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Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.


The Third Highway Series Part 15:
An Object of Desire
Chapter 1
Witch1



Suquamish Island
Washington State

She was down on her knees in the cold mud, burying another few inches of wire in the narrow slit the trenching machine had dug when she heard the distinctive, low growl of the approaching Boston Whaler.

She stood up, wiping her muddy hands on the front of her jeans, and squinted to peer out into the Straits of Juan de Fuca toward the mainland. Vaguely, through the mists and drizzle, she could just make out the silhouette of the boat.

"Shit!" she exclaimed. The young man working beside her looked up. "It's OK," she reassured him, "you guys finish up running the wire. It looks like I have unexpected company." She heard Harry barking in the house above her--he knew the sound of the boat's motor, and she guessed he also knew it was Jarod that was arriving.

Laura looked down at her clothes: it was hopeless, and she knew it. Jarod seemed to have some bizarre talent for showing up when she looked truly awful.

The wire was part of the new invisible fence system she was having installed: Harry had been harassing the family of river otters that had moved into an area just outside one of her decks, and she wanted to keep him away from the little animals which--although feisty enough to protect themselves--still deserved some peace. She'd given up on trying to control Harry's terrier instincts. As far as he was concerned, the otters were vermin, and needed to be chased, worried and killed.

She slogged toward the house, her boot soles dragging clumps of mud turned up by the trenching. Jarod was already tying off the whaler at the dock and heading toward the house. As she approached, she heard Harry's ecstatic yelps of greeting.

Laura pulled off her boots on the deck and walked inside to find Jarod on his hands and knees with Harry. He looked up at with a huge smile on his face.

"Harry is always glad to see me," he told her rather unnecessarily.

"Harry loves you almost as much as I do," she answered, surprising herself with her candor. She hadn't meant to say that, at all.

"I need your help, Laura," he said.

She sighed. Increasingly, that seemed to be the only reason he showed up.

"There's a situation in Seattle that I've been checking into. And there's a witness to a crime who won't speak to me. I thought maybe she'd talk to you."

But Laura was still stuck on his first sentence. "In Seattle?" She asked. "How long have you been in town?"

"Oh--a few days," he answered.

Laura frowned. He'd been an hour away for 'a few days', and not even called her? She understood that he got involved with his stings and didn't want her to 'distract' him, as he put it. She accepted that, as she'd learned to accept that whatever sort of relationship she had with him had to be on his terms. Not that it pleased her to be so much at the mercy of his whims. But she'd acquiesced to it, and it was absurd to start to complain, now.

Still, it didn't make her happy.

Harry had found one of his squeaker toys and Jarod was playing with him, pretending to be trying to take the latex frog out of Harry's grasp. Harry, typically, was snarling as if he was about to bite Jarod's hand off--all in play, of course.

Laura went to change out of her muddy clothes, feeling a bit like snarling, herself.


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"I still don't see it," Laura said, staring intently at the TV screen as Jarod ran the video again.

"Right . . . there!" he said, pointing at the screen.

Laura sighed. "Explain it to me again, OK?" she asked. She felt the way Jarod often made her feel: stupid and slow.

"The tape is from a security camera inside the Columbia Towers," he said. "Funny that this should happen right there, after the last time." He was thinking about another case, another sting, at the end of which he had literally pushed the bad guy off the roof of the Columbia Towers--while he was wearing a parachute, of course. The coincidence sent a chill down his spine. "It's the lobby: you're looking at the west wall. And nothing happens. But then right at one twenty-four, A.M., there is the faintest, repeated flash on the wall. It's hard to see, I admit." He ran the tape back and then played it again, watching Laura's response. It was actually quite clear to him, and he was a bit puzzled that Laura still couldn't see it. The difference between his own perception and 'normal' levels of awareness often surprised him this way. She shrugged and he understood that she still didn't catch the faint strobe-like pulse on the tape.

"Well--OK," he continued, "trust me--it's there. It's not police lights--the cops didn't arrive until 2 hours later--so I deduced it had to be another sort of light bar, which led me to check into tow truck records for that night. That's how I found Charlene Watkins--who is called 'Charlie'. She works part time for the towing company that impounded a car--whose owner had amassed a truly astounding number of parking tickets--outside the Columbia Towers on that night. So I checked the times and logistics and decided she might have seen the man who got into Marjory Weinert's car. But she never came forward, not during the investigation, not during all the media hype, not during the trial. DeShawn Murray went to prison for life for rape and attempted murder. Marjory Weinert most likely will never regain consciousness. And DeShawn did have an alibi--five friends testified that he was with them in Beacon Hill that night--but he has a prior record, including a car jacking, and the jury didn't believe them. I don't think he did it, Laura. He's not a saint, but he's not a violent criminal, either. The other 'car jacking' was really just a theft: the owner caught him in the act and he shoved the guy aside and drove off. He didn't intend the confrontation. And I don't think he raped and bludgeoned Marjory Weinert that night, either."

"So why won't this 'Charlie' person talk to you?" Laura asked.

Jarod frowned. "I'm not sure," he said. "It's possible she really saw nothing, as she claims. But I doubt that. I sense that she's hiding something from me. Which is why I want you to talk to her: see if she's telling the truth. Use that psychic stuff you do to figure out why she would let an innocent man go to prison."

"What kind of a woman drives a tow truck?" she asked.

Jarod look surprised. "Is that odd?" he asked.

She thought about it. She certainly fully supported any woman's right to do whatever sort of job she wished, but it still was peculiar, no way around it.

"Well--unusual," she offered. "Do I go see her at the garage?"

"No," Jarod told her, "she has another job--you can go see her there."


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The Primal Urge
4356 East Broadway, Capital Hill
Seattle

Laura stood outside the door of the tiny storefront and looked it up and down one more time. Sandwiched between an espresso bar and a vintage clothing boutique, The Primal Urge sported ornate woodwork, carefully painted in lavender and chartreuse, huge brass door handles and a very tasteful carved wooden sign. It looked like a very up-scale hair saloon, with none of the expected tawdriness of an old-fashioned tattoo parlor. There were no placards of swirling dragons or Harley emblems in the fastidiously curtained windows, no sign of biker dudes hanging out.

Laura sighed and went inside. It wasn't what she'd expected--nothing ever was when Jarod was involved.

The air was lightly scented with something clean-smelling and herbal. There was a muted new-age tape playing that included delicate nature sounds--waterfalls, wind in the trees, bird calls--behind soft, relaxing musical tones. The walls were hung with carefully lighted pastiches of designs and heavy, beveled mirrors in deep gold-leafed frames. There was no one in sight.

Laura walked close to one of the hanging panels and peered at the designs. Here were the dragons, of course, along with a wide range of butterflies and roses, tracery hearts and floral sprays. The next panel had retro '70's work: peace symbols and mock-psychedelic swirls.

Laura felt someone staring at her before she realized that anyone had come into the room. She turned, feeling the eyes on her, and faced a tall, well-muscled young woman with short, rather spiky blonde hair. Her ears were pierced completely around their edges and looped with tiny silver hoops--another one adorned one of her delicately flared nostrils. She was wearing a thin black tee shirt without a bra--the outlines of her small, firm, tightly nippled breasts clearly defined beneath it--loose jeans and clunky, black, Doc Marten boots.

Laura noticed her complete lack of makeup and the cynical smile that seemed to permanently curl her lips. As well as her biceps, and the narrow tattooed bands around them. Laura was proud of her own toned body, but she didn't have muscles like this girl did. The veins on her forearms actually popped above the hardness beneath her skin, like a guy's will if he works out enough. Laura guessed she was carrying almost as little body-fat as Jarod did: her body was as lean and lanky as a young boy's. "Can I show you something in particular?" she asked Laura.

"I'm here to see Charlie," Laura responded.

"I'm Charlie," the girl answered, and Laura raised her eyebrows. Jarod had given her the address and told her only that the girl was called 'Charlie'. It had taken her about two tenths of a second to fill in the details about Charlie's sexual orientation that Jarod had neglected to mention. She wondered if Jarod had not noticed that, or if he was aware of the clear signals this woman was giving out, and thought that somehow would make her more willing to talk to Laura than to him.

The more she thought about it the more sure she was that Jarod understood very well. But she had to silently laugh at his optimism, thinking that this woman would be any more open to her.

Laura glanced down at herself, suddenly self-conscious. She was wearing a tiny, tight black mini-skirt, a fuzzy white sweater and strappy, four inch heels with a closely fitted, cropped black jacket. Silver jewelry dangled off her wrists and ear lobes, and she was perfectly made-up. For once, her hair was even smoothly styled.

She also hated to admit that until she'd met Jarod she had owned only one pair of heels--and they'd been tremendously stodgy ones, she now realized. Then she'd dressed this way to help him during one of his stings, for the male-distraction value of the mini skirt and spike heels, the low-cut sweater and push-up bra. And she'd taken one look at Jarod's face--and crotch--when he'd seen her dressed that way and had started accumulating an entire new wardrobe. At first it had felt like wearing a costume, and it had made her laugh. And then slowly it had become part of who she was. Maybe more than 'part', maybe she had evolved into this doll-woman who wore garter belts and had learned to simply expect men to turn around and stare at her with their mouths stupidly open as she walked by.

There was an unmistakable sense of raw power in that, although it had so many negative connotations wrapped up in it as well that she tried not to ponder it too deeply. But she knew that she didn't only wear the lingerie Jarod bought for her just for him, anymore.

"Where do you want it?" Charlie asked.

Laura looked at her in surprise for a moment: she suspected Charlie could tell exactly where Laura wanted 'it', and precisely what 'it' was.

The younger woman didn't smile, but Laura caught the amused gleam in her eye.

"Anywhere I can get it, actually," Laura said, simply.

They stood staring at each other silently for a moment. Laura noted that Charlie was the one to glance away, hiding a smile.

"I mean your tattoo," Charlie said.

"Actually, Charlie, Jarod asked me to come here to talk to you . . . "

Charlie snorted in disdain. "Oh--your Jarod's little girl friend, huh? How cute. I don't want to talk to him, and I don't want to talk to you." And she turned away.

"Wait--Charlie!" Laura exclaimed, hoping to stop her. "Why not just hear me out? Jarod told me all about this, and--"

"Fuck Jarod, " Charlie said. "Oh, sorry--I guess you already do." She looked at Laura with that little smile, expecting her to be shocked.

"Yeah, I sure do, honey--as much and as often as I can. You got a problem with that?"

It wasn't what the younger woman had expected. She looked startled for just an instant and then shook her head and laughed, obviously in spite of herself.

"You think you're pretty fucking hot, don't you?" Charlie challenged.

Laura only shook her head. "No. I'm just honest, is all. I hate cute little games and the stupid fools that play them."

Charlie snorted again in disgust. "So I'm supposed to be real impressed by that and just open up my heart to you, right?"

"Look, I don't give a damn what you do, Charlie--it's Jarod who's passionate about this stuff, not me. I'm here because he asked me to come, and I saw no reason to say 'no'. Jarod is a good person, and he sincerely wants to help this guy that's in jail, and he knows you could be the key to his doing that. All things considered, I'd like to help, too, if I can. But my goal in life is not righting all the world's wrongs. I just don't think you need the attitude, not with me." She shrugged. "It's sort of all the same to me. Whatever you do."

"I don't believe that. I know what Jarod is: those self-righteous, smug bastards that want to run everything--as if they already don't!"

"Yes, well, you've just described ALL men, as far as I'm concerned, so what's that got to do with Jarod?"

This time the girl actually laughed out loud.

"I'm still not going to talk to you," she insisted.

"Suppose I got one of these things," Laura said, gesturing toward the designs around them. "Would you talk to me, then?"

"Right!" Charlie told her. "You want a tattoo. Sure you do."

"No," Laura said, "I'm serious." And she was--without realizing it she's become involved in this whole thing, sucked into it somehow. And she kept finding her eyes going back to Charlie's biceps. She walked closer to her--the young woman was nearly Laura's height. "I like that," Laura said, and pointed to Charlie's upper arm.

"You don't want that, " she told Laura, sounding a bit horrified.

Laura looked more closely at the design: it was a single strand of barbed wire, delicately traced and realistically colored, including subtle rust stains picked out in fine detail. The closer Laura looked at it, the more intrigued she was, and the more beautiful she thought the design.

"I can't put that on your arm," Charlie said matter-of-factly. "It's a prison thing. I wear it 'cause I did time. It's not for you."

Laura thought about that. Actually, she had been in prison, twice: once, as a young girl, in the Centre. Then, later, in a state pen in California on drug charges. She hadn't been in long--charges were dropped for insufficient evidence after she'd managed to get her lawyer to buy off someone in the police evidence room--but it had been long enough. She'd been claustrophobic ever since. She'd never told Jarod about it and had no wish to tell Charlie, either.

She sighed and touched the band on Charlie's arm. The younger woman flinched and pulled away.

"I'm sorry," Laura said sincerely. "It's just so beautiful I wanted to touch it. That was rude of me."

Charlie was looking at her, right into her eyes. She had amazing eyes: green with spikes of brown and gold in the irises. Laura was reminded instantly of a cat's eyes--they had that intensity of color.

"It's OK, " Charlie said. "You can touch it if you want."

Laura reached out again and smoothed the taut skin of Charlie's bicep--it was as hard as a guy's, too. She could feel just the slightest raised pattern beneath her finger tip from the tattoo.

"It's a really good one, " Charlie explained quietly. "You can hardly even feel it."

"That's how you tell?" Laura asked. "If it's a good job or not?"

"Yeah," Charlie told her, her voice not much more than a husky whisper. "The good ones are really smooth. They feel good when you touch them. No scarring. If you let me, what I do for you will be like that: smooth."

Laura looked into her magnificent eyes again. She was amused that this young woman wanted to tease her. Laura knew what she was, and how she looked--she dressed to get men to turn and stare at her, not serious young woman with big muscles and major tattoos. Still, it was all rather complementary, in some odd way.

She wondered if she should tell Charlie that she'd slept with women--twice--and been dramatically underwhelmed by the experience. She knew what she wanted in bed, and Charlie just didn't have it. Still, Laura found herself getting more and more involved in the whole experience.

She frowned, then. She wanted to be honest.

"Charlie--trust me: there's no little dyke inside me, screaming to get out," she told her.

"That's what you think," the other woman said.


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Suquamish Island
3 hours later

The phone rang while Laura was making a salad for dinner. It was Alex--he'd started calling her again months before. So far it had remained just a telephone and email thing: he kept saying he wanted to see her in person, but never pressed her about it. Ever since Jarod had returned to her life she had been trying to decide what to do about Alex.

She regretted it, now, the night she'd lit a red candle and cast a spell over him, tying him to her. She honestly didn't know why she'd done it, except that it had been right after Jarod had dumped her , and she'd felt lost and desperately sad. She didn't know if she was in love with Alex, or ever had been. But he was sweet and kind and predictable, and at the time that had seemed quite a wonderful combination of traits. After all, Jarod was mercurial, explosive and literally, physically dangerous: the Centre wouldn't be opposed to using her to trap him if they could, or killing her if she stood in their way. So she had said the words of making over Alex as he slept in her bed, and now she faced the consequence. Even though he had stormed out of her house in a rage, telling her he hated her for leaving him for Jarod, he kept coming back.

She felt responsible and guilty and sort of pleased about it, all at the same time.

He went over some details about the book they were writing together, and his latest meeting with the publisher in Philadelphia. She could see the dock out the window and saw Jarod arriving in the kayak he'd taken out into the straits. "Alex," she said, the phone tucked between her shoulder and her head as she tore lettuce into shreds, "can I call you back? It's sort of a bad time. Ah--Jarod is here and I'm trying to make dinner."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Alex knew she was still involved with Jarod--and knew he drifted in and out of her life unpredictably.

"I'll be there tomorrow morning, your time," he said, unexpectedly.

"What?" Laura asked, alarmed. "Alex, that's just not a good idea--"

But he cut her off with a brisk good-bye and hung up.

She was standing there dumbly looking at the phone in her hand when Jarod entered the house, shivering in his wetsuit. "It's cold out on the water," he told her. "Is something wrong?" he asked, noticing the expression on her face.

"Alex is on his way," she murmured.

"Good!" Jarod exclaimed. "Maybe we'll all go skiing!"

Laura tapped a fingernail on the counter thoughtfully. "You don't think there's something odd about you two doing all that hearty guy stuff together, all things considered?"

Jarod was standing in front of the open refrigerator, dripping water on the floor from the wetsuit. It amazed Laura that he just couldn't accept there was no junk food in her house: he'd sometimes just stand staring into the refrigerator hopefully, as if he expected a cake or a pie or something to materialize there.

"I'm cooking dinner," she reminded him. "And no matter how long you stand there, it's still going to be vegies, left-over pasta and wine staring back at you."

He frowned. "Food can be fun," he told her. "Your house is like--" he made a dismissive, sweeping gesture with his arm--"one big sugar-free zone."

"I'm going to see Charlie again tomorrow," she told him, hoping to change the subject.

He looked surprised. "I thought you said she wouldn't talk to you?"

"I think she might change her mind. I told her I'd come back to get a tattoo--"

"What?" Jarod said. "You don't have to go that far, Laura. Even when I'm doing a sting I don't do things to my body that are permanent."

"There's a fine line of distinction, there, isn't there?" Laura asked. "I mean, you've done some seriously dangerous stuff, much of which could have been damned permanent--as in final, fatal. Besides, I want a tattoo. Above and beyond this case."

He was rooting around in the pantry, looking, Laura knew, for anything even vaguely like junk food. "There was a woman I knew who had a rose tattooed on her . . . " Jarod stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"On her what, Jarod?" Laura teased.

"I need to change," he told her, and hurried off toward the bedroom.

Laura watched him go, and then poured herself another glass of wine. She knew what she felt: jealousy. And she knew how it felt: cold and bitter.

She had no clue what she was doing with her life, waiting around for him to show up when it suited him, living, increasingly, for the time they spent together, but feeling more and more left out of the rest of Jarod's life. He never had told her much of what he did while he was gone, and that only seemed to be becoming worse. She'd gotten to the point where she didn't even ask. Because she didn't want to put him in the position of coming up with reasons not to answer.









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