointed out, we 
don't know when there will be another opportunity." He turned to 
Janet and said "Please reschedule Ms. Reyes' simulator 
training." 

At the morgue, Monica felt her legs becoming heavier with every 
step they took toward the autopsy room. Brad's steps seemed to 
become louder and more determined in response to her attempt to 
slow down. A few feet from the door, he turned to her and looked 
into her eyes. "Monica," he said gently, "you don't have to stay 
the whole time, but at least try." 

She felt a rush of gratitude, admiration, and, to her 
astonishment, lust when he said this. "Thank you," she said 
through lips that were stiffening in response to impending 
quivering. "I'll do my best." 

"That's all I ask," he responded tenderly. He put his hand 
behind her elbow, and escorted her to the door. 

Once inside, the matter-of-fact attitude of the medical examiner 
helped Monica to put aside her feelings of dread. Brad explained 
to him that Monica was there as an observer, and that he was 
there because he had discovered the body. A glance from Follmer 
told Monica not to let on that she'd been there. The three stood 
together in an awkward silence, until the M.E. offered, "We're 
waiting for the local P.D." 

As if on cue, Joe entered, his blue uniform straining over his 
muscular physique, and Monica suddenly remembered her first, 
very exhilirating, impresssions of him. She couldn't help 
sighing, and Brad couldn't help noticing her sigh. He shook his 
head and resolved to figure out a way to nip this in the bud. 

Another man followed behind Joe. This man was tall and thin, and 
wore street clothes. His shocking red hair topped a pale, 
freckled face, his bright blue eyes piercing the pale fog of his 
face. The man walked quickly up to the M.E. and extended his 
hand. "Detective Patrick Williams." 
Brad made the connection instantly. Williams! That's how news 
was getting back to FBI! He sighed as he realized how much work 
it was going to be putting a plug in this leak.

The group maintained a respectful distance as the M.E. pulled 
back the zipper on the tiny body bag and started his 
investigation.  Follmer positioned himself to keep an eye on his 
trainee and the two men who already knew too much.

As the M.E. described the injuries inflicted on this child, 
Monica started to see the events surrounding them.  Repeated 
blows to the same few locations, barely perceptible bruising 
revealing weeks of injuries at different stages of healing, a 
broken wrist, cigarette burns at very specific locations, each 
paralleled by another on the opposite side of the child's 
body... Monica felt the heat and nausea she'd felt when she'd 
first encountered the body, and breathed deeply in an attempt to 
quell these feelings.  It seemed to be working, and as the M.E. 
opened the body and examined the organs, she felt in control of 
herself.  One by one he pulled out the organs, described their 
condition, weighed them.... and Monica felt stronger with each 
one.  Until he came to the heart...

The baby's heart was slightly enlarged, according to the M.E., 
and when he pulled it out of the chest, Monica could swear she 
saw it beat.  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and 
when she opened them, the heart beat faintly, but regularly, its 
muscles contracting and expanding more and more vigorously until 
Monica felt overwhelmed by a wave of nausea.  She ran for the 
door, feeling a hot breeze as from a hot furnace, chasing behind 
her.  She slammed the door against he feeling, and looked for a 
trash can.  She grabbed a small trash container and sat on one 
of the benches that lined the hallway, wretching violently the 
second the can was under her.

After she was finished, her head still poised over the trash 
can, Monica tried to focus on breathing deeply, her eyes closed 
against the visions.  As her breathing slowed, her mind cleared, 
her visions faded to black, and her stomach returned to normal.  
She rested that way for a moment, resolved to return to the 
autopsy, when she felt a hand brushing her hair back.  She 
looked up to see Joe, and she grinned grimly.  He offered her a 
glass of water and she put both of her hands around it, lifting 
it to her mouth and draining it quickly, keeping her eyes on 
his.  "Thank you," she said when she was finished.

He stroked her hair with gentleness that astonished her.  "Are 
you sure you're in the right profession?" he asked with genuine 
concern.  Her eyebrows showed him he'd made a mistake.  "I 
mean," he continued awkwardly.  "You are so sensitive...  and 
you seem to love children... It's hard enough for a man...  I 
can't even imagine what it must be like for a woman to see 
something like that."

A cold glint jumped into her eyes and her chin jutted out 
slightly.  "I can handle this.  I'm not used to it... and what I 
saw and felt, it's not just the body...  it's evil itself..."  
Joe's only response was an expression of pity mixed with 
condescension, making Monica bristle more.  "Really, Joe.  If I 
don't see those evil visions, I'm fine."

"Monica, think about it.  In your division, you will be seeing 
these evil visions every day," Joe responded, enveloping one of 
her hands into both of his, focusing his eyes on hers.

She looked back into his eyes, but before she could answer, Brad 
appeared in front of them.  Monica's face flushed, her hand 
instinctively pulled out of Joe's grasp, and she looked up into 
his disapproving face.  "Are you okay, Agent Reyes?"  His voice 
was hard-edged and professional, carefully modulated to mask all 
traces of his jealousy, concern, and fear.

Absently handing the glass to Joe, Monica nodded and started to 
rise.  Brad took a step backward to give her space.  As she 
started to rise, Joe pulled at her arm and brought her body back 
down a few inches.  "Think about it, okay?" he said.  With an 
almost imperceptible nod, she shook her arm free from his grasp 
and stood up.  Brad turned and walked toward the autopsy room, 
and Monica took a few tentative steps in the same direction.  
Joe rose quickly and whispered into her ear, "We'll talk some 
more?  Tonight? Same time?"  She nodded, a wistful sadness in 
her eyes.

When Monica returned to the autopsy room, she felt a change 
there. The warmth, the evil, she'd sensed had disappeared. In 
its place a different warmth suffused the room -- comforting, 
enveloping, calming... The closer she came to the center of the 
room, the more at peace she felt, and she sensed that the 
child's dissected corpse was the source of this peace. 
She looked on calmly as the M.E. finished his examination, 
oblivious to the glances that Joe and Brad gave each other as 
each caught the other eyeing Monica. When it was over, Monica 
approached the body, her hand outstretched, and stroked its 
hair. The M.E. said, "Ma'am, this is one of the more brutal 
abuse cases I've seen. If that makes you feel any better, most 
agents would have difficulty observing this autopsy." 

Monica acknowledged his kindness, but then returned her 
attention to the body. As if reading braille, she trailed her 
fingers over the baby's skin, lingering over the bruises and 
burn marks. "This wasn't ordinary abuse," she said softly. "This 
was an exorcism." 

"What?" the M.E. said incredulously. 

Monica straightened her spine and looked him in the eye. "These 
burns -- they aren't from a cigarette. See how they trail up 
here..." she ran her hand over one of the baby's arms then 
lifted the other arm. "And here? These aren't burns, they're 
splatter marks -- from Holy Water." 

The M.E. bent forward, and Brad, Joe, and Williams gathered 
round for a closer inspection. The M.E. traced his fingers along 
the same path Monica's had, and he looked up in surprise. "I 
agree, these could be splatter marks... but they are definitely 
burns. Boiling water, or maybe acid..." He began scraping the 
edge of one wound and put the evidence in a bag. "We'll test 
this for toxic substances. Thank you for pointing this out.... 
As for this being an exorcism..." He raised his eyebrows at her 
then looked to each man for validation. Joe and Brad seemed 
embarrassed for Monica, and she sighed as each refused to defend 
her. 

"I know it seems unlikely," she said after taking a deep breath. 
"But it fits the pattern -- for some kinds of exorcism, at 
least." She turned to face Joe and asked, "Are there any cults 
in this area that believe in spirit possession?" 

After an awkward, open-mouthed silence on Joe's part, Williams 
stepped in. "There are several cults in Brooklyn. Almost one in 
every neighborhood." 
"You should investigate them," Monica said earnestly. "Beginning 
with any in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood." 

Williams nodded, somewhat condescendingly, but answered, "We'll 
do that. At this point we need to consider every possibility." 

"Good," Monica answered approvingly. Williams smiled, and 
indicated to Joe that it was time to leave. Joe sneaked a nod to 
Monica then followed Williams out of the room. 

After they'd left, Brad asked, "Besides these burns, what else 
makes you think this is an exorcism?" The M.E. looked on in 
interest and the two waited as Monica, very clinically, examined 
the body. 

"You see these bruises? The ones you identified as finger marks? 
This child was being held by one person, from behind" she mimed 
the motions she envisioned. "and another person, possibly two, 
performed the ceremony." 
Brad nodded thoughtfully, and the M.E. said, "I can add that to 
my report. What is your name again...?" 

"Don't use her name," Brad interrupted. "Use mine. She's still 
in training. Her name can't be attached to any investigation." 

After stopping at a deli for sandwiches, Brad pulled to a bus 
stop near a playground and put his "FBI" plackard on the 
dashboard. They ate in silence, for several minutes, watching a 
child and his mother on a swingset. Swallowing the last of his 
sandwich, Brad watched as the mother and child left the 
playground, then turned his attention to Monica. He studied her 
carefully as she ate -- intrigued by the motions of her jaw, 
tongue, and throat... Suddenly she stopped eating, her cheeks 
bulging with half-eaten food, and stared back at him. Her 
eyebrows spoke to him as eloquently as her voice could. 

"I know, don't watch you eat," he said jovially. She started 
chewing again, her mouth curling into a smile around the bulge. 
He leaned back against the car door and languidly draped his arm 
across the top of the seat, his fingers wafting lazily into the 
space between the seats. He continued watching her, then 
apologized, "I'm sorry. There just isn't much to watch besides 
you right now..." 

She swallowed slowly, then said, "You could at least talk to me. 
You're making me nervous!" 

He could tell by the sparkle in her eyes that she wasn't 
nervous, and he smiled broadly. She was flirting! He couldn't 
believe it. "Okay, Agent Reyes, what should I talk to you 
about?" 

"Tell me about your first week on the job. Was it anything like 
mine?" As if to invite him to speak at length, she took a huge 
bite out of her sandwich. 

He moved his mouth around in sympathy with hers, a sparkle 
coming into his eyes as he watched her watching him. "It was 
nothing like this. But I'm sure you knew that. Your introduction 
to the FBI has been..." he paused, struggling to find the right 
words, then finished, "unique." She grinned, but continued 
chewing. He continued talking, "My first week was full of 
procedure manuals, following agents around as they questioned 
suspects and witnesses -- all white-collar crime. Then I learned 
how to read spreadsheets. It was so boring I wondered if I'd 
chosen the right profession!" He chuckled for a moment, but her 
face turned serious and his demeanor immediately followed suit. 
"What? Did I say something wrong?" he asked, his extended arm 
reaching for her shoulder. 

She put her hand for a second, sending sparks through his body, 
but removed it quickly as she saw the flush in his face. She 
swallowed then said seriously, "Am I in the right profession?" 

He leaned forward and put his left hand on the top of her thigh 
as his right hand pressed into her shoulder. "Absolutely," he 
said with conviction. 

She inhaled deeply, and after exhaling just as deeply, quietly 
said, "Thank you. I needed to hear that." 

"You've only been here a few days, and already I can't imagine 
the FBI without you. I haven't regretted choosing you for even a 
second," he said. 

The sincerity of his words both frightened and reassured her. 
She laid her right hand atop his left and started stroking it 
slowly. "I'm glad you want me here." 

They looked into each others' eyes for a long moment, and 
Monica's fingers slowed their caresses, resting heavily on his 
knuckles.  Brad pulled his hand away and brought it to her 
jawline, stroking it gently as he brought his face closer to 
hers.  She allowed him to lead her toward him, and her mouth 
opened involuntarily in expectation of a kiss.

Brad's mind was full of her -- her face, hair, voice, the faint 
smell of deli bread on her breath... and his body fell toward 
her, pulled forward by her lips.  His right hand lost its grip 
on her shoulder, falling forward a few inches, his fingers 
pointing the way to more trouble for him.  Suddenly he heard his 
own voice in his head, reading "acts without thinking, letting 
his emotions rule his actions..."

He pulled back suddenly and fastened his seatbelt.  "Ready to 
go?"  Monica's shocked expression told him she might not be such 
a model of self-control, but he resolved he would be.  She 
nodded, and they drove in awkward silence to the simulators.

Brad looked on as Monica shot at simulated bad guys, good guys, 
dogs... her concentration was off, and he held himself 
responsible.  Her results would be going to Williams, and they 
would both look bad.  He walked up behind her and tapped her 
shoulder gingerly.  She turned around, keeping the virtual gun 
pointed out, and whacked him in the chest.  He couldn't help 
grinning at her embarrassed expression, which quickly changed to 
an expression of amused annoyance.  "Sorry," she said 
sheepishly."

"You seem nervous," Brad said, trying to keep a professional yet 
helpful demeanor.  She nodded and formed something between a 
grin and a grimace.  Brad leaned against the wall and crossed 
his arms.  His relaxed pose was contagious, and Monica let her 
shoulders slump a little.  Brad looked at her appraisingly, and 
said, "The Agent Reyes who pulled a gun on me this week didn't 
seem one bit nervous.  She was rather impressive, in fact.  
Where is she now?"

Monica sighed.  "That was impressive?"  He nodded 
enthusiastically.  "Well," she began.  "That other Monica was 
reacting to a situation..."

"And what was different about that situation?"  Brad probed.

Monica stared at the ceiling, replaying that day's events in her 
mind.  "I was protecting someone..." Brad could see the 
proverbial light bulb go on over her head.  "Someone else, not 
myself," she added.

"Aren't you worth protecting?" he asked, then quickly answered, 
"I think you are."

Monica took a deep breath and turned toward the simulator.  "I 
want to try again," she said with determination.  "Turn it on," 
she ordered.  Brad complied, and watched as Monica's eyes 
scoured the field for danger... dangers to herself...  She held 
back until seeing a man pull a gun, and she shot him, hitting 
him in the shoulder.

"Good!" Brad said, applauding energetically.  "Let's try another 
one."  He watched her performance as it steadily improved, and 
by the end of the afternoon, both teacher and student felt the 
satisfaction of a task attempted and mastered.

"Thank you," Monica said as they were walking to his car.  "I 
needed your encouragement."

"That's what supervisors are supposed to do," he answered, 
somewhat paternally.  "It's my job."

After dropping her off at her apartment, Brad drove back to his 
office to take notes.  "A model of self-control," he thought, 
congratulating himself on his restraint that afternoon.

That evening Joe seemed very solicitous when he picked Monica up 
at what was now their usual time.  In the car, he kissed her 
tenderly, more tenderly than he had to now.  She sighed into the 
kiss and responded with tender motions of her own, but pulled 
back as he became more passionate.

"What's this about?" she asked, firtatious yet genuinely 
curious.

"I've been thinking about you all afternoon," he answered, 
stroking her hair.  "You shouldn't have seen what you saw this 
morning."  He watched his hand as it moved down and slightly 
backward, behind her ear, but his eyes were seeing the morning's 
autopsy.  "You are such a sensitive," he interrupted himself 
deliver one short, tender kiss on the lips.  "sweet," he kissed 
her again, "wonderful person..."  He pulled back and looked into 
her eyes.  "You're the last person who should be working in that 
division.."

Monica's breathing heaved as she fought to suppress her rising 
anger.  "I'm going to try to make it work," she answered as 
straight-forwardly as she could.  "Please don't make an issue of 
this..."  She waited for him to answer, and when his eyes became 
even more pitying, she added, "I'll be fine...  Really."  Her 
raised eyebrows signalled her determination to change topics, 
but Joe seemed not to notice.

"Monica, if my partner -- an experienced cop who's seen 
everything -- can't deal with this kind of case, why do you 
think you can?  You're a lot like him.  I just can't see...." he 
stopped when he noticed her angry expression, and decided to get 
to the point.  "You should ask for a transfer.  You've just 
started.  You don't even have a partner yet...  Your supervisor 
has seen how sensitive you are..."

At the mention of Brad, Monica became suspicious.  "Are you 
jealous of my supervisor?" she exclaimed, raising her voice.

"No!" he belted out, a little too quickly.

"You don't have *any* reason to be jealous, Joe," she placed her 
hand on his forearm.  "I'm with you.  I have no feelings for 
Brad."

"I'm not jealous, I---" Joe protested, but Monica closed the 
subject with a kiss.

She pulled away from him and said, "Now, let's get to the gym.  
I can't wait to get started on chi breathing."  The smidge of 
disdain that swept across Joe's face did not escape her notice.  
"and I want to get back into that hot-tub," she added, putting 
her hand on his thigh.

At the gym, Dennis Gray greeted Monica with enthusiasm.  She was 
touched to find that he'd brought books and pamphlets on Taoism, 
Chi Kung, and Shaolin philosophy.  She opened a pamphlet and 
read:

"There are many wonderful benefits derived from practising chi 
kung, and they may be generalized into the following five 
categories:

Curing illness and promoting health. 
Enhancing vitality and developing internal force. 
Promoting youthfulness and longevity. 
Expanding the mind and the intellect. 
Spiritual cultivation. 

Many chi kung types focus on only one or two of the above 
categories, but a few cover all the five. For example, most 
types of medical chi kung aim mainly at curing illness, 
virtually all sexual types of chi kung emphasize solely on 
youthfulness, whereas Shaolin Cosmos Chi Kung touches on all the 
above five categories of benefits."

Sexual chi kung?  She was intrigued.  "What is chi kung, really?  
It's not just breathing?"

"You start with breathing, but it has many aspects.  It is 
energy, in your being.  Breathing is the central aspect, and the 
one we focus on in classes here.  It is essential to all other 
aspects of chi." Despite his ethnic ambiguity, Monica felt as if 
she were in the presence of a Chinese sage.
A smile spread over Monica's face, a smile of admiration.  He 
noticed and watched in amusement as she read on:

"All great kungfu makes use of energy training (which is chi 
kung) to develop internal force, without which it remains at its 
external, mechanical level, considered by Chinese martial 
artists as rough and low-class. Hence, a kungfu master may look, 
and actually is, gentle, yet with his internal force he can 
cause much damage to his opponent if he wishes. Moreover, his 
internal force does not diminish with age, and he can apply it 
for peaceful use in his daily living. Unlike in many other 
systems of martial arts where the training itself often results 
in physical as well as emotional injuries, kungfu training with 
chi kung enhances harmonious chi flow, thus promotes health, 
vitality and longevity."  (from: http://www.shaolin-
wahnam.org/chikung.html)

She set the pamphlet on a chair and said, "Dennis? How do I 
start?"
He answered, "We start with the proper way to address your chi 
kung or kungfu master.  Call me "Sifu", which is the Cantonese 
word for "Master."  You may also call me "master." I am not a 
great master, but if a great master answers you when you call 
him "Sifu", you are honored because it shows he accepts you as a 
student."

Monica blushed and bowed her head instinctively.  "Sifu," she 
corrected herself.  Sifu Gray led her through a series of 
exercises designed to focus her energy, or "chi," as she 
breathed.  After ten minutes she felt not just her lungs, but 
her entire body cleared, and her mind was more relaxed than it 
had been in years.  The registered students started to arrive, 
but Sifu Gray made no moves to wrap things up with Monica.  
"They will wait," Sifu said calmly when he saw her becoming 
distracted.  "The student waits for the master."

He took her through a few more steps then announced she was 
finished.  She was startled but instinctively bowed and thanked 
him. He looked at the students practicing their kicks, then used 
his eyes to lead hers to the students.  "What do you see there?"

"People doing exercises, fighting motions..." her voice trailed 
off into a question.

"No, you see an outward manifestation of chi.  For most American 
students, chi is a necessary precursor to the outward 
manifestation which is kung fu.  But the Shaolin philosophy will  
develop a person in all her physical, emotional, mental and 
spiritual aspects.  Are you interested in more than the 
physical?"  Monica nodded seriously.  "There is a temple in 
Queens, founded by a great master from China.  You should go 
there.  The classes here are not for you."

Monica's eyebrows raised in surprise, then realized his humility 
was a part of the philosophy he lived.  "Okay," she said 
cautiously.  He turned over a pamphlet and she saw the address.  
She smiled and bowed briefly.  "Thank you Sifu."

Monica's sense of calm, serenity, and purpose stayed with her as 
she pedaled the exercycle, then went, alone, to the hot tub.  
She breathed deeply and relaxed in the tub, nearly falling 
asleep, as several people joined her.  By the time Joe arrived 
she was ready to get out, but she stayed.  His eyes sparkled 
when he saw her, and he kissed her as soon as he'd positioned 
himself next to her.  "Have a good work-out?" Monica asked, 
trying to keep the conversation suitable for public display.

"Great.  I feel like a million bucks!"  He kissed her again, 
then put his arm around her shoulders and leaned back.  
"Inspired, you might say..."  He nuzzled her neck and whispered 
into her ear, "But I'm ready for more of a work-out at your 
place..."  She responded by putting her hand on the back of his 
neck.

"Let's go then," she whispered back.  Fifteen minutes later they 
were hungrily undressing each other just inside the front door 
of her apartment.

This time, thought Monica, things will be better.  Joe picked 
her up as if she weighed a few ounces, and carried her to her 
futon.  He laid her down gently, and trailed kisses over her 
cheeks, neck, and lower.  She felt like a princess as he 
murmured compliments about her body.  She breathed deeply -- 
almost chi breathing, she thought -- and languidly writhed under 
his ministrations.  ...

 Suddenly her mind filled with a mental image that sent 
her over the edge into a mind-blowing climax that in turn sent 
Joe over the edge.  The mental image was of Brad.

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

FRIDAY

She ran through the woods, leaping over bolders and logs in 
graceful movements, her breath coming in deep, warm pants.  
Behind her, rustling sounds told her that he was getting 
closer... and maybe bigger....  She came to a meadow, an oasis 
of calm, and ran to the middle...  Her breathing still labored 
but gradually calming, she turned a 360-degree circle, checking 
for predators, jumping every time she saw a leaf turning in the 
breeze...  From behind her, she heard a rushing sound, and 
turned to see an enormous lion running toward her, its teeth 
bared, its mane flowing with powerful grace.  Suddenly, she felt 
herself running again, and she ran circles around the perimeter 
of the meadow, the lion close behind her.  She tripped and fell, 
and on the ground, close to her head, she heard a loud hiss.  
She looked over and saw a snake slithering toward her, its 
forked tongue preceding its wide, brightly colored body.  Before 
she could roll out of the way, the lion was on her, pinning her, 
not letting her move, its hot breath on her neck.  She screamed 
the loudest silent scream she'd never heard, and tried to push 
the lion off of her chest, using her hands, knees and head 
against it.  Suddenly, the lion went limp, and she rolled out 
from under it just in time to see it collapse to the ground and 
breathe its last breath.

The snake slithered out from under the lion and wrapped itself 
seductively around her body, making her writhe in pleasure as 
its body wove a slithering path around her limbs, belly and 
then....  Brad's body was on top of hers, his long arms 
enveloping her, his long fingers weaving irresistably through 
her hair, his legs forming a braid with hers...  He was moving 
rhythmically, churning over her body, hissing into her ear, 
speaking words she didn't understand...

Monica awoke in a sweat, feeling hot, wet, and smelly.  She 
opened a window and was greeted by the barking of her neighbor's 
dog.  She watched for a moment as it threatened another 
neighbor's stubborn cat.  After the cat slowly walked away and 
the barking subsided, she started her shower, letting the water 
wash away the seeping feelings that had awakened her.

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

Brad sat staring at his computer screen, an e-mail from A.D. 
Williams staring back at him.  How was Agent Reyes' training 
coming?  Has he decided who should be her partner?

He sighed and swiveled his chair back and forth, moving only a 
few inches, unaware that he was doing it, and equally oblivious 
to the slight squeak emanating from under the seat.  A page in 
his hand swayed gently in response to the motions of the chair.  
Brad's eyes once again drifted from the computer to the sheet.  
Which agent?

Alvarez... No, looks like racism to pair two Hispanics

Blake... No, he's going to retire in a few years and just 
doesn't care anymore

di Martino... He tried to picture Vinny, a large, wild-haired 
Italian with salt and pepper hair, always dressed in dapper yet 
conservative suits, always smiling broadly in the elevator, the 
only one of the older agents on Brad's side... but when Brad 
closed his eyes only Joe's face came to his mind.  Joe was so 
much like a young Vinny....

Franklin....  Maybe... Pete was not the ripest tomato on the 
vine, and he often created tight spots that his partner Alvarez 
had to fix... but he was honest, dependable, a straight-arrow...  
devoted to his wife...

Brad shook his head and tried to focus.  He had to decide before 
Agent Reyes returned from the communications center with her new 
cellphone and an e-mail account.  He ran a hand through his hair 
and sighed.  Next...

Gentile, Jones, Kelly, LaMontaine... all had applied for Brad's 
job, and he didn't know yet whether they'd be loyal.  From the 
looks they gave him in the elevator, he knew it would be an 
uphill battle.

Norris... No, looks like sexism to pair two women

O'Brien... Kelly's partner and good friend

Follmer threw the page onto his desk then leaned his elbows on 
his desk and put his head in his hands.  The other five are no 
better, even his own former partner.  

Janet knocked softly on the open door, and asked cautiously, 
"Agent Follmer, is there something I can help you with?"

Brad smiled.  "No, Janet.  Just wrestling with my first 
executive decision... Who should be Monica's partner....  I need 
to give whoever it is some notice in case they have an 
objection..."

"You know yourself how important partners are," she said 
knowingly.  "Mis-matched partners cost Mike a lot of time."

"Exactly," Brad said, a touch of relief in his voice.  "Monica's 
so new... her partner will also be her trainer."

Janet sat down across from him and slouched forward in a 
listening posture.  "But you'll still be training her, too," she 
said reassuringly.  "And you've told me yourself she's got a lot 
of potential."  Brad nodded.  "So why the worries?"

Brad knew the answer, and he suspected she knew it too.  Nobody 
was good enough for her.  Except possibly him.

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

Monica interrupted Brad and Janet's tète a tète.  "I'm sorry I'm 
late," she said tentatively.  From their body language she could 
tell they'd been discussing something privately, and she took a 
step backwards.  "I'll just wait out..."

Janet stood up and turned around.  "Have you had your 
coffeebreak yet, Monica?" she asked, walking toward here 
purposefully.  Monica shook her head, her mouth open as if to 
speak.  "Good, let's go get some coffee & get caught up."  She 
grabbed Monica's briefcase and after stuffing it into the 
kneehole of her desk, shooed her toward the door.  "Agent 
Follmer isn't ready for you just yet... we might as well..."

They walked to the deli then stood outside, Janet smoking as 
Monica warmed her hands with her cup.  "So," started Janet.  
"How are things with Joe.  I've been dying to hear more...  Is 
he taking you on a real date yet?"

Monica closed her eyes and inhaled, just as smoke wafted toward 
her from the end of Janet's cigarette.  She remembered her 
seventh-grade experiments in smoking -- girl talk in the girls' 
room, waving the smoke toward the vents and the window, throwing 
the butts in the toilet...  Fond memories...  "I don't know, 
Janet..." she sighed.  "I like him, but..."

"Aw, hon," Janet said compassionately.  "What's wrong?"

Monica's breath became ragged, but she managed to keep her 
composure.  "It's too soon... I'm not sure..."  She watched 
enviously as Janet inhaled a deep drag.   "I'm new here..."

"Give it a chance, Mon." Janet said, puffs of smoke accompanying 
each word.  "You just met him.  He sounds so nice..."

"He is," Monica sighed.  With growing enthusiasm, she listed his 
virtues, not the least of which was his athletic body.  Janet 
grinned as she pictured this man who could be any one of her 
cousins.  "You're right," Monica concluded.  "He's a good man, a 
wonderful man... It's too soon to tell."

Brad heard the cheerful chatter of the two women as they left 
the elevator, and he hit 'send' on his e-mail, finalizing his 
response to Williams:  Give me until Monday.

****************************
For the next two hours, Brad and Monica sat in a roomful of new 
agents, listening to a dry lecture about policies and forms: how 
to know which forms to use, how to fill out forms, how to file 
forms, where to get more forms, what to do if you make a mistake 
on a form...

Monica's head fell forward suddenly, and she snapped it back as 
Brad chuckled quietly.  "Pay attention, Agent Reyes," this is 
important stuff, he whispered through the side of his mouth.

"Sorry," she whispered back, her head intentionally bent forward 
now, her eyes peering up at his.

He bent forward and surreptitiously faced her.  He was smirking, 
his eyes sparkling in amusement.  "Have a late night last 
night?" he asked.

Monica eyes flashed an angry glare, then returned to face the 
speaker.  "None of your business," she muttered out of the side 
of her mouth.  Chastised, Brad slid forward and looked to the 
front of the room, affected an interested pose.  After a moment 
he whispered, "Sorry."

Brad invited both Janet and Monica to lunch and they accepted.  
After laughing about the boring lecture, Brad said, "And 
anyway...  Who needs to know anything when they have a secretary 
like Janet?"

"Administrative Assistant," Janet corrected.  "And thank you."

The three studied their salads carefully as Brad sighed and 
mentally kicked himself, thinking 'whoever invented the phrase 
thank god it's Friday never had one like this...'

It was Monica who finally broke the silence.  "So, Janet," she 
said, with an excess of enthusiasm.  "Do you have plans for the 
weekend?"  Brad looked at Monica with gratitude, but she her 
eyes were focused on Janet, so he followed their gaze.

"Tomorrow is my cousin's birthday party.  We're having a party 
for him out on the Island..."

"Where?" Monica asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Long Island," Brad offered.  "Sorry, we keep forgetting you're 
new to New York.  I had to learn these things too.  Don't worry, 
you'll catch up.  You seem like a quick study."  The expression 
on Brad's face was sweet, sensitive, and a little amused, while 
at the same time admiring.  Monica blushed and looked down, the 
skin of her cheek somehow feeling the gentle caress that he 
wished could accompany his words.

Janet's fork hovered mid-air, as if to torture the tiny tomato 
below.  In her fifty years, Janet had learned a lot about 
people, and she knew what she was seeing.  But she'd never seen 
it in Brad before.  His devotion to his job, to his victims' 
families, and to Mike, was so passionate that she thought she'd 
never see him like this.  Knowing this could be trouble, she 
looked at Monica's face, hoping to find confirmation that Brad 
was not heading for trouble.  She didn't find it.

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


They spent the afternoon at a personality typing seminar run by 
a consulting firm.  Brad suspected this part of Monica's 
training was really set up for his benefit, and he made a point 
of playing the attentive student.  For her part, Monica had 
encountered some of the theories before, but she was genuinely 
fascinated by the subject.  For each method the students took 
brief tests to determine their category.  

The instructor gave them time to take the test for Myers-Briggs 
typing.  Monica quickly found that she was an INTP:  
Introverted, intuitive, thinking, perceptive.  She quickly 
turned to the description of her type in their hand-out packet:

"The INTP takes his/her energy from the inner world of thoughts 
(and, maybe, emotions). He/she prefers dealing with patterns and 
possibilities, and making decisions on a logical basis. His/her 
life is flexible, following new insights and possibilities as 
they arise. He/she is quiet and detached, and adaptable (up to a 
point - sometimes he/she may stop adapting, insisting that there 
is a clear principle at stake). He/she is not interested in 
routine, and will often experiment or change things to see if 
they can be improved. He/she operates at best when solving 
complex problems that require the application of intellect."

After reading her description, she peered over Brad's test, and 
saw that he was an ESFJ -- her complete opposite -- extroverted, 
sensing, feeling, judging.   From the corner of his eye he saw 
her leaning toward him and he instinctively pushed his paper to 
the side, as if she were cheating on an exam.  "Let me see!" 
Monica said familiarly, and pulled the page toward her.  "Don't 
you want to look yourself up?"  she said with enthusiasm.

"Monica, I know myself.  I don't need to see th---"  he started, 
but before he could finish, she'd found his description:

"The ESFJ takes his/her energy from the outer world of actions 
and spoken words. He/she prefers dealing with facts, and making 
decisions on the basis of personal values. He/she likes dealing 
with people, and organises life on a personal basis. He/she is a 
very warm person, seeking to maintain harmonious relationships 
with colleagues and friends, who are a very important part of 
his/her life. He/she can find conflict and criticism very 
difficult to handle. He/she has a strong sense of duty and 
loyalty, and is driven by a need to belong and be of service to 
people."

Monica leaned back and sighed.  "What?" Brad asked, a little 
annoyed.

"It sounds like the perfect type for an FBI agent -- especially 
for a supervisor," she answered with admiration.  Then she 
shoved her results toward him for his inspection.  "I'm the 
complete opposite."  She sighed again, "Maybe Joe is right -- 
I'm in the wrong profession."

He pulled her packet toward himself and skimmed her results 
aloud.  "He/she operates at best when solving complex problems 
that require the application of intellect," he read to her.  
"What could be more perfect for this profession?"  She smiled at 
him, and he could see that her eyes had started to tear.  
"Monica, this is all baloney.  You don't need this stuff to tell 
you whether you're right for your job.   You know yourself, *I* 
know you now... "  He turned in his seat and placed his hand on 
her shoulder.  "I know you're in the right profession.  You're a 
natural.  I don't need a silly quiz to tell me that."

She placed her opposite hand on his forearm.  "Thanks," she 
said.  She squeezed his arm gently and he quickly withdrew it.

He gave her a ride home, and when they were in front of her 
apartment, she turned to him and asked, "Do you have any plans 
for the weekend?"

He swallowed and answered, "Working, as usual.  Deciding who 
your partner will be, preparing for Monday's meeting..." a look 
of pity flashed across her face, and he quickly added, "And my 
weekly handball game... and church of course."

Her forehead wrinkled in surprise.  "You don't seem like the 
religious type."

"What type would that be?" he said, obviously offended.  "I go 
to St. John the Divine -- in Morningside Heights.  What's wrong 
with that?"

"No, no, no..." Monica said, embarrassed.  "I'm so sorry... I 
didn't mean that..."  She took a deep breath and looked at him 
apologetically.  "I didn't mean to offend you.  I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Brad said, the hurt in his voice belying his words.  
They looked at each other for a long moment, until Brad's head 
started a very slight, very slow, wobble in her direction.  He 
snapped it back and said with finality.  "And on Monday, I'll 
look into getting you a car."  He paused, then added, "After 
what happened with your briefcase...  you need to have a car."

His words pushed her out of the door, and she stood on the 
sidewalk looking on in confusion as he sped away.

Myers-Briggs info from:
http://www.teamtechnology.co.uk/tt/t-articl/mb-simpl.htm

Later that night, Monica lay next to Joe, looking into his face 
through tearful eyes.  He looked back, mistaking her wistfulness 
for a satisfied afterglow, and stroked her hair.  "You were 
fabulous again, Monica," he said softly.  She couldn't help 
smiling, and she stroked his chest, hoping to distract him from 
her silence.

From somewhere on the floor an insistent but muffled ring 
intruded.  "Your cellphone is ringing," Monica said, nodding 
toward his pants.

"That's not mine.  It must be yours," he answered, still groggy 
from their love-making.

She jumped up and frantically ran to her purse, fumbling through 
its contents until finding her new cellphone.  She took a deep 
breath and tried to remember her instructions, then found the 
correct button to push.  "Hello?" she asked.

"Agent Reyes, it's Agent Follmer."

"Brad?" she repeated.  She'd never heard his voice on the phone, 
and at any rate wouldn't have expected a late-night call.

"We have a case... well, not really *our* case... there's been 
another murder, with the same markings as that child from the 
dumpster.  I need you to take a look before the body's removed 
from the crime scene.  Are you at home?"

"Yes..." she answered, surprised by his demand.

"It's on the Island.  I'm on my way, and I can pick you up.  How 
soon can you be ready?"

Before Monica could answer, Joe appeared beside her and put his 
arm around her waist.  "Who is it?" he asked with concern.

She turned to face him and said, "My supervisor.  I have to go."

"Now?  You haven't even had dinner," he said, nodding to the 
pizza they had abandonned in favor of love-making.

"Monica?  Monica?" Brad yelled into the phone.  "Who's that?"

"Yes?" Monica responded to Brad's frantic voice.

"Is that Joe?" he demanded.

"Um, yes," she said, turning away from Joe and bending her head 
for privacy.

"Don't tell him anything about this... PLEASE" he pleaded.

"Tell him what?" She couldn't hide the annoyance in her voice.  
"I don't know anything yet!"

"I'll be there in five minutes.  Be ready," he ordered, then the 
phone went dead.

Monica turned to Joe and said apologetically, "I have five 
minutes to get ready.  He's picking me up."

"Now?" he said incredulously.  "What could be so urgent?"

"Murder case on the Island..." she answered, her hand rubbing up 
and down over his muscular arm.  "I have to get to the scene 
before they remove the body.  This murder might be related to 
that dumpster baby..."

Joe shut his eyes and sighed.  "Monica..."  he started, then 
paused as her hand left his arm.  "This is nuts."

"This is my job!" she protested.  "I would think you, of all 
people, would understand.  Don't you get called out on cases?"

"Not often," he answered with calculated calm.  "Only if the 
detectives need help securing a scene, or the precinct is short-
handed...."

Monica suddenly realized the truth behind Brad's seeming 
snobbery.  Beat cops *were* different from FBI agents.  "Well, 
*I* get called out on cases, apparently."  Joe put his arms 
around her and pulled her to him apologetically.  "Joe," she 
said with frustration.  "I can't say no..."

He nuzzled the hair behind her ear and whispered, "I know..."  
They kissed, and she could feel the kindness of his lips melting 
the anger in hers.  How could she resent him? she wondered.

He pulled back and held her head in his large, strong hands.  
Looking into her eyes, he said warmly, "See you tomorrow?  Come 
to the precinct at about one?"  She nodded, and he kissed her 
cheek.

Ten minutes later they emerged from her apartment to find Brad 
Follmer leaning against his car, his arms folded over his chest.  
They walked toward him until Joe stopped and pulled Monica to 
him.  He kissed her possessively and passionately, then pulled 
away and said, "See you tomorrow, sweetie."  Joe turned and 
walked past Brad, meeting Brad's judgmental sneer with a smug 
smirk.

On the way to the crime scene Brad made a point of not 
mentioning Joe.  In fact, he resolved to push the mere thought 
of that kiss as far from his consciousness as he could manage.  
Monica sighed loudly a few times but did not initiate any 
conversation.  Her thoughts jumbled together, as her private and 
professional lives were not thoroughly intertwined.  Before 
pulling on to the expressway, Brad pulled to the side of the 
road and put the car in "park."

He turned in his seat, leaned toward Monica, and opened his 
mouth to speak.  Noticing her backing away from him, he 
instinctively, pushed his back against the car door.  When her 
body relaxed in response, he couldn't help feeling a little 
hurt.  "Monica," he started, a little condescendingly.

Her response was a defiant glare.  She crossed her arms and bent 
her head forward, forcing her eyes to peer up at him from under 
her eyebrows.

"Monica," he modulated his voice.  "You're still in your 
training period -- you're not supposed to be in the field..."  
He watched as her body relaxed, even though her face showed 
confusion.  "A friend called me about this -- he'd heard about 
that baby... your theory...  and he thought there might be a 
connection."  She nodded for him to continue.  "...but I know 
how stressful that was for you, and I want you to know... don't 
feel obligated to stay.  Just take a look at the injuries, the 
scene... do it quickly if you need to..."

"I think I can handle it," she said with determination.  "I've 
been practicing -- breathing exercises."  His raised eyebrows 
told her to continue.  "You won't laugh?"  He shook his head 
earnestly, and she continued.  "I've started learning chi 
breathing with a kung fu master -- at Joe's gym," she added, 
checking for a reaction.  She found none and felt relieved.  
"But I'm going to go to Shaolin temple tomorrow morning for more 
spiritual instruction."  Her speech became more animated, and 
her hands started to wave as she described her plans.  Brad 
couldn't help but smile.  As with most things she said or did, 
he found this interest of hers endearing.  She noticed his 
smile, and awkwardly finished, "You don't think it's silly?"

"Not in the least," he reassured her. "We all need to find a way 
to cope with this job, and I think you've found something that 
could work for you." He grinned, with nothing but friendly, 
albeit admiring, emotion in his face. Monica matched his grin 
and sighed. "This will be your first test -- ready?" he asked. 
She nodded, and he pulled onto the expressway.

An swarm of tiny lights dancing against blackly silhouetted 
trees directed Brad to the crime scene.  He pulled up behind a 
row of parked black-and-white police cars and switched off the 
engine.  "Ready?" he asked, turning to face Monica.  She 
clenched her jaw and nodded.  "Got your flashlight?" he asked, 
reaching into his pocket for his.  She shook her head and 
sighed.  "In the glovebox," he instructed.  "I keep an extra."  
She fiddled with the box for a moment, her tentative motions 
proving ineffectual.  In the darkness he could hear the 
frustration in her breathing.  He leaned over, pushing hard on 
the reluctant box, and withdrew a tiny flashlight.  "Here," he 
handed the light to her.  "Use this for now."  As she reached 
for it, her hand brushed against his, causing him to inhale 
sharply.  When he recognized the musky scent of recent sex he 
exhaled just as sharply and withdrew to his side of the car.  
"Let's go," he ordered, and opened his door.

The scene was much as Monica had imagined:  men in dark suits 
speaking officiously to each other and to the coroner... latex-
gloved men and women bagging tiny samples... yellow tape 
demarking a perimeter...   Brad marched toward a gray-haired man 
with a clipboard.  He thrust out his hand, forcing the older man 
to juggle his clipboard and pen to shake his hand.

"Brad Follmer, Special Agent in charge of Crimes against 
Children," he announced, pumping the man's hand vigorously.

"Andrew O'Reilly, violent crimes," the man answered.  "A.D. 
Williams called you?"

Brad put his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene over 
O'Reilly's shoulder.  "Yes," he said, "We've had a case with 
similar injuries."

"A child?" O'Reilly yelped.  "Really?  This body is very badly 
brutalized... I can't imagine..."

"You'd be surprised what our office sees..." Brad said 
nonchalantly, still scanning the scene.

O'Reilly nodded toward Monica and asked, "Is she one of yours?"

Brad followed O'Reilly's nod and saw Monica stepping lightly 
through the crowd, closing the gap between them.  "Yes, she's 
mine," Brad confirmed.  "Trainee.  I want her to see this."

O'Reilly put his hand on Brad's shoulder and said grimly, "No, 
you don't."  Brad shook off his hand and walked to Monica's 
side.  "This is Agent Monica Reyes," he said.  Monica smiled 
demurely and bowed her head, but before either she or O'Reilly 
could speak, Brad added, "We'd like to see the body now."

O'Reilly checked Monica's reaction, and she seemed to be 
following Brad's lead.  "Okay," he said resignedly and led them 
to it.

Monica took three deep breaths, letting out each one slowly, 
before turning to face the body.  As she approached, she felt a 
sense of tragedy, of violence, of loss... but not the evil she'd 
expected.  Brad watched her closely as she squatted next to a 
woman collecting strands of hairs with tweezers.  "May I touch 
it?" Monica asked.  The woman pulled a pair of latex gloves from 
her pocket and offered them to Monica.  Brad lowered himself to 
her level as Monica struggled with the stubborn latex.  She felt 
childishly helpless, and looked pleadingly to Brad for help.  He 
smiled and said, "Latex has a mind of its own."

She responded, half-laughing, with a bright-eyed smile, then 
laughed aloud as the first glove slid on.

"See?" Brad cajoled.  The other glove went on effortlessly, and 
Monica smiled gratefully at Brad.  She had no idea how he did 
it, but he always seemed to make things easier for her.

Reyes examined the marks on the victim's head and hands, noting 
that they were similar to those on the dumpster baby. An oily 
black fluid on the victim's shirt piqued her interest. She 
dipped a finger into it then sniffed. She drew her head back 
instinctively, crying out, "bile!" Someone quickly swabbed at 
the goo and bagged it as she watched. She turned to look at 
Follmer. "This is an exorcisim, alright... same as the other 
one. Can we observe the autopsy?" 

"I'll see what I can do," he answered. 

She looked over the body, the man's clothes were disheveled and 
stained, but not bloody. She reached into the man's shirt pocket 
with her clean glove and withdrew a small white object. She held 
it to her nose and smiled knowingly. 

"Garlic," she said. "Definitely an exorcism, but maybe not an 
official one." She turned to the investigator looking on. He was 
tall, and from her lowered position he seemed even taller. "No 
ID on him?" she asked. The man shook his head and pursed his 
lips. Monica pursed her lips, subconciously imitating him. 
"Hmmm," she hummed briefly. "And you don't know yet what killed 
him" Again the man shook his head. 

She stood up, and Follmer stood up, positioning himself behind 
her. "You don't sense anything?" he whispered into her ear, his 
lips barely moving. 

She turned around. "No, not a thing. I think this exorcism was 
successful."

"Successful?" Brad repeated skeptically.

Nodding, Monica said, "The evil's gone. The wound's are like 
that baby's wounds, but the sense of evil -- that's not there."

"How do you know you didn't sense the murder's evil? Someone who 
kills a child..." Brad started.

"No, you have it wrong. It wasn't murder. It was an accident, in 
both cases," she said authoritatively. "I think the exorcism was 
so violent it killed the victims, but it wasn't intentional..." 
She looked down sympathetically at the body and shook her head 
gently. "Nobody meant to hurt him... they were trying to save 
him."

They started walking back to the car, their heads bowed in 
conversation. "Go on," Brad urged. "What makes you say that?"

She stopped and waited for him to turn to face her. Squinting to 
see his face, she asked, "You're sure you want to know?" She was 
relieved to see that he seemed genuine, so she continued.

"The burn marks from the holy water? Some are what you'd expect, 
but others are in the wrong places. And tonight I found garlic -
- that's all wrong. Garlic is for vampirrres. And the bruising, on 
the baby, and on this man? Too repetitive... Some things fit, 
others are, well... amateurish."

"Amateur exorcism?" Brad asked skeptically.

"Officially, the Church controls exorcism, but they are so 
reluctant to do it that lay people try it. But they wouldn't do 
more than one case..." She looked into his eyes resolutely. 
"We're looking for a self-educated, free-lance exorcist. 
Probably Catholic, but not necessarily. Could be Orthodox Greek, 
or even Jewish..."

"Whoa, slow down!" Brad ordered. "Take me through this step by 
step. I'm not saying it's not possible, but you're taking some 
leaps here..."

"Not leaps," Monica said defensively. "I know what I'm talking 
about here -- my master's degree was in ritual, and I'm familiar 
with most forms of exorcism. It's part of the rituals of several 
religions. This evidence fits with what I know about exorcism, 
well, at least partly."

"Okay, I'm sorry," Brad said, taking a deep breath. "It just 
doesn't fit with what *I* know. Explain it to me..." He lowered 
his head slightly to look more directly into her eyes. "Please?" 
he pleaded.

Sighing deeply, Monica continued, "There are several 
sacramentals in the Catholic exorcism -- holy oil, holy water, 
incense, and the medal of St. Benedict. If it's an official, 
exorcism, and especially if it's a difficult one, all of these 
would be used. But in both of these casees there's no evidence 
of any of these except the holy water. And unless there's 
something under this one's clothes, no marks from a medallion. 
The bile could be from ingestion of holy oil, but he would have 
been annointed too -- he would have been annointed FIRST, in 
fact. Yet, there's no evidence of external application of holy 
oil..." Monica took a deep breath and studied Brad's face. He 
seemed overwhelmed, curious, and a little awestruck. "Should I 
continue?" she asked defiantly. With a raising of his brow and a 
subtle nod he encouraged her.

"Now, the Greek Orthodox Church relies primarily on prayers, but 
they may use holy water if the victim is unbaptized, or oil if 
they believe the victim may be mentally ill. But, like the 
Catholic Church, they would *not* use garlic or physical force. 
The only way physical force would be used is to restrain the 
person... These repetitive injuries could be from a kind of 
seizure as the exorcism progresses, but that's something that 
only happens in the movies." She smiled apologetically but 
continued. "There's a kernel of truth in that, but it's really 
very, very rare. The Islamic exorcism allows for beating, but 
only as a last resort. And they don't sprinkle water -- they 
have the victim bathe in water seen by the evil eye..."

"The Jewish exorcism stories involve the breaking of glasses, 
and I didn't see any cuts on the baby -- we probably won't find 
any on this victim either... And then they's the Wiccan potion, 
which includes garlic, but also includes several other 
ingredients. They, too, use oil, but they don't believe in 
spirit possession of humans, only of spaces...

Brad held up his hand, interrupting her. "I get the picture." He 
flashed a smile. He was clearly impressed with her knowledge. 
"I'll arrange for you to be at the autopsy."
"You won't be there?" she asked, somewhat panicked.

"Do you want me there? You obviously don't need me," he 
answered, putting his hand on her shoulder. "But if you want me 
to come with you..." she nodded as he said this. "Okay, I'll be 
there with you," he assured her.

On the drive back to Brooklyn, Monica filled Brad in on her 
studies of mythology, ritual, and religions of the world.  He'd 
seen her transcripts from Brown -- very impressive grade-point 
average, even with a crushing course overload -- but had not 
given them much thought.  Until this night he'd only paid 
attention to her coursework at Quantico. She seemed not to be 
paying very close attention to the route they were taking, and 
he suspected she wouldn't have recognized it anyway.  He took 
several wrong turns, deliberately adding twenty minutes to their 
trip, selfishly wanting to extend this rare opportunity to 
listen to her enthusiasm.  Periodically, his eyes glazed over as 
his mind rested, delighting in her intelligence, enthusiasm, 
youth, and spirit.  He could listen to her talk all night.  A 
brief silence made him snap to attention.

"Am I boring you?" she asked worriedly.

"No, no!" he jumped to her ego's defense.  "Fascinating!  I'm 
sorry -- I did drift off for a minute... but no, you're not 
boring."  He beamed at her.  "You're never boring."

She blushed.  "People sometimes find my interests a little... 
odd... After I graduated, and I didn't have my classmates around 
me, I've started to feel a little," she paused to think of the 
right word, and he looked at her with concern.  "Well... a 
little out of place."

As the street lamps sped past them, Brad watched the traffic and 
measured his response, a sigh telling Monica he was thinking.  
"Monica... I don't know what to tell you.  The FBI has a kind 
of... corporate culture, and I can see that your beliefs will 
give you some grief."  As they pulled to a stop at a red light 
he looked into her face and said tenderly, "You bring something 
to the FBI that nobody else can bring.  Expect to be challenged 
-- we're all skeptics here -- but I knowww you can meet the 
challenge.  You've proven yourself to me, and that's not easy," 
he smiled.  Before she could smile back the light turned green 
and he faced the road.  They drove the rest of the way to her 
apartment in silence, although both of their minds were roaring 
with conflicting emotions.

After stopping the car, Brad turned and said officiously, "Now, 
keep your cellphone on ... I don't know how much notice I'll be 
able to give you before the autopsy.  I'll let you know as soon 
as I know, okay?"

"Yes," she said softly.  Putting her hand on his forearm, she 
said "Thank you," with deep sincerity that told him her words 
were about more than the autopsy.  She leaned toward him and 
brushed her lips against his cheek.  "Thank you for helping me 
get through this week."  She quickly withdrew and opened the car 
door.  "See you at the autopsy," she said cheerfully.

SATURDAY

The insistant ring of an electronic alarm told Brad Follmer that 
he had passed the entire night without sleeping.  He slapped it 
vengefully and rolled over, putting his head in his hands.  He 
still had no solution for the question that perplexed him:  
How to separate himself from Agent Reyes while still being able 
to see her.  

After much agonizing he finally admitted to himself the dreadful
truth -- that he was smitten.  As long as she seemed not to 
return his feelings, he was sure they would pass, that his 
infatuation would be fleeting, and that he'd look back on it 
years later and laugh.  He wasn't laughing now.

He padded to his closet and stuffed his gym bag.  His handball 
game was the only thing that could save him now.  In the past, 
he was able to slap away other uncomfortable feelings as he sent 
the hapless ball slamming against the walls.

After his game, his opponent, one of the few members of this gym 
who could hold their own against him, breathed heavily and slapped 
him on the back.  "Have you made a deal with the devil or what? 
That was some game!"

"Jeff," Brad said as they made their way to the locker room.  
"Can you keep a secret?"

"Sure.. what is it?"

Brad waited until they were alone in the hallway then whispered, 
"I have a thing for a co-worker. I just can't shake it!  And I 
think she may feel the same way."

"Whoa..." Jeff responded.  He knew the FBI's rules, and from his 
own experiences on Wall Street he also knew the reasons for those 
rules.  "Don't go there, buddy.  Don't even think about it!"

When they got to the locker room Brad threw open his locker 
door, making a loud slam against the cold metal.  He sighed deeply.  
"Jeff, I don't know... I don't know if I have the willpower...  I've 
been attracted to lots of women at work.  This one's different."  He 
sat on a bench, pulling off his shoes and socks, and as he hunched 
over his feet his voice took on a strained tone.  "I'd feel the same 
way no matter how I met her..."

Feeling helpless, Jeff looked down on Brad and put a hand on his 
shoulder.  "Like I said... Don't go there.  Don't even think 
about it."

"Too late," Brad said, standing up to finish undressing.  "I 
can't 
stop thinking about it."

Jeff continued looking down, and saw the truth of Brad's 
statement.  "Let's schedule another game for tomorrow.  You need 
to 
get your mind off of her."

Brad wrapped a towel around his waist and started for the 
showers.  "Okay, it's worth a try," he said dejectedly.

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

Monica only half-listened to the Shaolin monk's instruction on 
The 
Way, chi breathing, the power of chi...  After hours of lectures 
at 
the FBI she wanted some action, and started fidgeting as the 
master 
droned on.  The master noticed her disinterest, and 
intentionally let 
his voice slip into a strict monotone, and his Chinese accent 
grow 
stronger and stronger.  Monica continued to feign attention.

Finally, the monk said, "You are interested in harnessing the 
power 
of chi?"  Monica nodded.  "Why?"

"I need..." she started, then stopped when she realized she 
wasn't 
sure what she was seeking.  "I'm not sure.  Control?  Inner 
strength?  Focus?  I need to be able to sense evil without being 
overwhelmed by it..."

The monk's face was impassive, making Monica squirm.  "I need... 
no I 
want... an inner peace, or an inner strength... to do battle 
with 
evil.  I'm an FBI agent, and..."  She suddenly sensed the inner 
peace 
and strength of the monk, and felt an overwhelming urge to 
confide in 
him.  "And I need to deal with the evil within myself," she 
added.

The monk smiled knowingly.  "A warrior needs the power of chi, 
for 
just such reasons.  Whether you pursue Shaolin Kung Fu or not, 
you 
are welcome to learn from us."

Monica's face broke into a bright-eyed grin.  "Thank you, sifu," 
she 
said, bowing her head.

"You tell me you have begun learning to breathe.  You have been 
missing an important element:  meditation.  You will start 
learning 
now."

Monica's purse rang out an objection, and she smiled 
apologetically.  "My cellphone... I'll just be..."  The sifu 
looked 
displeased but Monica pulled the criminal from her purse 
nevertheless. She blushed as she said, "Hello?...  Brad!  Of 
course...  I'm ready.  But I'm not at home."  She gave him 
directions 
to the monastery then returned the phone to her purse.  "I only 
have 
twenty minutes," she said.  "Will that be enough time?"

"For true instruction, you will need to set time aside, making 
your 
learning the most important thing."

Monica's heart sank.  "That was my boss...  I was kind of on-
call.  I 
don't know if I can make a commitment like that."

Seeing her disappointment, the master said, "If you truly want 
to 
learn The Way and the inner strength of chi..."  Monica nodded.  
"The 
universe will cooperate with your plans."

Unsure whether to believe in this concept, but consoled by his 
encouragement, Monica grinned and sighed.  "For the next twenty 
minutes the universe is cooperating."

Later, Monica stood on the street corner waiting for Brad's car.  
She 
felt stronger and more focused than she had since starting at 
the 
FBI.  When Brad pulled to the curb, he noticed a change in her.  
She 
seemed calmer, more serene...  He smiled awkwardly and asked, 
"Are 
you enlightened now?"

She grinned, unsure whether he was flirting with her.  Last 
night's 
kiss seemed like a silly mistake now.  Her brief meditation had 
cleared her mind, and she felt cleansed.  "Starting to be...  
I'm 
coming back here for weekly instruction in The Way."

"Dao," he answered knowingly.  "Good for you."  

As they drove out onto the Island Monica prattled on about 
Chinese 
culture and religion, as Brad repeated to himself, "Don't go 
there.  
Don't even think about it."

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

By the time of the autopsy, the victim had been identified.  He 
was a 
19-year-old mentally handicapped boy whose fingerprints were on 
record in Nassau county.  Monica took her place at a distance 
from 
the medical examiner, but he waved to her to approach.

"Aren't you the agent who thinks this was an exorcism?"  Monica 
nodded.  "Since when do retards need exorcisms?"  The M.E. said 
with 
disgust.  "This ... this ...." he looked into Reyes' innocent-
looking 
eyes.  "This sick-o ain't no man of the cloth!"

"I agree," Monica said calmly.  "I think it was an amateur 
exorcism."  The M.E. and the other investigators looked at her, 
slack-
jawed.  She nodded decisively and added, "There are too many 
inconsistencies for this to be sanctioned."  They continued 
staring 
at her as she looked around at their faces, as if to say, 
"what?"

Brad interjected, gesturing toward the head.  "What about these 
bruises?"  Everyone turned their attention the body, except 
Monica, 
who looked gratefully at Brad.

Monica felt a sense of peace, both from her meditation and from 
the 
body.  Brad smiled at her for a short moment, then made a point 
of 
not looking at her for the rest of the autopsy.  But despite his 
best 
efforts, the image of her face, nearly glowing in its serenity, 
was 
at the front of his mind. 

Afterward, as they were walking to his car, Brad remained 
uncharacteristically quiet.  After they'd buckled themselves in, 
Monica looked expectantly at him, his hands on the steering 
wheel, 
his eyes glued to the odometer.

"Brad?" Monica put her hand on his arm.  "Are you okay?"

Lines appeared on his forehead.  "Didn't that seem a little 
routine 
to you?" he suddenly asked.

"I didn't notice," Monica replied, her eyes looking upward as if 
replaying the autopsy.

"The M.E. didn't seem surprised by any of the discoveries.  He 
has 
all this anger toward the perp... yet..."  Brad pursed his lips 
and 
sighed through his nose.  "It's as if he's seen this before..."

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

Monica sighed and studied Brad's face.  "I don't know what to 
say.  
Maybe he's just very jaded..."

Brad studied her face with equal intensity to her stare.  "You 
may be 
right.  You do have a good sense of people... but still there's 
something..." he turned the key in the ignition.  "I just don't 
know."  He pulled onto the road and they drove in silence for a 
few 
minutes.  They came to a major intersection populated with 
restaurants.  He slwed down and said, "Want to have lunch?"

She looked at him with surprise, and he turned in to a parking 
lot 
before she could answer.  "But... I am supposed to be..." she 
stuttered, lookinig at her watch.

"It'll be quick," Brad promised.  "I've eaten here before."  
Before 
Monica could object, Brad thrust open his door and stood next to 
the 
car, impatiently waiting for her to join him.  She sighed and 
followed him to the front door of a Chinese restaurant.

As they were waiting to be seated, Monica studied the deep red 
and 
polished gold decorations.  Brad watched in amusement. "Do you 
have a 
thing for all things Asian?  or just Chinese?"

Monica was stunned.  "I never thought of it before," she 
answered 
thoughtfully.  "I try to keep an open mind.  I guess I like a 
lot of 
things."  She smiled, and he responded with an amused, 
appreciative 
smile of his own.  Monica was surprised and flattered by the 
gleam in 
his eyes.  And, she had to admit, a little excited.  As she was 
struggling to suppress her feelings theh hostess waved to them 
to 
follow.  By the time they were seated, Monica felt like her old 
self 
again, but she could see that Brad's eyes had not lost their 
gleam.

She blushed over her open menu, and forced herself to breathe 
deeply.  "Monica?" she heard his voice asking gently.  She 
looked up 
to see the waitress waiting patiently for her to order.  "Moo 
goo gai 
pan," she said, a little flustered.  "Steamed rice, jasmine 
tea."

Brad handed his menu to the waitress, keeping his eyes on 
Monica.  "I'll have that too."  Leaning forward on his elbows, 
Brad 
added, "As you're the expert, I'll follow your lead."

Monica looked away then brought her eyes back to his, this time 
defiantly.  "You're the one who's been here before."  Silently 
she 
added, with as much mental power as she could muster, "Please 
don't 
flirt with me.  You're making this harder."

"Okay," Brad said, leaning back in his seat.  He paused when he 
saw 
her startled reaction.  "Tell me what you know about ritual 
abuse?"

"Intentional ritual abuse?" she clarified.  "Very little.  In 
most 
cultures rituals are harmless, and even abusive ones have..."

"Not rituals from cultures... I mean, cults... destructive 
cults," 
Brad interrupted.  "How do you know that what we've seen is from 
an 
exorcism and not something intentionally harmful?"

"I don't," she admitted.

He thought for a moment before speaking, then said, "I want you 
to do 
some research.  There needs to be a task force here, and you 
should 
represent our division."

"Me?" Monica was flattered.  "I'm so new..."

"There isn't anyone else I'd choose," he said matter-of-factly.  
"On 
Monday I'm going to ask Williams to assign you to a task force, 
if he 
forms one.  And knowing how things work around here, I expect he 
will."

"Okay," Monica said slowly.  "Where do I do this research?"

"On Monday I'll take you on a tour of the libraries and show you 
our 
database.  You'll probably be under someone else's supervision 
by 
Wednesday, so set Tuesday aside for homework."

Monica sighed and played with her chopsticks.  She felt both 
relieved 
and disappointed not to be seeing Brad after Monday.  Trying to 
avoid 
his eyes, she looked around the restaurant, this time admiring 
not 
the Chinese decor, but the ceiling tiles, the napkins, the salt 
shakers...  A man was chatting heartily with a woman, two small 
children seated between them... Another table seated three women 
huddled in what looked like gossip.  A man came toward her, 
followed 
by two women.  Monica suddenly realized she was staring at them 
and 
quickly averted her eyes.  As she stared at her chopsticks, 
Monica 
felt a rush of warmth pass by her, and her chopsticks seemed to 
vibrate between her fingers and thumb.  She turned to watch the 
people who had just passed by, and the second woman turned to 
watch 
her.  She smiled at Monica, the golden yellow of her bleached 
hair 
perfectly matched by the yellow glow of her eyes.  Monica 
dropped her 
chopsticks and started to hyperventilate, then remembered her 
training.

"Just a minute," she said, excusing herself.  She followed the 
woman 
to the cashier's station, feeling warmth and nausea 
strengthening as 
she caught up to her.  She stood behind the stranger, eyes 
closed, 
breathing deeply, from her belly, as instructed, forcing herself 
to 
empty her mind.  The nauseau subsided, and as it did, a series 
of 
images flashed before Monica's mind, showing her the anguish of 
a 
thousand tortured souls.  The last image was of the boy from the 
autopsy.  She opened her eyes and saw the woman leave the 
restaurant, 
looking backward, victory in her yellow eyes.

Monica asked the hostess where the ladies room was, then 
pretended to 
need to use it.  By the time she emerged, she was refreshed not 
in 
body, but in spirit.  She was determined to track down this evil 
that 
was permeating Long Island.

Through the rest of their lunch together the shop talk gradually 
gave 
way to personal chat, and for the first time Brad did most of 
the 
talking.  His years in England, schooling in Princeton, Los 
Angeles 
and drug investigations... Monica found it all fascinating.  By 
the 
time he dropped her off at Joe's station Brad seemed more like a 
friend than a supervisor.




A new world awaited Monica at the station house.  It seemed at 
once 
grim and cheerful, old linoleum floors contrasting with modern 
computers.  Old cabinets, metal undercoating showing at the 
well-worn 
edges, lined one wall, and a counter made from blond wood in 
1950s 
tinting supported an array of modern equipment.  "Can I help 
you?" a 
young, cheery woman asked from a seat near the phone.

Shyly, Monica responded, "I'm looking for Joe Costello... he 
invited 
me for..."

Jumping up, the young woman smiled and said, "You must be 
Monica!  
Welcome!"  She ran around the counter and grabbed Monica's 
elbow.  "The wives and girlfriends are in here," she said, 
leading 
her toward the back.

Monica found herself in a workplace kitchen.  Mismatched 
containers 
sat on a formica counter, steam wafting from some, creating a 
cacophony of aromas that Monica's very full stomach did not 
welcome.  
Several women sat around a utilitarian table in the center, 
their 
hands waving over their paper plates as if conjuring.  The 
conversation stopped as Monica stepped through the doorway.

"Everybody, this is Monica," the young woman said proudly.  Half 
a 
dozen pairs of eyes instantly fixed on Monica, making her blush.

"Hi," Monica said, shuffling her feet slightly.

An older woman rose and was instantly at Monica's side.  She put 
her 
arm around Monica's waist and ushered her toward the table.  
"I'm 
Rosemarie," she said officiously.  "Captain Williams is my 
husband." 
She then proceded with introductions, naming both the wife or 
girlfriend and the man who justified her presence.

The final woman, closest to Monica, was named Teresa.  She had 
long, 
carefully primped, dark hair framing exquisitely applied, if not 
tastefully chosen, make-up.  She was quite pregnant, but managed 
to 
lean to the side to offer Monica a limp handshake.  "Welcome, 
have a 
seat," she said.  "We're all friendly here."  Monica smiled, 
thinking 
the woman's accent sounded like a parody of a Brooklyn accent.

"You're not from around here, are you?"  asked one of the women, 
drawing disapproving glances from the others.

"No," Monica offered.

Before she could continue, another woman interrupted, "But 
you're 
Italian, aren't you?"

"No," Monica said, laughing.

"Jewish?" another woman jumped in.

"No," Monica shook her head.

"Irish," another woman said hopefully.

Monica looked around the table skeptically.  "Not Irish either," 
she 
said cautiously.  "Why?"

Another woman snapped her fingers and said "Puerto Rican!  
Reyes, 
right!  That's Spanish!"

"No, I'm not from Puerto Rico," Monica said, becoming a little 
defensive.  She eyed the group cautiously and the women closest 
to 
her leaned forward trying to read her face.

"Are you black?" a tentative voice said.

"I'm from Mexico," Monica said, and the women all leaned back in 
their seats.

"Ahhhh" they said, relief evident in several faces.

"Well, at least you're Catholic," Rosemarie said with 
finality.  "That's good."

"Actually, I'm converting to Buddhism," Monica said cheerfully.

Silence greeted this announcement.  Monica's eyes darted from 
one 
shocked face to the next.  "What?" she asked.  "Is there 
something 
wrong with that?"

Teresa spoke first.  "Does Joe know this?"

"Sure, I've told him," Monica said innocently.  "Why wouldn't 
I?"

One of the other women made the sign of the cross over her chest 
then 
said, "It'll kill his mother."

"I wonder if that's the point," another said, seeming to forget 
Monica's presence as she went into a huddle with the two women 
nearest her.

"Speaking of Joe's mother," Monica jumped in.  "Where's that 
famous 
baked ziti?"

Rosemarie escorted Monica to a countertop populated by nearly 
identical pans of pasta with red sauce and cheese.  "Mine is 
this 
one," she said, proudly gesturing to the one with the least 
pasta 
left.  "And this one is Joe's mother's," she nodded toward a pan 
that 
was nearly intact.

Despite her engorged stomach, Monica helped herself to ziti from 
both 
pans, then poured herself a coke.

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

Monica ate as much ziti as she could while listening to the 
women 
talk about their pregnancies, their children, their sisters' 
children...  Finally Teresa turned to her and asked "So, 
Monica... 
How many children do you want."

Monica forced down a mouthful of ziti and tried to decide on an 
appropriate response.  All eyes were suddenly on her.  "I 
haven't 
really thought about it," she said finally.  "Two, I suppose."

"I thought Mexicans liked big families," a woman at the far end 
said.  The woman next to her slapped her, and the other women 
looked 
down.

"It's a little early for me to be thinking about a family 
anyway.  
I've just started my career, I just moved here..."

"You and Joe have only just met," Rosemarie added.

Monica blushed and stabbed her fork into some particularly tough 
pasta.  "We're nowhere near talking about children," she 
answered, 
then popped the pasta into her mouth.

"I want five," Teresa said, jubilantly rubbing her swollen 
abdomen.  "Four more after this one, but we'll take what God 
gives 
us."  She smiled beatifically, looking to Monica for admiration 
for 
her faith.  Not finding it, she continued, "Frank and I both 
come 
from big families."

"As does Joe," Rosemarie pointed out.

Suddenly several men marched through the doorway.  "Monica!" Joe 
shouted.  He ran up behind Monica and wrapped his arms around 
her 
chest, careful to keep them high and chaste.  He nuzzled her 
affectionately and rocked her from side to side.  "You made it!" 
he 
said into her ear, but loud enough for the others to hear.

Monica smiled and rocked with him.  Despite her doubts about the 
relationship, it felt good to be appreciated.  She put a hand on 
one 
of his meaty forearms and looked into his face.  He smiled and 
kissed 
her, not passionately, but with enough affection to make the 
ladies 
say "ahhh," and the men say, "Joe, you old dog."

*********************
The men hovered over the kitchen counter, talking and laughing 
between bites of well-loved food, as the women pointed out the 
dishes 
that were to die for.  Joe tossed his paper plate into the trash 
then 
pulled a chair beside Monica.  He sat down and put his arm 
around her 
shoulders, pulling her toward him possessively.  She smiled 
uncomfortably but didn't struggle as he kissed her cheek to a 
feminine chorus of "ahs."  Encouraged, he pulled her face toward 
him 
and gave her a long, passionate kiss.  Monica felt both 
exhilirated 
and embarrassed by the cheers and shouts of "Get a room" that 
accompanied this second kiss.  She was almost grateful when her 
cellphone rang.

She fumbled for the phone then came up with it, triumphantly 
silencing its ring.  "Hello?" she asked, of course knowing who 
it 
would be.  She stood and walked to the hallway, listening more 
than 
talking.  "Okay, I'll be here," she said, and turned around to 
see 
Joe following her.

"Your boss?" he asked, disappointment in his voice.  

She nodded and put a hand on his arm.  "Another case.  On the 
island.  This one's an adult female, but with the same injuries.  
He's picking me up in fifteen minutes."

"You'll miss John and Barb," Joe said.  "Their kid is sweet too.  
You'd like him."

Monica became quiet.  "I'm sorry," she said sincerely.  "I 
wanted to 
meet them.  But I really need to go..."  She started walking 
toward 
the kitchen but he stopped her.

"Are you okay, Monica?" he asked, his eyebrows knit together in 
confusion.  "What is it?"

She smiled wistfully.  He was getting to know her, and she liked 
that.  "I told you I'm converting to Buddhism, didn't I?"

His face blanched.  "Well, I knew you were..."  He stammered and 
looked around, afraid of eavesdroppers.  "No, I didn't think you 
were 
converting...  I mean, you're Mexican... Won't your family 
be..."  He 
stopped when he saw the determination in her slightly pursed 
lips.  
They both sighed and studied each others' eyes.

"Joe, does it matter?" she demanded.

He thought for an instant then softly said, "Yes... it does."

Turning away, Monica said, "I have to get my purse."  She rushed 
toward the kitchen, said her goodbyes, then rushed back to a 
stunned 
and confused Joe.  "I'll wait out front for him," she said 
tearfully.

Joe followed her outside, drawing the attention of the 
receptionist.  "There goes another one," she said to herself.

They stood in silence in front of the station for a few moments, 
then 
Joe reached out and stroked her hair.  "Monica," he started 
tenderly.  She turned to face him, revealing a face wet with 
tears.  "Monica, can we talk some more... after you finish?  
Please?"  He continued stroking her hair, looking tenderly into 
her 
eyes.

Trying to smile, but only managing a weak grin, Monica nodded.  
He 
took her head in his hands and kissed each of her tear-stained 
cheeks, then her lips.  The softness of his kiss surprised her, 
but 
she didn't respond in kind, even when he dropped his hands to 
the 
line of her jaw.  He pulled back and sighed.  "Can I come over 
later?"

"Sure," she answered.  "Just call first.  I don't know when I'll 
be 
back."




Brad pulled to the curb, unnoticed, as the two lovers huddled in 
intimate conversation.  He bowed his head and took a deep 
breath.  I 
needed to see that, he thought.  Vowing to keep that vision in 
his 
mind every time he thought of Monica, he closed his eyes tightly 
and 
tapped the horn.

Joe and Monica jumped at the sound of the horn.  "Why don't you 
call 
me when you get back?" Joe asked, stroking her cheeks with the 
palms 
of his hands.  "It doesn't matter what time.... anytime is fine.  
Ma 
is staying overnight at my sister's in Staten Island.  She's 
helping 
with the new baby."

Monica nodded.  "I'll do that.  We do need to talk."

A wistfulness passed over Joe's eyes, and he bent forward to 
kiss 
her.  The kiss was tender, passionate, and sad, as if it might 
be 
their last.  He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged 
her 
to him.  A loud blast from Brad's horn interrupted them.  "I've 
got 
to go," Monica said.

"I know."  He ran his hands over the last traces of her 
tears.  "Don't forget to call me."

Brad and Monica both sighed as he pulled away from the curb.  
Monica 
glued her eyes to her mirror, watching Joe watching her, until 
Brad 
made their first turn.  Brad gritted his teeth and made a point 
of 
looking everywhere but in Monica's direction until a deep sigh 
caught 
his attention.  He looked over to see a tear dropping from her 
jaw 
onto her shoulder, Monica's face staring straight ahead as if 
there 
were no tears.

"You okay?" he asked.

She sniffed and wiped away her tears. "Yeah," she answered in a 
high-
pitched voice.  "Just time of the month, I guess."

He couldn't claim to know Monica well, but he knew women well, 
and he 
knew a conversation-stopper when he heard one.  They drove the 
rest 
of the way in silence, yet their breathing revealed more to each 
other than any words could have.

By the time they arrived at the crime scene both agents were in 
full 
possession of their faculties and ready to face a new case.  
They 
marched to the scene and found A.D. Williams looking over an 
officer's notepad.  "Brad," the older man nodded.  "And this 
must be 
Agent Reyes."

Monica nodded her acknowledgement then asked, "Where's the 
body?"

Williams' eyebrows raised in a silent question to Follmer, whose 
eyebrows raised in confirmation.  "Over here," he answered, 
leading 
them to a culvert passing under a main road.  "She was dumped 
here, 
just as you see her now.  Forensics has gone over the ground 
near the 
body.  You can get closer."

Stepping lightly over the leaves and fallen branches between the 
road 
and the culvert, Monica felt a pull from the body.  Where she 
had 
expected to find nauseating heat and feelings of evil, she found 
a 
serenity and coolness that was inexplicably attractive to her.  
The 
body was bruised, with black fluid staining the woman's blouse 
and 
burns disfiguring the woman's face and hands.  Yet despite these 
horrors Monica found only beauty as she looked on the victim's 
face.

...until she realized she recognized her.

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

Monica looked over her shoulder, searching for Brad's face.  His 
back 
was to her, but she recognized him instantly, and instantly felt 
anchored, safe, and a little excited.  As if sensing her 
feelings, he 
turned and saw her looking at him.  He responded immediately to 
her 
expression of concern and bounded toward her.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking from Monica to the victim.

"This woman," Reyes started.  "I recognize her."

"You know her?" Brad seemed shocked.

She shook her head.  "No, I recognize her... from earlier today.  
She 
was in that Chinese restaurant the same time we were."

Shock turned to astonishment on Brad's face.  "You *recognize* 
her?  
Where was she?"  He searched the woman's face for familiar 
features.  
Nothing about her rang a bell for him.

"She was..." Monica rose to face Brad, giving herself time to 
think 
of a response.  "She was at the register when I went to the 
ladies 
room.  I remember her."  Brad's eyes narrowed as he studied 
Monica's 
expression.  She could see his skepticism and whispered, "I felt 
something... evil... I followed her when I sensed that."

Brad blinked a few times then glanced at the victim.  "I don't 
remember her," he said, shaking his head.  How could he not 
recognize 
her?  Was he losing his touch?  He looked at Monica's face 
again, and 
everything else seemed out of focus suddenly.  She raised her 
eyes 
slightly to meet his, and his heart skipped a beat.  Yes, he 
thought, 
I am losing my touch.

Reyes interrupted his thoughts.  "That evil... it's what I 
noticed 
about her.... and now I don't sense it.  In fact, I sense the 
opposite."  Brad's eyebrows queried her for more, and she 
complied.  "This body... there's no evil here, no trace of evil 
at 
all.  Not even the amount you'd sense in ordinary fallible 
humans."  
Brad blushed and closed his eyes.

"What I'm saying is," Monica started with forcedn patience.  
"This 
was another *successful* exorcism.  In fact, even more 
successful 
than the last one.  He's getting better."

******************************
"Better?" Brad repeated.  "The victim died!"

"Well... yes..." Monica stammered.  "But, remember?  The baby?  
That 
baby was evil, still evil, even after he died...  That's how I 
found 
him."

Brad took her elbow and escorted her away from prying 
ears.  "Monica," he said in a low voice.  "That's between us, 
okay?"  
Her eyes widened into an expression of innocence that melted his 
heart.  "Monica," he repeated from the side of his mouth.  "You 
weren't supposed to be there... your name is not on the report."

Monica swallowed and looked into Brad's eyes defiantly.  "But 
you do 
believe me?  That there really was evil there?"

He ran a hand through his hair.  "Monica..." he started.  "I 
don't 
know what to believe."  He looked into her eyes, meeting her 
determination with an equal measure of his own.  "I believe that 
*you* believe it... And I believe it's possible that the killer 
believes it.  At this point, and this is only instinct, mind 
you," he 
paused and took a deep breath.  "Yes, I do believe you.  But I 
warn 
you, nobody else will."

Grinding her teeth, Monica struggled for words, but before she 
could 
answer him, Williams approached.

"Agent Follmer, Agent Reyes," Williams nodded.  "Well?  Anything 
look 
familiar?"

"The victim," Monica answered immediately.  "I saw her earlier 
today, 
in a restaurant."  

Williams' head jerked downward slightly, turning his ear 
slightly 
toward her.  "You recognize the victim?"

Monica nodded.  "Brad was there."

Williams looked at Brad, who grimaced and blushed.  "We were 
having 
lunch."

"After observing the autopsy of the second victim," Monica 
offered.  
Williams turned to Brad again, this time accusingly.  Monica 
continued, oblivious to his reaction.  "This woman..." She 
noticed 
Brad's wary expression and slowed her speech.  "When I saw her, 
she 
was with two other people..." and she continued her description 
for 
Williams, with no reference to evil.

Williams pursed his lips and looked from one to the other 
several 
times before speaking again.  "Agent Reyes," he said 
assertively.  "I'm starting a task force on this ritualistic 
abuse.  
These crimes don't fit into any of our divisions.  You'll be on 
it."  
He turned and addressed Brad, "Her partner will be on it too."  
Brad 
eagerly nodded his compliance.  "Have them both come to my 
office at 
10 Monday morning," he ordered, then walked to the knot of 
officers 
gathered around the body, talked to them a few moments, then 
escorted 
one back to take Monica's statement.

In the car, Monica reviewed the evening's events, and when a few 
silent minutes had passed, volunteered, "I don't feel 
comfortable 
lying to a superior."

Brad grinned.  "That's good to hear."

"I mean, lying to Williams."

"You weren't lying to him.  You just didn't tell him things that 
were 
unprovable," he looked over and studied her face.  "I appreciate 
your..." he thought for a moment, trying to choose his words 
carefully.  "integrity.  But that was a special situation.  I 
was 
trying to protect you."

Monica sighed.  "I know... I appreciate it, but I don't need 
protection."  

Hearing the resignation in her voice, Brad pulled to the 
shoulder and 
put the car in "park."  "Look, Monica...  This isn't some 
knight-in-
shining armor thing.  I'm just trying to ... guide you." His 
voice 
became gentler as he added, "You have a lot of potential, but 
there's 
a lot you need to learn."  In the faint light from a distant 
streetlamp he could barely make out her sigh.  Instinctively, he 
reached for her hair and stroked it.  "You're going to be a damn 
fine 
agent," he reassured her.  "The way you recognized that woman's 
face..."  He shook his head in admiration and shifted the car 
into "Drive."  "That was amazing."

After an uncomfortable silence, Monica asked, "I have a 
partner?"

Brad cleared his throat.  "Well, not yet.  I've been thinking 
about 
who to assign you to.  I have someone in mind, and I'll call him 
tomorrow after church."

"He's religious?" Monica asked cautiously.

"Yes, very," Brad smiled.  "Orthodox Jew.  Devoted to his 
family... 
Sends his kids to yeshiva, observes all the holidays."  He 
checked 
traffic then looked toward the passenger side.  "And," he added 
significantly.  "He takes Saturdays off.  You can continue your 
religous studies without worrying about being called out on an 
assignment."

As the significance of Brad's words sunk in, Monica beamed at 
him in 
appreciation.  "You're arranging things so I can..."

"Sure," he interrupted, a touch of pride in his voice.  "He's 
the 
perfect partner for you."

Monica leaned back in her seat and rested her hands on her 
thighs.  "Thank you," she whispered.

He gulped and whispered back, "You're welcome."

They drove the rest of the way in a comfortable, easy silence, 
and 
neither wanted to break the mood when the car stopped in front 
of her 
apartment.  Monica spoke first, "So, you won't be my supervisor 
anymore... for how long?"

"Until this case is resolved at least," Brad answered, looking 
ahead.  "Depending on how many other victims show up, whether 
this is some cult with multiple suspects, or whether other unrelated 
crimes fall to this new unit..."  He looked into her eyes, which had 
become slightly dewy.  "It could be months, even years."

She sighed deeply.  "In that case, thank you for everything."

Brad's face softened and he leaned forward slightly.  "You're 
welcome.  You're a joy to train."  He swallowed, then added, 
"And 
anyway, I've enjoyed your company."

"We'll still see each other, though?" Monica asked tentatively.

"A little," Brad tried to grin.  "Hallways, meetings, 
elevator..."  A 
mist clouded over his eyes.  "We'll still see each other," he 
resolved.

Monica put her hand on his thigh, and asked a little 
provocatively, "Can we see each other socially?"

Brad knew the answer should be "no," that he and Monica could 
never 
date as long as they were both in the FBI, and he closed his 
eyes, 
praying a silent mantra of "no, no, no, no, no..."  He opened 
his 
eyes to see her anguished face, her eyes reflecting the pinkish 
light 
of the streetlamps.

And he said, "Yes."

At that moment they heard a sharp rap on the passenger side 
window.



Monica's hand jumped off of Brad's thigh, and grabbed her purse.  
She 
looked up to see Joe's face peering in the window.  She couldn't 
help 
hyperventilating as she looked from Joe to Brad.  Brad sighed 
and 
leaned away from her.  "Goodnight," he said, relieved to have 
been 
rescued from himself.

"Goodnight," Monica answered, her lips pursed as if to prepare 
for a 
kiss.  "See you Monday."

As soon as Monica had closed the car door behind her, Brad took 
off, 
forcing himself to focus his eyes ahead, and not in the rearview 
mirror.  But at the corner, he felt the irresistable urge to 
turn 
around and catch one last look at her... at them.  Their 
silhouetted 
embrace seemed so intimate, so close.  He sighed.  "What am I 
thinking?" he thought.  He drove home with that vision in his 
mind, 
resolved that after Monday morning's meeting he would have her 
transferred to another division permanently.

But once inside his apartment Brad couldn't help wondering what 
it 
would be like to hug her... kiss her...  He got undressed and 
lay in 
his bed, staring at the ceiling, seeing a pair of dew-stained 
sherry 
eyes looking down on him.  The more he tried not to think about 
Monica, the more his thoughts went to forbidden territory, below 
her 
eyes... her lips, which he'd seen speak so many words and curl 
with 
so many emotions... her chin, that jutted out when she was angry 
but 
also when she laughed... her neck, long and smooth, begging to 
be 
stroked...   he would find her desiring him as much as he desired 
her... 
and he would be everything she could want in a lover... he would 
make 
her cry out in ecstasy, leaving her breathless, her face flushed 
and 
glowing.... and they would curl up together in an embrace filled 
with 
trust and gratitude... and love?

Aw, Jeez, Brad, he scolded himself.  Don't go there.  Just don't
go there.  But a few minutes later he was asleep, and in his 
dreams he went there again.

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

As she hugged Joe, Monica couldn't help sneaking a look over his 
shoulder, watching Brad's car pull to the intersection, and then 
she 
thought she saw Brad turning around to look at her.  She sighed, 
and 
Joe squeezed her more tightly.  When Brad's car turned the 
corner 
Monica buried her face in the crook of Joe's neck and let her 
body go 
limp against his.  He pulled her away and looked into her eyes.  
"Can 
I come in?" he asked tentatively.  "I can stay the night 
tonight."  
In the dim light his brown eyes seemed to go far, far deeper 
into his 
soul, revealing a love and a need that Monica couldn't resist.

"Sure," Monica said, grabbing his hand and leading him to the 
door.  
Once inside she led him to the futon, which was still folded out 
as a 
bed.  "You wanted to talk?" she said softly.

She watched as he struggled to get started on what seemed to be 
a 
prepared speech.  "Monica, ever since we met..." he paused and 
took 
her hand in his.  "I thought, well... I know I was rushing 
things, 
but I thought... that you might be the one."  He paused and 
checked 
her face for signs she understood him.  Her surprise wasn't what 
he'd 
hoped for, but he knew she was following him, so he 
continued.  "You're everything I want in a woman...  you're 
kind, and 
sweet, and gentle..." He stroked her hand with a slow, gentle 
rhythm 
that Monica found almost too loving.  "From that first day, all 
I 
could think about was taking care of you and protecting you."  
Monica 
grimaced, but Joe's eyes were on their hands, and he added, in a 
soft 
voice, "And I think you'll make a wonderful mother."

Monica pulled her hand free, and said, "Joe, where are you going 
with 
this?"

He grabbed the errant hand and pulled it toward him.  The warmth 
and 
gentleness of his hands made Monica relax and let him guide her 
hand 
despite herself.  Joe continued, "I know you aren't ready for me 
to 
talk this way...  and I wasn't planning to bring any of this up 
until 
much, much later."  As one hand stroked hers, the other massaged 
her 
arm, its fingers kneading her muscles as it walked back and 
forth 
between her wrist and elbow.  "But after today..."

"This is about religion, isn't it," Monica interrupted.

Joe nodded.  "I know it's your right to do what you want," Joe 
conceded.  "But before you do something drastic, I want you to 
talk 
it over with a priest.  I've asked my brother and he's willing 
to 
talk to you.... privately, in confidence.... after Mass 
tomorrow."  
The pleading look in Joe's eyes surprised Monica.

"Your brother is a priest?" she said incredulously.  "Here, in 
Brooklyn?"

"St. Brendan's.  It's not far."

"Oh, Joe..." Monica sighed.  "I never was religious.  I don't 
know..."

"Please?" Joe pleaded.  "If you don't want to talk to him, I 
understand, but please... talk to someone.  If you'd rather talk 
to a 
woman, my sister Anne is a good listener.  She's a nun.  You can 
trust her."

Monica looked at him in disbelief.  "You have both a brother AND 
a 
sister in the Church?"

"Yes, and an uncle... but he's in Trenton," Joe answered.  
"Please," 
he repeated.  "Come to Mass with me tomorrow morning, then see 
my 
brother."  He cupped her chin in his hands and the seriousness 
of his 
face, and Monica felt her resolve melting.

"Okay," she said resignedly.

He pulled her mouth to his and kissed her warmly.  "Thank you, 
sweetie."  Putting his arms around her in a bear hug, he rocked 
her 
side to side and buried his face in her hair.  "I worry about 
you," 
he whispered.



Monica pulled away.  "You don't have to worry about me.  I'll be 
fine," she insisted.

Joe stroked her hair and kissed her softly on the lips.  "Try 
stopping me," he whispered into her ear.  "I can't help myself.  
You're too precious."

As much as she hated being worried about, being called 
"precious" was 
nevertheless flattering and comforting.  Joe kissed her again, 
lingering at her lips, waiting for her to respond.  
Instinctively, 
she kissed him back and pulled her hands up along his back, 
settling 
on his thick, muscular neck.

They leant back and rolled onto the futon, Joe's hands caressing 
Monica with a greater gentleness than they had before.  She 
responded 
by rolling onto her back and passively letting him explore her 
most sensitive areas.  ...


He positioned himself over her and breathed heavily into her 
hair.  "You are so beautiful, Monica," he whispered.  His hands 
continued to explore her, and when he felt her respond, he moved 
to 
consummate their evening.  Monica tried to focus on the man she 
was 
with, but every twinge of pleasure brought a different image to 
her 
mind.  Fortunately, the twinges ended within a few minutes, and 
she 
could once again focus on Joe's satisfied face gazing into hers.  
He 
reached out and pushed a few stray hairs away from her face.  
"You 
are so beautiful," he repeated.  She smiled weakly and stroked 
his 
chest, but before she could think of something to say, he was 
asleep.

The next morning Monica awoke first, and for a few moments 
watched 
the burly man beside her, innocently sleeping.  Moving slowly so 
as 
not to wake him, she got out of bed and went to the dining room, 
then 
turned a chair toward the corner and started to meditate.  She 
breathed as she'd been taught, and tried to think of Tao, of 
Chinese 
philosophy, of the few Buddhist lessons she'd read.  But she 
could 
only think of Joe.... she knew in her heart it was over.  She 
couldn't continue to lead him on.  It would be unfair.... Having 
had 
this realization, her breathing deepened, and she was able to 
move to 
an altered state of consciousness.  She felt her apartment slip 
away, 
then her chair, then her skin itself... until all her molecules, 
every atom, had dispersed into the universe, her entire 
consciousness 
feeling at once immense and miniscule.  She felt a freedom she'd 
never known before, an awareness that was matched by a 
simultaneous 
obliviousness...  She marveled at the experience but, fearing it 
couldn't last, let her wonder disspate into the universe along 
with 
her being.

A hand on her shoulder brought her out of her meditation.  "Is 
this 
part of that Buddhist thing?" Joe asked, unsuccessful in his 
attempt 
to conceal his contempt.

Monica rose and serenely took his hand.  "Yes, you should try 
it.  
It's wonderful!"

"Maybe next time," Joe said cautiously.  He grabbed his clothes 
and 
started dressing.  "I've got to get my suit out of the car.  
Church 
is in an hour."

Monica found herself sighing frequently as the singing and 
praying 
progressed.  She was more sure than ever that this religion was 
not 
her calling.  Focusing on her breathing, she tried to meditate 
as 
those around her prayed.  She was distracted by the rhythmic 
vibrations of a child kicking the back of her pew.  She started 
to 
look over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the child, 
when 
she noticed Joe smiling broadly at someone directly behind her.  
It 
was the thumping child.  Monica sighed in annoyance as Joe 
started 
waving and making funny faces.  She closed her eyes and sighed 
loudly, then bent forward, putting her head in her hands.  "What 
am I 
doing here?" she thought to herself.

Afterward, Joe ushered her through a crowd of coffee-drinking 
Catholics and introduced her to his brother.  Monica was 
surprised at 
how little the two brothers resembled each other.  Frank was 
much 
shorter, with a thin frame, and much lighter skin.  But his 
demeanor 
was similar:  friendly, helpful, eager to be liked.  Joe stood 
by, 
his hands in his trouser pockets, as Monica and Frank retreated 
to 
the rectory.  Monica looked back and was touched by his 
nervousness.  
Joe was touched that she looked back.

The room looked much like a living room or study, with books 
lining 
two walls, comfortable overstuffed furniture carefully arranged, 
and 
soft sunlight diffused through sheer curtains.  Monica felt 
instantly 
at home, and Frank's casual friendliness put her even more at 
ease.

He got right to the point.  "So... Joe tells me you're 
considering 
leaving the Church?"

Monica fidgeted and thought carefully.  "I never really felt as 
if I 
belonged in the first place," she said, admitting to herself the 
truth of this statement for the first time in her life.  "I 
never 
believed the things I pretended to believe.  I didn't even 
believe 
that God would punish me for lying about believing in him."

"Ahhhh" said Frank, leaning forward in a listening pose.  "And 
what 
have you found that you think is better?"

"It's not ..." Monica stammered.  "It's not a matter of better 
or 
worse.  I have this... sense... of good and evil.  I need to be 
able 
to feel it without being overwhelmed by it.  In my job I'll be 
coming 
across evil... I *have* felt the presence of evil... and 
sometimes 
it... it's made me faint, throw up... Already with a few lessons 
in 
Taoism and Buddhism I've been able to face it... to accept 
it..."

"You *want* to accept evil?" Frank questioned.

"No, of course not!" Monica fumbled for a better way to express 
herself.  "In the FBI, it's a fact of life..."

"You're in the FBI?"  Frank seemed surprised.  Monica nodded.  
Frank 
sighed and studied her face.  "So, you are fighting evil every 
day?"  
Monica nodded again.  He scrunched his forehead in thought, then 
asked, "How were you coping with evil before you found this..." 
He 
finished with a wave of his hand, as if even uttering the names 
of 
other religions were anathema to him.

"Nothing," Monica said simply.  "I thought joining the FBI 
*would* 
help me deal with my sense of evil... that if I could *do* 
something 
about it, maybe it wouldn't be so troublesome, but then... " A 
tear 
poised at the edge of her eye as she finished, "it was even 
worse."

Frank sighed deeply.  "Well, Monica, I don't know what to tell 
you.  
The whole purpose of the Church is to fight evil with good.  And 
I 
have that same sense that you do.  My religion has been a source 
of 
strength as I've faced both evil and ... ordinary human 
frailties 
that result in evil.  I sense goodness in you -- powerful 
goodness, 
but even guided by the Good within you, you will need a higher 
Goodness to help you. I can help you find it, if you want."

"Thank you," Monica said softly.  "I don't know..."

"Anytime... it doesn't have to be now," Frank offered.

The ticking of a mantel clock was the only sound for some 
seconds, 
then Monica responded, "Frank... What can you tell me about 
exorcism?"

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

After his handball game, Brad felt more relaxed than he had in 
weeks.  In the locker room, Brad  said to Jeff, "Thanks for 
suggesting this extra game.  I thought I had that situation 
solved but then..."

"Uh oh," Jeff said.  "What did you do?"

"It wasn't me -- it was her!  I set her up with a task force -- 
to 
get her out of my division -- and she asked if we would still 
see 
each other."

"Maybe it was innocent," Jeff offered.

"Jeff," Brad looked at him knowingly.  "She had her hand on my 
thigh.  If her boyfriend hadn't interrupted I don't know what 
would 
have happened."

"That changes everything!" Jeff said enthusiastically.  "She's a 
slut?"  Before Brad could object, Jeff continued, his vicarious 
excitement building.  "In that case, go for it!  Her boyfriend 
is 
right there and she's making passes at you?  No way are you 
going to 
get in trouble here.  Have some fun while you can!"

"Jeff, I don't think..." Brad started to argue, wanting to 
defend 
Monica.  He stopped when he realized he wasn't sure if Monica 
*was* a 
slut.

"Listen, Brad..." Jeff put a hand on his shoulder.  "Sleeping 
with a 
subordinate... Bad news!  Sleeping with a co-worker... Bad news!  
Sleeping with the office slut?  Don't give it a thought!"  He 
slapped 
him on the back then continued dressing.  "She's not going to 
sue 
you, and chances are, by the time anyone else finds out, she'll 
have 
boinked everyone who could cause trouble for you."  He shook his 
head 
then added, "You lucky dog...  You've found yourself a risk-free 
piece of ass."

Brad wasn't sure he agreed with Jeff's assessment of the 
situation, 
but he wanted to believe he was right.  He left the gym resolved 
to 
stop fighting the inevitable.

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

Monica emerged from the rectory armed with books, files, and 
pamphlets.  Joe bounded over to her and took them from her, then 
leant over them and gave her a very familiar kiss.  "You had a 
good 
talk with my brother?" he said, smiling.

"It was great," Monica nodded.  "He's a great guy ... a really 
good 
person, Joe."

Sighing, Joe's eyes glistened as he searched her face for the 
answer 
he wanted.  Monica smiled then turned toward the exit, Joe 
following 
a step behind her.  It wasn't until they arrived at his car that 
he 
saw what the books were:  exorcism books, not Christian 
instruction.  
After Monica had buckled her seat belt he handed them to her, a 
questioning look on his face.

"Joe," she said with sympathy.  "I'm not changing my mind.  
These 
books are research -- for that task force I told you about."

They drove to her apartment in silence, each writing their 
speeches.  
Joe double-parked and let the engine run.  As he turned in his 
seat, 
Monica unlatched her seatbelt and started to open her door.  He 
grabbed her arm and looked deeply into her eyes.  "Monica," he 
started.  "I think we both know the truth... this isn't going to 
work 
out, is it?"

She shook her head slowly but didn't say anything.  He studied 
her 
face as if to memorize it, then stroked her hair.  With a catch 
in 
his voice, he said, "I guess this is goodbye, then."  She nodded 
and 
leaned forward to meet his final kiss.  As they parted each 
looked 
sadly into the other's eyes.

"Goodbye, Joe," she whispered with finality.

"Bye," he answered.



The sun was setting behind her as Monica sat at her desk reading 
through Frank's books on exorcism.  Frank had confirmed some of 
Monica's suspicions, and he promised to let her know if he heard 
of 
anyone performing unauthorized exorcisms.  As she read, she kept 
a 
running list of thoughts, ideas, clues to look for... and she 
didn't 
notice the time passing, nor the footsteps in the hallway.

A metalic scrape sent her flying to her feet.  When the door 
flung 
open she was ready, her feet spread and her arms outstretched 
and 
pointing her gun toward the doorway.  The silhouetted figure put 
up 
his hands and said, "Monica... it's me, Brad."

She let him approach, and as the overhead fixture lit his face 
she 
relaxed and lowered her shoulder, then holstered her gun.  
"Brad!" 
she yelled.  "What are you doing picking my lock?!?!"

He held up a key for her inspection.  "Master key.  I'm your 
supervisor, remember?  I can open all of the doors in this 
hallway."

Monica sighed.  "What do you want," she said with irritation.

"I'm preparing for tomorrow's meeting," he said a little 
nervously.  
I need to look up a few cases..."

"Come on in," she said, ushering him in, and waving toward the 
door.  
He closed the door obediently and took a few steps forward.

"I might ask you what *you're* doing here," he said.

"Just a little research," she nodded toward her desk.  "I picked 
up 
some material on exorcism.

Brad picked up one of the books and thumbed through it 
appraisingly.  "Frank Costello?" he asked, his eyebrows raised 
in 
surprise.

"Joe's brother," she answered, grabbing the book from him and 
putting 
it back on the pile.  "He's a priest."

"So..." Brad carefully feigned a casual interest.  "You and Joe 
went 
to church together today?  Things are progressing nicely."

"We broke up," Monica announced.  "Happy?"

"Of course not," he said, genuine hurt in his voice.  He rubbed 
his 
hand up and down her upper arm.  "It's always sad when..."

"Do you want to know why?" she asked accusingly.

"No, not really," he said, still stroking her compassionately.  
"What 
happened between you is none of my business.  I'm just sorry you 
were 
hurt."

She put her hand out to his other hand, and he took it.  "I'm 
sad, 
but more sad for him.  I'm not what he thought I was...  but I 
already knew he wasn't the man for me."  She squeezed his hand.  
"He 
wasn't my type either."

Brad gulped.  "And what *is* your type?"

In answer to his question, Monica leaned forward, her lips 
demanding 
to be kissed.  His lips obeyed.

Their first kiss was tentative, but it didn't take long for 
their 
pent-up desire to express itself in a passionate kiss that 
melted 
Monica's spine and made Brad weak in the knees.  As they came up 
for 
air, Brad put his hands behind her head and drank in the vision 
of 
her flushed face.

"Am I your type?" he asked breathlessly.

"Oh, yes," she sighed, bringing her lips to his for more.  His 
lips 
were soft and warm, and they seemed to embrace her mouth, moving 
in 
constantly evolving patterns that took her to higher and higher 
planes of desire.  She couldn't help leaning into his body, 
delighting in its warmth and suppleness.  She loved everything 
he did 
to her -- did *for* her.  She'd never felt this way before.

Brad followed as she backed herself toward her desk, and when 
she 
jumped up onto it and wrapped her legs around him he pulled 
away.  
Her legs maintained their grip on his hips as he said, in a 
strained 
voice, "Monica... we can't ... we shouldn't..."

"You're not my supervisor anymore," she flirted, pulling on his 
tie.  
He responded by smoothing his tie against his chest.

"I need to prepare for the meeting...." he said between gentle 
kisses.  "Can you wait..." he looked at his watch.  "An hour?"

She smiled, thinking how long she'd waited for a kiss like that.  
All 
her life, she thought.  What was one more hour?  "Okay," she 
said, 
her lips curled into a mock pout.  "I'll be waiting for you."

She watched as he gathered his materials, his businesslike 
demeanor 
convincing her to go back to work herself.  As he closed the 
door he 
looked into her face once more, and she smiled with a joy no 
other 
woman had ever shown for him.  "An hour," he promised, then 
closed 
the door.

An hour later, Monica was engrossed in her studies when she 
heard a 
tentative knock on the door.  She flew to the door and opened it 
to 
find a smiling yet insecure Brad Follmer.  They stood facing 
each 
other for a few awkward seconds until Monica stepped backward to 
shut 
the door.  She leaned against the door and smiled giddily at 
Brad.  "You came back!" she said excitedly.

"Of course," he whispered, reaching for her hand.  "I needed to 
be 
sure I wasn't dreaming earlier."

Smiling, Monica grabbed his hand and pulled it around her waist.  
Brad ran his free hand along her jawline, and when it reached 
her 
chin he tilted her head upward.  Their lips joined in a 
tentative 
kiss that deepened as they pulled each other closer.  After 
several 
minutes of slow, sensuous probing, their mouths separated and 
formed 
smiles that were mirror images of each other.  "It was no 
dream?" 
Brad said finally.

"I'm not sure," Monica whispered.  "Reality's never been like 
this 
before."

"No?" Brad seemed surprised.

Monica ran her hands over his chest, marvelling at its subtle 
geography.  "Nobody's ever kissed me like that," she blushed and 
studied her hands as they continued roaming over his body.  "I 
never 
knew..." she sighed.  "I never knew a kiss could be like that."

Brad tilted her head upward and planted another soft sensuous 
kiss on 
her waiting lips.  "Like that?" he asked softly.

She inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of his closeness.  
"Yes, 
like that," she sighed.

She's no slut, Brad realized suddenly.  "There's more where that 
came 
from..." he said, then gave her a long, lingering kiss that took 
her 
breath away.

When they came up for air she put her hands on his cheeks, 
taking in 
the sight of his shining eyes.  "I hope so..."  Her thumbs 
traced the 
outline of his lips, following their contour as he smiled under 
them.  "Joe never had any idea..." she stopped when she realized 
what 
she'd said.  The surprise in Brad's face urged her to an 
explanation.  "He never knew that when I was with him..." she 
blushed 
but felt an overwhelming need to tell Brad the truth.  "When I 
was 
with him... I mean really *with* him... I couldn't help wishing 
I was 
with you."

Her confession caused Brad's heart to skip a beat, and he pulled 
her 
closer to him.  She responded by wrapping her arms around his 
neck, 
and he nuzzled the hair over her ear.  "I was wishing the same 
thing," he whispered.

And in that moment, Brad knew that this woman would be both his 
salvation and his undoing.



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

He drove her home that night, but despite an hour of lingering, 
sensuous kisses, she didn't invite him in, and he didn't suggest it.  
Monica thought of her futon, where Joe had so recently been.  Brad 
thought of his meeting, his first as a supervisor.  It was all he 
could do to spend that hour finishing his preparation; he knew he'd 
never pull it off if he spent the night with her.  He was the one who 
started the good-bye process, reminding her that they each had a 
stressful morning ahead.

Monica attended the meeting, her first and last in the division.  Her 
new partner sat with her, giving her a running commentary under his 
breath as Brad went through his carefully prepared speech.  Despite 
frequent whispers of "ass-kisser" and "spoiled brat" from both beside 
and behind her, Monica thought it was an excellent speech.  She 
blushed when he mentioned her name and said how sorry they were to be 
losing her so soon.  She left halfway through to keep her appointment 
with Williams, but couldn't resist the urge to turn around at the 
door and gaze at the man who took her breath away.  He saw her, 
stumbled over his words, then glued his eyes to his notes.  On the 
way to Williams' office Pete ran through a list of both Brad and 
Mike's faults, which only served to make Monica love Brad more.

She was disappointed to find Brad's office empty after her meeting, 
and decided to get some lunch.  Janet was standing in her usual 
place, smoking.  She greeted Monica and the two began chatting.  
Monica told Janet about her break-up with Joe, and Janet's 
understanding demeanor made Monica want to tell her everything else 
besides.  But she knew she couldn't.  Janet noticed Monica's anxiety 
and said soothingly, "Don't worry, honey.  The right man is out there 
somewhere.  It's a big city."

"Thank you, Janet," Monica sighed.  "I hope so."

"Monica, I heard about your transfer," Janet put a hand on Monica's 
arm.  "You can still come by and talk to me.  Anytime."

Smiling both inwardly and outwardly, Monica answered, "Thank you.  I 
might just take you up on that.  It's only been half a day and 
already I miss our chats."

"Brad will be back with our lunches any minute.  We're working 
through lunch today," Janet explained.  "But we can talk until he 
shows up, anyway."

Monica brightened at the realization she could see Brad so soon, and 
let Janet probe her on all aspects of her relationship with Joe.  But 
when the subject turned to sex, Monica's stomach grew queasy.  "Um, 
Janet," she said cautiously.  "Could I bum a cigarette?"

After a few puffs Monica felt calmed.  Janet was surprised to find 
Monica so comfortable with a cigarette.  "I bet Joe didn't approve of 
that, either," Janet said knowingly.

Monica laughed.  "He's such a fitness nut..."  Brad's sudden 
appearance behind Janet made Monica inhale sharply.  She quickly 
threw the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out.  "Hello, Agent 
Follmer," she said with forced casualness.

"Agent Reyes," he nodded.  "Janet, they were out of prosciutto.  I'm 
sorry."   He turned toward the door, indicating that Janet should 
follow, then addressed Monica in a formal tone.  "Good luck in your 
new assignment, Agent," he said, then disappeared into the building, 
leaving Monica wondering whether she'd imagined the night before.

At the end of the day, Monica returned to her office to find a voice-
mail from Brad.  "Hi Monica, it's Brad... Listen, when we're at work, 
we have to be all-business, okay?  Stop by my office when you're 
finished, and we can talk about it.  I let Janet go home early."

Monica's heart was racing as she turned the knob on Brad's office 
door, but all her doubts were erased as soon as she was inside.  He 
grabbed her and kissed her passionately. "I was afraid you wouldn't 
come," he whispered.

"I couldn't wait!" she groaned, her hands roaming over his back.

He cupped her jaw in his long slender hands and said, "We shouldn't 
see each other during the day.  I'll never get any work done."  He 
kissed her again, his lips growing softer and more sensuous as her 
body danced in his hands.  As he ground into her, he pushed her 
further and further back until she was up against the wall.  She drew 
one knee up along the side of his leg as she nuzzled his neck.  "Oh, 
Monica," he moaned.  "You're making me so hot...."

"Good," she whispered into his ear.

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

He ground against her, and she could feel his pleasure growing as she 
met his grinding motions with sensuous movements of her own.  Her 
arms slipped under his jacket and pulled him even closer as her hands 
wandered aimlessly across his back.  Following her lead in this 
dance, Brad's hands roamed over her back.  Her ragged breathing sent 
waves of hot desire over his face, then his neck, then over his chest 
as she loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top buttons.  As her head 
bowed to delight in the warmth under his shirt he leaned over, 
whispering behind her head, "yes, yes..."  She responded by undoing 
the rest of his shirt buttons, until she came to the top of his 
trousers.  She looked up, smiling into his eyes as she grabbed his 
belt buckle and quickly freed its clasp.  He swayed backward with 
pleasure, and he felt as if he might have collapsed if she hadn't 
been holding onto his waistband.  ...

After they were finished, he 
offered her a slow, tender, affectionate kiss that was unlike any 
kiss she'd experienced.  She pulled away and her dewy eyes looked at 
him with wonder and gratitude.

Just then they heard the door open.


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

Janet hurriedly closed the door, and by the time Brad opened it she 
had disappeared.  He slammed it shut, then turned the lock.  "Damn," 
he muttered.

Monica came up behind him, and put her arms around his waist.  
Instinctively, he turned and embraced her tenderly.  "I hope this 
wasn't a mistake," he said thoughtfully, looking over her shoulder, 
taking in the patriotic accoutrements of his position.  Her arms 
shifted, somehow finding just the right way to comfort him.  He 
buried his face in her hair and sighed.  "No," he whispered.  "This 
is no mistake."

She grinned contentedly, her sigh offering him even more 
comfort.  "We just need to lock the door," she whispered back.  He 
laughed in spite of himself and pulled away to drink in her serene 
face.

"Good thinking, Agent," he said, his eyes sparkling with 
admiration.  "Because now that I've found you, I can't imagine giving 
you up."  He took her head in his hands and kissed her, with 
passionate tenderness that astonished her.  She marveled how each 
kiss from him seemed different, and how each one communicated such 
depth of feeling.  She would never have guessed he could be so 
passionate, and if not for the power of her own feelings she would 
have felt overwhelmed.

This time it was her turn to pull away and gaze lovingly at him.  "I 
don't want to give you up either," she said breathily.  She caressed 
his cheek, and he leaned into her hand.  "I want to take you home 
with me and never leave the house."

He laughed.  "Then maybe we should go to my place."  Pulling her to 
him, he let her feel his eagerness for her then added, "We'll need to 
get out occasionally to stock up on condoms."

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

Monica was surprised by the appearance of Brad's apartment.  It was 
almost as small as hers, furnished with pieces that had seen better 
days, and not very neat.  It was so different from the clean, modern 
efficiency of his office.  She stood behind him as he locked the 
door, eyeing the shabby sofa.

After locking the door, Brad set his keys on a small table then put 
his arm around Monica's waist.  "It's not much, I know," he said, 
following the direction of her eyes.  "That sofa came from 
Goodwill... but it's sturdy.  It'll last forever."  He spun her 
around to face him then took her face in his long hands.  "I look for 
quality....  always," he said, looking deeply into her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she stammered.  "I didn't mean..."  She could tell he 
didn't want an apology, but she continued anyway.  "I just expected 
something more... modern."  She smiled weakly, hoping he wasn't 
hurt.  He was.  She wrapped her arms around his waist and said 
impishly, "I hope your bed is sturdy."

"There's one way to find out," he smiled.  He kissed her hungrily, 
letting his hands roam over her back.  She responded by pulling at 
his lapel, then pulling off his suit jacket, keeping her lips on 
his.  She threw the jacket on the floor then pulled him to her.  He 
suddenly pulled away, then bent to pick up the jacket.  "Sorry," he 
said as he hung the jacket over the back of a chair.  "This is my 
best suit."  He pulled off his pants and gently smoothed them before 
draping them over another chair.

...  She shivered in his hands and pulled 
herself closer to him.  "Cold?" he whispered into her ear.  She 
nodded, and he responded by rubbing his hands up and down her 
arms.  "C'mon," he reached for a hand.  "Let's go to bed."

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

Her hand in his, Monica eagerly followed Brad through the bedroom 
door.  A dim pink light filtered up from the street, casting long 
dark shadows onto the ceiling.  Brad pulled her toward the bed and 
caressed her face between soft, tender kisses.  "You're so 
beautiful," he whispered huskily.  "Do you have any idea what you do 
to me?"

She pushed her hips toward his, and he laughed into her mouth as his 
eagerness felt the soft flesh of her abdomen.  "Yes, I guess you do," 
he answered himself. ... "You're driving me 
crazy," he growled, then quickly pulled away from her.

"I thought you liked it?" Monica said innocently.

"Too much," he gently pushed her back toward the bed.  "I want to 
drive you crazy first," he grinned, and in the dim light his face 
took on a sinister cast.

"Let's turn the lights on," suggested Monica, resisting his efforts 
to lay her down.  "I want to see everything.  I want to look into 
your eyes."

At his hesitation she struggled weakly to raise herself up.  He sat 
on the edge of the bed, his knees turned toward her, and bent to kiss 
her.  "Why?  Isn't this much more sensuous?"

"Please?" she begged, as his dark features started to frighten her.

Sighing, he leaned toward the bedside lamp and turned it on.  The 
glare upset his eyes, and he fiddled with the shade for a few moments 
until casting the light against a wall and mirror.  "How's that?" he 
turned toward her.

She was sitting up in bed, one hand on his thigh, her eyes drinking 
in the sights around her before answering his.  His bedroom was even 
shabbier than his living room, and except for the immaculately neat 
closet visible through an open door, it looked both dingy and a 
little messy.  She tried to hide her disappointment, but his entire 
being was focused on her happiness and pleasure.  His ability to read 
every nuance of facial expressions and body language was renowned in 
the FBI, and when it came to her it verged on ESP.  "It's not much, I 
know... but by New York standards..."

"I understand," she smiled.  "I was apartment-hunting only a few 
weeks ago."  She took his face in her hands and drew it to her, 
experiencing for the first time a hint of hesitation in his 
affection.  She kissed him tenderly, with a softness that almost 
erased Brad's feelings of shame for arousing her pity.  As they 
kissed she leaned back, and he crawled forward, finally laying on top 
of her, his hurt pride forgotten.

...Their love-making was more profound than either had expected before.
Brad buried his face in the space between her neck and his 
pillow, and waited for his body to remember itself.  His eyes 
squeezed shut as his breath struggled to escape in heavy pants.  With 
a final sigh he relaxed into her fragrant softness, struggling to 
return to the real world.  He rubbed his face up, down, and around 
her hair for several seconds before realizing why -- his cheeks were 
wet with tears.  His pride returned, and he buried himself even 
deeper into the protection of her hair, even as the tears continued 
to flow.  Instinctively, he snaked his arms under her and hugged her 
to him tightly.

Monica responded by wrapping her arms around his back, but within a 
few moments felt herself struggling to breathe.  "Brad," she 
gasped.  "You're too heavy -- I can't breathe."

Brad sighed and rolled to his side.  He knew too well the gravity of 
what they'd just done.