At 6:15 A.M., Rhonda Wilkerson, wrapped snugly in a bath towel, struggled to the front desk, demanding to be discharged from St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital. Since the police had not charged her with a crime and no one had committed her, the hospital had no choice but to let her go. As she waited in the rococo lobby, wondering why Washington politicians housed their mentally ill in such beauty, she listened to the sounds from the Hinckley Suite, wondering how sane Hinckley really was, wondering if Jody Foster would stop by for tea, wondering if Nancy Reagan worried that John would come after her when he was released. I know, it's not my concern, but it's going to make a great story for the girls at the - Rhonda reined herself in. If I tell anyone I spent the night next door to John Hinckley, they're going to know I was in the God damned nut house. I'll just have to find a way to weave it into my next conversation another way; perhaps I can tell them I met someone who spent a night here and he told me his story. No. Secondhand gossip never cuts it . . . besides, the girl will see right through it. I'd better not say a word-and if Kiefer or the boys ever opens their mouths, I'll deck them.

When Kiefer and the boys finally arrived at 7:30, Rhonda was livid, but contained her anger long enough to get out the main door. If I say a word, these cretins will commit me. I'll have to bite my tongue.

As the nurse pushed Rhonda's wheelchair, seven year-old Owen said, "Mommy, I like this hotel. The halls are so wide that me and Robbie . . . "

"Robbie and I," Rhonda corrected, "this is a very nice place, boys, but we're going back to our old hotel and that's the only thing you're ever going to remember about tonight. Got it?"

Owen was old enough to know he'd been warned. There was always something he was not supposed to tell, even though it had taken him several spankings to learn his lesson. He just hoped Robbie would learn as quickly.

The early summer evening was just settling in as the Wilkersons made their way to the car. "Look, there's the Capitol," Owen said, as he held his mother's hand. "Can we have a picnic there?"

Kiefer looked out over the southeast ghetto, thinking of the hot black men who lived there. "No boys, Mommy wouldn't be very happy here." Mommy wouldn't be happy in paradise, Kiefer thought, Mommy wouldn't be happy if she sat on Jesus' face and he licked her skinny behind.

"I bet you can see the whole world on top of the Capitol, I want to remember this night forever."

Owen wanted to kick his brother, but Rhonda thumped the younger boy on his head. "This is a place you will never remember. It's a horrible place and if you ever mention it again to anyone-ever-I'll spank you black and blue." Rhonda paused so that her words could sink in. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes ma'am," Kiefer said along with the boys.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At headquarters, Garner was working on the multi-tentacled Metro Jabber Case. "This case has more loose ends than a planeload of tourists returning from Mexico."

Corporal Angela Hearne, who knew the captain's favorite joke, turned her head and stuck her finger down her throat as Garner walked to the front of the room.

"Here's what we have so far," Garner said as he outlined the data on the board, "Number one, we have the Metro Jabber Event." Garner printed the words in large clear capital letters, as he began numbering and lettering underneath. "One-A: We have a dozen eyewitness reports of the event, but One-B: None of the eyewitnesses can be deemed reliable because One-B-1: Their descriptions are too vague and One B-2: They differ on too many major points. Two: We have the Dato data from the code on the map."

Angela wanted to scream and noticed that half the staff was already nodding off. Just because he's captain doesn't make him the smartest ginger snap on the Safeway shelf. Why in the hell can't hell tell us something new?

Garner continued, oblivious to the looks of boredom on the faces of his officers: " Two-A: Dato appears innocent, but Two-B: So did those tourists-" Garner started to go into his Mexican diarrhea joke but he glanced at Hearne, cleared his throat and continued, "I mean, the Columbine boys before they started shooting . . . so appearances can be deceiving." Garner turned toward the board, avoiding Angela's victorious look, as he continued, "One-C: We have the mess we created when we invade Dato's house. One-C-1: The death of one daughter: teenage, name, irrelevant; One-C-2: Discussions with Dato's ambassador from wherever in the hell he's from; One-C-3: Discussions with the US Department of State; and One-C-4: Dialogue with the District's Child Protective Services regarding care of gender and age of kids." Garner cleared his throat, as if that action would help him better clarify his thoughts, "Three: We have all this shit about a fertilizer plant in Riverdale," several of the officers stifled a laugh, but Garner carried on oblivious to his own double entendre, "Three-A: We know terrorists manufacture bombs out of nitrogen-rich fertilizer. Four: We discovered a formula for nitroglycerin. "

Why in the hell doesn't he have a Three-B like organic, inorganic-give us a real break down on important shit? Angela Herne laughed to herself.

"Five, we have this map-this God damned Da Vinci Code-and the more I look at it, the less I know what the hell it's all about. Five-A: Is it the key to this mystery or Five-B: Is it just a God damned red herring?" Garner stopped to take a breath-too caught up in the analytical to deduce the meaning.

"Let's start on the computer," Luckett said, "I've copied the jabber's map and overlaid it on every map in the Library of Congress collection. Here's the best match."


(Metro map superimposed with the Jabber's red lines)

"The Jabber's X's appear to be the metro stations at Foggy, McPhearson, Chinatown and Capitol . . . but are they close enough?"

"The lines are hand drawn; I wouldn't expect an exactly match."

"So those are the targets?"

"It Appears so, and if that's it, we can search every tunnel and post men in every station."

"The Tokyo Metro system was closed down a few years ago when Sarin gas was released in several stations, so we know Metros are vulnerable and attacks at several stations simultaneously could paralyze this city. "but is that it? Is that all there is? Or are we missing something here?"

"We have the GLBT March this weekend. Could the terrorists be planning to coincide with that-do something else?"

"Is that what all this is about? Blowing up the girls? Officer Howard stressed the second word and snorted loudly until he glanced up at Captain Garner.

"See me later, Howard, I don't have time for snide remarks." The captain didn't care what he or his officers said on their own time, but he couldn't put up with possible lawsuits. "Keep looking. We must be missing something."

"Reverend Abel is baptizing hundreds of Christians this weekend." Angela Herne said.

"But that's way off the map, down on the Anacostia."

"Let's keep the reverend on the radar. Anyone riding Metro this weekend could be in grave danger." Garner had read all the Harry Potter novels and was beginning to feel like Professor Dumbledore fearing for the safety of Hogwarts. He ceded the floor to Luckett who flipped computer maps back and forth, juxtaposing one after the other with the jabber's map as she compared it with the city's underground power lines, telephone cables, internet cables, sewers, water mains, old highways and ancient trolley lines, but nothing matched up completely.

There's no such thing as a perfect match, Garner thought.

"The jabber's map isn't drawn to scale-any of these places could be a match . . . or all of them. We're right back where we started.

"It's going to be a long day," Garner said. "Let's call out for pizza, who's in?"

A dozen hands went up.

"There's got to be something we're missing-something right under our noses." Luckett said as she pulled up an historical map of the city.


(Map of Washington, D.C., mid 1800s)

"This is a map from the mid 1800s. Look at the canals. I didn't know we had canals-are they still here or have they been filled in?"

"Are they even close enough to the Jabber's X's?"

Luckett overlaid the jabbers map on the ancient one, "No, there not, but hold on: here's something!"


(Floodgates)

The officers huddled around the computer screen, "Look at those marks-they almost look like dams, but what would dams be doing in a freaking canal?"

"They are dams." Assistant Chief Phyllis Luckett said as she magnified the map. "They look like floodgates-like water gates."

"There used to be a water gate on the Potomac. We went there for concerts when I was a kid, but-"

"What are you talking about?"

"The canals are still here, underneath the Mall, but a hundred years ago someone put in coffer dams; they're like locks to keep the Potomac from flooding the city."

Luckett switched to another screen. "Everley's right. Look, here's a photo of the Washington Harbor Complex taken in April of this year. The complex has water gates but someone forgot to raise them during the last flood. So it's obvious that water gates, even if underneath the city, could stop a major catastrophe."

"I remember Hurricane Agnes." Garner said, "It was my first year on the force; three people drowned on the Mall and I had to inform their families. I never want to do that again. Check it out, Murdock, see if you can bring it up."

Murdock Googled Washington, D.C. floods and found copies of the Washington Post. "Got it! 'City flooded! Great Falls is covered with over thirty feet of water,'" Murdock continued, mumbling quickly, skipping extraneous parts, "'Old Town Alexandria flooded from the Potomac to Wolfe Street, sixty square blocks underwater'. Here's more, 'The Mall is totally covered by the Potomac extending to the base of the Washington Monument.' Wait a minute, here it is: the magic bullet we've all been looking for: Charles Mattingly, D.C.'s chief engineer, forgot to close the water gates. Quote, 'the city of Washington is built on a swamp and today's downtown, including the Mall, the White House, the Capitol and Smithsonian are built over the Tiber Creek.'" Murdock skimmed quickly, "Words, words, words, ah! Quote: 'The Tiber Creek subsequently became a series of canals in the mid-Eighteen Hundreds. Each canal was sectioned off with a water gate so they could be closed during floods.' More words. Hold on. This reporter is far too verbose. Ah, here's more: 'Mattingly decided that closing the water gates was not a priority and subsequently, the city was flooded. Three children drowned as their parents watched in horror,' Oh my God. That's it. That's the proof we need. Someone is planning to blow up the water gates and flood the city."

"Find those gates. Find those God damned gates."

"Got it: Constitution Avenue at Eleventh . . . no Twelfth. Wait, there's a second one, smaller . . . probably a back up."

"Where?"

"Seventh and Constitution. I don't see any more."

"What about those hashmarks on the map you brought up-seems like they were a half dozen a century ago.

"Don't know-seems that's all we have remaining today."

"Pizza's here."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marc Villano hadn't fully recovered but he was home with Lacey and glad the kids decided to help from time to time. They won't be able to do much, but I can't afford a nurse.

The kids, Noah and Jus, who lived next door, banged on the door, "Can we take Lacey out for her walk. Can we? Can we?"

"Sure, but I'll go with you. I need the exercise and a chance to put Lacey through her paces. She hasn't sniffed out a bomb in days." Villano was kidding, but the children didn't get the joke.

"Gosh! A real bomb? Suppose it explodes?"

"No," Villano stumbled for the right words, he didn't want to screw this up any more, "we're going to plant a make-believe bomb. It's a game I taught Lacey during her training. I keep a rolled-up towel with a bone inside it-but the bone's been soaked with a chemical that smells like nitro."

"What's nitro?" Noah asked.

"It's what bombs are made of. But don't worry, I don't have any real bombs," Villano stressed the word 'real', "I just have a smelly towel and Lacey's good enough to find it no matter where I hide it."

"Is that why you leave it outside?"

"Yep, it's on the patio and there's a football out there, too. I want you to go outside, take the towel and football and go to the park. When you get there, hide the blanket with the fake bomb where you can't see it. Then play catch and wait for the action. Can you do that?"

"Sure."

"You got a watch?"

"Yep," Noah held up his wrist.

"Good, I want you guys to take a ten minute head start. Take your time and don't run across the street-you guys know how to cross streets, right?"

"We're not babies," Noah made a gagging sound as his brother laughed.

"Just checking, okay? Remember, hide the blanket anywhere as long as it's out of sight and wait for Lacey and Me, okay?"

Lacey and I, Noah thought, but he didn't want to correct Mr. Marc-partly because he was a cop, but mostly because Villano was still recovering and Noah knew how grumpy old people got when they were sick.

"She'll find the bomb no matter where you hide it."

"Awesome." The boys raced outside, grabbing the ball and blanket and headed down the street before Villano found his shoes and socks.

Ten minutes later, Noah and Jus had picked up a dozen friends at the park and were tossing the football back and forth. They'd hidden the blanket at the bottom of the sandbox where the little kids normally played.

Villano walked quickly to the park-at least as quickly as he could, considering the circumstances-with Lacey on her leash. As soon as he reached the park, he unfastened Lacey's collar and said, "Bomb, girl! Find the bomb!" Lacey reared back and ran around in a circle, sniffing the air, until she picked up the scent, which she followed past the boys playing football, past the big oak tree, past the jungle gym, right to middle of the sandbox. There, she barked three times and began pawing at the sand until she dug up the blanket. She grabbed the blanket in her teeth and waited for Villano.

By then, everyone was screaming and the boys were racing from one end of the park to the other, telling everyone about Lacey, the bomb sniffing dog.

Holding out his hand, Villano walked to Lacey and said, "Give me the bomb, give, girl, give" as Lacey dropped the blanket in his open arms. Lacey then barked three times as the children cheered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rhonda was glad to get rid of Kiefer, if only for a few hours, as he surreptitiously ran a few errands. Mother was right. I should just sneak out, take the boys, and go home to Oshkosh. Kiefer is nothing more than a ton of dead weight. If he'd been a real man, he would have hailed a cab in the first place. Instead he dragged us onto the Metro and I ended up - Rhonda was unable to finish. "Pack your suitcases carefully, boys, and put all your dirty clothes in this plastic trash bag."

"Are we going to throw them out?" Robbie asked.

"No, we're not going to throw them out. Putting them in a separate bag keeps them away from your clean clothes. That way Mommy doesn't have to do a double load when she gets home." Rhonda was too tired to explode.

Owen didn't know what his mother was talking about, but he held the big green trash bag as Robbie dumped in all their dirty socks and underpants. "The shirts are clean, Mom. We only wore them once."

"If you wore anything, it's dirty. Put it in the bag."

Owen put the shirts in the bag and realized that the only clothes left were two bathing suits, sweaters, and two pairs pants. "Okay, Mom, we're done, now what?"

"Not yet. Look under the beds and in the bathroom. Make sure we have everything that belongs to us. And," she said pontifically, "if you have any questions about what we own and what the hotel owns, put it on your bed. I'll look at it and figure it out. Okay?" Rhonda's favorite Scriptures raced through her head, Thou shalt not steal, followed quickly by God's most sacred commandment: Spare the rod and spoil the child.

The boys raced around like squirrels, gathering soap, deodorant, toothpaste, tooth brushes, towels, and blankets, and dumped them all on the bed as Rhonda searched under the pushed-apart twin beds in the adjoining suite.

I don't know why I have to crawl around like a damned monkey; if I'd married a man instead of a nitwit, I wouldn't be in this pickle. Rhonda used the same wooden coat hanger she'd used on Robbie as she swept under the bed. If there's anything we dropped, I'll find it, she thought as she swept out a matchbook. What the hell is this? The Eagle Bar! Rhonda started at the matchbook cover and noticed the picture of two men dressed in leather juxtaposed on an eagle. This had better not be what I think it is, she thought, as she grabbed her cell and dialed.

"Washington Eagle, Brian speaking."

"Sorry, I was trying to reach my sister in Oshkosh, Wisconsin." Rhonda lied. "What's the eagle-are you part of the National Park Services?"

"No, ma'am, we're Washington's premier gay bar, but we welcome men and women of all persuasions. We're open from 7 P.M. to-"

Rhonda was livid. Wait 'til I get my hands - but she was unable to finish her thought because Kiefer walked in at precisely that same moment.

"What in the hell is this?" Rhonda screamed, dangling the matchbook in front of Kiefer as if it was a bucket of poop and he was the septic tank cleaner.

Kiefer stumbled for an answer before struggling to his full six foot six inch height. "It's a gay bar, Rhonda. It's the only God damned place I've ever been comfortable in my entire life."

"Get comfortable with this," Rhoda screamed as she ripped off her wedding ring and threw it in his face. "And this," Kiefer's clothing flew across the room faster than the witches moved the bed knobs and broomsticks in the Disney classic. "Take your God damned jockey shorts, your socks, your shirts. Take everything you own and don't come back until my lawyer gives you supervised visits, you God damned perv!"

"I'm not the perv, you are-and you're the one who's going to need a lawyer, because when I'm finished with you, you'll be living on the streets." Kiefer knew he was bluffing, but his chest expanded six inches and he had his first erection around her in months.

Rhonda wielded back and slapped Kiefer so hard that, in normal days when he was totally under her thumb, he would have fallen to the floor. Instead, her blow merely fell off his face as if he was a rainstorm and she was a wisp of air.

"You've abused me for the last time. Never again Masada."

Rhonda stood back, shaken, remembering the discussion she and Kiefer had when they were students at the University of Missouri. They had attended a lecture about Masada, Herod's fortress in ancient Palestine, and learned how the Jews had committed mass suicide rather than allowing the Romans to conquer them. "They believed in what they stood for," Kiefer said. "I just wish I had the balls to stand up to tyrants like that." Rhonda fell in love with him at that precise moment, knowing he was the man she'd dreamt of since she puppy-lusted after Kerry Kelpy, a blond-haired, green-eyed stud in Miss Well's sixth grade class at Oshkosh Elementary School.

But now, with Keifer's manhood fully asserted and prominently displayed through his bulging jockey shorts, Rhonda allowed a tear to fall down her makeup-less face, realizing the man she needed to, indeed, wanted to love, was leaving her forever . . . realizing for the first time, she was alone.

Herb Jenkins' leg was shattered in three places and his head still ached from the concussion he suffered in the accident at George Washington Circle. He propped up his good leg, jiggled the remote in his right hand and switched through the TV channels in his semi-private room at GW Hospital. "Welcome to the Guiding Light." Click. "As the World Turns." Click. "The Edge of Tomorrow." Herb clicked off the TV and picked up his favorite collection of short stories, Winston Churchill's American Cousin and Other Tales, by Scot Walker, and started reading Earsounds, which reminded him of his recent mishaps. He had barely finished the story, however, when there was a knock at the door and Danh Nguyen entered.

"Herb Jenkins? My name's Lieutenant Danh Nguyen. I'm here as an ombudsman. I'm with the District Police. How are you doing today?"

Herb wanted to scratch his leg, but the cast covered it, "Itching to get back to work," he said.

"Wish I could help," Danh picked up on the joke along with Herb's frustration.

"Are you here about Tom?"

"Tom?

"Yes, Tom Kelly, one of my employees. He was murdered last night."

"One of your employees?"

"Yes, his wife just called me. Tom didn't make it home last night; a jogger found his body. Tom's wife and daughters are at their wits end."

"I hadn't heard. I'll check into it. Was it here in the District?"

"No, Tom lives . . . lived in Prince Georges' County."

"Tell me what you know and I'll check it out," Danh took out his notebook and wrote down everything Herb told him. When he finished he took Jenkins' hand. "I'm sorry shit happens sometimes, really bad shit."

Jenkins laughed for the first time since the accident. "That's my business you know: shit." Jenkins remained silent a moment, then continued, "I'm in the fertilizer business."

"I didn't know that, but we've been tracking a fertilizer company out in Riverdale, Maryland. Are you familiar with it?"

"We Grow on You?"

"Yes, do you know it?"

"Know it? I own it-or at least I think I do. I was working out a deal to sell it when I was involved in a car accident."

"I see," Danh paused a moment. "I wonder if Tom's murder is related to the case I'm working on." Danh filled Jenkins in on the public details of the jabber case. "Tell me more about Tom Kelly. What type of work did he do?"

"He was head of my security crew."

"Security? At a shit factory? Pardon me, but that sounds weird."

"I agree, but after Nine Eleven, the Feds created Homeland Security and they felt it necessary to monitor every place that sells nitrogen rich fertilizer."

"Ah, nitrogen, as in the manufacture of bombs!"

"Yep, it started after Oklahoma City, that's when the government started keeping track of our output and since Nine Eleven, I've had to triple my employee budget; I may not be able to go on much longer. There's not as big a profit in shit as most people think."

Both Danh and Jenkins laughed.

"I'll check it out. Do you have Tom's contact information?"

"My office staff has that. Here's my card. Call them and ask for Penelope. She'll fill you in-but for God's sakes find Tom's murderer. He was a good man. A very good man."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It only took Alejandro nine minutes to drive Carlos home from the hospital and another two before they half-undressed each other, tossing shirts and T-shirts to the floor as they kissed, savoring the tastes and smells of each other's bodies. Alejandro ran his hands down his lover's sides, inching them to his buttocks, caressing them through his trousers. "You have the most beautiful ass in the world, two perfect melons, ready to be split."

Carlos stepped out of his loafers and fiddled with Alejandro's belt buckle, whipping it open, digging down into his zipper, gliding the metal down in one quick easy movement as Alejandro ran his hands around his lover, tugging down his pants, waiting to feel the hard firm surprise inside his boxers as it bounced out to greet him.

Afterwards, while lying in each other's arms, Carlos compared his lover to the hottie who had attacked him. "I still wonder about that jabber on the Metro; I thought he was Jason; he was so strange."

"So now you're chasing strange men?"

"Only you . . . You're strange enough for me."

"I'll be stranger, if you keep that up," Alejandro playfully slapped Carlos's butt. "Why don't you check your database? You still keep files on every hot guy in town, don't you?"

Carlos blushed. He had revealed his secret to Alejandro the day they met. It's that damned accounting course I took at U.D.C. I had such a crush on Professor Handley, but he was a stickler on organization-socks in the sock drawer-divided in separate color zones; canned vegetables lined up in the pantry-label out in order of expiration dates; potatoes separated by shape and color- maybe that's why I'm so caught up with lists, I bet I got it from him. "I admit I'm compulsive with my diaries and my lists-but love me, love my fetishes. Okay?"

"Only after you make a list."

Both men laughed.

"Look, I'm gonna hop into the shower; why don't you check your lists? I know your compulsive little ass isn't going to rest until you figure all this out and I know how much you love mysteries." Alejandro gave Carlos one more slap on his butt as he strutted to the bathroom.

If a psychiatrist ever saw me doing this, he'd put me away for good. I'm beyond compulsive. Carlos looked at the clothing on the floor, the dirty plates by the bed, the books lying open on the desk, well, not that compulsive. Carlos turned on his laptop and started scrolling through his lists, searching through directories: church friends; straight friends; gay friends; sports friends; Exile friends; Mr. P friends. The last two were lists of guys he'd met at gay bars and he lingered over those the longest, trying to place names to faces. Carlos hit the search button, looking for Jason's name each time he opened a new folder. I feel like I'm attending a 'Halloween' movie marathon, he thought as he continued to scroll down. Danh Nguyen . . . Danh Nguyen. Why does that name interest me? Oh yeah, he's a cop. I wonder if he's heard about this Jason character. Carlos scratched Danh's name down on his pad. I'll call him later. It won't hurt.

The shift changed at the Foggy Bottom Metro station at 11:00 P.M. and Terrell Johnson arrived a few minutes early to scope out the scene and clock in. I might as well get paid while the city's still afloat. Terrell laughed at his own macabre sense of humor.

David Burns, with a heavy package cradled in his arms, quickly walked past Terrell, scanning his Metro card into the system. Shame to waste money going in and coming right back out again, he jiggled the changes in his pocket, wondering when he'd have to feed the card to add more value, but I guess it's a small price to pay to own a city.

Terrell waited a few moments and then headed down the escalator, his trashcan keys jigging in his pocket. The Feds thought locking trash cans would protect us from terrorists. They never realized how easy it would be for one of us to get a job as a trash collector at Metro and beat them at their own game. Terrell nearly stumbled over his own feet as he reached the bottom of the escalator and looked for David, who was standing a few yards from the Washington Post recycling bin. A fancy way for the Post to sell more papers-that's all that is, Terrell unlocked the bin and lifted off the top as David sidled closer. As soon as Terrell had removed the top and placed it between himself and the surveillance camera, David placed the smoke bomb in the bottom of the can and walked away. Terrell fiddled with the trashcan, dumped the newspapers in his pushcart, put the top back on, and relocked it. Safe for another day, he thought as he stifled a laugh at the futility of his job. Then he walked past David, who placed the nitroglycerine bomb in his push cart.

Within moments, Terrill had walked to the end of the platform, totally out of sight of surveillance and removed the nitro. Then he walked through the 'authorized employees only' gate, onto the path paralleling the Metro tracks. He proceeded exactly one hundred paces down the tunnel and groped for the sheet of metal David had used to cover the entrance to the hole when he bombed it out a few days before. Then he opened the door, picked up the flashlight David had left and shoved the bomb deep inside. He wriggled in, using his feet to kick the metal door closed as darkness overpowered him. Damn David and his stupid instructions. He should of told me to turn on the light before I closed the door. Terrill fumbled for the flashlight, found it, groped for the switch, and was instantly blinded. He flipped the light around and, carrying it in one hand and the bomb in the other, slithered forward.

After crawling three or four minutes, he stopped, pricked his ears and heard the rumbling sound of water. The Tiber! I'm here. He moved forward another foot, pushing the bomb in front of him, until he felt the bump: he had found the water gate.

Planting the bomb in the hole above the canal was easy compared to backing up in the narrow tunnel. Shining the flashlight in front of him seemed stupid, but he was afraid of the dark. The Boogie Man won't be getting' my ass. He thought he heard something moving behind him, tried to twist the flashlight around, nearly dropped it, wondering how much further he'd have to go to reach the metal door, feeling his shoulders rub against the dirt as he crept backwards, straining his legs, using muscles he never knew existed.

When he finally reached the make-shift door, he kicked it out with his feet but when he heard it clank into the tunnel, he freaked. If anyone hears that, they'll call security, for sure. He listened for the train, hoping he could reach down into the blackness, find the metal door and tug it off the tracks before the next train arrived. It's good it's late, trains be running every twenty minutes. He wanted to shine the flashlight but realized it would be seen half way down the tunnel so he groped in the darkness, first to the right, then straight down, then to the left, but he couldn't find the door. Then he felt further to the right, and further to the left: still no door. Damn, it fell on the tracks. Damn. Terrell jumped off the walkway down to the tracks, praying he wouldn't touch the third rail and become tomorrow's bacon bits as he groped closer to the wall, arching his arms out, pressing down, trying to find the door. Finally, he felt it, picked it up, and started to climb back to the walkway just as he noticed blinking lights behind him. God damn, the train's here. I'm gonna die. Terrell hoisted himself up to the walkway, panting as the train rushed by, missing him by a centimeter as it tore sixty miles an hour down the long tube toward Rosslyn.

Terrell stood trembling against the wall, wondering if the death of ten million homos would make him feel more secure. He turned around and fastened the metal plate over the hole, being careful to line it up so it would cover the entire opening. Then he walked back toward the main platform, with knees shaking and David's flashlight dangling unlit from his right hand.

Terrell took another deep breath as he entered the platform. Luckily, it was empty and the cart was where he left it-still blocking the surveillance camera. Terrill pushed the cart to the elevator and went to the upper platform.

"You finished early tonight." The kiosk man said, as he saw Terrell rounding the corner.

"409 must have cleaned up already."

"409?"

"Yeah, that's the group the Feds sent in after the smoke bomb went off the other day."

"I didn't know about that."

"Joke," Terrell said, "409. Get it?"

"No."

"409. It's a cleaner!"

"Oh?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At midnight, Danh fell into his bed, fully dressed, shoes dangling over the edge, dreaming about Michael . . . and in his dream, he was beside his lover, kissing him, holding him, whispering silly thoughts in his ear, I love you, my good little bug. I'll love you 'til all the cockroaches in the universe die.


On to Chapter Ten
June 7th
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June 5th
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