tikatu | Moonstrike! Chapter 6

Author's notes:The Transmyte and the Bershermer are products of my ever fertile imagination. Cindy Taylor is not; she's the creation of my friend MathGirl and is used here and there with her enthusiastic permission. According to the auxiliary materials, Scott is a Yale man, while John went to Harvard. Patricia is the name I've given Grandma Tracy in this story; she has none in canon.

Disclaimers, et al.
Chapter 1: Discovery
Chapter 2: Enemies
Chapter 3: Trust
Chapter 4: Disappearance
Chapter 5: Alarms

Mid-November, 2065 – Tracy Island

He ran along the beach, alone with his thoughts. Gray waves, stirred up by a storm at sea, crashed against the sand; the warm wind ruffled his dark hair. The morning air was laden with moisture though the day wasn't too warm as yet, and it didn't look as if the sun would show its face at all. His breath was even, not labored, though his blue Yale sweatshirt, its sleeves cut to the shoulder, was darkened with perspiration and humidity. The athletic shorts revealed muscular legs, tanned and hair-covered; they moved with a ground-eating, rhythmic pace. His arms pumped back and forth with his stride. Occasionally, the beach-devouring waves dared to touch his dirty white running shoes, dampening the high-tech fabric from without as his feet dampened them from within.

Occasionally he checked the plastic band around his wrist. A glance at the readout showed him his heart rate, respirations, how far he'd gone, and how fast he was getting there. The last displeased him, and he quickened his pace, feeling his heart beat harder, his breath come faster. Salty droplets began to annoy his blue eyes; he shook his head sharply, sending sweat scattering as if from the fur of a wet dog.

The wind felt good as it lifted his hair, but the humidity was making it hard to breathe at the increased pace. He slowed, spying his goal for the morning: an outcropping of volcanic rock that looked as if it had erupted from the sand. Reaching it, he jogged in place a bit, pulling up his shirt to wipe his sweaty face, briefly exposing a set of well-defined abdominal muscles. Then, his breath caught, he turned to continue his run, heading back to his home, a shower, and breakfast.

Same time, previous day - New York City

She ran along a cement pathway, one of many runners, joggers, and power walkers in the park early that afternoon. Dry, lonely leaves rattled on the all-but-bare branches or skittered across the ground as a chill breeze blew by. The air was dry, and cold; it smelled earthy, and above the man-made spires that reached for it, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. Her breath misted white before her face; only a protective coating spared her mirrored sunglasses from fogging. Her chestnut hair was drawn back in a long French braid; head bare, her ears were covered by a wide, encircling strip of bright blue hand knitting.

A hooded gray Harvard sweatshirt that zipped up the front reached past her hips, bunched up around her arms, cinched around her trim waist with a belted carrying pack. Her well-toned legs were covered with clingy black leggings topped with a slightly looser pair of charcoal-colored bike shorts. Black, top of the line running shoes protected her feet. Her proud nose, her cheeks and dimpled chin were all chapped rosy with cold.

She sported a band similar to his on her wrist, but as it was covered by her gloves, she didn't spare the time to check her heart rate. And though she wasn't alone in the park, she might as well have been. The others who crossed her path gave her a wide, cautious berth, for at her side trotted a huge black and red dog. The woman held a wide, woven leash, as black as her companion's fur. The free end was looped around her right hand, and a length lay slackly across the left as the dog paced her on that side, the other end apparently firmly attached to a heavy choke chain.

This dog was a member of a recently recognized breed, the Bershermer. The build of a Rottweiler, the size of a Great Dane, the stoic protectiveness of a bull-mastiff, the loyalty of a German Shepherd - it had taken several generations to blend all these attributes into one dog, and several more to make the breed viable. They were a very impressive-looking lot, which was more than half their mystique. This one looked formidable, placid, and watchful all at once as she ambled briskly at her mistress's side.

The beach runner, dressed now in fashionable slacks and polo shirt, his damp hair combed neatly, sat down in an empty seat at a kitchen table. The aroma of pancakes, sausage, and fresh coffee filled the air, and his stomach growled in anticipation. A glass of orange juice was poured for him, and he nodded his thanks as he picked up the tumbler and drained half its contents.

"How was your run today, Scott?" asked a voice from the head of the table. The person who inquired was hidden behind a freshly printed newspaper.

"It was good, Dad, though that storm's sure stirring up the waves. Gordon might want to get in some surfing... if it doesn't hit us," Scott replied as a gnarled hand slid a plate of pancakes and sausages into place before him. He smiled his thanks, then asked, "What did John have to say on the subject?"

"The storm is supposed to pass us. You'll be able to take Alan up to Thunderbird Five today as scheduled." Jeff Tracy folded his paper, and laid it down beside his plate, then picked up his coffee cup. "Tin-Tin should have clear skies for her trip to New York on Saturday."

"Tin-Tin? New York?" Virgil entered the kitchen, hair in perfect form, wearing his favorite jacquard dressing gown. "Can I ride shotgun?" He sat down at the table, and Kyrano moved to serve him with coffee and juice.

"I'm riding shotgun," Scott said, smiling slightly.

"No, Scott. Since he'll be home a little early, I think John should go." Jeff said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Besides, I'll need you here. I don't think you'd want Gordon on Thunderbird One while you make the run to New York and back."

"Me? On One? God, no." Gordon's eyes were wide as he came in, ginger hair wet, a wearing a tight fitting t-shirt and khaki shorts, his feet thrust into a pair of designer sandals. He grimaced, then added, "If I'm ever on One, then pray fervently for no rescues!"

"Amen!" Scott lifted his coffee cup in heartfelt salute.

The number of people out running and power-walking diminished as the lunch hour came to a close. The runner slowed to a walk, heading toward one of the parks exits. She nodded to a couple of women who were going in the opposite direction; they responded with breathless greetings. A lone man in running clothes tried to pass between the two small groups as they met. He squeezed past, took off quickly, and suddenly, the dog owner noticed that she was missing something.

"Hey! My bag!" She turned and followed the path of the bag snatcher, shielding her eyes as she watched him run. "Did you see that?" she asked of the women, who had stopped in their tracks and were staring, seemingly dumbfounded, at the fleeing man.

One of the women, a tall, dark skinned beauty, shook her head as if to clear it. "I'll go get an officer. There's one right outside the entrance."

The other, an equally tall blond, sprinted off after the miscreant. "I'll see if I can catch him."

"No, wait!" the dog walker said, calling after the second woman. Then she sighed and let loose the dog's leash. "Bodie. Fetch the bag."

The dog glanced at her. "The bag, Bodie. Fetch the bag." Without another moment's hesitation, Bodie bounded off, long legs eating up the lengths between her and her designated prey.

"Oh, honey, are you all right?" A matronly woman who had been hovering in the background came forward. "I saw everything that happened. He had a knife, you know, and sliced that bag right off. Are you cut anywhere? Did he hurt you?"

The dog owner, suddenly realizing just how the robbery had occurred, turned to glance at her waist where the bag had once resided. "I don't see any blood." She huffed out a white, billowy breath in frustration. "Damn. This was my favorite sweatshirt, too. Now I'll have to buy John a new one."

"I think that will be the least of your worries, Miss Tracy."

Rhea froze. The woman's voice had gone from light and cheery to dark and menacing, and there was the definite feel of something hard and metallic in the vicinity of her ribs: a gun of some sort. "What do you want?"

"Just come along with me and you won't get hurt." A motivating dig in the ribs accompanied the flat statement.

"What about your companion? I suppose the bag snatcher is working with you. Do you really want him to have his throat torn out? My dog is well-trained, but in the heat of protecting me..." Rhea shrugged slightly.

The would-be kidnapper drew in a sharp breath as the import of her victim's words sank in. The gun moved ever so slightly away, and Rhea took the opportunity to adjust her gloves, her thumb brushing over the hidden bracelet, and straighten. The other woman regained her focus, and thrust the gun into her mark's ribs once again.

Slowly, Rhea reached up and removed her sunglasses. Regarding her opponent without fear, she allowed herself a slight smile. "You also should ask yourself another very vital question."

"What would that be?" The woman's eyes narrowed; she was feeling nervous. Her mark was holding things up, and if her co-conspirator was in as much trouble as had been hinted, things were going very wrong.

"Ask yourself if the CEO of Tracy Ventures would really go running in Central Park with just her dog for protection."

She backpedaled quickly as a loud clicking noise filled the air. The kidnapper stiffened; her eyes went wide, rolled back, then she crumpled to the ground. Rhea's gaze shifted slightly to meet that of the tall black woman, who had returned and was holding a tazer pointed at where the kidnapper had been standing. They exchanged nods, then glanced around. Four or five other people had appeared as if from nowhere, dressed in running clothes, workers' uniforms, casual attire, all meant to blend in with the other denizens of the park, and all carrying weapons of one sort or another. Turning back to her now-stunned assailant, Rhea raised an eyebrow.

"The answer to that question would be: no."

"Has Rhea managed to clear her schedule for Thanksgiving?" Patricia Tracy asked, teacup in hand. She was waiting for the other late risers in the family to come in before starting another batch of pancakes.

"That's what she told me yesterday," Jeff replied. He cut up his breakfast sausage and speared a piece, waving his laden fork around a bit as he spoke. "She said she made a special effort so she could be home more than two or three days. I think she misses us."

"Misses John more likely." A yawning Alan, dressed his favorite striped button down shirt and black jeans, appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. One foot wore black shoe and sock, the other a thick stretch bandage and moccasin slipper. He limped over to the table and sat down heavily in a seat. Kyrano served him juice and coffee, then moved off to refill Jeff's cup.

"You can drop the act now, Alan," Scott said, shaking his head slowly. "No one believes you really sprained that ankle."

"Especially after I caught you playing tennis with Tin-Tin yesterday," Virgil added.

"It wasn't hurting then; it's hurting now," Alan said, unable to keep a hint of whine from his voice. He picked up his juice glass and drained it in one long breathless gulp. "Ahh. Great juice, Kyrano. Thanks."

"You are welcome, Mr. Alan," the retainer replied. At Virgil's motion, he moved around to serve more juice.

"If it hurts so much, then why don't you have Brains scan it?" Scott challenged.

"Or have Dr. Hatoshi pay us a visit?" Gordon asked, smirking a little.

"Because Brains has enough on his plate and it's not fair to ask Dr. Hatoshi to fly all the way out here for a little sprain," Alan huffed. He glanced up as Patricia slid a plate of pancakes and sausages before him. "Thanks, Grandma."

She patted his shoulder and smiled at him, then sat down at the table again. "Jeff, don't you think he should stay home and rest that ankle?"

"Sure, Mother. If Dr. Hatoshi tells him he should. But since he refuses to have her examine him, I have to conclude that he's being a malingerer – again," Jeff said, his tone dry. "In any case, whether or not the sprain is real, it'll heal far better on Thunderbird Five than down here. Up there, he won't be going on any strenuous rescues, and temptation – like the tennis courts – will be out of reach."

"Hrmph." Patricia scowled at her son, who raised a bushy eyebrow in her direction.

"If you can convince him to see Dr. Hatoshi, Mother, and the good doctor tells me he has a sprain, then I'll certainly keep him home." A slight smile appeared as he said, sounding thoughtful, "I wonder if Tin-Tin would mind taking his place on Five for a bit? I'm sure we could swap pilots around for the New York trip..."

This time, the "hrmph" came from Alan's direction. "All right, all right, I'll go up early," he muttered. With that last word, he attacked what was left of his breakfast, utensils clattering as he put them down.

Scott and Jeff exchanged glances, and sighed. Patricia watched her youngest grandson for a moment, then scanned the table. "Speaking of Tin-Tin, I haven't seen her this morning." Her lips thinned. "Nor have I seen Brains. That boy needs his breakfast!"

"Pardon me, Mrs. Tracy, but both Mr. Brains and my daughter were here earlier. I prepared some breakfast for them both before they retired to the laboratory." Kyrano's soft explanation mollified Patricia, and she nodded, smiling a little before starting in on her pancakes.

"Thank you, Kyrano. I always worry about Brains; he'd forget to eat if we didn't make him come to the table."

"Very likely, Mrs. Tracy." He set the coffee carafe down in the middle of the table. "If you will excuse me, I will see to the cryo-coolers and make sure they are prepared for Thunderbird Three's departure."

Jeff smiled and nodded. "Right, Kyrano. Carry on, and thanks." The retainer bowed slightly, and left the kitchen.

"What are they working on, anyway, Dad?" Gordon asked, sitting back. "Seems like it's been really hush-hush, even to us."

"It's a pretty big project, Gordon," Jeff said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. "One you'll be briefed on in due time." He drained his coffee cup, and picked up his newspaper, tucking it under one arm as he rose from his seat. "I'm going to file a flight plan for the trip to New York. Wonderful breakfast as always, Mother. Thank you." He gave her a kiss on the cheek as he passed.

"You're welcome, Jeff," she responded, smiling at him and reaching a hand up to smooth it across his cheek. "I'll see you at lunch."

"Right. Scott, Alan, let me know when Thunderbird Three is ready for lift off."

"F-A-B," Scott replied.

Jeff left the room, and Gordon shook his head as he watched his father go. "That's so odd, don't you think? Usually Dad's really open about what new projects he has on the drawing boards."

"From what I understand, this one's way past the drawing board stage," Alan said, wiping his mouth. "But there are a lot of logistical problems to be solved."

"Well, whatever it is, Dad'll let us know about it when he thinks the time is right," Virgil said. He checked his watch, rose, and picked up his plate. "Thanks for the pancakes, Grandma. They were great." He kissed her on the cheek, much as his father had, then put his dishes and utensils in the autowasher.

"You're welcome, Virgil dear, and thank you for helping to clear the table." Patricia beamed at him.

"Got another hot phone date with Eva?" Gordon asked, tipping a wink to Alan.

Virgil stopped, an amused look on his face. "As a matter of fact, I do. And that 'hot phone date' is more action than you're getting at the moment, Gords."

"Ah, now I know why you wanted to fly shotgun." Scott nodded sagely. He drained his coffee cup before adding, "You thought maybe you could get Tin-Tin to make a quick stop in Vancouver so you could see your girl."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "No, I wasn't planning on that."

"Then perhaps asking Rhea if she didn't mind stopping on the way back." Alan's comment was as much a question as it was anything else.

Virgil just shook his head, and left the room.

"Come on, Alan," Scott said as he rose and picked up his and Alan's dishes. Patricia smiled as he slotted their plates in the autowasher. "Let's get the preflights done on Three. I want to see John's face when we show up a full week early." He paused and gave his brother's feet a pointed look. "You can lose the bandage, too."

"Okay," Alan grumbled. He gathered his and Scott's utensils, dropped them into the proper basket, and followed Scott out of the kitchen.

Patricia shook her head as she watched him go, walking without any visible limp. "One day that boy will really be hurt and when he is, no one will believe him."

xxxx

Virgil gave his hair a quick run through with a brush, then settled down before his computer. "Computer, wake up."

Leaning back in his chair, he called, "Transmyte open. Connect to..." He smiled as he thought of her. "Eva Martineau."

The computer didn't reply. The interactive window opened, and a little animated bear marched across the screen, the word, "Connecting..." streaming from his cartoon megaphone. Virgil ran a hand through his hair and blew out a nervous breath, counting the seconds in his head. Finally, the connection was made, and Virgil smiled widely. "Bonjour, ma chere."

The face that looked back at him wasn't that of Eva, but of her co-worker, Keith. He raised a blond eyebrow and said, "Bonjour to you, too, Tracy. Eva's setting up a shot. She'll be with you in a shake."

"Ah." Virgil's smile faded a bit, but he remained pleasant. "Thanks, Keith. I'll wait."

Eva was a photographer, whose work Virgil had seen on his last visit to Manhattan – when he and the family took in Ned Cook's show. She was originally from Quebec and did commercial work, mostly for home furnishings catalogs, as well as the occasional wedding or portrait. But it was her art pictures, taken both in color and in black and white, which had caught his eye. They had spent an evening talking about art; the evening became morning, and the next day he spent showing her the sights of New York City as it was her first trip there. She hadn't known he was the Virgil Tracy until he took her to the family penthouse to show her some of his own artwork. They'd ended up in bed then, and had kept up a long distance relationship ever since.

It wasn't long before Eva's face appeared. She had long, black hair, smoothed and shiny, tucked up in a Psyche knot to look both professional and quirky. Her face was made up in natural colors in order to keep any clients from staring at her; when he'd first met her, she used a pale foundation and dark, strong colors, as well as lacy pseudo-Victorian dress. Dressed now in a plain black sweater and jeans, she looked a bit harried, but managed a smile for Virgil. "Can't talk long, mon cher; duty calls, I fear." She cocked her head. "How are you... tomorrow?"

Virgil chuckled. He'd told her the little game his father played with his sister; she'd thought it cute and started doing it herself. "I'm fine. Looking forward to a day of painting tropical blossoms. I've been reminded I'm contributing to a fund-raising show in February."

"Oh, and who reminded you of this?" she asked. The light French lilt in her voice made Virgil feel like marching upstairs and insisting on riding shotgun so he could see her.

"My sister, in a televid interview." He made a face; no one had informed him – or the rest of his brothers – of the live interview until it was televised. Then their father called them in to see it live, recording it for later viewing pleasure. "I'm sure she meant well."

"Ah! To be famous," Eva said, pursing her lips. "I will have to find this interview later. On what show was it?"

"New York Lifestyles. Cindy Taylor was the reporter; God, the things that woman asked!" He shook his head. "Well, enough about that. How are you, yesterday, ma chere?"

"Busy, as the spring catalogs are now in preparation," she replied, sighing. "It is difficult to think of flowers and sun when it is raining every day."

"I'll send you some tropical sunshine, I promise," Virgil said, his tone sympathetic. "I was hoping to stop in to see you; Tin-Tin is going to pick up my sister for Thanksgiving, and one of us is going to pilot on the return trip." He shrugged, choosing his next words carefully. "However, my brother, John, won the coin toss and gets to go with Tin-Tin."

"John? He is the astronomer?" If there was any hint of more than a casual interest in her voice, Virgil couldn't hear it.

"Yes, I guess you could say that. He's strictly amateur, in that he's not working for any of the big observatories, but he's written a couple of books on the subject. His big claim to fame is discovering a quasar."

"Ah." Eva looked as if she wanted to ask something more, but thought better of it. "So, your sister? When does she leave New York?"

"We're to pick her up on Saturday in New York, which is Sunday here." He shook his head and chuckled. "Sometimes the International Date Line is a pain in the ass."

"As I well know," Eva said, her tone playful. She turned at a voice behind her. "I must return to work, mon cher."

"I know. Au revoir, ma chere."

"Au revoir, et à bientôt." With that, the call ended, and Virgil dropped back into his seat.

At the studio, Keith shook his head. "What do you see in that playboy?"

"You wouldn't understand," Eva replied. "Now, I have one more call to make, and I'll be with you."

Keith shrugged. "It's only the client's time, y'know."

"I know. I will be there."

As her assistant walked away, Eva dialed a number she knew by heart – if it wasn't in her contacts, it couldn't incriminate her. When the call went through, it was voice-only.

The responder's tone was curt, and the voice filtered. "What do you have?"

"The daughter leaves New York on Saturday. I don't have a time."

"No matter. We will find it."

"He will be in New York for an art show in February."

"This we know, but confirmation is helpful. Anything else?"

"The second son, the astronomer is touted as an amateur, I..." she hesitated, biting her lower lip. "I almost asked what his opinion was of the event, but did not want to draw attention to it."

"That was unfortunate, but perhaps for the best. He would be difficult to reach, in any case."

"Not necessarily." Eva's voice lowered. "He will co-pilot the plane to fetch his sister."

"Hm." Her contact sounded thoughtful. "We will see what our current plans yield, before considering action concerning him." There was a pause, then, "You have done well."

The phone call ended without so much as a goodbye, and Eva took in a deep breath. Letting it out, she put the phone on her desk, and went back to the studio.

"Check on Petra and see if she's caught up with Bodie. They went off that way," Rhea ordered. One of the men, dressed as a utility worker, nodded, and took off in the direction she'd indicated. The clop of hooves and the soft snort of a horse's breath, made her look up, shielding her eyes for a moment, before she replaced her sunglasses.

"Hello there, Miss Tracy," the mounted NYPD officer said, giving her a grim smile. "What's all this about?"

"Good afternoon, Officer Papadopulos." Rhea indicated the unconscious woman, who was being examined by two more of New York's finest. "It started as a slash and snatch, but ended up as an attempted abduction. My security people dealt with the latter – non-lethally, as you can see."

"Is that why I have a report of officers trying to subdue a very large dog that's standing on someone's back?" Papadopulos asked.

"Very likely," she replied with a rueful smile. "If you'd be so kind as to keep them from shooting Bodie..."

"I'll see what I can do." The officer tapped his ear piece and murmured something. As he did, Rhea looked down and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The tall black woman, who was giving a statement to yet another police officer, glanced her way. She caught the eye of another one of the security people, indicating that he should check on their employer. She got a nod in return, and went back to speaking with the officer.

"Are you all right, Miss Tracy?" The short man with the black, spiky hair approached, his manner respectful, and Rhea gave him a tight smile.

"Just a bit dizzy, Anselmo. Possibly slight dehydration; that bag snatcher took my water with him."

"Why don't we..." Anselmo's suggestion was cut off as Officer Papadopulos moved back toward Rhea.

"We'd appreciate it, Miss Tracy, if you'd come call off your dog. It seems that one or two of your security people are there, and they're having no luck."

"Of course, officer. I'd be glad to."

Anselmo followed Rhea and the female officer that accompanied her deeper into the park. The mounted policeman stayed where he was to coordinate things. Eventually, they found themselves on the outskirts of a small crowd of onlookers. The policewoman, whose ID tag read "Reed", began to shoulder her way through, telling the rubberneckers to move aside and creating a path for the pair who followed. Finally they approached the officers on the scene. A tall redhead was speaking with the blond woman, Petra, and her companion, and they all turned to Rhea as Officer Reed brought her forward.

"Here's the dog's owner," Reed said bluntly.

"Ah, yes. Miss Tracy?" The redhead smiled, his expression benevolent. "I'm Sergeant O'Maley. Is this your bag?" He held up the blue satchel by one severed strap.

"Yes, sergeant, it is. That man over there," Rhea pointed to the prone figure on whose shoulders Bodie's forepaws firmly rested, "cut it from my waist. I think it was a planned distraction, one to get me to release my dog and leave me open for a kidnapping." She shrugged. "There's not much in it, just the bottles of water outside, as you see, and supplies for picking up my dog's... uh... poop, inside. A couple of the bags were full."

"Ah, yes, I see. Well, would you be so kind as to call your dog off? Animal control is on its way... and we'd like to make our arrest before they arrive."

"Of course." Rhea took a few steps forward and called in a commanding tone. "Bodie!"

The dog looked toward her, and she called again, this time accompanying it with a sharp "come to me" motion. "Bodie! Come!"

Bodie took her front paws off the purse snatcher's back and trotted toward her mistress. Rhea could hear the crowd behind her react in awe as the dog approached. Waiting officers hurried in to secure the man, fastening his hands behind him, and hauling him to his feet. Rhea secured Bodie's leash to her collar, and the dog sat next to her, panting.

"Sergeant?" she asked, a smile touching her lips. "I should probably get Bodie back home. If you'd be so kind, could you send someone to the Tracy Towers to get my statement?"

"Oh, sure, Miss Tracy. I understand. Witnesses say she just knocked the perp over and kept him from getting up; she never bit him or anything. Best get her out of here so the crowd'll break up. Make sure, though, that you have your dog's paperwork handy when the detectives comes calling. They'll want to see she wasn't rabid and had all her shots."

"Yes, Sergeant, I surely will. Thank you for all your help." Rhea tightened her grip on Bodie's leash, and, flanked by Petra and Anselmo, made her way past the crowd. The third security officer brought up the rear.

"Petra." Her voice was low and urgent. "Make sure that Long has the limo available at the entrance to the park, and tell Belle to do what she can to hold off the press. This will be news, I know, but the less the vultures get, the better."

"Yes, ma'am." Petra tapped the receiver in her ear, and began to murmur instructions.

Rhea took in and let out another deep breath, closing her eyes behind the lenses. Anselmo took her by the upper arm. "Miss Tracy?"

"Just get me out of here." His employer's tone made him look up and meet Petra's worried gaze.

The NYPD investigation team was on the scene, and had taped it off. Belle, the tall dark woman, was talking with the lead investigator, and she gave Petra a quick nod as the trio, plus dog, powered on past and out to the street. Anselmo scanned the area and found the silver limousine parked beyond the line of police vehicles. It was running, and Long, the chauffeur, was attempting to argue with the officer in charge of traffic control. Anselmo ran ahead to try and extricate the older man from the confrontation, while Petra opened the rear door of the car for her employer. Rhea urged her dog inside first, then climbed in after, with Petra taking up the rear. His passenger on board, Long accepted the moving violation, and both he and Anselmo took up positions in the front seat of the car. They pulled smoothly out into traffic at the first opportunity.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God." Rhea held her head in her hands and shivered. She took a deep breath, then another, and another. "Get the medkit," she said in a shaky voice. "I think it's just a scratch..."

Petra's eyes widened, and she dove for the first aid kit. The first thing she found when she opened it was a four by four inch silver square which she shook. It blossomed out into a much larger cloth, which she wrapped around Rhea's shivering form. Then she pulled out some gauze and a cleansing pad, and turned on the interior lights. Rhea unzipped the sweatshirt, and pulled up the two thermal shirts she wore beneath it. The shirts, both black, were shiny with moisture on the edges of the six inch slice, and so was the legging's nearly severed waistband.

"You're right, it's just a scratch," Petra said soothingly as she daubed the bloodied area with the pad. She followed up with the gauze so she could better see the wound. "Superficial, really, might need some glue, but being on the move made it bleed more than it might have." She glanced up at her employer's pale face. "Mother Hen won't be happy with you."

"She won't be happy with any of us," Rhea said between chattering teeth. "Turn up the heat, will you? I'm freezing."

"Sure." Petra manipulated the environmental controls, and the passenger compartment warmed. "This is probably reaction setting in."

"Yeah... probably." Rhea pulled the blanket closer on one side as Petra dressed the wound. "Have Dr. Chavez ready, please."

"Already on it." Petra pulled a phone from her own bag, and began to place a call.

There were a few moments of silence, broken only by Petra's murmurs, and a slight, concerned sounding whine from Bodie. Rhea leaned forward to stroke the dog's head in reassurance, wincing as she did so. Then Petra, finished with her call, ventured, "Your father..."

"Will not hear a word about this from anyone but me," was the firm interjection. "I'm going home for the next week. I will inform him of the matter, once I have as much information as is available."

"Hope you can convince Mother Hen of that." Petra sounded unsure.

"Me, too." Rhea leaned back and closed her eyes, then drew the blanket closer and shuddered. She opened her eyes just in time, and got a brief glimpse the three shining towers that all bore the name Tracy just as the limo slid into the shade of Tracy Alpha's parking garage.