Title: Satellite 
Category: Pre X-Files (well, for Doggett and Reyes anyway) 
Rating: R 
Summary: Happy New Year's 1993 
Disclaimer #1: You know, since I'm not making any money off the 
characters that Chris Carter and 1013 created AND I'm also providing 
free advertising... is a copyright disclaimer necessary? 
Disclaimer #2: I have taken MAJOR MAJOR artistic liberties with the 
Doggett timeline basically because when I tried to figure out 1013's 
timeline when Doggett became a federal agent and when Luke died... it 
was so convoluted and screwed up, I started drinking and figured the 
hell with it and made up my own damn time line. 
Disclaimer #3: Borrowing a song from the Dave Matthews Band's 
album... hope they don't mind :D 
That being said.... 

Satellite in my eyes 
Like a diamond in the sky 
How I wonder. 
Satellite strung from the moon 
And the world your balloon 
Peeping tom for the mother station 
Winter's cold spring erases 
And the calm away by the storm is chasing 
Everything good needs replacing 
Look up, look down all around, hey satellite 
"Satellite, headlines read 
Someone's secrets you've seen 
Eyes and ears have been 
Satellite dish in my yard 
Tell me more, tell me more 
Who's the king of your satellite castle? 
"Winter's cold spring erases 
And the calm away by the storm is chasing 
Everything good needs replacing 
Look up, look down all around, hey satellite 
Rest high above the clouds no restrictions 
Television we bounce 'round the world 
And while I spend these hours 
Five senses reeling, 
I laugh about the weatherman's satellite eyes. 
"Satellite in my eyes 
Like a diamond in the sky 
How I wonder. 
Satellite strung from the moon 
And the world your balloon 
Peeping tom for the mother station 
"Winter's cold spring erases 
And the calm away by the storm is chasing 
Everything good needs replacing 
Look up, look down all around, hey satellite 
"Rest high above the clouds no restrictions 
Television you bounce from the world 
And while I spend these hours 
Five senses reeling 
I laugh about this world in my satellite eyes." 


December 30, 1992 
Windows on the World Restaurant 
1 World Trade Center, 107th Floor 

"Monica, I'm sorry." 

Special Agent Monica Reyes dropped her eyes away from him. Away from 
him and down to her hands resting in her lap. She clenched and 
unclenched her fingers. Looked down at her many sterling silver 
rings. 

And the one gold band with princess cut diamond he swore up and down 
was not from Tiffany's. The light caught the stone just at that 
moment and it sparkled like a satellite in her eyes... 

"How I wonder," she murmured to herself. 

"Sorry... I didn't... what did you say, hon?" 

Reyes cleared her throat. "So that's why you brought me here 
tonight," she said instead. "I should have known. Normally you go 
into hysterics if I suggest coming here." 

He opened his mouth then shut it. "That's not..." he started to say 
but faltered. "I'm sorry," he said again, sadly, softly, lamely. 
Squeezing her cocoa eyes tightly shut to prevent the hysterical 
weeping that certainly would have provoked a scene; she slid the ring 
off her finger. Leaning forward, she placed the ring in the dead 
center of the table. "Guess you want this back," she whispered. 
The shiny gold band and dazzling stone complimented the elegant 
tablecloth and expensive dishes. 

"Oh Jesus, Mon, look...you don't have to be that way. It doesn't have 
to be that way." He flagged down a waiter and asked him to bring two 
more glasses of wine. In his haste and discomfort, he forgot she 
didn't like red wine and ordered two Cabernets. 

As the waiter floated away to retrieve their pricey alcohol, Reyes 
leaned over the table and pushed the ring closer to him with her 
pointer finger. "You can't move to advance your career AND have me 
too, Brad," she told him defiantly yet delicately. Her voice matched 
her psyche at that moment, utterly fragile, something beautiful and 
brittle at the same time. 

Section Chief Brad Follmer reached across the small table to grasp 
her hand. "I still want to marry you." 

"A little hard to do if you're moving to California," she replied, 
pulling away from him. "Unless you are suggesting we have a long term 
and long distance relationship." 

"Why not?" Follmer asked. "I want you with me. I want you to move to 
L.A. with me." 

"Why? So we can have the same problems there as we do here? I'm 
tired, Brad. I'm tired of being your secret. I'm tired of the lying 
and the sneaking around work. I'm tired of leaving my engagement ring 
at home and not being able to show my co-workers. And I don't want to 
move to California." 

"For heaven's sake," Reyes heard the familiar bite of impatience in 
his voice. "Why not? Don't you have family out there anyway?" 

"Yes, my sister, Teri, but Brad, that's not the point." She took a 
breath and forced herself not to talk so fast. "You know that 
eventually I want to go back and work in Washington DC. At J. Edgar." 

"I want to go back to DC too, Monica. Eventually. You know my goals. 
As high up the totem pole as I can go, Monica. Assistant Director, 
Deputy... hell, maybe even Director someday. I want to change the 
FBI. Breathe new life. And I want you with me when that happens Mon." 

She shook her head. "It's not that I don't believe you. But after all 
the complications and the sneaking around... now this. I think this 
is a sign that our ambitions and dreams may not parallel each other." 

"Oh God. Not that New Age garbage," Follmer groaned. "Do I hear Yanni 
crooning in the background?" He cupped his hand around his ear and 
pretended to listen. 

"Fine," she said stiffly, starting to rise out of her chair. "Have a 
nice life Brad." 

"No," he said, quickly seizing her wrist. "No. Please. Don't. Don't 
go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was being facetious. I was trying to be 
funny. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Don't go. Please. I'll 
listen. I am listening." 

Awkwardly, she sat down again, feeling the eyes of the wait staff and 
fine diners boring into her back. "My reasons for wanting to go back 
to DC and yours are different. I don't want to reorganize the FBI. I 
don't want titles or accommodations or prestige or glory." 

Wounded, he said "You make my aspirations sound petty." 

"They aren't," she was quick to reassure him. "They're just different 
from mine. Some people were born to lead. And I don't want to be a 
leader. I don't necessarily want to follow like a sheep either... I 
just like the freedom of being a plain investigating federal agent. 
"I love my job Brad, but I hate it too. Or at least, I hate what I do 
here. I've only been an agent for two, almost three years. And I've 
been with the New York field office for less than a year. And I don't 
like what I'm doing. I want to get back into my field of expertise." 
The waiter reappeared bearing two crystal wine glasses filled with 
the offensive Cabernet. Reyes tactfully waited until he retreated 
before continuing. 

"Brad, when you and I met in DC, I was in my element working on the 
alleged satanic ritualistic abuse investigation. Call me crazy but I 
loved the task force I worked with. And..." shy now, she said. "I 
thought I did a good job. I thought I made a difference." 

"You did do a good job," he said softly, reaching for her hand again. 
This time she didn't draw away. Stroking her knuckles with his thumb, 
he said. "You did a great job. And you did make a difference." 

"I don't feel like I'm making a difference here. I feel like I'm on a 
hamster wheel," she whispered. "And the last few cases I worked on 
have been especially bad. The Shelby Slater case. The Luke Doggett 
case. The Hailey Minas case. I know if I apply for a transfer to LA, 
it's going to be more of the same and I don't know if I can handle 
it. That's why I want to go back to my field." 

"You call the occult better than the cases you've been working on? 
Jesus Monica. You should re-read some of your old reports. Those 
Satanists? They killed babies." 

Reyes looked at her hands again. He was trying so hard to see life 
through her eyes. His ambition however, gave him cataracts. He just 
didn't understand. 

What she didn't understand was that her issues with her work came 
from inexperience. She was too young, too green still. She did not 
have the protective armor to deflect empathic waves that radiated 
from the emotionally charged cases yet. 

And her work in the Violence Against Children Division of the New 
York Field Office was always the same. The police couldn't help, the 
FBI claimed jurisdiction and the bewildered parents and loved ones 
sought her out. Find my baby. Find my daughter. Find my son. She was 
just there a little bit ago. I only turned my back for a minute. 

She's my baby girl, our only child. Oh God, Agent Reyes, it's my 
little boy, he was right there, my wife was watching him ride his 
bike around the block... 

It never ends. It's never over. 

The task force researching the claims into satanic ritual abuse, at 
least there was an end. Once the research was completed and the 
evidence thoroughly investigated and documented for one case, that 
case was completed and then the next one came in. Like a neat 
assembly line. It was easy to be desensitized to photographs, to be 
detached and almost clinical. When the victim's parents were standing 
right there, begging for help, to be desensitized seemed inhumane to 
Reyes so she cared. She cared for each victim from them moment she 
became the agent of record to the moment when the littlest victim was 
found in the most agonizing circumstances. Then she cared for the 
ones that were left behind. 

Her caring was costing her. Sometimes she woke up at night, surprised 
to feel tears streaming down her cheeks and not being able to stop 
them from falling. 

"I know, I know... but my work on that task force enabled me to STOP 
the monsters BEFORE they could kill babies. Or small children. Or 
teenagers or adults. And it also cleared the names of good people 
falsely accused of Satanic ritual abuse. What I do here in New 
York... it's not proactive. By the time the case is assigned to me, 
it's already too late. And all that's left is to find the body and 
figure out who the killer is," she said sadly. 

"What makes you think Washington DC is going to be different from New 
York?" Follmer asked. "Or LA?" 

She smiled nervously. She already dreaded telling about her exciting 
discovery just because she knew he wouldn't understand. She dreaded 
it more now after being the bull's eyes for the bombshell he had to 
drop on her. "Well... I heard of a new division... well, I guess it 
really isn't so new. New to me. It's kind of a dumping ground for 
unsolvable cases, but it sounds so fascinating." 

"And what's that?" He took her hand again and interlocked his fingers 
with hers as he rested his cheek on his other hand, drinking her face 
in. 

"It's called the X-Files. Have you heard of it?" 

Follmer shook his head. "Can't say I have." 

"Well... like I said, it's a dumping ground for cases that are 
unsolvable due to paranormal or supernatural circumstances." 

Follmer stared at her as if she started to pick her nose in 
public. "Come again, Monica?" 

"They are cases... crimes that are paranormal or supernatural in 
origin." 

"Paranormal?" Follmer said blankly. "Supernatural?" 

"Sometimes even extraterrestrial," she added, unable to keep the 
excitement out of her voice. 

"Uh-huh," Follmer said. "So, what does that mean? ET and Casper team 
up and rob Fort Knox?" 

"I knew you wouldn't understand." 

"I understand why those kind of cases would draw your attention and 
fascination, but Monica," he said sadly, reaching over to caress her 
face. "Those kinds of cases would only tie you down. Hamper your 
career. It wouldn't do, Monica. A woman as bright as you, to hitch 
your star to a black hole. You could be brilliant, Monica. Your 
career is only beginning. I remember, Monica. I remember how I felt 
when I first an agent. The frustration. The heart ache. But you can't 
run away, dive into some fantasy division to block out the pain. 
Those people need you Monica. Not the ghosts and goblins." 

"What about," Reyes countered, "the people that have had crimes 
committed against them by ghosts and goblins?" 

"Oh, Jesus, Monica," Follmer whined. "You're serious about this, 
aren't you?" 

"Yes," she said resolutely. "I am. Especially since I ran into one of 
my old classmates from Quantico. Do you remember Alex Krycek?" 
"Um.... was he the one that looked a little bit like a rat?" 

Reyes stifled a giggle, trying to imagine the almost-too-pretty 
Krycek's reaction to being called "a rat" by a Section Chief. "I 
think you're thinking of someone else. Anyway, he was here last week. 
TDY'ed from his Field Office in Buffalo, but he and I got to talking. 
Catching up and he told me about the X-Files. And he told me that one 
of his colleagues works in that division and that... she's sick of it 
and is thinking about transferring out as soon as possible. So, Alex 
told me to get my resume ready because there could be an opening 
soon."

Follmer frowned. "Who's in charge of that division?" 

"Um.... he had a strange name, I don't remember off the top of my 
head. Alex said that everyone at J. Edgar called him 'Spooky.'" 
Follmer rolled his eyes. "Fox Mulder." 

"You know him?" 

"I know OF him. The legend, the myth anyway. Incredible mind, 
outstanding profiler, just a little on the creepy side. Completely 
derailed his career somehow. Almost completely disappeared from the 
Bureau's eye. Now I guess we know what happened to him." He stared at 
her intently. "Is THAT what you REALLY want Monica? To have your 
career to become a joke? To be "Mrs." Spooky?" 

She squirmed. "I just think the X-Files would be... better suited to 
me, is all. I think, as soon as I get confirmation that Agent Fowley 
is transferring out, I'm going to put my application in." 

"I think Agent Fowley is the smart one for getting the hell out of 
that division. Besides, Monica," he said sadly. "I don't want to 
burst your bubble, but I don't think the Senior Staff would go for 
someone like you in this X-Files." 

"Why not?" she asked heatedly. 

"Because," he said gently. "They aren't going to want a believer in 
that office. I know how management and administration think. They 
think that if a case can't be solved by procedure and protocol, but 
rather by extreme possibilities and orthodox methods, the probability 
of it backfiring into everyone's face and make the FBI look bad is 
too high to warrant the risk. That's the bottom line Monica. Yes, 
it's about preserving life, but also it's about preserving the 
American Way of Life. We're keepers of the illusion, Monica. That 
everything is apple pie and the good guys always win. Get some guy 
with an FBI badge blasting on about how aliens are trying to take 
over the world or a witch dropped a house on his sister... that's a 
powder keg waiting to explode and to take down the image of the 
Bureau with him. No, Monica," he told her, pushing a lock of black 
hair off her forehead. "They aren't going to put you in the X-Files. 
They're going to deal with this quietly. They're going to find some 
hard-nosed, hard-assed scientific type from Quantico to partner 
Spooky up with so that the X-Files will be debunked and then shut 
down. Mark my words, Mon. That's how it goes." He leaned closer to 
her. "So don't throw your life and your job away on a dream, Monica. 
It's a good dream, but that's all it is. A dream." He picked up the 
engagement ring. "This," he slipped it on her finger again. "Is real. 
I'm right here. Yes, I'm moving, but that doesn't change the way I 
feel about you. I didn't bring you here to break up with you. I love 
you." 

"I love you too," Reyes said, drawing her hand away. Slipping the 
ring off, she handed it to him. "But I can't do this anymore Brad. If 
you're so real, how come I have to lie about you? If this is real... 
I'd rather have the dreams. I'm sorry." 

She stood up again, grabbed her purse and fished out her wallet. 
"Monica, don't go. Not like this." 

Reyes opened her psuedo-aligator skin wallet and pulled out a twenty. 
That wasn't even half the bill, but it was all the cash she had. Plus 
she didn't think it was fair to stiff him with the bill. "Good bye." 

She turned and left. 

Follmer's shoulders slumped and he flagged the waiter down again to 
tell him he would finish his meal at the bar. He gave him Reyes' 
twenty dollar bill as a tip. 

December 31, 1992 
Special Agent Monica Reyes' studio 
Manhattan, New York 
7:45 PM Eastern Standard Time 

Wrapped up in a quilt her Abuela had made her years and years ago, 
Reyes ignored the ringing phone as she tried to watch the movie she 
had rented earlier in the evening. 

That was the only time she had ventured out of her tiny little 
apartment all day. Feeling completely unprofessional, she had called 
into the office, claiming she had a headache borderlining on 
migraine, which wasn't too far off from the truth. And that she did 
bring home some files which she needed to write reports on so when 
she felt better, she would work on those in the afternoon. Which was 
also true, she did sit at her decrepit home computer that she bought 
at a pawn shop and punch out field reports as she listened to Tori 
Amos as loud as she dared to turn it up. Tori's wailing soprano and 
melancholy piano mostly tuned out the ringing phone. 

"Look I'm standing naked before you 
Don't you want more than my sex 
I can scream as loud as your last one 
but I can't claim innocence 
Oh God could it be the weather 
Oh God, why am I here 
if love isn't forever 
and it's not the weather 
Hand me my leather 
"I could just pretend that you love me 
the night would lose all sense of fear 
but why do I need you to love me 
when you can't hold what I hold dear..." 

This was the very very first time that she had ever faked being sick 
before. Since her boss was also her lover... ex-lover... ex-fianc... 
whatever... Reyes knew that she wasn't going to get in trouble for 
lying her ass off about being sick. She also knew that he wasn't 
going to relent, that he was going to keep pursuing. He didn't get to 
where he was and wasn't going to get where he wanted to be by being 
passive. 

She had tried calling a few of her non-Bureau friends, the ones who 
were allowed to know about Brad, but had gotten answering machines. 
She didn't even bother trying to call her best friend, a girl that 
she had met while a freshman in college. One, because she knew that 
Nathalique would be out painting New Orleans red on New Year's Eve. 
Two, she couldn't afford the long distance call to her anyway. 

So Reyes turned the volume up on her movie a little louder. She was 
tempted to disconnect her phone, but with her luck, her mother or 
grandma would call or one of her friends would call... 

The answering machine picked up. "Monica... it's me, Brad. Um... I 
wish you'd call. Now I'm worried. That you might actually be ill. 
Because... it's New Year's Eve. I can't picture you staying in on New 
Year's Eve. Um... I want to take you out. Let's not end 1992 like 
this. Please? Monica, if you're home, please call me. If not... well, 
I guess you'll call me next year," he tried to laugh at his lame 
joke, but even he realized how stupid it was. "Monica, I love you. I 
won't call anymore. Please call me." 

As the answering machine beeped again obnoxiously, the perky heroine 
from "Beauty and the Beast" began to sing happily from the 
television: 

"There's something sweet 
And almost kind 
But he was mean and he was coarse and unrefined 
And now he's dear 
And so I'm sure 
I wonder why I didn't see it there before..." 

Reyes snorted and hit the "OFF" button on her remote control. She 
threw the blanket off of her and went into the only other room in her 
rabbit hutch: the bathroom. She turned the shower on. 

The hell with it. 

It was New Year's Eve for Christ's sake. 

She decided she was NOT going to ring in 1993 by watching Disney 
movies. 

She was going out. 


Outside of Donovan's 
Queens, New York 
10:45 PM Eastern Time 

The idea of battling the crowds in Manhattan sent waves of panic 
through Reyes' body. She really didn't give a damn about the massive 
party in Times Square. She didn't want to be surrounded by hordes of 
drunken party-goers, their inebriated joviality would make her 
loneliness just that much more pronounced. 

One of her non-FBI-friends, a cop she had met on the Luke Doggett 
case had called her earlier that week and told her that he and some 
of his friends were meeting at an Irish pub in Queens, hope to see 
you there, sweetie. Since she didn't have a car and she didn't want 
to sit with New York's Not-So-Finest on the subways, she damned the 
expense and hailed one of the Big Apple's notoriously colorful taxi 
cabs. However, Reyes' spirits began to lift when she discovered her 
cabbie recently immigrated to this city from Mexico City. Excited 
that someone could understand his native tongue, he talked her ear 
off from Manhattan to Queens 'en espaol' about his hopes and dreams. 
His desire to earn enough money to be able get out of the tiny little 
apartment he, his 'esposa' and his 'dos hijas' currently lived in and 
to be able to send, not just his hijas to the best schools, but also 
his esposa, who wanted to become 'una enfermera' a nurse, but right 
now, there just wasn't enough money. But next year, 1993 was going to 
be a good year, he could feel it in his bones. 

As Reyes gave him not only cab fare but a healthy tip, the cabbie 
grinned and said "Feliz Ao Nuevo, seorita encantadora!" 
Reyes blushed at the compliment. Maybe the whole story about the wife 
and two little kids was a scam to coax bigger tips out of people. But 
there was sincerity in his voice that Reyes felt rather than heard. 
She then realized she only heard sincerity in Follmer's voice. Never 
really felt it. Her spirits deflated again. 

But she hid her sadness well and warmly told the cabbie "Gracias, 
seor agradable. Feliz Ao Nuevo a usted tambin." As the cabbie 
waved and drove away, she called after him "Y buena suerte!" 

"Good luck," she said softly as she stood on the sidewalk in front of 
the bar, watching the cabbie drive away. She looked up at the 
magnificent skyline as the wind began to bring in the snow. 

"Weatherman said it wasn't supposed to snow," she muttered as she 
held out a bare hand and watched the perfectly formed icy crystals 
melt in her warm palm. 

Wiping her palm on her cargo jeans, she turned and went inside the 
warm bar. 

"Hey!" an even warmer voice greeted her the minute she walked 
in. "Look what the cat dragged in?" 

Reyes embraced her friend warmly and allowed him to lead her to a 
table were a small crowd of off duty cops and fire fighters were 
playing poker. "Good to see you Mickey," she told him. 

"Good to see you too, Monica," Officer Jason Mick told her. After 
greeting everyone else at the table and ordering a drink that she 
knew was going to be on the house, Mickey turned to her and 
said "Damn I'm glad you're here, tonight. Could use a ray of sunshine 
here," he told her in his tough New York accent. 

"Why?" Instantly, concern invaded her being, her pathetic love life 
was put on the back burner. "What happened? Is something wrong with 
one of the girls or...?" 

"Oh, Jesus, no. Me, I'm fine. It's 'im that I'm worried about." He 
jerked his head not-so-subtly towards the bar. 

Reyes looked over Mickey's shoulder and saw another familiar face, 
sitting at the end of the bar by himself. "Oh..." she said 
softly. "What happened?" <<Now?>> she mentally added to herself. 

"Fucking bitch wife. Or EX-wife I should say. Personally, I say good 
riddance, but you know," he shrugged. 

"Whoa, whoa, Mickey, slow down, slow down. WHAT happened?" 

"She served him divorce papers. Today. Can you believe that shit?" 

"WHAT?" Then, "What happened?" she asked lowly, so they wouldn't 
attract unwanted attention. Fortunately, the other cops and fire 
fighters were more into their card game than listening in on gossip. 

"Hey, Mick, you in or out?" 

Mickey quickly looked at his cards, grimaced and said "So fucking far 
out that I'm not even in this zip code for this hand." He turned his 
attention back to Reyes. "Sorry," he said, his brown eyes twinkling. 

"So what happened?" she repeated herself. "I thought they were 
working it out. Last time I talked to John, he said he and Barbara 
started seeing a marriage counselor." 

Mickey snorted. "Yeah, a counselor only works if you... I dunno... 
TALK to the counselor 'bout your problems. And you know Doggett. 
You'd have better luck getting a priest to confess his parishners' 
sins than to get 'im to talk 'bout what's botherin' him." 

Reyes looked over Mickey's shoulder again. Doggett didn't look like 
he was feeling sorry for himself. Or upset even. He just looked a 
Stoic as usual. A Stoic that was hellbent on getting very very very 
drunk, but Stoic nonetheless. 

Just then, a blonde pretty girl, with violet-blue eyes and a skimpy 
baby doll dress that accentuated her hefty breasts and good calf 
muscles, tried to flirt with him. Detective John Doggett cut her down 
in two seconds with two drawling words: 

"Go. Away." 

As the defeated vixen slunk off, Reyes turned her attention back to 
Mickey. 

"I dunno. Maybe it's cause he's dumb and Southern. I thought all this 
time up in New Yawk would stop him from bein' a stubborn ass. But he 
wanted to save his marriage. I told 'im, let her go man. She fucking 
cheated on you! With a college kid for God's sake! He wanted to work 
things out. He said... well, he said he owed it to his boy to try to 
work thing out with his mother," Mickey sighed as he reached for the 
beer pitcher. 

Reyes nodded. The only silver lining from the Luke Doggett case, and 
it wasn't even a silver lining, more like a sliver of silver lining, 
was that some of the cops and feds let go of the rivalry that existed 
between the police force and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A 
friendship forged over a death of a child didn't make sense to anyone 
except for the people forced to carry on after everyone who have the 
luxury to forget, does so. 

God, was it only last August when that nightmare case landed on her 
desk? 

"Is he going to contest it?" Reyes asked. When Mickey shook his head, 
Reyes protested "But it's too soon. They're still... they've still 
not recovered from what happened with their son. It's only been a few 
months... maybe she'll rethink her decision." 

Mickey looked at her sorrowful. "No. It's for real sweetie. She 
ripped out his heart and ate it raw. They've been havin' problems for 
a long time. Maybe the problems woulda worked themselves out through 
time if they still had the boy to think of... but... Monica, you 
don't know John and Barb like I do. John, he's family to me. Barb... 
well, I can't bad mouth her too bad because she's one of my wife's 
best friends... but between you, me and the fence post, I have never 
met a more selfish, spoiled brat bitch than her. He's better off 
without her. He just doesn't know that yet." 

Reyes didn't say anything. She had only met Barbara Doggett twice. 
The first time was when she had introduced herself as the agent of 
record for her son's case. The second, and last time, was at Luke's 
funeral. She did not seem like, as Mickey put it, a selfish bitch to 
Reyes. She seemed to be completely devoted to her family. And 
completely devastated by her loss. 

She decided it would be best not to base her opinion of Doggett's 
wife on Mickey's opinion. 

She mentally corrected herself. Ex-wife. 

Reyes stopped feeling sorry for herself right then and there. "Wow," 
Reyes said reaching out for her drink. "How awful." 

But Mickey wasn't paying attention to Reyes. He was staring at her 
denuded left hand. "Monica, where's your rock?" 

"Oh... um... gave it back." 

"Gave it back," Mickey said. "What did the louse do? Do I have to 
beat him up for you?" 

"He didn't do anything," Reyes said. "He got offered a better 
position. In California. So he's moving. End of January. I broke it 
off. I don't want to go to California." 

"I'm sorry, honey," Mickey said sincerely. 

"Me too," she said, sipping her drink. She just remembered she had 
eaten very little today, a bowl of Rice Crispies for brunch and then 
had munched on Doritos and homemade salsa while she tried to watch 
her video. She wanted to feel good, but she didn't want to be puking 
on anyone's loafers either. 

"Well, anyways, go talk to the inbred crab ass over there. Misery 
loves company." 

"I'm not miserable," Reyes said as she rose from her seat. "Just 
extremely unhappy right now," she said with a smile. "But, New Year's 
Resolution Number One, I will not let the bad things drag me down." 

"That's my girl," Mickey said affectionately as he watched Reyes 
cross over to his friend sitting alone at the bar. "Alright," he 
said, turning his attention back to his less angst-ridden friends as 
they dealt out the cards, Atlantic City style. "Who's ready to lose 
some major money tonight?" 

As Mickey evaluated his cards, Reyes sat down next to Doggett. 
Reaching for the ashtray, she said in a soft voice, "Hi." 

He swiveled his head. Reyes noticed that not only was his face 
slightly flushed by the alcohol, but he was getting premature crow's 
feet and laugh lines, making him look older. Distinguished, but 
older. <<He's only, what? Thirty? Thirty-one, thirty-two?>> Sadness 
gave him the appearance of an exhausted monarch. 

"Well," he drawled, his Southern accent so out of place in this 
Yankee stronghold. "Agent Reyes." 

She set the small Guatemalan handbag she used as a purse on top of 
the bar and took out a box of Morley Light 100s. "So, who's to blame 
for dragging you out here tonight?" she teased him as she pulled a 
cigarette out of the box. "Mickey or Duke?" 

"Mickey," he said as he watched her leaned back precariously on the 
bar stool as she shoved her hand down her pants pocket searching for 
her lighter. Doggett rolled his eyes and reached over the bar, 
picking up a book of matches. He performed his snazzy little trick of 
lighting a match with one hand. Holding the flame to her, he 
said "You shouldn't smoke." 

She bent down, holding her hair back, away from the flames. She had 
set her hair on fire once. Spring Break from Brown University. Junior 
Year. Visited her friend Nathalique for Mardi Gras. Drank herself 
stupid that weekend. At one bar, Nat was trying to light a cigarette 
for her. Lit her bangs instead. Reyes forgave her, but never quite 
trusted her around matches again. 

She inhaled greedily. Letting loose a plume of smoke, politely out of 
the side of her mouth so it wouldn't blow back into Doggett's face, 
her eyes glanced down at his empty glass and said to him 
demurely "You shouldn't drink." 

"I don't drink that much." 

"And I don't smoke that much." 

"Uh-huh," he drawled. "Pack an' a half a day, that ain't much at 
all." 

With an impish glint in her mocha eyes, she called over the 
bartender. "Sir, how much has he had tonight?" she tilted her head 
towards Doggett. 

The bartender, a portly gentleman with hair on his knuckles, was 
silent but he reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of Jack 
Daniels. It was almost empty. 

Doggett scowled. "Still ain't that much," he grumbled, pushing his 
glass away. 

"Another one?" the bartender asked. 

Reyes shot the bartender an evil look. 

Doggett, seeing the wicked glance she gave the bartender 
muttered "Guess not." 

When the bartender left to wait on another customer, Reyes turned to 
him, "So what happened?" 

"What happened?" he snorted. "Monica, you know what happened. I saw 
Mickey pull you aside-" 

Even when he was drunk as a skunk, this cop missed nothing. 

"- so you know what happened. She left me," he said 
flatly. "Whattabout you? What brings you out here? Thought you'd be 
out with what's-his-name tonight in Times Square." 
She shrugged. "We broke up." 

"For real this time?" 

She held up her left hand. "Gave back the ring this time." 

"I see," he said gravely. 

"He's moving." 

That was different. Different from the "On-again, off-again, on-
again, never-again, on-again" routine Doggett was used to. "Where?" 

"California. He's going to be in charge of the Los Angeles Field 
Office." Reyes set the cigarette in the ashtray for a minute so she 
could finish her drink in a gulp. Her empty stomach protested. 

"Really," Doggett whistled. "Damn... well... good for him... 
what 'bout you though?" 

"That's why I gave the ring back." She picked the cigarette back up. 

"There was no 'what 'bout you,' was there?" 

"I didn't want to be just the pretty accessory to his success," she 
said before taking another drag on her cigarette. "It's such a mess 
and... I really don't want to talk about my screwed up love life; do 
you want to talk about yours?" 

"I didn't HAVE a love life, I was married." 

<<Maybe that was the problem>> she couldn't help thinking while 
saying "Good. Do you want to play pool?" 

"Pool????" 

"Game. Played on a table with sticks and multi-colored balls?" 

"I know what pool is," he said testily. "I didn't know you could 
play." 

She snubbed out the cigarette. "Loser pays for cab fare," she 
challenged him as she slid off the bar stool and sauntered over 
towards the back of the bar to claim an unused pool table. 
Doggett shook his head, allowing himself a little grin as he reached 
into his back jean pocket and took out his wallet. "I wanna settle 
up,' he told the bartender when he came around to him again. 

"Leaving?" the bartender asked after telling him that his tab was 
thirty dollars. 

Doggett handed him a twenty and three fives. "Keep the charge and no, 
I ain't leavin' yet," he said. "I just don't think the lady would 
like it if I kept drinkin', is all." 

Besides, he was starting to feel a little sick. He didn't think it 
was be very becoming for him if he threw up on someone's loafers. 
He left the bar to go select a pool cue. 


Later... 
11:43 PM Eastern Standard Time 

Reyes was losing spectacularly. 

Doggett shook his head as she sunk the eight ball neatly into the 
right corner pocket. "Monica, you're not s'pposed to put the eight 
ball in until all your other balls are gone." 

"I knew that," Reyes straightened up quickly, pushing her bangs out 
of her eyes. "Can I have a do-over?" 

"A what??? No!" Doggett said, grinning smugly as he leaned slightly 
on his pool cue. "You just lost the game... again." 

"Best seven out of nine," she whined. 

Doggett groaned and stuck his hand into his pocket, searching for 
quarters. "I'm only gonna play," he said as he produced four 
quarters, "if you let me show you how to shoot right." 

"I was one of the top marksmen in my class at Quantico," she informed 
him primly, reaching into her pocket for her cigarettes. 

"I ain't talkin' 'bout THAT kind of shootin' and you know it. Smart 
ass," he muttered as he deposited the quarters into the pool table. 
After arranging the pool balls in a perfect pyramid on the green 
felt, he straightened up and turned to face her. "Alright, Agent 
Reyes, first thing," he plucked the cigarette out of her mouth before 
she had a chance to light it. "Half your problem is that the smoke is 
gettin' in your eyes. Second problem," he took the pool cue from 
her. "You got the wrong damn kind of cue. It's too heavy for you." 

"Is not!" she protested, hands on hips. 

"Is too, now go get somethin' lighter," he ordered her with a 
grin. "Unless you REALLY wanna pay for my cab fare. I'm all the way 
out in Long Island." 

Reyes went to retrieve a lighter pool cue, muttering something 
about "obstinado estpido gringo." 

"I heard that," Doggett teased her as she returned. "And it didn't 
sound very nice." 

"It wasn't," she assured him with a smile. "Does this cue meet your 
standards, Detective Doggett?" she asked, holding out the cue as if 
she was a page holding Excalibur out to King Arthur. 

Doggett took it from her and tested the weight. "I think you'll be 
able to handle that a lot better'n than the last one. Trust me on 
that on. Okay, now c'mere, I want you to look something." Reyes 
obediently moved closer to him. "When I was learnin' how to play, my 
older brother told me to pretend that there was a grid on the tabl-" 

"A grid?" she interrupted. 

"Well, yeah, because where your ball is gonna go depended on the 
angle and position of the pool cue and how hard or light you shoot." 
"There's procedure to this?" she asked. "I thought you just hit the 
ball and hoped it went into the pocket." 

"You're hopeless," Doggett groaned. "Here, let's just practice first. 
Go 'head and break." He moved aside. Reyes leaned over, moved the 
white ball a little to the left and clumsily handled the cue stick, 
trying to make her fingers obey her commands. She tried to make a 
neat break like Doggett had been all evening. Instead she scratched 
the table horribly and the white ball only tapped the other balls. 
The only colored ball that moved was the eight ball and it started 
rolling towards one of the corner pockets again. 

Doggett ran around the table and caught the ball before it could 
plummet down the hole. "Monica," he said, grinning at her, tossing 
the eight ball up and down. "You really stink, you know that?" 

"Thanks a lot," she pouted. 

"Here," he said, putting the eight ball back. Moving the white ball 
back in position, he leaned over Monica and said "Now... I ain't 
tryin' to invade personal space or nothin', but-" his long arm 
reached over her and his big hand carefully encircled her delicate 
wrist. "You're too stiff. Either you gotta drink more," he grinned 
down at her again, "or loosen up your muscles." He shook her arms 
gently. "Relax. You can't have fun if you're all wound up." 

<<Look who's talking>> Reyes couldn't help think as she let his hands 
manipulate her fingers on the pool cue. 

"Okay? That's how your hands are supposed to be, okay?" 

She giggled a little. His breath tickled her ear a little. "Okay?" 

"Now, just nice an' easy, ya don't hafta slam it, okay?" Doggett told 
her as he guided her arms as she aimed. "Remembered what I said 'bout 
a grid. Just pretend there are lines on the table and you want the 
balls to follow the lines. So you gotta position the cue with the 
lines, okay? So does the table look good to you?" 

Reyes closed one eye and squinted with the other. "Looks okay to me." 
Doggett looked over her shoulder. "Actually, you wanna move a little 
to the left." Reyes complied and said, "Better?" 

"Yeah... break whenever you're ready." 

With his help, Reyes made a neat break. The eight ball stayed away 
from the pockets. "I did it!" she squealed like a little kid. 

"See," Doggett said, standing up and stepping decorously away from 
her. "Toldja so." 

Just then the bartender started yelling "Five minutes to midnight 
folks! Get your champagne!" 

Waitresses flitted around the bar, offering people complimentary 
champagne in cheap plastic flutes. 

Doggett excused himself and left Reyes for a minute to snag the free 
liquor for them. Reyes watched him as he worked his way through the 
crowd. People were standing up now and gathering close. Turning 
towards the television to watch the mayhem coordinated by Dick Clark 
in Times Square. Doggett had gotten waylaid by some of his friends 
from the NYPD and they were clapping him on the back, laughing and 
joking with him. Mickey reached over and miraculously procured three 
glasses of the French concoction the world so treasured and tried to 
imitate. Doggett and Mickey pushed their way through the revelers 
back towards Reyes. 

"Hello beautiful," Mickey crooned, handing her the plastic champagne 
glass. "For you m'dear," a broad grin crossed his florid face. 

"Thank you," Reyes said graciously as her stomach moaned. Her diet 
for the evening, despite her earlier resolve not to drink, had been 
mostly liquid. She felt a good buzz going on, thanks to the beer that 
Mickey kept sending over for Reyes and Doggett, but she knew that she 
was definitely not going to feel well in the morning if she mixed 
beer with champagne. 

<<Hell with it>> she thought, accepting the glass. 

"Now, if you 'scuse me," Mickey said, bowing, "but I gotta go make a 
call. My wife's studying for the bar," he explained to Reyes. "Plus 
we're too broke right now for a sitter." 

"Minerva actually let you out on your own on New Year's Eve?" Reyes 
said incredulously. 

"Sure," Mickey said. "But she did say she wanted a phone call at 
midnight, so I gotta go find a phone. And that after tonight, I'm not 
allowed out ever again. Ever." He shrugged. "Oh well, the Mets had a 
crummy season last year anyways. Not like there's much I wanna do 
after this," he punched Doggett brotherly in the shoulder. "So, see 
youse next year, huh?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Doggett grinned, "Go away. Call Minn. Tell 'er I love 
her." 

"I knew you liked her better than me," Mickey false-pouted as he 
slipped away in search of a phone. 

Reyes felt a pang of envy. When she looked up at Doggett, she knew 
their feelings were in sync. "I'm jealous of them," she admitted. 
Doggett put a companionable arm over her shoulders. "Yeah..." he said 
bitterly. "Me too." 

The patrons of the bar began counting loudly. "SEVEN... SIX... 
FIVE... FOUR... THREE... TWO..." Televisions across the world bounced 
the image of the glowing ball dropping in Times Square. Snow 
continued to fall. All across the East Coast and indeed throughout 
the world, people began screaming hysterically. "HAPPY NEW YEAR! 
HAPPY NEW YEAR!" A few brave souls tried to remember the lyrics 
to 'Auld Lang Synd.' 

All the people screamed and sang except for two. 

Reyes turned to her friend and folded him into a warm embrace. 
Doggett jumped a little, surprised by her sudden familiarity. But he 
returned it, wrapping his arms around her lanky figure, resting his 
face against her soft black hair. 

"This year will be better," Reyes whispered. 

Hoarsely he replied, "Can't see how it could be much worse." 

Doggett looked up, saw Mickey ambling towards their direction, 
performing a precarious balancing act with a full beer pitcher and 
three beer glasses. Doggett tactfully broke the embrace and stood 
behind Reyes. Reyes turned around to see what prompted Doggett to 
step back. She grinned as she saw Mickey set down the beer pitcher 
and glasses on a very wobbly table. 

"Happy New Year, beautiful," he told Reyes as he engulfed her in a 
massive bear hug. After giving her a smacking kiss on her cheek, he 
reached out for Doggett's hand. After shaking hands vigorously, he 
pulled him into a clumsy, brotherly hug. Doggett looked even more 
uncomfortable than before. Mickey broke the awkwardness by stepping 
away and slapping Doggett on the cheek. "You yutz," he told 
him. "Come on, finish up your Frog booze so we can start on the real 
stuff. It's a party, ya know. Who's up for darts?" 

"Mickey," Doggett said gravely. "I don't think it's smart to be 
throwing sharp objects in the air after we've all been drinkin'." 

"Yeah, it's all fun and games," Reyes agreed, "until somebody gets an 
eye poked out." She drained the contents of her champagne flute in a 
gulp and placed it on the table. 

Mickey snorted as he doled out beers. "Piss on you both. Not like I'm 
suggesting we use knives instead of darts. Anyway, there's still a 
pool table up. We can shoot doubles. Hey, Duke," Mickey bawled 
out, "get your pretty ass over here, we need someone for doubles." 
"I'm comin', I'm comin'," huffed another old partner of Doggett's 
across the small Irish bar. 

"Now, Monica, sweetie," he said, taking her free hand. "You better 
double up with me and unlearn what Country Boy over there taught 
you." 

"Oh, here we go," Doggett rolled his eyes. 

"Okay," Reyes slurred, feeling a stupid grin plastered on her face as 
she started to drink more beer. Her liquid dinner was beginning to 
hit her now. Despite her previous intentions not to drink because of 
her nearly empty stomach, the beer had kept flowing towards her all 
night. 

Suddenly she felt very very very hot. She touched her face, it was 
warm. The entire bar was too warm all of a sudden. "I have to go 
the..." she blanked out on the word she was searching for. "I'll be 
right back," she said, feeling her stomach lurching suddenly, and 
cramping hard. The cheap champagne hit her hard and fast, not making 
friends with the beer already churning in her stomach. 

"You okay?" Doggett frowned at her. Although he had been drinking 
longer and harder liquor that she had, he still wasn't nearly as 
drunk as she was. Almost, not quite. In the unspoken sobriety contest 
between him and Reyes, there were only a few factors in his favor. 
The simple facts that he was taller and heavier than Reyes. And that 
in most cases, women simply got drunk faster than men. 

Reyes, turning green, nodding, "I'm fine, I'll be right back," she 
said, pivoting very quickly and heading towards the women's room. 
"Maybe I should get her home," Doggett fussed like an old women. 
"Hey, alright!" Mickey clapped him on the back. 

Doggett glared at him. "NOT like that." 

"Ah, she'll be fine. Hell, if she throws up, she'll probably feel 
better than YOU," Mickey pointed out. 

"Maybe I wanna go home," Doggett muttered, sipping the beer he really 
didn't need. 

Mickey for once, tried like hell to be tactful. "Ah, don't be like 
that man... just stay for awhile. I mean... what do you have to get 
home to? An empty house?" 

"Thanks a lot," Doggett said coldly. 

"It's the way it is," Mickey said, sharper than he intended. "Want me 
to pussyfoot around, feed you a buncha bullshit? If that's what you 
want, then keep dreamin' pal. 'Cause it's not gonna come from me." 
Doggett closed his eyes. Now his drinking was starting to catch up to 
him. He could feel the beginnings of the Hangover Headache from Hell 
starting in his pelvis, creeping up each vertebrae of his backbone 
slowly, inching its way to his head. "Sorry," he muttered. 

"Ah, forget about it," Mickey thumped Doggett on the back. Doggett 
really wished he hadn't done that, but said nothing. "Instead of 
going back to Long Island, why don't you come crash at our place? I 
mean," he added quickly, just so his friend wouldn't think he was 
going soft "Minn's havin' kittens 'bout you all alone anyway." 

Doggett re-opened his eyes. Saw Reyes coming out of the ladies' 
bathroom, a little worse for wear, but at least not so green. "Maybe 
some other night," Doggett told him. "Not tonight. Don't think Minn 
wants to deal with two drunks now, do you?" 

Mickey only shifted his big guileless eyes towards Reyes, then back 
at Doggett and grinned. "Sure," he said, taking a big swallow of Bud 
Light. "I understand." 


A little later 
A block away from Donavan's 
January 1, 1993 
12:27 AM 

The snow had stopped, the sky was clearing, skyscrapers glowed, 
seeming to be strung from the moon. People walked past them, bumping 
them, giggling as they wished them well, wished them Happy New Year. 
"Taxi!" Doggett tried to hail another cab but it just drove right on 
past. "Dammit," he grumbled as the speeding cab sprayed slush all 
over them. 

"It's okay, really," Reyes said, wiping the dirty snow off her coat. 
She could feel the snow melting into her socks. "There's a bus stop 
not to far from here. I can catch that. Or I can ride the subway 
home." 

Doggett grinned at her. "What if I wanna take a cab?" 

Reyes shook her head as she shivered. Now she sobered up a little, 
she could feel the chill of winter again. Her coat seemed ineffective 
against the bite of winter. She stomped her feet to keep them warm. 
"Hey ma'am?" A guttural voice croaked behind her. "'Scuse me, ma'am? 
Gotta quarter? I need'ta make a call. Can ya gimme a quarter?" 
Reyes tried to harden her heart, tried to not to hear the whining, 
begging voice behind her. She was surprised that it wasn't really too 
hard to do. The vagrant just didn't... feel... right. To her. 

Doggett inched closer to her. "Ignore 'im," he said out of the side 
of his mouth as he tried to hail another taxi. 

"Miss? C'mon... I wanna call my ma', can't ya help a guy out?" Both 
Doggett and Reyes heard the beggar shuffle closer to them. Both of 
them turned their heads slightly, and saw a man in ragged clothes 
with wild, dilated eyes. Doggett recognized the man's shaking as the 
jitters resulting from coming off a particularly good high. 
His nose crinkled in disgust. "Get away," the cop said icily. 

"Jesus, man, I mean, lookit you two, in your fancy clothes," the man 
whined, wiping away a trickle of blood from his nose. "Youse got 
everything in the fuckin' world and you can't gimme one lousy quarter 
so I can call my ma??" 

Reyes' heart pounded. She was off-duty, her visible signs of 
authority, her gun and badge, were home, as FBI mandate dictated. Not 
that she worried about herself, her FBI training made her confident 
in her ability to defend herself and others. Her worry stemmed from 
the possibility of the man hurting himself or an innocent passerby. 

"I don't have any change, I'm sorry," Reyes told him honestly. She 
never carried change with her. "I'm really sorry." 

"Then gimme cash! Gimme some fuckin' cash so I can somethin' to eat. 
I'm hungry, man. My old lady threw me out. Please, I got nowhere to 
go, I need to make a phone call, please," he came closer to them. 

"Hey, back off," Doggett snapped at him. 

"I just wanna make a phone call!" he whined as he kept coming closer. 
"To who?" Doggett demanded. "Your mother or your dealer?" When the 
begger made no reply, Doggett's voice suddenly sounded more New 
York. "Now get outta here!" Normally his voice sounded more like how 
Margaret Mitchell described the Coastal South's speaking style 
in "Gone with the Wind": "soft and slurring, liquid of vowels, kind 
to consonants." The years overseas for the Marines and then in exile 
up North had killed the kindness to consonants and that particular 
murder became more pronounced the angrier Doggett got. 

"Hey fuck you man!" the beggar shouted. "Fuck all of you!!!" 
He suddenly charged Reyes, knocking her into the street as he tried 
to seize her purse. 

Doggett grabbed him by his filthy coat and yanked him off of her. 
Reyes crawled out of the street quickly before she became roadkill. 
She had just made it back onto the sidewalk when a cab zoomed past. 
The junkie, clutching Reyes' pretty handbag by the broken straps, 
tried to fight Doggett off, kicking him as Doggett struggled to hold 
him still. He broke free and even got a chance to run a few steps. 
Doggett caught up to him easily enough, grabbed him by the scruff of 
his neck and then slammed him against the building, pinning his arms 
in a painful submissive hold. "Monica!" he yelled anxiously over the 
junkie's deranged screams and threats. "You okay?" 

Reyes tried to stand but to her horror, discovered her right ankle 
wouldn't support her weight. "I'm fine," she lied. 

"Hey Doggett!" Mickey's boisterous voice rang out. Reyes and Doggett 
turned their heads and saw Mickey, Duke and some of the other guys 
hurrying towards them. They were on their way out the door when they 
heard the ruckus. They sprinted towards them when they saw the junkie 
push Reyes into the street. Duke knelt down to assess Reyes' injuries 
while Mickey got into the junkie's face. 

"You stupid bastard," Mickey told him. "You picked the wrong damn 
street for a mugging. We're all off-duty cops. And you just assaulted 
a federal agent." 

"But on the bright side," Doggett hissed in the junkie's ear, "at 
least the phone call you need to make will be free now." Sirens 
wailed in the distance. 

Meanwhile, the cab that would have turned Reyes into a messy 
greasespot if she had stayed in the street a minute longer had double-
parked near Donavan's. The cabbie hopped out and approached Reyes and 
Duke, who was assuring Reyes that her ankle was probably sprained and 
not broken. 

"You know, miss," the ashen faced cabbie said, twisting his ball 
cap, "there are less dramatic ways to hail a cap." 

A squad car pulled up. Doggett relinquished the junkie to the custody 
of the on-duty officers and tersely gave his statement. As the cops 
drug the handcuffed junkie away, Reyes, leaning on Duke for support 
as he helped her stand, let loose a very blue string of choice 
Spanish obscenities. 

"Whoa," Mickey whistled. "That didn't sound very nice." 

"It wasn't," Doggett assured him with a grin. 


Later... 
January 1, 1993 
Special Agent Monica Reyes' studio 
Manhattan, New York 
2:45 AM Eastern Standard Time 

"Careful," Doggett admonished her as he helped Reyes hobble out of 
the elevator door. "Easy does it. Which one's your apartment?" 
"The very last one at the end of the hall," Reyes grumbled as she 
limped along side of him. Her ankle had puffed up twice the size it 
normally was and it hurt like hell. 

Doggett looked down the long hallway, looked at her struggling to 
walk. "Jesus," he muttered. "Stop," he told her. 

"Why?" 

"'Cause if you try'n walk all the way down there, it'll be 1994 
before you get there," he told her. "Put your arms around my neck." 

"John..." 

"Either that or I'm throwin' you over my shoulder." 

Reyes allowed herself a small smile as she obediently looped her arms 
around his neck. As he picked her up rather effortlessly, she 
asked "So is this part of that legendary Southern chivalry?" 

"Nope," he said as he carried her to her door. "This is part of me 
bein' impatient." 

When they got to her door, Reyes fished in her pocket for her house 
keys. "Put me down, I can manage from here." 

"Just gimme the damn keys," he said, plucking them from her hand and 
unlocking the door. 

<<Under any other circumstance>> Reyes couldn't help thinking <<This 
could be kind of fun.>> But her head hurt, her gut hurt, her ankle 
hurt. Not to mention her heart. And the fact that he was still 
legally married. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. 

Her friend Nathalique often said "The best way to get over a man is 
to get under a different one." 

<<Stop it Monica>> she told herself sternly as Doggett opened the 
door and carried her inside. 

As he put her down on the couch, he said "Nice place you got here..." 
he stood up and looked around. "It's..." 

"Tiny?" Reyes smiled, her eyes taking inventory of her little studio. 
A small kitchenette was incorporated into the same giant room that 
was also her bedroom and living room. She had a huge walk in closet 
that could have doubled as a bedroom but Reyes decided she'd rather 
have storage space than an extra room. Her computer desk was 
something she scored from the Salvation Army and had repainted a 
bright cheerful yellow to match the rest of her sunny-colored 
decorations. She adored bright colors. 

"Cozy," Doggett amended, sitting on her coffee table, picking up her 
leg to unlace her boot. "Do you have anything to soak this in? Epsom 
Salts or something?" 

"In my bathroom," Reyes said, feeling very drowsy all of a sudden. 
She yawned. "Sorry." 

"It's alright," Doggett said. "I'll get it." 

As he got up and disappeared into the only other room in her 
apartment. She heard soft thump and then a cranky "Ow." 
"Watch out for the door frame," Reyes said belatedly. "It's
low." 

"Gee, thanks," he muttered from the bathroom. 

Doggett re-emerged shortly, rubbing his forehead with one hand, 
carrying a small container of Epsom Salt in the other. He crossed 
over to the small wall that comprised her kitchen. "Do you have a big 
bowl or something?" he asked. 

"Um... bottom cabinet. I keep all my Tupperware there." 

"Tupperware?" he snorted as he crouched down to begin rummaging 
through her cupboards. 

"What's wrong with Tupperware?" she asked, reclining against her 
couch, a hideous fuzzy green hide-a-bed couch, the only thing that 
didn't coordinate with her bright rag rugs and framed Picasso and 
Dali prints. She tried to undo the damage of the hideous olive green 
sofa by piling up as many red and orange and yellow and cream colored 
pillows on top of it as possible. She reached over for one of those 
pillows now and hugged it to her. 

She had been immensely relieved when the paramedic told her it was 
just a sprain and it wasn't necessary to come to the hospital. This 
is where she wanted to be. On her couch, in her own home. Not in some 
overcrowded ER, sitting in discomfort and pain for hours until some 
harried doctor can look her over, tell her what she already knew and 
charge her a hundred bucks for it. 

Doggett found a bowl to his liking, a giant purple plastic dish that 
Reyes liked to use for popcorn when she was being a hermit and wanted 
to watch movies. He filled the bowl half full with warm water and a 
few heaping spoonfuls of Epsom Salt. Carefully, so not to spill on 
the beige carpeting that Reyes tried to cover up with her bright area 
rugs, he carried the bowl back over to her and set it on the floor. 
He rolled up the cuff of her jeans and gently as he could, slid off 
her boot. Reyes sucked in a breath and winced. 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he said gruffly as he dropped the boot to the 
floor. "I gotta take this off too," he told her as he started peeling 
her sock off. That didn't hurt nearly as bad as her boot, but it 
still didn't feel very good as the cloth rubbed against her bruised 
skin. Doggett slipped his big hand underneath her heel and carefully 
lowered her poor foot into the water. 

"That feels good," she said in relief, flexing her toes a little. 

"Just let that soak for awhile," he said, trying to stifle a yawn. 

"Sorry I'm so boring," she teased him. 

"No, Monica, it's not you, I'm just tired." Doggett rubbed his 
eyes. "Think the booze's finally hittin' me." 

He did look tired, but it was exhaustion beyond just staying up late 
one night. His exhaustion seemed to be more of the spirit than of the 
body. 

"I think I better go." 

Reyes looked up at him. "You don't have to go." 

"Well, that's real nice but..." Doggett looked around the 
studio. "Where would I sleep?" 

"This," she patted the couch. "Is a hide-a-bed. But before you say 
anything about stealing my bed," she pointed to a closet door behind 
him. "In that closet is one of those 'Murphy Beds'." 

"Murphy bed?" he said dubiously. 

"You know, one of those beds that fold up into the closet during the 
day when you're not using it." Reyes explained. "You just open it up 
and pull the bed down. I don't use it except for company. I 
personally like my hide-a-bed better. I'm paranoid." 

"Paranoid?" 

"Of it folding back up," she admitted sheepishly. "Like in the one of 
the Muppet movies..." She started to blush as she berated herself for 
her idiotic comment. Maybe she wasn't as sober as she thought. 
Doggett opened the closet door, looked at the twin bed, standing up 
on the side. "Uh-huh..." he didn't sound so sure. "Maybe... I can 
just take the floor," he muttered, shutting the door. 

He wasn't looking at her. 

Reyes opened her mouth to protest, but something about his stance, 
his demeanor silenced her. He always looked so austere to her, even 
though once in a rare while, a dry joke or a quick smile would slip 
out of his stony defenses. Reyes had often wondered his truculent 
attitude was really just a self-defense mechanism to keep people 
away. Now, with eyelids drooping, shoulders slouched, he looked like 
the last thing in the world he wanted to be was alone. 

Faintly, she said, as she pointed to the other closet door. "There 
are extra blankets and pillows in there," she said. "I'd get them 
but..." 

"Don't worry about it," he said, as he walked over there, eyes still 
fixed firmly to the carpet. 


Later... 
4:15 AM Eastern Standard Time 

Reyes stirred uneasily out of her sleep. A strange noise had invaded 
her subconscious, bringing her back to the waking world. 

<<What in the world is that?>> she wondered, sitting up a little on 
her couch. When Doggett offered to unfold her hide-a-bed for her, she 
declined. She was too tired and her ankle too sore. She had told him 
she'd be fine sleeping on the couch the way it was and he had said 
okay as he dried her ankle off and re-wrapped it in an ACE bandage. 
She sat up a little more, squinting her eyes, trying to see the 
source of the irritating sound in the gloom of her apartment. 
One of the things she adored about her small home was the huge window 
that faced the World Trade Center. The view was extraordinary. When 
she first moved in, she used up a roll of film, taking pictures of 
the skyscrapers and the busy streets and the cars zooming by. As soon 
as the pictures were developed, she had mailed them to her family in 
Mexico. Her apartment, although in the shadow of the Twin Towers, was 
always filled with light, bright cheery sunlight during the day, soft 
moonlight and haunting street light at night. Better than a 
nightlight. 

Using the light streaming through the big window placed in the wall 
that housed her kitchenette, she continued to search for the annoying 
noise. First she looked up, then she looked down. At the floor. 

Doggett was still awake, lying on his side, underneath a heavy quilt 
Reyes had bought in deference to the poor heating system of her 
apartment building. He was facing her, but not looking at her. One 
arm was tucked neatly under his head. His other arm was stretched 
out, fidgeting with a hard cover book, one of her old textbooks from 
Quantico, about how to get into the mind of the enemy, the art of 
profiling. She had dropped there earlier that day and forgot about 
it. 

Reyes sat up a little more, watching him. No... he wasn't fidgeting 
with the book itself. It looked like he was dropping a coin onto the 
book, watching it spin on the hard surface, then trying to stop it 
with his finger, then starting the process all over again. 

The coin seemed to be gold. Reyes squinted to get a better look at 
the coin. Then, heart leaping up into her throat, about choking her, 
she realized it was no coin. 

It was his wedding ring. 

"John," she called softly. 

Doggett watched the ring spin itself still, twirling until it fell 
over. He didn't even look up at her as he pushed the ring around on 
the book with his pointer finger. 

"Yeah?" he asked as he watched the pale harsh light from a city 
bathed in winter reflecting off the simple gold band that he hadn't 
taken off for almost nine years. 

Reyes struggled to sit up more. She searched for the right thing to 
say. Oh, why, why does her intuition fail her in moments like this? 
How is it that she knows the right thing to say when confronted with 
federal agents daunted by her intelligence and sex... the right thing 
to say to her superior when he questions her unorthodox methods... 
the right thing to say when her father is angry with her for some 
imagined slight... the right thing to say when Brad is trying to 
smother her with his love and prestige... why she couldn't summon the 
magic words to heal the hurt of a man who had lost the entire world 
not once, but twice. <<Why can't I think of the right thing to say 
now?>> She felt like she was failing her friend. 

"Come here," she said simply. 

Doggett stopped playing with his wedding ring. Reyes wasn't sure if 
it was the streetlights or tears shining in his eyes. She would never 
know because in a blink, he sat up, pocketed the ring and got off the 
floor. He stood over her, not moving. He reminded Reyes of those 
solemn statues of patricians that she had admired while in Rome 
during a backpacking-hitching trip to Europe she and her friend 
Nathalique impulsively took the summer in between their sophomore and 
junior years. 

"What is it?" 

Reyes inched over on her couch and patted the small space next to 
her. "Sit down." She smiled at him as she reached for his hand, her 
fingertips grazing his knuckles. 

"Monica..." there was a silent plea in his dragging, graveled voice. 

"It's okay," she whispered, wrapping two of her fingers around his 
pinkie. "I promise." She tugged on his hand like a child. 
Doggett sank to down to couch, shaking his head. "I can't..." he 
whispered brokenly. 

"Sh, sh, sh," she hushed him, surprising herself by reaching up to 
touch his face. She felt him freeze, as if a gentle touch was alien 
to him. She hesitated for a second, suddenly unsure. Tentatively, she 
touched his face again. "I'm sorry," she said, inadequately, sliding 
her fingertips down his cheekbone to his chin, leaving them to rest 
there. "I..." she forced herself to be an adult and look at him, when 
all she wanted to do was duck her head down. 

Doggett however, couldn't keep eye contact with her. He dropped his 
head immediately, squeezing his eyes tight. "I shouldn't be here," he 
finally got out, saying the words shortly instead of lengthening them 
out, caressing the consonants like he normally did. It was as if he 
thought his drawl would betray his thoughts. Or take to long to get 
the words out, destroying whatever illusion of control he may still 
possess. 

Reyes folded her lips tightly together, her stomach hurting her again 
but not the same way as it was when she had been drinking. She 
noticed then that he was still clasping her hand gently so she 
squeezed it and said "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to make you feel 
uncomfortable... I just... I... don't know what I was thinking." 

"Yeah... you did. You're just bein' you..." Doggett lifted his head 
and grinned. Reyes, as with most people, was always surprised that 
such a boyish grin could spring from such an austere face. "You're 
too damn nice for you own good, you know." 

Reyes smiled shyly back at him. "You could be nicer." 

"What's that s'pposed to mean?" The little grin disappeared, replaced 
by the scowl she was familiar with. 

"I mean," she said, fatigue, pain and heartsickness making her 
brave, "if you weren't so stand-offish, maybe you wouldn't be so... 
maybe more people... maybe you wouldn't have to be by yourself." 
The scowl disappeared. "Bein' by myself is easier," he finally said 
after a long silence. "I shoulda let Barb go 'long time ago... I was 
just too chickenshit to let 'er go..."

"Sometimes," Reyes said without thinking. "Good things need 
replacing." She felt her cheeks turning crimson and was devoutly glad 
that her apartment was dark. 

Doggett opened his mouth to ask what the hell she meant by that, but 
then closed it again, hoping he didn't look as foolish as he 
felt. "Well..." his voice was barely audible as he took her other 
hand. "I don't know... maybe..." he forced the small disloyalty 
out. "Maybe she wasn't as good as I thought... but..." 

Reyes scooted as close as her injured ankle would allow and embraced 
him again, like she had at the bar, arms around his neck, holding him 
tight to her. This time, this was no surprised jump, no awkwardly 
polite hug around her waist. She felt him melting into her, resting 
his face against her. 

She started to stroke the back of his head. The soft feeling of his 
hair on her hand, for some odd reason, made her think of the alley 
cat she liked to leave scraps of food that slunk around her apartment 
building. A stealthy creature with a quiet, arrogant attitude, quick 
to flee at the sight of a crowd. But if one approached him carefully, 
showing just the slightest bit of affection, the alley cat was a 
docile and loving as a lap cat, eager for attention and almost 
desperate to give it back. 

She almost laughed. John Doggett... a cat person. Not likely. 
She didn't think it was likely that he would kiss her cheek either. 
Or when she turned her head to look at him, for him to kiss her 
gently on the mouth. 

As he continued to kiss on her, he touched her face. Follmer did that 
too. Reyes could not help but compare the two. But Follmer always 
seemed to seize her face, never hurting her, oh no. But there were 
times she wanted to grab his hands and pull them off her cheeks. She 
wasn't going anywhere, it wasn't like he had to hold her. Doggett, 
however, only grazed her cheekbones over and over with his 
fingertips. The same way a man touches a marble sculpture just for 
the sheer pleasure of feeling the cool smoothness against his skin. 
Reyes moved even closer to him and draped her arms lazily around him 
now, running her hands up and down his back slowly. The t-shirt he 
wore felt thin. Absently, she wondered what he was thinking, taking 
his sweater off before lying down on her floor to sleep. Her 
apartment was always freezing. She sighed, on purpose, silently 
inviting him to try a bigger taste. After a few more feather light, 
almost innocent kisses, he did. 

As they moved closer together, as the kisses became less and less 
friendly and more and more inquisitive and seductive, a revelation 
hit Reyes harder than this unexpected New Year's Day embrace did. 

<<He's shy.>> 

This man. Over six-foot tall, broad shoulders, all muscle from neck 
to toe... not to mention the gravelly intimidating voice and the blue 
eyes that could crucify any mortal that displeased him... was 
hopeless shy. And completely unsure. The stony silence he used to 
deflect people was not because of rectitude, but from reticence. 
And Reyes knew that shyness did not equal low confidence. She knew 
that he was very confident of himself. 

It was the rest of the world that he was unsure of. 

Including her. 

Because he abruptly broke off the kiss and leaned away from her. "I'm 
sorry," he said raggedly. "I shouldna done that... God, Monica... I," 
he looked down. This time, Reyes knew that it was tears in his eyes 
and not the light. "That... I just got the papers served to me 
today," he whispered. "I know it's over but..." 

Reyes felt a surge of empathy. After all, didn't she just give an 
engagement ring back last night. She thought of Follmer, his golden 
hair and platinum dreams. And his desire to bronze her and add her to 
his treasures. "I still miss 'What'sHisName," she tried to 
laugh. "And... maybe I'm still in love with him too... so... I think 
I might understand... a little. But not a hundred percent." 

He nodded, grateful that she understood a little but still hating 
himself for creating the emotionally charged atmosphere. "I am still 
in love with her," he said thickly. "I'm sorry.... I'm out of line." 

Reyes lowered her head, feeling her face burning even more. Just 
because she understood she had no reason to feel confused or 
embarrassed, didn't make those emotions disappear. "It's okay," she 
whispered, trying to keep her voice from trembling. 

"No it's not," he replied, struggling with his own shaking voice. "No 
it's not..." He stroked the back of her hand with his fingers. 

Reyes swallowed hard. "I'm not going anywhere," she told him. 
"I know," he said, still touching her hand, dragging his fingers 
gently over and over the back of her hand. Her hands were so rough, 
chapped from the cruel winter winds. A wry grin crossed his 
face. "You live here." 

"John..." she laughed a little, gently pushing his shoulder."You
know what I mean." She interlocked her fingers with his. 

He nodded, lifting her hand up and flipped it around, kissing her 
palm. "You ARE too damn nice for your own good," he grumbled at her, 
dropping her hand so he could tuck a lock of her raven hair behind 
her ear. "Get some rest, I'm gonna go..." 

"You don't have to..." Reyes told. "And... I don't want you to." 

"Monica..." 

"Please." 


Later... 
January 1, 1993 
Special Agent Monica Reyes' studio 
Manhattan, New York 
8:35 AM Eastern Standard Time 

There was a knock on her door. Then another one. 

Reyes' eyes fluttered open. Then she closed her eyes again and her 
head against Doggett's shoulder again while ignoring the knocking. 
She felt bad for begging him to stay, but on the other side, she 
suspected he really didn't want to leave. So they stayed on her 
couch, talking until the sun rose. Nothing serious, nothing involving 
the heart. Talked about work. He was seriously considering leaving 
the police force. Maybe re-enlisting, go back to the Marines. Or 
possibly joining the FBI. He said that he had to start doing 
something different with his life. Was even considering leaving New 
York all together, but that was too far in the future to tell. He 
still had friends here, if no family. 

And speaking of family, he was going to take a leave of absence. Just 
a few weeks. Wanted to go home to Savannah, wanted to visit his 
mother, his sisters and his brother. She asked him what Savannah was 
like. He told her about growing up in the city beside the sea. About 
the mansions and the light house. And the moss covered trees and the 
flowers, how the city would literally be covered with azaleas. She 
had laughed at him, at how someone so surly and unsentimental about 
most things could have knowledge about flowers. He had bristled a 
little and then described his mother's flower garden. Waking up in 
early spring to a heady perfume of roses and jasmine right outside 
his boyhood window. 

He asked her about her girlhood, what was Mexico like?

She tried to downplay her childhood without lying. She told him her 
parents were privileged and well-off. That they had lived abroad in 
several countries, not just the United States but that they had 
adopted her during their tenure in Texas. She laughed and said 
technically, she had three citizenships, Mexican, American and Texan. 
She told him that she was her maternal grandmother's special pet and 
how when she was a little girl, Abuelita would take her to all the 
museums in Mexico City. Showing her the works of Frida Kahlo and 
Diego Rivera. Teaching her about the mighty civilizations that 
existed before the intrusion of the gringos. The Mayans and their 
pyramids and grim predictions of the world's end on December 12, 
2012. The Aztecs and their bloody, gory love for the sun. She 
remembered looking at the famous sun stone of the Aztecs. Realizing 
that she was with them, but not part of them. That Caucasian 
characteristics were intertwined with her DNA. That her ancestors may 
have perpetrated the downfall of the indigents. That some of her 
relatives would always stare at her lighter skin at the ritzy holiday 
parties held at the posh hotels in downtown Mexico City, ignoring her 
dark hair and eyes. 

She told him she was schooled at an exclusive American-styled academy 
in Mexico City until she was fourteen years old. Then she was sent to 
a private Catholic school in Monterey, California called Santa 
Catalina. And was heartily miserable all five years there, despite 
the quiet beauty of the Northern Californian coastline. The crashing 
waves and the rainbows over her school after a fierce storm. She said 
in hind sight, the reversal of fortunes struck her as funny. How some 
people back home just couldn't get past her skin color and ease with 
English but in America, some people couldn't grow past her dark hair 
and ease with Spanish. Laughing at herself she said that Santa 
Catalina taught her that she was not going to be able to please 
everyone, so she might as well stop trying because she would go 
insane. She also said, with a wicked grin that the Catholic school 
also convinced her that she decidedly did not agree with the Catholic 
faith. At all. 

And so it went the rest of the night. They continued to hold hands, 
sometimes Doggett would gently stroke her hair or Reyes would touch 
his face. As if to remind themselves that sometimes the tangible is 
good and real. And right there. 

Finally, as dawn's early light invaded, both were having difficulty 
keeping their eyes open and stopping the yawns. Eventually, they fell 
asleep on her couch, Reyes' head on his chest, sore ankle propped up 
on the couch, Doggett's arms around her waist. 

Now Reyes stirred. Her usual energy asserting itself through the haze 
caused by lack of sleep and hangover. She became acutely aware that 
she was powerfully thirsty and kind of hungry. 

Feeling his chest rising and falling as she continued to lay on him, 
she realized that she didn't want to move. 

She turned her head towards the door, wondering who it was knocking. 
She hoped it wasn't her neighbor, a sweet but lonely elderly lady who 
was notorious who appearing sporadically unannounced, armed with 
cakes and cookies and long, drawn out chitchats about people long 
dead. 

Then she spotted the blue envelope, poking out from underneath her 
door.

Carefully, she untangled herself from his sleepy embrace, hoping she 
wouldn't wake him. When she was secure he would stay asleep, she 
rose, testing her weight on her sprained ankle. It still hurt, but 
not as badly as it did. She would be able to maneuver under her own 
steam. Thank God. 

She hobbled to her door and bent down to pick up the heavy envelope. 
Expensive stationary, "inmvil de lujo" as her mother would say.

Her mother, the letter writer in her family, had a weakness for pretty 
stationary. This stationary was decidedly not pretty, but the 
stationary of a man whose image propelled the course of his future. 
She recognized his handwriting immediately. Using her thumbnail, she 
slit open the envelope. 

Her engagement ring was inside along with the letter. She stared at 
the ring, feeling tears coming to her eyes again as she remembered 
how she wept with joy when he got down on one knee in the middle of 
Central Park and asked her to change her name for him. She put the 
ring on her pointer finger so not to lose it. 

She pulled the letter out. Unfolding it, she discovered an airline 
ticket. Before starting to read, she recalled how she always teased 
him that his cursive was prettier than most girl's handwriting. 

"Dearest Heart- 
You know you send all five of my senses reeling. You know you make me 
feel like I'm resting high, high in the clouds. And that nothing bad, 
no loneliness, no anger, no fear can ever touch me. I want to feel 
that way forever. The headlines I read, secrets I've seen cause me to 
realize that I do not wish to exist in this world without you. 
I understand your fears. I remember our late night talks and you told 
me about your loneliness in California. Monica, dearest, I wish I 
knew the right words to create a spell to conjure away the demons of 
your boarding school days, days and nights away your family and 
familiarity. All I can do is promise you that California is a place 
of warmth and light. And freedom. And peace. Isn't that what you're 
searching for? And we can be the guardians of that light and peace. 
Together, in the LA Field Office. One of my colleagues told me in 
confidence that there will be an opening next month. Mostly research 
into the LSD-cult behavior, which I believe would be up your alley. 
And I would not be your supervisor. Which would eliminate one of our 
greatest obstacles. 
The date of departure on the airline ticket is February 1, but it can 
be changed to any date. I do not want to pressure you. I do not want 
to force out of you something that does not exist anymore. But 
everyday I will look to the east and hope and pray that someday, one 
of these days, one of those planes, landing at LAX, will have you as 
a passenger. 
If that is not so, please, keep the ring. It was not the seal of a 
covenant, but a gift. From my heart and my soul. Keep it and remember 
how much I loved you. How I love you still. 
I will wait for you. 
Brad." 

Reyes looked at the ring on one finger, then at the letter and 
airline ticket in her other hand. 

Then she looked at Doggett, still asleep on the couch. 

Follmer was a brilliant writer. He had sheepishly admitted to her 
that if he had not been so intent on following his father's footsteps 
into the FBI, then he would have pursued a career as either a 
novelist or a poet perhaps. The bottom drawer of her file cabinet had 
a file folder filled with all the sweet, sentimental odes he composed 
for her. 

She looked at Doggett again. His grammar was terrible. His clothes 
were casual and comfortable. His work was out on the streets, not in 
a nice office. He had grown up in a beautiful, almost mystical city 
but on the wrong side. He had grown up struggling watching his 
parents struggle how to make ends meet, how to stretch a dollar to 
shelter, clothe and feed four growing kids. His worst defeat was not 
a promotion denied or a luxury not found. No, his was the death of 
his only child and the dissolution of a union he thought was suppose 
to be forever, better or worse. Even if the worse was the murder of 
their son. 

Reyes decided that was more poetic than any love letter Follmer had 
composed. Follmer could write brilliantly about life. Doggett quietly 
but brilliantly lived it. 

Reyes slid the ring off her finger and put it and the letter and 
airline ticket back inside the envelope. She put the letter in her 
letter holder that hung next to her door underneath a miniature print 
of the famous melting watch picture by Dali. Then she hobbled back 
toward Doggett, to wake him and ask him if he was hungry or would 
like some coffee. 

<<I don't know what this is>> she thought with a drowsy smile on her 
pink lips. <<I don't know if I'm falling in love... but I like him. I 
like him so much...>> 

She woke him with a gentle kiss. 


A few days later... 
January 4, 1993 
The Brooklyn Bridge 
New York City, New York 
4:37 PM Eastern Standard Time 

Sometimes, if time allowed, after work, Detective John Doggett liked 
to go to out to the Brooklyn Bridge before heading home, to pause 
beside the great Bridge Towers and watch lower Manhattan become 
illuminated as the rest of the city faded into dusk. 

Actually, today, he was not scheduled to report to his prescient 
because he had met with the divorce lawyer his friends Jason and 
Minerva Mick referred him to. Doggett had been very quiet and very to 
the point. He was not going to contest. He was not going to argue 
anything. If she wanted the house in Long Island, fine. If she wanted 
the car, fine. If she wanted half, three-quarters, all of their 
savings, fine. He wasn't going to fight her. He admitted he didn't 
have the energy to fight her anymore. 

The lawyer told him gravely, "Don't worry, sir. I have been in 
contact with Miss Brown's attorney and they have expressed to me that 
they want this to be completed as quickly and painlessly as possible 
as well." 

Jesus, she had already reverted to her maiden name and the ink wasn't 
even dry on the petition to divorce. That wounded him worse than 
expected. The entire proceeding cut him to the quick. 

Then the lawyer asked him if there were any children to be concerned 
about, would custody arrangements be necessary. Doggett felt the hurt 
begin in his chest and spread through his body. He had closed his 
eyes and told the lawyer that there were no children. 

"Well, then," the lawyer had said, as if he was pleased. "This will 
go quickly then. Few months at most." 

Doggett placed his arms on the railing of the bridge and watched the 
water, fading from blue to inky black as the sun set, racing beneath 
him. Heard the snow crunching beneath him as he shuffled his feet to 
keep them warm. Few months. By spring, he would be a free man. 
He closed his eyes again. He knew why she wasn't going to fight him, 
although he did not disclose this to the lawyer. Or anyone else. He 
guesses that Minerva may already know, since she and Barb were close 
friends. There was a wedding in Barbara's future. 

"My New Year's resolution," she had told him coldly as she dropped 
the paperwork off at the prescient that day. "Is not to waste one 
minute of my life any longer." As if the nine years of marriage and 
the child they had conceived was a giant waste of time. She had 
almost looked ugly under the fluorescent lights of the cop shop. The 
guy she had been screwing on the side, the guy she swore to him the 
day he discovered them and almost left her, was just a device. To get 
him to pay attention to her. To notice her. Well, the device still 
wanted her and wanted to marry her. And now she wanted to seize the 
chance to be a wife and mother again instead of "a widow to the 
living" was how she put it. 

What did she want him to do? Lie? He knew it was cruel but if he 
couldn't have his child any more, he didn't want any more children. 
Doggett squeezed his eyes tight, fighting the wave of depression that 
has been threatening to monsoon him ever since "Miss Brown" left that 
thick manila envelope of legal papers on his desk. Thought about all 
the things he wanted to say to her. The things he should have said to 
her. Wishing that he could be what she wanted him to be, but he just 
couldn't compromise himself. 

He tried. He went to their church's minister. He went to the EPA 
counselor at work. He tagged along dutifully to the Grieving Parents 
meetings. He signed up for the marriage counseling. He listened to 
the well-meaning advice of his friends. There was nothing that could 
abate the sorrow suffocating him. 

Nothing but time. 

Doggett rested his head on his arms and quietly began to sob, 
grateful for the first time ever, to live in a giant city where 
emotional breakdowns were an everyday occurrence and not a soul 
noticed. 

After a little bit, he lifted his head and saw the glory of lower 
Manhattan, with the Twin Towers lording over the urban kingdom below. 
Maybe someday he'd leave, but not right now. This city, like it or 
not, tied him here still. 

He wiped the tears off his face roughly, then took off his glove and 
dug into his pants pockets, pulling out his wedding band. Clutched it 
in his hands for a moment. He took a step back; as if he was going to 
throw it, then let his arm drop. He walked back to the railing, 
holding his fist over the water. He rotated his hand slowly over, and 
unfurled his fingers, the ring resting in the palm of his hand. He 
took one last look at the ring; the golden band he thought was her 
promise of always to him. Then he rotated his hand again, feeling the 
ring slipping from his hand, like a satellite falling from the skies. 
He watched with a stony face as it disappeared into the roaring 
waters below. 

Shivering in the bitter January wind, Doggett started the long walk 
back to where he parked his car. He toyed with the idea of maybe 
getting a truck after the divorce was finalized. If there was any 
money left over, after the lawyers got through with him. 

Almost frozen, he sighed with relief when he saw his car. However, 
instead of running for the car, jumping in and starting it, cranking 
the heat as high and hot as it will go, instead he trudged to the pay 
phone a few feet away from where he was parked. 

Digging in his pockets, he scrounged for enough change for a quick 
call. He hoped he didn't get the number wrong. He was dialing from 
memory. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey, Monica... it's me." 

"John!" she sounded surprised, but also pleased. "How are you?" 

"Oh, I'm okay," he lied. "I was... um... I was wondering if you were 
doin' anything tonight," he mumbled. 

He could feel her smile through the phone. "No... are you in the 
neighborhood?" 

"Not yet, but I can be." 

Maybe 1993 weren't off to such a terrible start after all. 


**THE END**