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"Who the hell are you?" Selena Esposito halts my advance just short of the entrance, her words are rapid bursts of staccato, exaggerated enunciation; perfect Inglés with a Spanish inflection. She is un de Suboficiales de la Guardia Civil, pretty, obnoxious and animated; she has a tight, angular face and a reputation of being in the right place at the right time- and that's unfortunate for me.
 
I'd had to act quickly to create the necessary credentials, initiate a jurisdictional pissing contest and contrive an appropriate tale (perhaps you've heard the one about the man dispatched from the FBI's legal attaché office et cetera this investigation is mine now et cetera, the body will be transferred- - upon completion of my preliminary- - to the field office via FBI appointed liaison (a bona fide Federal Agent; not a pretend one like myself) et cetera.
 
I've never been one to gloat; however, I'm sure you can guess who won the pissing contest.
 
Had I hesitated to procure the private jet, however, or caved to my untimely craving for a street vended hot dog- - the ones sold adjacent to the kiosk on New York's Upper West Side- - the corpse would have been taken into the custody of la Cuerpo Nacional de Policía and my hands would have been tied.
 
"Uh", I stammer; I won't lie: I am not thrilled; I'd followed the lead to Jávea, staked out the Mediterranean villa for six hours and frankly, I'm jet-lagged and tetchy and somewhat nauseated by the overwhelming, cloying odor of death that assaults my nostrils. Also: I really want that hot dog! And perhaps some Dr. Pepper.
 
My discontent, however, is tempered with sympathy and reverence.
 
If I do, indeed, positively ID Mr. Parker's body, it will break my huntress' heart, and admittedly, I don't want that- even if sometimes I truly believe I do. What I feel for her- - whatever it is- - is unconditional. I become infuriated at times with her, I find her loyalty to the Centre positively repugnant, not to mention unfathomable; however, my affections for her are perdurable.
 
"Holmes." I answer Esposito, unblinking as I reveal my badge. "Agent Holmes."
 
Esposito is obviously incensed by the delays I have occasioned and, judging by the nitrile gloves, has already started the party without me. She narrows her dark eyes for effect, and purses her lips judiciously into a tight thin line when I show no sign of fear. Miss Parker has trained me well: it is going to take more than a dagger-glare to frighten me (all bets are off, however, when the bullets begin to fly).
 
"Any relation?" She smirks- the smirk in no way belies the sharp shaft of sarcasm in her tone- I get this a lot, have learned to play along, have learned that nothing engenders sympathy quite like self-deprecation.
 
"Distant." I answer and then pull out all the stops by offering her a disarming smile.
 
"Hmm", She purrs coquettishly above the soughing sea, "all right then, Sherlock", she concedes, "I could use another set of hands in here anyway. Leave the door open and don't close any of the windows; I don't want my scene contaminated by your vomit." She tosses me a wink and pivots away from the vestibule to permit my entrance into the crime scene and in doing so reveals a third party (excluding the decomposing corpse); I am unstrung, my jaw nearly unhinges.
 
The inestimable Miss Persona Non Grata stands opposite me. I devour her with a sweeping gaze. The ocean breeze parts her black ankle-length coat, revealing a badge affixed to the waist of her black skirt.

FBI.

Small world. She looks rather worse for the wear and is pinching a cigarette from a fresh pack of Treasurer Blacks. Her fingers still. Her gaze locks with mine.
 
Esposito chortles, her face becomes pinched as if in disgust. She fixes me with a tight smile, a squint of skepticism, and launches into interrogation. "All right, Agent Callahan," Esposito addresses Miss Parker in rich contralto and then stretches and props her hands on her hips, "either Sherlock there," Esposito hangs a thumb over her shoulder at me, "is writing checks his culo can't cash or," Esposito's eyes dance somewhat mischievously across the room to me, "Dirty Harry here is the great pretender. Now, which is it, gringo?" She asks me.
 
"Holmes," Agent Callahan intones and advances on me in the same manner a tiger advances on its meal-- just before decimating its meal. Stealthy and dangerous. Downright insidious.
 
"I waited for you at the field office," Callahan's sultry declaration as she sidles up to me, "at least I waited until I spotted these in your desk." I observe in guileless fascination as she dangles a pair of black panties from an index finger. They are hers, no doubt. Or at least I hope they are hers because she takes my hand and deposits the panties neatly therein. They are still warm. God help me. Sparks of excitement race up my spine. "You always did like them on the chubby side, didn't you?"
 
I'm taken aback. My huntress has just regaled Esposito with a rather far-fetched tale of a romantic entanglement soured by extra-curricular exploits, more specifically, my extra-curricular exploits. Apparently, I am a veritable one-man cornucopia of debauchery. A brute. Who knew?
 
"What?" I inquire incredulously. "I've never seen these before in my entire life," I assert.

It's the first truth I've uttered in seventy-six hours by the way.
 
"It's over," Callahan hisses at me.
 
"But what about us," I ask desperately, brokenly. "What about me?"
 
"You can go to hell, Holmes," Miss Parker answers.

Esposito observes our lover's spat with faint amusement tugging at her wine-painted lips.
 
"W-what about the case," I ask as Miss Parker AKA Agent 'Dirty Harry' Callahan reaches the vestibule.
 
"I'll fax my preliminary to the field office."
 
I shrug at a grinning Esposito and dash into the night in search of my huntress- and no, the irony isn't lost on me.

Outside the villa, it's the burnt end of a monotonous August day. Twilight descends as I jog along the beach and match Miss Parker's pace.
 
"Nicely played," I grin.
 
"Why are you here?"
 
"Had I known you would be here, believe me-"
 
"Believe you?" She interrupts and then advances on me. I know what's coming next and draw a pensive sigh. The prospect of looking down the business end of her Ladysmith has never held much appeal for me. "Believe you," She snarls, and then, to my surprise, swivels and pushes a hand through her dark locks. "Believe you," Miss Parker says again with a mirthless chuckle.
 
Laughing? I don't understand. Is this contempt? A manifestation of insanity? Misfiring synapses? Has she inherited her mother's mental illness? I feel fear slither under my skin. I've always been afraid that Miss Parker would reach a breaking point, and long before she reached any sort of turning point. Any sort of turning point with me.
 
"Miss Parker-" I begin as impersonally and prosaically as I can to pacify her. I recall her rejection, her tears. I simply want to offer my condolences for her father, who had been presumed dead some years earlier, and hope that perhaps it will assuage her grief in some small way. I must leave it alone, leave her alone. Obviously, she wants to be alone.
 
"Buy me a drink," she orders without even tossing a glance over her shoulder at me.
 
Admittedly, I am bewildered to such degree that I don't answer. My interest is certainly piqued, however, as is my concern for her.
 
Outside a crowded establishment overlooking the water, she unceremoniously drops into a chair. I observe as she stares at the sea. Just when I believe she's forgotten I even exist, she reminds (and none too gently might I add): "the drink, Jarod."
 
I'm being treated with the hauteur she generally reserves for the likes of Centre lackeys. It's disheartening. Nevertheless, over the jazz-blues fusion and mingled chatter, I shout my order and push my way to the exit, and dutifully seek her out.
 
"Took you long enough," she hisses, and then lifts the glass to her mouth and tastes. "What is this?" Comes her impassioned inquiry.
 
"A drink," I answer flatly and slump into the chair opposite her. I stare. I can't help myself. Her pallor is ghostly and quite a stunning contrast to the purple that rings her tired eyes. "How have you been," I ask. It seems to be a good enough place to start. My query is ignored. She makes none of her own, no words about my protracted absence, no questions about my family.
 
She abstractedly nurses the drink I'd fetched her and studies some area to her right. I suppose the lights of an ocean liner in the distance have compelled her attention.
 
"I know it hurts, and I'm sorry. I am truly sorry for you." I observe dispassionately as she stiffens and then swallows- or perhaps gulp would be the more appropriate term to apply. The movement in her throat is perceptible from across the table. It's the only sign that she is indeed listening to me. "I'll never understand why you trusted him, why you still love him."
 
I don't want to have this conversation with her, I realize after the words have been spoken. Hindsight's a bitch. It's quite evident that she isn't too keen on my conversational choices either.
 
I drag in a breath of fresh air, tug off my eyeglasses, and slip them into my coat pocket. "It's beautiful here," I observe and then pinch the bridge of my nose where duplicate tear-shaped dents remain- a result of the spectacles I'd worn.
 
Miss Parker is rigid, seems disinterested. I study the cigarette pack she'd dropped in the center of the table. I trudge on, stoically, and perhaps dejectedly. "What happened to that infamous Parker resolve, hmm, to the woman who made decisions and stuck to her guns?" My voice is colored with disappointment. I can't help it. I refuse to sit idly by while she destroys her health. "Smoking kills," I caution.
 
"No," she corrects. "Cancer kills." Her head turns, she looks askance at me; there is a hitch in the movement. She was unaware that I'd removed my glasses; she, however, hides her surprise well- quintessential Miss Parker. There is the smallest beat.
 
"I picked them up before boarding at LaGuardia," she explains and then closes her eyes, shakes her head. She wonders why she confided that much of herself.
 
"Why?" I ask.
 
"Why?" She invariably returns with a great deal of incredulity, a bit too much hostility for my taste. "Why must there always be a reason? What makes you believe I'd tell you if there were one?"
 
"Humor me," I say with a grin. "Perhaps I can help; at the very least, I can listen."
 
"It's nothing."
 
"Everything is something," I counter softly. "Even nothing. Tell me."
 
She wrestles with her emotions, wars with her conscience, and then startles me by unceremoniously grasping my hand. My jaw drops, my heart lurches.
 
Parker ejects herself from the chair, pulls me towards the sea- or rather, coaxes me. I am all too willing; in fact, I am willing to follow her to hell.
 
At the water's edge, she parks my hand on her hip. Everything else falls naturally into place. On a gentle breeze music and a newly lit barbeque waft in equal measures.
 
She infiltrates my soul; permeates my senses. The landscape shifts beneath us, drops away. Banter takes a fall.

It's the two of us, the dark night, folksy blues guitar.

We were born before the wind

 
We begin moving. Tentatively, at first. And then swaying. Her head, resting on my shoulder turns slowly, incrementally and simultaneously, inclines. Miss Parker's eyes find mine; those cold, astute eyes that have regarded me with disdain for so long, for far too long, soften. Inevitably, our lips meet.

My mind cautions me.

My heart ignores.

Why resist the tide when it's this strong? Why not be pulled under?
 
Why not drown in her?

Or as Mr. Hansard and Markéta Irglová so passionately sing:

 Let your soul and spirit fly

We kiss ourselves breathless, pull away forcefully, and gape at each other in abject disbelief-- as if ready to assign blame. Like the fools we are we leap headlong back into the fire, could very well be leaping to our deaths.
 

I don't have to fear it

 
And I want to rock your gypsy soul

 
I'm a dead man, poisoned with a woman that has been poisoned against me. And somehow- somehow, I don't care.

Too late to stop now

 
Her villa is opulent, well furnished. White sheers billowing over the windows reach towards me, the outstretched beckoning arms of two ghosts dancing in tandem to ensnare a body.
 
I'm dumbfounded. How in the hell did I get here? I could have just as easily been led to the Centre- that's the sort of power the woman possesses.
 
I have no illusions. The sweepers are likely en route. It was a dance after all, and several kisses that, in all honesty, were positively otherworldly, but I'm not stupid.
 
No, in fact, I'm a genius.
 
I'd be a fool to believe a kiss signals a cease fire, or will usher in an epoch of peace and mutual benevolence.

Hell, I'm still a bit perplexed that she hasn't already shot me and tossed my body into the sea.
 
"What are you doing?" I ask with a light chuckle when she tugs at my belt. I'm striving for altruistic here, to be that guy: Jarod the good and the right and the just, not Jarod the aroused.

My burgeoning erection finds that rather amusing.
 
Miss Parker doesn't answer. I know damn well what she is doing, and she knows that I know.

Her lips find mine again and then begin their enticing descent down my body. Had there been even a drop of vodka in the lemonades I'd ordered for us I'd tuck her into bed and attempt to do the right thing. Whatever that is.
 
She loosens my trousers, tugs down my briefs, and is evidenly supremely satisfied with herself. My penis has no regard for the past, the serrated-edged ripostes and innumerable bullets she's fired at me.
 
Miss Parker devours my body with a smoldering gaze, moistens her lips with that malicious tongue of hers, and unceremoniously takes me into her mouth. It is very nearly my undoing.
 
"I- oh," I stammer.
 
I can't see her face but I know she's thinking the same thing I am. This is a flagrant violation of the terms of our game, an impropriety the Centre will not abide. She doesn't care.
 
I want to tell her: Miss Parker, your hubris is showing again.
 
I don't. I can't. And I can't stop imagining the sweepers bursting through the door. She's enjoying this, enjoying making a grand spectacle of being the first person to do this to me.
 
After a series of deep breaths, I relax considerably, give myself up to desire.
 
"I-" I murmur. I'm experiencing difficulty staying on my feet. "I need to sit. I need- uh," I grunt. "God, I need you. I need to be inside you."
 
She is relentless, however. I'm forced to grip a sturdy end-table and angle a foot several degrees far outside the scope of what I consider normal range of motion to maintain my balance. Precariously perched as such I observe her through half-close eyelids.
 
I'm thoroughly entranced. And appalled. I'm not sure what I'd been expecting from her, of her. Whatever I'd been expecting, it sure as hell wasn't this.
 
I attempt to caution her a fourth and final time before climaxing. She responds by clasping my bottom with both hands and pulling me fully into her mouth. I grasp her head, my fingers entwine her hair.
 
I stiffen, cry out my release, feel myself falling. Or flying.
 
I'm aware of elapsing time in my inert state, aware of the boundless, graceful shafts of light sailing, and sometimes colliding with, a refracting kaleidoscope of shadows and colors, all in various vacillating degrees of brightness across the wall.

I grunt something that even I can't discern and reach for her. My grasps yield emptiness. My eyelids snap open. I'm on the floor, face down on hardwood, in a small puddle of saliva. And she is gone.
 
I can't leave it alone. I have to see her, to see that she is sleeping and eating enough. Just see her. I know she can take care of herself, and that is all well and fine. I want to take care of her.
 
And that's what I'm resolved to do.

Miss Parker pretends to be only marginally surprised to find me emerging from the shadows and into the insipid light of her living room. She's quite an adept pretender in her own right; my unerring eyes miss nothing, however: She stiffens. Gasps. Her eyes widen. I'm transported to another time. The bunnies. The terror in little Miss Parker's face at the prospect of being caught, of facing consequences. Don't tell anyone I was here.
 
Clearly, she hasn't outgrown her fear of consequences, and she and I—just as clearly—are still those bunnies. We are drawn to one another. Resistance is futile. Now, if I can only convince her of that.
 
I observe at length, as impassively as I can, as Miss Parker shakes her head and musters a small smile and goes to incredible lengths to appear relaxed. She takes my visit, my continued presence in her stride; I've no doubt been reduced to a piece of new furniture in her mind.
 
Ostensibly at ease, she waits. She expects me to speak, expects The Limo in Glasgow: Part Deux. She has devised a well-framed peremptory reply to every phrase in my infinite vocabulary. The woman intends to counter, shut me down, show me the door. I suppose she's more comfortable thinking of me as her enemy, projecting, maligning.
 
At an impasse, we stand our respective grounds in silence. I'm not inclined to analyze, make contrasts, ascribe blame, advise her. I watch. I wait.
 
With a sigh of resignation, she moves with purpose, goes through the dull motions of routine, parks her keys and briefcase on a low table, sifts through several random pieces of mail that have already been opened.
 
"You can't be here," She whispers to an envelope postmarked Washington, D.C. Her resolve to toss me out is solidified, just as my resolve to stay is.
 
"The house is clean," I assure her. "No bugs."
 
She pivots around and pulls open the door and then with a nearly imperceptible dip of her head, indicates her wishes for me to bid her adieu. I've exhibited the forbearance of a saint, but the woman's insolence is, at times, positively insufferable. I'm at my wit's end.
 
And she's nearing hers: Parker directs a frown at the ceiling, snaps her eyes shut. God. I've never been envious of a ceiling before.

She grinds her teeth, shakes her head, murmurs something about bugs. I fail to comprehend. There are no bugs.
 
She fashions a death-ray glare, aims it outside. Further evidence of her perturbation comes with the drawing of her weapon and mobile, respectively. "Shall I make the call?" She inquires.
 
"Look at me." I command.
 
Instead, she exits through the open door. I start when I hear gun report. I halt my advance when she re-enters mumbling something about how the various cicadas and insects had fled the eight circle of hell to come here and harass her and perhaps I'd brought them with me. I'm advised to leave if I don't want to go there myself by the way. The woman has just discharged a 9mm to quiet insects. She's threatened to kill me, send me to hell. For some reason, a smirk tugs at my lip but quickly vanishes.
 
I tell her again to look at me. She emphatically refuses.
 
Her head drops, she studies the floor. A cloud descends on us. It feels as if there is something insidious here, between us. We're a couple of high wire walkers- only we have no safety net, and the wire is incisive; a razor's edge. She feels it too. The silence is deafening, oppressive; she's incapable of stasis, we both are; we have a primordial need to busy ourselves, to move. We both resist the urge to pace.
 
"Look at me." I say softly.
 
She doesn't. Instead, she asks the floor: "Why are you here?"
 
I retrieve the black lace from my pocket and dangle it from an index finger. "I thought you might want these back." I smile roguishly at her expression. She sidles up to me, snatches the panties from me and pivots. I'm not even worthy of a passing sideways-glance anymore. I want to know why.
 
"It's not going to be that easy," I inform her. "I'm not one of your goddamn one-night stands." I don't even know if she's ever had one of those, by the way.
 
I grasp her shoulder, spin her around, seize her wrists, pull her against my body. "Was it is a set up?" I hiss.
 
"What?" She asks.
 
"Some new twisted method of collecting DNA?" I snarl at her.
 
The absurdities that fly out of my mouth sometimes startle even me. I have her attention now, however. She attempts to ask me if I'm serious. We both erupt into laughter, soul-cleansing peals of laughter. I release her, and we both take a compensatory step back.
 
She clears her throat, averts her gaze, tucks her hair neatly behind her ear. "No, it wasn't a set up."
 
"Why did you leave?" I ask.
 
"Why do I do anything? She returns volley.
 
"Don't." I'm hurt. My voice is hoarse. "Don't talk to me that way. Don't talk in circles." The color drains from her face, she opens her mouth, closes it. I can only imagine her internal dialog, how she chastises herself.
 
"It was a night. One night. Another place and time."
 
Silence rains on us. I wait for her to offer something more. I don't want to prompt, pull the truth from her. I want her to level with me, divulge the secrets of her soul, more than that, however, I want her to level with herself, to grow a fucking backbone and be honest with at least herself.
 
"Are you telling me that one night is all that we're allowed?" I inquire indignantly.
 
"Yes," She answers.
 
"Why?" I inquire, my voice is filled with anguish.
 
"I," she stammers. "It was a game." She tastes the words, nods in self-affirmation and repeats more assuredly: "It was a game, Jarod."
 
"Ah, well, then it appears the next play is mine," I growl at her, and begin my advance.
 
"Things got out of hand," She directs that particular lie at my legs.
 
"Well, what do you know," I intone tersely, "out of hand is my middle name." I sound like a mad man, a maniac.
 
She reloads, takes aim again.
 
"It was a mistake," She snarls at me, taking an involuntary step backward.
 
That round feels as if it struck a vital organ, nearly drives me to my knees.
 
"My mistake," She continues her fierce assault. 

I can't believe what I'm hearing, and I refuse to listen to another word.
 
I back her into the wall, cup her jaw in my hand, and inform her in no uncertain terms: "You are coward, Miss Parker. A fucking coward."

Yes, I know,that's usually her line. But she's the one who dances like a marionette when the Centre puppeteers give the strings a tug. She's the one who works for the bastards that killed both her mother and her lover. She sleeps with a gun beneath her pillow for God's sake. She won't even admit her feelings, this woman who is supposed to be so tough. It's all an act,a fucking act and I intend to bring the curtain down.
 
"Deny it," I hiss. "Can you," I ask.
 
She attempts to turn away. I tighten my hold. She closes her eyes, her breath hitches. She shakes her head. No.
 
"I can't give you what you want," she tells me; her voice is imbued with hopelessness; it's the crippled timbre of a hurt child, a splintered soul. "I can't be her. I won't be her, not even for you."
 
Her. Her?
 
"Open your eyes," I demand.
 
She doesn't.
 
"You never stopped being her," I assert, "and I-", I whisper her name, "I never stopped caring about you."
 
She lunges forward onto the tips of her toes, brings her hands to my head, tugs me down and towards her. She captures my lips. I plunder her mouth.

She isn't kind.

I'm not gentle.

We collide with a potted plant, topple it, and continue our indolent waltz until we collide with the kitchen table (and send the vase that adorned it onto the floor where it violently shatters). We lose our balance. She falls into a chair, I drop to a knee. Our lips crash, teeth gnash, tongues duel. I'm certain we are drawing blood and bruises. I grab her blouse by the lapels and in a single jerk reveal her black bra; buttons rain down upon us in the aftermath, several can be heard skittering across the floor, bouncing along the counter.
 
She gasps into my mouth when my hand reaches beneath her skirt. I tug her panties off, spread her thighs, abandon her lips to seek out her- her other lips. My breath ghosts her thighs, her abdomen; I breathe her in, my nostrils flare. I lap tentatively into her vagina. She nearly spills onto the floor.
 
I observe as she tosses her head back, writhes. Whimpers? Good. Turnabout is fair play. My confidence increases with each halting gasp. I slip her ankles over my shoulders, grasp her hip with my right hand, apply just the right amount of pressure. She snarls unintelligibly and then moans when my left hand slips into her bra. I press her nipple between my index finger and thumb; she reacts by involuntarily rocking her hips upwards, into my face. She briefly blocks my view of throat, the slope of her neck, her hair tumbling over the chair back.
 
We're both teetering on edge.
 
I gather her into my arms, deposit her onto the table.

Yes, the kitchen table.

Come what may meals here will never be the same again.
 
I step between her parted legs, adjust her feet; she meets my gaze; I push into her. A frisson of surprise and exhilaration ricochets through her, and an enormous upsurge of tension, through her and through our joined bodies. I still myself. She arches her hips, lifts her bottom off the table, impales herself. We both moan at the sensation. She hisses something unintelligible, wants me to speed things along. 

I feel her nails tear my flesh. We lose ourselves in ecstasy; ascending, tumbling, spiraling. "Oh, god," She pants. I feel her tense. And then shudder. Her climax induces mine. We fly. We transcend earth on a crescendo of pleasure.
 
What goes up, however, must come down.
 
We struggle to catch our breaths.

She's stares up at me--- as if she's never seen me before in her life. I've half a mind to introduce myself.
 
Instead, I ask if she's all right. My voice is tight, bordering apologetic.
 
She's speechless.

I suppose there's a first time for everything. I brace myself for the worst, for horrible accusations. I nearly sob with relief when she nods.
 
What now? We can taste the question on our tongues. Bittersweet. It's easier to do nothing, to pretend, to steal a moment here and there. It's safer, the lonely nights, this stagnation.
 
I don't want safety. I've been safe. I want more. I will not be a party to the status quo. I cannot. 

This is ground we covered in Scotland. She repeats herself. We do what we must to survive. We won't survive by going to war with the Centre she cautions.
 
I don't want to just survive anymore, I contend.
 
She doesn't want to talk about the future. We'll have one, I assure her. It's an amorphous concept to her, however, I am confident in my ability to sway her. She needs time, intends to go away, seek clarity. I can accept that, I tell her. I have no choice. But I know the possibilities are infinite. We've already overcome the impossible, leapt over every obstacle the Centre has littered our paths with.

We've transcended her training, the Centre lies, the roles we were coerced to play. We have cast off the masks. And for now, she's content to see me, to just see me and allow me to see her. And for now that's enough.

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