Title: An Office Romance
Author: Scifinerdgrl
Category: Follmer/Reyes
Rating: PG here, NC-17 elsewhere
Summary: What was Reyes thinking when she got involved with 
Brad Follmer? This story takes place between her arrival at 
the New York Field Office (after graduation from the FBI academy), 
and her first meeting with John Doggett. 

*************************************************** 

MONDAY

Brad Follmer, Special Agent in Charge of the New York Field 
Office's Crimes Against Children Division, sat at his new desk, 
surveying his new office with pride. He inhaled deeply, as if 
the air in the office could infuse him with the success his 
predecessor had enjoyed. His predecessor, now an Assistant 
Director at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., was both his 
mentor and the model for his own career aspirations. He looked 
toward the guest chairs on the other side of the desk, the 
chairs he had so often inhabited. He looked forward to being a 
mentor for the new agents assigned to his office. He would 
listen patiently to their troubles, then dispense just the right 
words, sending them back into the world with renewed confidence. 
Things were about to come full circle. 

"Mr. Follmer," the intercom interrupted his musings and he 
jumped slightly. 
"My intercom -- my secretary," he thought to himself pridefully. 
His eyes grazed the buttons on the phone until he found what he 
hoped was the right one. He pushed the button, held it down, and 
said "Yes, Janet?" No response from the speaker. He lifted his 
finger. "Yes, Janet?" Still no response. He put his hands on 
either side of his head, and gazed intently at the  buttons, his 
eyes moving from one to the other as he puzzled over each's 
function. Suddenly the door swung open. He looked up in 
embarrassment. "Janet," he started. 

She marched efficiently to his desk and fingered the button he'd 
dismissed as useless. "That one," she said conspiratorially. 
"Press it once and let go. And be sure to press it again when 
you're finished." 

He looked up at her sheepishly. "Thank you," he said. Then, as 
if to assert his authority and possibly also his manhood, he 
said, "What did you want?"
 
"Your new special agent is here. Monica Reyes. Should I send her 
in?" 

"Yes, of course." 

Monica Reyes sat in the outer office, crossing and re-crossing 
her legs, trying to push the morning's doubts from her mind. 
She'd felt excited and exuberant as she stepped onto the subway 
platform near her Brooklyn apartment, but as her subway car 
swayed and the experienced New Yorkers let their bodies sway 
with it, she started to feel even more like an outsider and a 
fraud. Her clothes, her shoes, her briefcase... she had agonized 
over her choice of each, yet they all felt wrong to her. In 
Manhattan, walking up the stairs to the street level, she felt 
the warmth of the sun on her face, and as that warmth fought 
against the cold winter wind for her attention, she searched 
deep inside herself for the optimism that had carried her 
through so many difficult days.

She paused in front of the field office, unbuttoned her coat to 
reveal the FBI badge on her blazer, and took a deep breath. "I 
can do this," she said to herself, and she marched toward the 
security guard. He nodded perfunctorily at her badge and let her 
through. She took comfort in being
treated so casually. "I belong here," she thought excitedly. 
"This is where I work!" 

As she stood in front of the directory, scanning the white 
plastic letters behind the glass, she noticed the reflections of 
the people passing behind her. One man caught her eye. He was 
tall, thin and authoritative. His demeanor said "FBI" and she 
couldn't imagine anyone challenging his
authority. She sighed. She would never have that demeanor. She 
turned to get a better look at the tall man and she gasped. His 
face was at once babyish and handsome, and his hair was a shade 
of light brown she'd never seen before. He turned in her 
direction, and seeing her looking at him, he
smiled. His teeth were bright and even, and his eyes sparkled as 
he smiled. She smiled back at him, blushing slightly. "He knows 
he's good-looking," she thought. "What a prick." He turned away 
from her, and she quickly turned back to the directory. "Get 
ahold of yourself, Monica," she
berated herself. "You're here to work." Yet even as she rode the 
elevator to her destination she continued thinking about the 
smiling stranger.
 
In the waiting room, she ran her hand across the top of her 
briefcase. Although it contained only make-up and a day-runner, 
it gave her a sense of purpose, of professionalism. "I'm a 
Federal Agent" she rehearsed in her mind. Suddenly the door 
opened and the secretary emerged, followed
by her new supervisor. It was the smiling stranger. 

Follmer stopped walking mid-stride. His mouth hung open for just 
a second, but it was long enough for Monica to know that he 
recognized her too. "Damn," she chided herself. "Why did you 
have to smile at him?" But he recovered is composure so quickly 
that she found herself wondering later if she'd read him right. 

"Ms. Reyes," he said warmly, smiling a more subdued smile than 
his lobby smile. "Won't you come in?" 

She walked toward his office, and he followed her for a few 
steps then paused. Out of the side of his mouth he whispered to 
Janet, "No intercom -- just knock, okay?" 

When Follmer walked through the door he noticed that Monica had 
taken the chair that he used to take in her position. He smiled 
inwardly. Perhaps she truly would be his replacement. He sat 
down at his chair and looked appraisingly at his new charge. 

"I've heard good things about you from the instructors at the 
academy, Agent Reyes," he started. 

"Thank you, sir," she said. She wondered which instructors he 
knew and what they had said about her, but she didn't dare ask. 
There was an awkward silence, and his face seemed expectant. Did 
he expect her to have heard of him?, she wondered. She smiled 
weakly. "I hope I can live up to whatever they said. 

He wanted to hear her say something about him, but then he 
reminded himself, this meeting is about her. "I'm sure you will. 
Just remember, you can always come to me for help. This is a 
tough division, and it can be especially difficult for new 
agents." 

"I know that sir, but I volunteered for this division because I 
like a challenge." She instantly regretted her words -- they had 
just spilled out, and she could see his lips fighting not to 
curl upwards in amusement. "I mean, of course, all divisions are 
challenging... and ..." 

"I understand," he interrupted. "Don't be embarrassed. You've 
just confirmed what I'd already heard about you. And now I also 
know that you're honest and self-aware. These are good qualities 
for the job." She relaxed visibly, and Brad congratulated 
himself on his first mentoring success. "But keep my offer in 
mind in case you face some... unexpected challenges, okay?"

Monica nodded. "Now, I'll show you around, and please, feel free 
to ask me anything." 

For the next hour he escorted her from office to office, 
introducing her to his colleagues. She blushed at first as he 
listed her credentials in the most glowing terms, but by the 
time they reached her office her back-story had become a well-
rehearsed speech on his part and a rather boring
exposition for her. They arrived at a non-descript door, its 
blandness marred only by its placard:

Brad Follmer, Special Agent. 

Monica looked at Brad in confusion. "This used to be my office," 
said in answer to her unasked question. "It's yours now. I'll 
have Janet order a nameplate for you."

He pulled a keyring out of his pocket, unlocked the door, then 
wound the key around the ring and gave it to her, smiling 
broadly. "Welcome to your FBI home." 

She stepped tentatively inside as Brad flicked the light switch. 
Two walls were lined with bookshelves, and framed pictures of 
children crowded the rest of the wall space. Monica felt drawn 
to the pictures, and she approached the closest ones. Her eyes 
looked at each face, scanning upwards then down, moving toward 
the black-and-white pictures at the other side. 

"That's what this office is about, Monica." Brad said seriously. 
"All of those children are dead." 

At his last words tears came to her eyes and she turned around 
to face him. "All of them? No successful cases at all?" 

"It's a success if we find the perpetrator. Most of these cases 
didn't come to us until the children were already dead." He 
studied her face carefully. "Are you sure you can handle this?" 
he asked, modulating his voice in a way that he knew would 
elicit an honest answer. 

She nodded. "It's sad, is all." She put her hand on one of the 
pictures and suddenly her mind's eye showed her the perpetrator, 
a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses and a greasy comb-
over designed to hide his balding pate. Suddenly her hand felt 
hot and she pulled it away as if from a
flame. She inhaled and looked at Brad. He seemed not to have 
noticed any reaction, and she exhaled deeply. "So," she started 
awkardly, stepping toward her desk. "When do I get my first 
case?" 

"I want you to study some old casefiles first. Then in a few 
weeks I'll partner you with an experienced investigator and 
you'll start with some parental kidnappings." He studied her 
face as she nodded. "It's the most common type of kidnapping, 
Monica, and the hardest to solve. I'm not
lobbing softballs here, okay?" She nodded again and sat down at 
her desk as his hand skimmed over several binders on the shelves 
to her left. She found herself looking at his back, wondering if 
he was muscular despite his thinness, wondering if he was 
single... He turned around quickly, as if
sensing her watching him. 

"Here," he said, setting two binders on her desk as he grabbed a 
pad of yellow post-it notes. "Read through the ones I'm marking, 
then make an appointment with Janet so we can discuss them." She 
nodded obediently. "I know you thought you were finished with 
homework, but in reality it's just beginning," he said 
sympathetically. 

"Thanks," she smiled and reached for the first binder. "I want 
to learn."

Brad strolled jauntily back to his office and paused at the 
door.  The nameplate read, "Crimes Against Children Division, 
Agent Michael Brennan, Special Agent In Charge."  Brad made a 
mental note to himself to order a new nameplate for himself then 
opened the door.

Janet was on the phone, her face relaxed and smiling.  When she 
saw Brad enter she said, "Hang on, Mike.  He just walked in."

"Mike's on the phone?" Brad said excitedly.

"Hold on I'll transfer you," Janet said into the phone.  She 
pushed a button, stood up, and followed Brad into his office.

He stood at his desk as Janet instructed him in the transfer 
process.  He was a little annoyed when it turned out to be 
simple, but he appreciated her efficiency.  She had been Mike's 
secretary, and he felt almost as much awe for him as for her.  
When she'd shut the door he sat down and snapped
up the phone.  "Mike!" he shouted gleefully.  "How is D.C.?"

"It's too soon to say," Mike started.  "I have taken a week off 
to unpack and get settled.  I wanted to see how your first day 
is going.  Have you met your replacement yet?"

Brad filled him in on the start he'd made with Monica.  "I think 
you've made a fine choice there. She'll be very helpful to you."

"How so?" Brad asked.  One of the last things Mike had done was 
help Brad select Monica from the stack of transfer requests that 
had come in.  Brad valued Mike's opinion but had not thought of 
an agent as being "helpful" before.

"Brad, you're going to be supervising a lot of men who are older 
than you are.  You're up to it, but it will be tough sometimes.  
This new agent has no agenda, no alliances...  Get her on your 
side, right from the start.  She can't help you now, but her 
loyalty will pay off down the line."

Brad felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach.  "I was 
planning on putting her on parental kidnappings at first."

"Good move," Mike offered.  "Difficult cases, but few dead 
victims.  You need to get her started on something safe."  They 
spoke about Reyes' training for a few more minutes, then Mike 
abruptly said, "I'm leaving the division in good hands.  And 
remember, the A.D. is always happy to help the division.  Cases 
with children can make or break a field office's reputation.  
Keep that in mind."

"I will, Mike," Brad said.  He felt a little sadness welling up 
in him.  He knew Mike would not be as available now.  "And, 
Mike..." he started.

"Yeah," Mike answered, a little skeptically.

"Thanks for all your help over the years.  I wouldn't have made 
it this far without it."

"I know, kid," Mike answered.  "Make me proud."

They ended their conversation and Brad sat staring at the only 
folder on his desk, Monica's personnel file.  After thumbing 
through it for a minute, he reached for the phone and pushed the 
intercom button.  "Janet?" he said.  No response.  He let go of 
the button. "Damn" he swore to himself.  

"I heard that," Janet's voice came over the intercom.  "What did 
you need?"

"Call the A.D.'s office.  See if he can see me tomorrow."

Monica sat at her desk, the binders staring up at her, 
threatening to swallow her self-confidence. She looked at her 
watch.  10:30.  She wondered if she could take a coffee break 
first.  After a few minutes wandering around, trying to remember 
where a ladies room might be, she found herself
back at Brad Follmer's office.

"Excuse me, um Janet?" she said tentatively.

Janet looked up and smiled welcomingly.  "Agent Reyes, do you 
need  something?"

"Yes, I need to find the ladies room.  I've found three men's 
room and no ladies room yet."  Her hands moved from her hips, to 
clasping each other, to crossing over her chest as she spoke. 
"And, if you could tell me where I might get some coffee..."

Janet stood and smiled.  "Let me show you.  Just a second."  She 
knocked on Brad's door and opened it.  "Agent Follmer, is it 
okay if I take my coffee break?"  Follmer stood and went to the 
door.  Janet stepped backward and revealed Reyes standing behind 
her, smiling awkwardly.

"Agent Reyes," he said warmly.  "Is there something you need?"

Janet positioned herself next to Monica.  "I was just going to 
show her where to..." she looked at Monica and winked.  "find 
some coffee."  

Brad looked from one woman to the other then smiled with forced 
empathy.  "Good.  I guess I forgot a few things on our tour, eh, 
Agent Reyes?"

"Nothing that critical, but..." Monica stuttered.  "Yeah, there 
are a few things."

In the elevator Janet filled Monica in on the bathroom 
situation:  Two floors up or three floors down.  And the best 
coffee was at a deli a block away.  The two women chatted 
cheerily on the way back from the deli, their coffee cups 
warming their hands.  At the front door Janet stopped. "You go 
on, Monica," she said, reaching into a pocket.  "I'll drink my 
coffee here."  Janet pulled a pack of Morley's out of her 
pocket.  She shook out a cigarette, grabbed it with her mouth, 
then put the pack back in her pocket and pulled out a lighter.  
The cigarette dangling from her lips, she added, "Can't smoke 
inside anymore.  I'm getting used to it, though."

Back on her floor, Monica roamed around, sipping her coffee, 
looking for company.  She found a room lined with file cabinets, 
a large conference table in the center.  She sat in a seat that 
would be visible from the door, and listened eagerly for the 
sound of footsteps.  Hearing nothing, she scanned the labels on 
the fronts of the file cabinets.  Case numbers -- impersonal 
labels attached to personal tragedies.  Above the cabinets, 
framed awards for the division lined the walls, with pictures of 
children interspersed throughout.  One child's picture caught 
her eye.  She stood to see it more closely, and found herself 
almost floating as her hand reached out to the little boy.  He 
had blond hair, and was wearing well-worn  pajamas.  He looked 
so normal, yet she felt a shiver as she looked into his eyes.  
"Agent Reyes," she heard a voice at the door say.

"Agent Follmer," she looked up, startled.  "I'm sorry, I thought 
it would be okay to have my coffee here.  I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay, Agent," he said soothingly.  He walked toward her, 
his eyes on the picture.  "Do you recognize him?"

"No, should I?" Reyes answered.

"That's Etan Patz," Follmer said, then paused to see if she 
recognized the name.

"Was he killed?" Reyes asked.

"We don't know.  All these pictures are of unsolved cases -- 
missing children who have been missing for a long time.  Etan 
Patz has been missing since 1979."  (This is an actual missing 
child:
http://www.ci.nyc.ny.us/html/nypd/html/missing/patz.html)

He looked almost wistfully at the picture.  "I tell ya, Monica.  
If you could solve this case, your career would take off like a 
shot."  Monica stared at him in disbelief.  "Of course, we all 
want to find this little boy, or I guess now, man, if he's still 
alive..." he said awkwardly.  "At least give his family some 
closure if he isn't, but..." he studied her face as he spoke.  
"If you could boost your career in the process, so much the 
better."

Monica looked into his eyes, not sure how to interpret what she 
saw.  "This is my first day," she said with deliberate 
lightness.  "I'm not thinking that far ahead yet.  So far I 
haven't been able to find the ladies' room!"

He laughed.  "Is that what Janet needed to show you?  I'm sorry 
about that.  I wasn't thinking..."

"It's okay," Monica said, trying to ease his discomfort.  "At 
least you didn't show me the men's room, either."

He smiled.  "No chance of that," he assured her.  "I noticed you 
were a woman right from the start."  He put a finger to his eye 
and added, "Trained investigative eyes.  I never miss a trick!"

She laughed lightly, and it seemed to him her eyes were 
sparkling.  Instinctively, he quashed the feelings her smile 
elicited, but he still found himself liking this woman.  They 
stayed in the file room, and as she sipped her coffee he filled 
her in on all the unsolved cases represented by the pictures on 
the walls.  Then he patted the file cabinets.  "Here are the 
rest of the unsolved cases.  No danger of running out of work, 
unfortunately."

Monica spent the rest of the day reading through casefiles in 
her office, the door propped open in the hopes that fellow 
agents would stop by. None did. At 4:30 she closed the binder on 
the last of the casefiles that Brad had flagged. The cases all 
ended the same way: the special agent, often
Brad himself, rescued the child and apprehended the perp. Reyes 
leaned back in her chair and glanced at the other binders, then 
went to a shelf and started thumbing through one. Pictures, 
interviews, autopsy reports and rape kit analyses... The 
investigator's routine was clear to her by
now, and none of the cases in the binders held any appeal for 
her. She found herself thinking about the cases in the file 
cabinets instead. Those agents had done all the right things, no 
doubt, but still weren't successful. She grabbed her briefcase 
and purse and left the office, being careful to lock the door. 
She went to the room with the file cabinets, which she now knew 
was the conference room. She opened a drawer at random and 
pulled out some files: 

Case #83-1024: Child abducted from playground. 
Case #83-1068: Runaway teen. 
Case #83-1133: Homeless child missing from father's van. 
Case #84-0105: Child missing from hospital emergency room. 

She sat at the conference table and focused her mind on the 
stack of folders. An unpleasant feeling, somewhat nauseating, 
yet oddly compelling, suffused her soul. Evil was reaching out 
from within the folders, and it angered her. She opened the top 
folder and placed the palm of her hand
over the child's picture. She closed her eyes and saw a group of 
teens playing basketball in a park, a younger child looking on 
through a chain-link fence. A shadow passed over the child's 
features and Monica felt an icy cold wind on her face. Suddenly, 
her hand felt hot and she pulled it off the picture. The image 
of the basketball court and the child vanished, and she was left 
staring again at the picture. If only she could have held the 
image longer, she thought. She might see what the investigators 
had missed. She put the four folders in her briefcase and pulled 
another three from a file drawer. She closed her briefcase, and 
rubbed her hand over the side. She could feel the evil passing 
through her palm, to the pit of her stomach, then to the back of 
her neck. "I have to try," she thought. "I can't ignore these 
feelings." 

She looked at her watch: 5:00. Time to go home. Home, where she 
might have the strength to hold the visions longer. On the 
subway, she could feel the force emanating from her briefcase as 
she clung to the pole with her other hand. She swayed with the 
motions of the subway, and felt the heat of her briefcase 
approaching then leaving the side of her leg. 

She exited the Carroll Gardens subway stop and looked around, 
getting her bearings. The two-story brownstones cast long 
shadows across the street, and the winter wind swirled 
newspapers and other trash around her feet. She grimaced and 
tightened her grip on her briefcase, defiantly bringing its evil 
closer to her person. The picture of a two-headed baby caught 
her eye,
and she stopped at a newstand to buy the Weekly World Tattler. 
As she fumbled in her purse for her wallet, she brought her 
briefcase up onto the counter protectively. After paying, she 
tucked the newspaper under her arm and walked on toward her 
apartment. 

She turned down her street, a residential street lined on either 
side with rowhouses that had been divided into small apartments, 
like hers. The sun had dipped just below the horizon and 
everything, even the brick facades of the houses, had turned a 
gray-blue in the twilight. She pulled her briefcase up under her 
arm, and hugged it to her side. With one arm clasping the 
newspaper and the other clasping the briefcase, she felt a 
little clumsy, and she decided to stop and put the newspaper 
into the briefcase.. As she lowered the briefcase, she felt it 
get lighter, then felt it disappear into nothingness. She looked 
up and saw a tall, slender boy running down the street with the 
briefcase. She started to run after him, but he ducked into an 
alley and disappeared from her view.

Monica ran as far as the corner, then stopped and looked around. 
Even though she knew she wouldn't see him, she strained to peer 
as far as she could. Feelings of anger, helplessness, 
embarrassment, and fear overwhelmed her, and her lower lip 
started to quiver.  Suddenly she saw a police patrol car 
approaching, and she ran into the street to flag it down. The 
car slowed and stopped at the curb. The officer in the driver's 
seat rolled down the window a few inches.  "Someone just 
snatched my briefcase," Reyes said breathlessly. "He's tall, 
thin, dark-skinned, but I'm not sure how dark... He's wearing a 
black sports jacket and blue jeans. Fancy sneakers -- expensive 
designer stuff..." 

The two officers looked at each other and the driver said to his 
partner, "You take the report, I'll look for the perp.... And 
don't say I never did you a favor." He winked and his partner 
opened the car door. 

"Thanks, John," he said. "Don't hurry back." 

The officer walked around the rear of the car to the shaken 
young woman. His partner watched for a moment, then drove off. 
Monica looked up into the penetrating brown eyes of the officer.

He smiled broadly and held out a hand. "Officer Costello, 
ma'am." He was tall, and had obviously made body-building a 
habit. His hair was nearly black and slightly wavy. Monica 
resisted the urge to check his hand for a wedding ring, but 
resolved to sneak a glance soon. She held out her hand
and he took it, shaking it vigorously. 

"Monica Reyes," she said, her voice a little shaky. 

"So tell me what happened, Mrs. Reyes," Costello said, his voice 
the model of compassionate efficiency. 

Monica told him what she could, and when she'd finished, a tear 
sneaked down one cheek. She brushed it away quickly and sniffed. 
"I'm sorry," she said in embarrassment. "I've never been robbed 
before." 

"That's okay," he said. "Everybody gets shaken up when they're 
robbed." She smiled at him gratefully. "What was in your 
briefcase?" 

"Files, from work," she started. "FBI casefiles." 

Costello raised his eyebrows. "You work for the FBI?" 

"Yes," Reyes admitted. "Today was my first day." 

Costello flashed a compassionate smile, then continued 
questioning her about the crime. He interspersed his questions 
about the crime with chit-chat about the FBI, her recent move, 
her education. He pulled a business card out of his pocket and 
wrote on the back. "Here's my card, if
you have any questions feel free to call. And here," he turned 
the card over. "Is my home phone number. You can call me 
anytime." She took the card and grinned. Her demeanor seemed 
more relaxed to him, and he felt hopeful that she might call 
him. Then, as if on cue, his car pulled up. 

The driver rolled down the window and shouted. "Couldn't find 
him. Want me to keep looking?" 

Costello looked at Reyes and said, "I think we're done here. 
Want a lift home, Agent Reyes?" 

She sighed. "Yes, thank you. Even though it's close..." He held 
the rear door open for her and she slid into the patrol car. The 
driver turned around and smiled. 

"This is my partner, John Doggett," Costello said. Monica and 
John nodded to each other and John turned back to the front.

****************************************************************
********** 
TUESDAY

The next morning, Monica's legs felt heavy as she climbed the 
stairs out of the subway station. Janet was standing by the 
front door, smoking and chatting with a fellow smoker. "Monica?" 
she said. "Are you okay?" 
Monica mustered her strength and replied stoically, "I've had 
better days." 

Janet's companion stomped out his cigarette and said his 
goodbyes. Janet asked with motherly compassion, "What happened?" 
Monica spilled the whole story as Janet lit then smoked another 
cigarette. Janet's reaction was not what Monica expected. She 
took the news of the lost files in stride, and when Monica's 
anxiety and Janet's cigarette had both been extinguished, she 
ushered Monica into the building. "C'mon. We'll tell Brad 
together." 

Brad Follmer sat at his desk, the private personnel folders of 
all of his agents stacked before him. He knew all these agents 
personally, and found reading their personnel files an eye-
opening experience. He looked up, surprised, when Janet ushered 
an embarrassed Monica, trenchcoat buttoned against his wrath, 
into his office. 

As Monica told her story, Brad tried to maintain a supportive 
demeanor, but he couldn't help his groans, sighs, and 
disbelieving interjections.  "Those files aren't supposed to 
leave that room..."  

"You told a *beat* cop?"  "He's making an official report?..."  
He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling, 
hoping this was a bad dream.

Monica steeled herself and kept her composure throughout.  When 
she was finished, she stood quietly and waited for the 
explosion, the tirade, the veiny-necked tonge-lashing, that she 
felt she deserved.  Instead, Brad offered her a patronizing sigh 
and an exasperated expression.

"I'm so sorry," she added.  "I really shouldn't have..."

"No, it's not your fault," he said.  "I should have told you not 
to take those files..."  He brought his eyes to hers and saw the 
pain in them.  He sighed loudly then pursed his lips in thought.  
"Did the cop give you his card?" he asked.

Monica pulled Costello's card from her pocket and handed it to 
Follmer.  Brad picked up the phone and dialed the number.  
"Officer Costello, please," he said officiously.  As he waited 
he absently played with the card, turning it over to reveal the 
officer's home phone number.  Follmer
shook his head and thought "This keeps getting worse and 
worse..."

Monica remained standing as Brad talked to Costello.  She 
started to feel warm but didn't want to attract his attention by 
removing her coat.  She stood as still as she could, as if by 
not moving she could disappear.

"If you do find those files," he said with finality.  "Don't 
call Agent Reyes, call me, okay?  Those files are my 
responsibility."  He gave Costello his phone number then hung up 
and looked into Monica's eyes.

She seemed nervous and looked flushed.  He felt a little flushed 
himself, both from the challenge of fixing this mess, and from 
the power he held over her emotions.  He paused to think, unsure 
of the proper way to respond to Reyes.  He squinted slightly and 
studied her face.

Suddenly, she fell into a heap on the floor.

She came to laying on her back, her coat unbottoned and spread 
to her sides. Brad and Janet knelt at either side, concerned 
looks on their faces. Janet was reaching toward her face, a 
wetted paper towel in her hand. Reyes' eyes widened and she 
rolled to her side to avoid Janet's hand. 

Brad grabbed her upper shoulder and pushed her back onto her 
back. "Relax, Agent Reyes. You just fainted," Brad said kindly. 
He took the wetted paper towel from Janet and laid it across 
Monica's forehead. 

"I fainted?" Monica whimpered. "That's not like me..." 

"What do you remember?" Janet asked. 

"Just, feeling warm, and..." Monica thought back to the moments 
before her faint. "That's all, just warm." 

"Well, you did have your coat on..." Janet offered. Monica 
nodded in response. "I'll get you some water." Janet rose and 
left the office, leaving Monica on the floor with a concerned 
Brad looking on. 

"I think I'm fine," Monica said as she raised herself up on her 
elbows. Brad took one of her hands in his and helped her up. He 
walked her to the nondescript naugehyde sofa that occupied the 
far corner of the office. She sat down and looked gratefully up 
at him. "Thank you. Really, I was just
overheated..." she stammered. "And I didn't eat any dinner last 
night." 

"Or breakfast this morning?" Brad asked.  Monica shook her head. 
Brad felt a surge of sympathy for her.  She was so worried about 
the files she couldn't eat? He imagined what it must have been 
like for her the night before. He pulled at the collar of her 
coat and her shoulders folded over to help him remove the coat. 
"Feeling better?" he asked. 

She nodded, feeling both excited and embarrassed by his 
attention to her. Janet arrived with a paper cup of cool water, 
and Reyes drank it down in a few gulps. "Thanks," she said 
softly. "That helped a lot. I think I'm ready to work now." 

"First, you need to eat something," Brad said paternally. "And 
then we're going back to Brooklyn to look for those documents." 

Reyes was relieved to hear him assigning her a task, especially 
one that might help her redeem herself after her mistake. She 
started to stand, but Follmer was standing in front of her, 
blocking her way. "Give yourself a minute, Agent. I need to tie 
up a few things before we go." To Janet he
added "Get her some more water, and reschedule that 
appointment." Janet nodded and left the room again as Brad 
walked to his desk. "Just relax, Monica," he said. She couldn't 
help watching as he reorganized the files on his desk, put them 
in a file drawer, tidied his desk, and checked his
calendar. She found it hard to believe he'd been in his position 
only a day and yet had such a grasp of his space and his 
authority. 

As they exited his office they saw a pair of agents escorting a 
somewhat disheveled middle-aged man out of their office.  Brad 
and Monica paused to let them pass, and as they did Monica felt 
a flush of warmth come over her again, along with a wave of 
nausea.  She swayed slightly and put her hand against the wall 
to steady her.  Brad put his arm around her shoulders and 
righted her.

"Do you need to rest some more?" he asked solicitously.

She watched as the three men walked down the hall and entered 
the elevator.  "No," she said, shaking her head.  "I'm fine.  I 
just felt warm again for a minute."

He took her to a noisy cafe with a glassed-in extension built 
over the sidewalk.  They ordered coffee, and Reyes studied the 
menu.  She didn't feel hungry, but felt pressured to eat. She 
ordered an omelet and picked at it as Brad sipped his coffee and 
watched her.  Finally she said, "Being
watched isn't helping my appetite."

He smiled, and she could see where his crows' feet would someday 
be.  "I'm sorry...  Please, I didn't mean to make you nervous."

"You're my boss and this is my first job.  And I've already 
screwed up.  Being watched while I eat is just one more 
thing..." Monica said, almost defiantly.

He leaned forward on his elbows and looked directly into her 
eyes.  "This is the first time I've been a supervisor, so we're 
even, okay?"

She looked away, blushing slightly.  "Okay," she mumbled, and 
returned to her food.

Brad continued looking at her, trying to think of the right 
words, words that would make her feel better, not worse.  He 
waited until she raised her eyes again and said, "Really, 
Monica, I'm not an ogre.  You can come to me with any problem, 
any time.  Okay?"

She could see that he was sincere, and that she had hurt his 
feelings with her embarrassment.  She stopped chewing and stared 
at him for a moment.  Finally she swallowed and said, "Okay."

An awkward silence fell over them and they each sipped their 
coffees, keeping their eyes on each others' eyes.  Monica was 
the first to break the silence.  She put her fork on her plate 
with finality and said, "I really can't eat any more."

Brad stood and watched carefully as Reyes did likewise.  When he 
was satisfied she was alright he paid the bill and they left.  
They walked to an underground parking garage and after Brad 
started his car he said, "Now, where did that brief-case 
snatching happen?"

Brad parked where the squad car had been the day before, and put 
an FBI placard on his dashboard.  Monica stared at it, impressed 
with her new parking status, until Brad tapped on the window.  
She hurriedly opened the car door, whacking Brad in the process.  
They both grimaced then laughed.

"Okay," Brad started when the car was safely locked.  "Which way 
did this guy run?"

Monica gave him directions and they walked along the sidewalk.  
They came to an opening into an alley and Brad said, "This one?"

"It might be," Monica answered.  "I'm not sure."

Brad sighed and said resignedly, "We'll start with this one."  
They walked into the narrow alley, the two-story brick walls of 
the rowhouses forming a narrow canyon around them.  They saw 
nothing unusual but as they walked Brad briefed her on what to 
look for.  "Dumpsters, any garbage laying around, abandonned 
cars...  He wouldn't have wanted to be caught with any I.D. of 
yours.  He'd stop somewhere dark, someplace he could hide, and 
then check the contents.  He probably thought from your body 
language there would be something valuable in there -- that's 
why he didn't take your purse..."  Brad paused as they came to 
the alley running behind the row
houses.  He looked in both directions then chose one.  "You take 
the left, I'll take the right..." he said.

Monica went to a dumpster and tentatively opened one of its two 
lids.  She looked over her shoulder to see what Brad was doing, 
and seeing that he was looking under a car, found no clue how to 
proceed.  She pushed the lid a little further up, and held it 
with one arm as she hooked the other arm over the edge.  She 
peered in, but the other lid cast a shadow and she couldn't see 
anything.  Still holding the lid, she slid her hand down the 
inside until it came upon something wet.  Instinctively, she 
pulled back, then checked to see if Brad had seen her.  He had.

He was by now two rowhouses down the alley, and she was still 
where she'd started.  He walked back and said, a touch of 
condescension in his voice, "Maybe we should work on this 
together."

Monica tried to smile but her frustration furrowed her brow and 
the resulting expression was so pitiful Brad had to suppress a 
laugh.  "They don't teach dumpster diving at the Academy yet, 
eh?" he asked.  Before she could respond, he flipped the lid 
backward, and it clanged loudly against the back.  He repeated 
the lid trick then said, "Well?"

"You really mean *in* the dumpster?" Monica said, incredulous.

He put his hands together, interlocking them into a stirrup, and 
lowered them to Monica's mid-thigh.  "I'll give you a leg up 
because you're new."

She put her foot into his hands and he lifted her up with more 
power than she would have expected.  She jumped over the side 
and landed with one foot on something slippery and the other on 
a plastic garbage bag that ripped under her weight.  As she was 
looking down she saw Brad's feet land nearby.   "Let's get to 
it," he said with boyish glee.

They dug through the top layer of trash, Brad talking the whole 
time about investigative techniques:  how to tell how long trash 
has been in a dumpster, the trash pick-up schedules in the 
various parts of their jurisdiction, the kinds of things that 
look like nothing but might be
evidence....

By the time they had searched three dumpsters Reyes had become 
expert in entering, searching the top level of trash, and 
exiting a dumpster, and Follmer was quite proud of her.  "She's 
a quick study," he thought.  In his office he had been having 
doubts about the choice he made, but Monica
was quickly earning his respect.  They split up again, and she 
searched her side faster than he searched his side this time.  
He looked over his shoulder to see her ass poking up as she 
heaved herself over a dumpster.  It disappeared into the 
dumpster and he sighed, hoping that some new
and unwelcome feelings would disappear also.

They finished their first block and were half-way down the 
second block when Reyes jumped out of a dumpster and fell to her 
knees.  

Brad rushed to her side and helped her up.  "Are you okay?" he 
asked.

Monica didn't answer.  Instead, she returned to the dumpster, 
her face expressionless.  She hopped over the edge easily, and 
Brad ran to the side and peered over.  Monica felt her feet 
getting warmer, until it felt like they were on fire.  She 
gritted her teeth and walked gingerly around the dumpster, 
stopping to rest for a second in one corner.  She stepped 
backward, dropped to her knees, and frantically started digging 
through the trash to the lowest layers.

Brad hopped over the edge and knelt next to her.  "What are you 
looking for, Monica?  What is it?" he said, infected by her 
frenzy.

"Help me, Brad," she said, annoyed at his questions.

Instinctively, he obeyed her command and started digging in the 
same spot.  When they were both up to their elbows in trash they 
both felt the same thing.  They paused and looked into each 
others' horror-stricken faces, then continued digging.

When they reached the bottom, Brad looked with sadness into the 
beaten yet serene face of a toddler, then he looked to Reyes in 
the hopes of an explanation.  Her forehead wrinkled up and she 
turned around, vomiting over the side of the dumpster.

Brad pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed for help 
as Monica leapt over the side.  She leaned against a brick wall, 
then slid down to a squat, her back against the wall, her head 
in her hands.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  Feeling 
the gentle touch of a hand on her
shoulder, she looked up to see Brad Follmer's face looking down 
on her.

"After the cops are finished with us, I want you to take the 
rest of the day off," he said.  "Come to my office at eight 
tomorrow morning."  Reyes' eyes teared up, and she fought to 
keep her lower lip from quivering.  "No, you're not fired," Brad 
added gently.  "I want to discuss your training
with you."

Monica pulled her lips inward in an attempt to smile, her eyes 
looking up with such gratitude that Brad had to turn away.  He 
walked back to the dumpster and leaned against it.  She watched 
him from the corner of her eye.  When her stomach had settled, 
she stood and walked to his side. 
Almost immediately, she felt warm and nauseous again.  She 
walked around the side of the dumpster and heaved again. 

"Monica," Brad said from behind her, close to her ear.  "Why 
don't you go home now?  I can manage here."

She nodded, still not facing him.  He put his arm across her 
shoulder and led her away from the dumpster.  "I'll see you in 
the morning," she said, looking only briefly into his eyes.

She walked to her apartment, not knowing that Follmer was 
watching her as she walked to the end of the alley.  She made a 
bee-line for the bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and took a 
long, hot shower.

As she was brushing her wet hair she heard a knock at the door.  
She threw on her robe and raced to it, expecting to see Brad 
Follmer.  She opened the door and was surprised to see Officer 
Costello instead.  "Officer Costello," she said nervously, 
pulling her robe more tightly around her.

"Ms. Reyes," he said politely, a smile letting her know he was 
pleased she remembered his name. "I'm investigating a child 
abuse case in the neighborhood..."

"Yes, I know about it," she said.  "Please come in."  She 
ushered him in and closed the door.  He followed her to her 
futon, which was spread out for sleeping.  She pushed against 
the frame and returned it to its couch form, then sat down at 
one end.

He sat at the other end, his notepad poised on his knee.  "Which 
child abuse case have you heard about?" he started, a little 
skeptical yet intrigued.

"I thought you meant the baby discovered in the dumpster today," 
Monica started, a little puzzled by his question.  "How many 
cases are there?"

"No, that's the case," he assured her.  "How did you know about 
it?"

"I'm the one who found it," she said matter-of-factly.

He stared at her, dumbfounded.  "You were there?"

"Yes, why?"

He flipped several pages in his notebook.  "Someone named Brad 
Follmer from the FBI found him.  He didn't mention you."

Monica felt both hurt and relieved not to have been mentioned.  
She wasn't sure how to respond, and decided to stick with the 
truth.  She told him about searching for the files, and digging 
through the trash.

"How did you know the baby was there?" Costello asked.

Monica gulped.  "I know this sounds strange, but I sense... 
things.  I sense when something evil has happened.  I knew there 
was something there, but I didn't know what."

Costello continued staring at her, his hands poised to flip his 
notes back to her page.  "Like a psychic thing?" he asked 
finally.  She nodded.  "Did you tell Follmer that?"

Monica shook her head.  "We haven't talked about it at all."

Costello sighed and flipped the notebook pages over.  "That's 
good," he said as he started to write.  "So, tell me again.  You 
sensed something bad in the dumpster... then what?"

"That was it," Reyes said.  Costello looked into her eyes, 
looking for reasons to suspect her.  Instead he saw an innocence 
a New Yorker rarely saw.  Monica kept her eyes on his, unsure 
why there seemed to be a problem.  She continued, "Agent 
Follmer, he's my supervisor, he told me to
go home."  She watched as he studied her face, then admitted, "I 
threw up."

He smiled.  "First case?" he asked.  She nodded.  "We all do 
that.  Don't be embarrassed.  If this didn't get to you I'd 
wonder about you."

Monica relaxed her shoulders and tried to smile back at him.  
"Thanks.  I was starting to wonder if I was cut out for this 
job."

"My partner isn't on this case.  He's an experienced cop, but he 
has a little boy himself, and he just can't deal with cases 
involving children.  The guys out there today are single guys 
like me.  We don't like it either, but we can handle it." He 
paused to study her reaction.  "Does that make you feel any 
better?"

"Yes, it does," she confessed, smiling more easily now.  "I 
volunteered for this division, and to react this way..."

"You volunteered for the Crimes Against Children division?" he 
repeated, incredulous.  She nodded.  "Why?"

"Well," she said slowly, a blush crossing her face.  "It's these 
feelings I have... about evil...  I've had these feelings since 
I was a child, but I could never do anything about them...  you 
know, prevent that evil."  She struggled to get the words out, 
but his patient, listening expression
encouraged her to continue.  "One time, I sensed this... 
presence, an evil presence...  and I ignored it.  I was about 
thirteen, I guess, and I was playing basketball on a 
playground..." Her eyes started to tear and her voice quivered 
slightly as she continued, "I ignored what I felt.  I was the 
tallest girl, and I was the center, you know?" He nodded  
sympathetically.  "Well, one of the children at the other side 
of the playground, on the swingset..."  She clenched her lips 
shut and her face
crumpled as she struggled to continue.

Instinctively, Costello put his hand on her shoulder.  "I 
understand," he said softly, and her teary eyes responded by 
looking gratefully into his.  She put her hand over his and 
tried to grin.

After a moment she took her hand off his, and he responded in 
kind.  "I was hoping that in law enforcement I might be able to 
do something about it.  But what did I do for that child today?" 

Tears rolled down her cheeks and Costello felt a lump rise in 
his throat.

"You found him," he said in a raspy voice.  "You have no idea 
yet how important that is, but you will."

Reyes smiled gratefully at the burly cop.  "You don't find my  
experiences... odd?" she asked tentatively.

He took a moment to regain his composure, then said, "Special, 
maybe, but  not odd.  The best cops rely on their instincts.  
Usually it's really experience.  But some have a special gift...  
Don't apologize for that."  Reyes took a deep breath and let it 
out slowly, her eyes beaming at him 
appreciatively.  He continued, "My partner -- he's a natural, 
like you.  When he has a hunch, I always follow it."  He looked 
at her  sympathetically, and she felt a little flutter in her 
stomach. His voice growing more gentle, he added, "If anyone's 
told you to ignore your instincts, don't believe them.  The rest 
of us only wish we could be like you."

"Thank you," she said.  "I needed to hear that."

"If there's anything else you need... anything at all," he said 
softly.  "Just let me know.  You still have my number?"

She nodded.  "Can I ask you a favor?" she asked.

"Sure, anything," he said eagerly.

"Do you know where I could get some self-defense training?  Or 
maybe karate?"

"My gym offers classes," he answered quickly.  "I can get you a 
guest pass if you want to check it out."  As she opened her 
mouth to answer, he hurriedly added, "But you'd have to go with 
me."

She grinned broadly.  "That would be great!  When?"

"I could pick you up at six-thirty.  There's a seven o'clock 
class you could observe...  You can use the whole gym if you 
want, too.  Bring some work-out clothes and I'll show you 
around."

Janet watched as her boss threw open the door, and she knew 
things had not gone well in Brooklyn.  "Hi Brad," she said 
neutrally.  "How did it go?"

"Don't ask," he retorted.  "It was a disaster."  She nodded 
understandingly and he felt the need to don a more businesslike 
demeanor.  "Did you reschedule my appointment with the A.D.?" he 
asked, emulating Mike's efficiency as well as he could.

"It's a half-hour from now," she answered, looking up and down 
his suit, noting its new stains and wrinkles.  "Will that be 
enough time?"

"That's fine," Brad answered.  He entered his private office and 
locked the door behind him. Leaning against the door he felt a 
wave of panic.  He had a sensitive agent to train, he'd lied to 
a cop, and he had to admit to the A.D. that some files were 
missing.  He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.  Did 
Mike have days like this, he wondered.

Thirty minutes later, Brad appeared at the A.D.'s office, 
wearing the spare suit he kept in his office, the smell of men's 
room soap emanating from several parts of his body.  The 
secretary nodded for him to sit, and he reclined nonchalantly on 
the office sofa, his briefcase at his feet.  She
was a tall, lean African-American woman with graying hair and 
bright red, immaculately kept fingernails. She busied herself at 
her computer as he sat silently, mentally rehearsing what he 
would say to his new boss.  Brad had been the cocky, fast-track, 
up-and-coming fair-haired child, and he knew it.  He also knew 
that the agents who had once been his equals considered him a 
suck-up, Mike's chosen successor.  Gaining their trust would be 
critical for his career.  Earning the respect of A.D. Williams 
was even more critical.

Suddenly the door swung open.  "Agent Follmer," came the booming 
voice of a tall, athletic man with red hair and freckles.  Brad 
snapped to attention and stood up, knocking his briefcase over.  
He bent over to grab it with his left hand, holding out his 
right hand to shake Williams' unextended hand.  He pulled his 
hand back in embarrassment as Williams said, "Come in," and 
turned away.

Brad rushed inside.  He had only been to the A.D.'s office one 
other time, his interview when Mike had announced his promotion.  
It had been a pleasant interview, short and perfunctory.  As his 
colleagues had suspected, Williams would rubber-stamp Mike's 
choice for a successor. 

Williams' demeanor showed Brad his mental rehearsal was wasted 
time.  Williams already knew everything.  They stared at each 
other across the desk for a long, awkward moment.  Finally 
Williams said, "Special Agent in charge of the Crimes against 
Children division...  You are in charge now, Brad.  I expect you 
know what that means?"

"Not entirely," Brad answered.  "Mike trained me well, but I'm 
sure I have a lot to learn."

Williams smiled and nodded.  "Yes, you have.  For instance, the 
special agent in charge does not go dumpster diving.  Further, 
he does not lie to local P.D. about who was on the scene when 
the corpse of a child is discovered."

Brad raised his eyebrows and stopped breathing.  He said 
nothing.

"Yes, I heard about that.  Would you care to explain this, 
agent?"

"I assume you know what Agent Reyes and I were looking for?" 
Brad asked.  Williams nodded. "I was hoping to find those files 
before anybody knew they were gone.  Not for my sake, for hers. 
I want her to make a good impression."

Williams pursed his lips and studied Brad's face.  "And telling 
the P.D. you were in that alley alone?"

"At the time, I was.  I sent her home.  She got sick at the 
scene, and she'd fainted earlier in my office.  She didn't need 
the stress," Brad answered.  "It's not going to be her case 
anyway.  It'll be local, or I'll assign it to someone else if it 
comes to us.  I didn't see any reason to involve her."

Williams's face showed no changes, and Brad squirmed in his seat 
wondering what would happen next.  Suddenly Williams bent 
forward and pulled something from the kneewell of his desk.  
Brad gulped as he saw Williams pull it up and shove it across 
the desk towards him.  It was a briefcase.

"Fortunately, street criminals hate child molesters as much as 
we do," Williams said.  "It was turned in at the security gate 
this morning."

"Thank you, sir," Brad said, not sure what else he could say.

"Don't let it happen again," Williams said sternly.

"No, of course not," Brad answered quickly.

"Have we covered the reason you made this appointment?" Williams 
asked.

Although Brad could tell Williams wanted him to say "yes," he 
answered, "No, sir.  I'd like some advice on how to handle Agent 
Reyes' training.  She was at the top of her class at Quantico, 
but..."

"I'm sure you'll handle it," Williams said curtly.  "You know 
the demands of the job.  Be sure she can meet them before you 
send her into any more alleys."  Williams picked up a pen and 
pulled some papers from a drawer.  "And don't let me hear that 
*any* of your people are causing trouble for the bureau."

"Yes, sir," Brad said.  He stood, one briefcase in each hand, 
and backed away from the A.D.  "Thank you for your time."

Williams nodded once then turned his attention to the papers on 
his desk.

Monica jumped at the loud, sharp, knocks at her door and looked 
at her watch:  6:25 p.m.  She ran to the door and flung it open.  
Costello stood there, his massive chest and arms wrapped in a 
brown leather jacket.  Monica smiled into his smile, and said, 
"Officer Costello... Hi!  Just a second..."

She ran back into her apartment and grabbed her gym bag as he 
stood at the door, admiring not just her body, but her grace.  
"Call me Joe," he half-shouted behind her.

"Sorry," she said when she arrived at the doorway.  She slung 
her gym bag over her shoulder and said, "Joe.  Call me Monica."

At the gym, Monica changed into her carefully chosen gear, and 
emerged from the dressing room to find Joe waiting for her.  He 
was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, its sleeves hugging the muscles 
of his upper arm, the NYPD shield over his left pect.  He was 
wearing gray sweatpants that were mercifully loose, Monica 
thought.  She never thought she'd be one to fall for muscles, 
but she couldn't help notice this man's well-toned body.  She 
felt weak and waifish by comparison, and was starting to feel 
out of her element.

"You look great," Joe said, his eyes sparkling with 
appreciation.  

Monica blushed, then quickly said, "Oh, this?"  She pulled at 
the hem of her T-shirt.  "It's a souvenir from my college days."  
She fussed some more at the hem, then decided against telling 
the truth.  It was her good-luck T-shirt.

The gym was huge, and complex, with every possible piece of 
equipment and several rooms.  Joe showed her a few rooms then 
ushered her in to a large room with mats on the floor and 
mirrors on one wall.  Several men dressed in loose-fitting pants 
and T-shirts were practicing martial arts movements.  The 
instructor arrived and the students formed two lines.  The 
instructor bowed, and the students bowed lower in response.  
Monica leaned against the wall, feeling secure in her 
invisibility.  Joe leaned next to her, and whispered into her 
ear.  "It's an advanced class.  They offer all levels here."

She smiled and turned her head in his direction.  "Thanks," she 
said, her mouth only inches from his.  They both quickly turned 
their heads toward the class, and they watched the first several 
minutes of the class.  

To Monica's surprise, the instructor started the class by 
leading the students in meditation.  Monica breathed deeply, not 
understanding most of the instructions, but feeling a sense of 
centeredness coming over her.  The instructor gradually brought 
the students to a state of readiness for their exercises, and 
Monica felt as if she, too, were ready for them.  She smiled 
serenely and turned toward Joe.  He seemed bored, and he eagerly 
said, "Seen enough?"

"No," she whispered.  "I'd like to stay for a few minutes more.  
Do you mind?"

"No, of course not," he whispered back.  He pressed his back 
against the wall.  "Let me know when you're ready to go," he 
whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

She relaxed against the wall and whispered, "Thank you for 
bringing me here."

They stood and watched the class for another few minutes.  
Monica felt a sense of belonging, yet also a sense of 
detachment.  She loved this feeling.  As the students were 
reorganizing for a new series of exercises she turned to Joe and 
said, "Okay, let's see the rest of the gym."

As they walked toward a weight-lifting area, Monica said, "Thank 
you for bringing me here.  I think I like it already."

He smiled and said, "It's my home away from home."

She put her hand on his upper arm and tried in vain to squeeze 
it.  "Why am I not surprised?" she asked.

They passed through several weight-lifting areas and came to a 
bank of exercise cycles, and in each area several men and women 
greeted Joe enthusiastically.  He introduced Monica to many of 
them, and she became more comfortable as each welcomed her.  Joe 
seemed to be well-liked, and the smiles he elicited made her 
feel lucky to be with him tonight.

After they had seen the entire gym, he showed her some basic 
weight-training techniques and they worked out together.  She 
felt a little silly, moving the pins to the top of each bank of 
weights and still struggling to lift, as Joe easily lifted 
stacks of the iron bars.  After trying several pieces of 
equipment she sat at the end of a bench, watching Joe focus on 
his lifts.  She didn't understand it, but she could appreciate 
his dedication.  After several minutes he looked up and saw her 
watching him.  "I don't think this is my sport," she said 
meekly.

He sat up and said, "I'm sorry.  Have you had enough?"

Monica thought for a moment.  It was obviously part of his daily 
routine to work out, and she didn't want to upset that.  "I've 
had enough of the weights.  Do you mind if I do something else 
for awhile?"

He smiled.  "Not at all.  I'll be here."

"I think I'll try those bicycles..." she said, briefly putting 
her hand on his knee.  "I don't think I could do more than 
twenty minutes.  Is that okay?"

He nodded, and she walked away, confidently navigating the gym 
as if she were a regular.  She stopped at the martial arts room 
and watched the closing routine.  She could feel the serenity of 
the students and felt a kind of joy in this discovery.  "This is 
my sport," she thought.

Thirty minutes later, she was pumping the pedals of an exercise 
bike, sweat flowing over her face.  Her eyes were closed, and 
she emptied her mind, trying to capture the serenity she'd 
tasted earlier.  Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Having a good time?" Joe asked.  

She smiled in response then stopped pedalling.  "Yes, but I 
don't want to overdo it."  She hopped off the cycle and lost her 
balance.  He caught her in his strong arms and she laughed.  "I 
guess I've already overdone it."

"Everybody does on their first day," he reassured her.  "Do you 
want to come back again... build up your endurance?" he asked 
hopefully.

"I think I want to join this gym," she answered, walking back 
and forth to relax her legs.  "I like it here."  She stopped 
pacing and looked into his face.  "I like the people," she 
added, feeling a little bold.

He couldn't hide his contented sigh from her.  "Want to get 
something to eat before I take you home?" he asked.

"Sure, but I think I need a shower first."

They went to an Italian restaurant, and Monica marveled at the 
amount of food Joe could eat.  She ate only half of her food, 
and gave the rest to him after he had finished his.  They talked 
about weight training, the gym, Italian food, Brooklyn, Italian 
mothers, Mexican mothers...  Everything but law enforcement.

He walked her to her door and she felt light on her feet as she 
said, "I had a great time.  I can't wait to go back to the 
gym..."

"I'm glad," he said, his eyes starting to glow.  "I can't wait 
to see *you* again."

She smiled giddily but said nothing.  He leaned forward and 
kissed her on the lips, gently and briefly.  He pulled back to 
study her reaction.  She blushed and smiled, and said quickly, 
"Me too."  She turned the key in her lock and hurriedly entered 
her apartment.  On the other side of the door she sighed, and 
she heard him pause before walking back through the hallway.

****************************************************************
***********
WEDNESDAY

The next morning Monica bounded up the subway steps and walked 
briskly to the front door of the FBI's building.  Janet stood 
outside, smoking a cigarette and chatting with two other women.  
She motioned for Reyes to join them and Monica eagerly obliged.

Janet introduced her to the other women, both secretaries, and 
they chatted pleasantly about the weather for a few minutes.  
Janet stomped on her cigarette and said, "You seem to be in a 
good mood.  You're feeling better?"

"Better than better," Monica confided.  "I've met somebody."

The three women quizzed her on every detail of her evening.  
They were all older than Monica, and married.  They seemed to 
enjoy hearing about Joe as much as she enjoyed talking about 
him.  Suddenly the faces of the other three women lost their 
conspiratorial enthusiasm, and they focused their eyes over 
Reyes' shoulders.  

"What?" Reyes asked.  She turned around to see Brad Follmer 
taking his final few steps in their direction.

"Janet, Mary, Stella," he nodded to each woman in turn.  "Agent 
Reyes."

"Agent Follmer," Monica stuttered.  "Good morning."

"Feeling better?" he asked, the tone of his voice indicating 
some displeasure, but Monica had no idea what had caused it.

"Yes, I feel fine," she said, keeping her voice cheerful. "I 
just needed a little time off, I guess."

"Good," Brad answered.  "Come to my office in an hour.  We need 
to talk."  He wheeled around and walked quickly to the front 
door.

"Don't worry, honey," Janet assured her.  "It's good news."  The 
older woman winked at Monica, and Monica sighed.

"Thanks.  I sure hope so," Monica said resolutely.  "I'd better 
review those cases before... just in case...  Nice meeting you," 
she nodded to Mary and Stella.

Monica spent her free hour reviewing the flagged cases Brad had 
assigned to her, and by the time she locked her door she had 
memorized the most important details.

When she arrived at Follmer's office, his door was closed and 
Janet sat at her desk reading The Post.  She looked up and said, 
"Monica!  You're a few minutes early."  She took in Monica's 
worried expression, then added, "Relax!  Everything is fine."

Monica sat down, trying to relax as instructed, but finding her 
body stiffen as she anticipated a stern lecture, or even worse, 
looks of pity and concern from Follmer.  By the time the door 
opened she was almost hyperventilating.

"Come in, Monica," Brad said sternly.  Janet winked at Monica 
and mouthed "It's okay" as Monica walked past her desk.

"Have a seat, Agent Reyes," Follmer said, much more formal in 
his demeanor than he had been the day before.

Monica obeyed, choosing the chair that seemed pushed a little to 
the side, facing at Brad's chair less directly.  He sat down and 
stared at her for a moment, until she had to look away.  "You 
had a difficult day yesterday," he started.  She nodded and 
found the courage to look him in the eye.  "So let's start fresh 
today, okay?" he said, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of 
her compliance.

Her lips turned up slightly.  "Okay," she said, grabbing at the 
comfort he offered.

Follmer reached into the kneewell of his desk and pulled up her 
briefcase.  He slid it across his desk and said, "We got lucky 
this time.  Bad guys like child abusers as much as we do."

Monica grabbed at her briefcase as if reuniting with an old 
friend, and immediately opened it. As she reached for the files 
she felt a wave of warmth and nausea, but fought to suppress it.  
She shut the case again and stared at it, willing it to stop 
sending its evil to her.

"Is there something wrong, Agent," Brad said in an unsympathetic 
tone.

"No," Monica said hurriedly, and put the briefcase on the floor.

"Good," Brad said, closing the topic of Monica's condition.  "I 
want to talk to you about those files.  Why were you taking them 
home?"

"I read the cases you flagged, and I wanted to read more cases.  
So I chose these," Monica asserted.

"The truth, Monica," Brad said immediately.

Despite Joe's assurances, she didn't feel comfortable telling 
Brad about her experiences.  She hesitated, looking down.

"Well...?" he demanded.

"It's a long story.  It's more than just reading cases," she 
started.  He nodded encouragingly.  She continued, "I'm 
intrigued by these unsolved cases.  And...  I felt something 
special about them."  She watched his face carefully, and 
noticing his dubious expression, added, "I have a kind of 
sense... of evil, of evil things, evil people...  I know it 
sounds crazy, but I thought if I could focus on these I might 
develop an image of what happened...."

"You mean a psychic image," Brad said incredulously.  She 
nodded, and he responded by running his hand through his hair.  
"Monica..."  He paused, groping for words and at the same time 
trying to rid himself of the condescending tone he heard in his 
voice.  "Monica," he said more compassionately.  "That's not how 
the FBI works.  If that's what you were expecting to do here..."

"No, that's not it!" Monica began to panic.  "I want to do 
investigative work.  It's what I've trained for, what I've 
looked forward to... And evil... It's really not that common.  I 
mean, people do evil things, but sometimes they are good 
themselves.  I don't sense it often..." He seemed relieved, but 
she continued, "But when I do sense it, I'm right.  I know it.  
And I can't ignore it."

Brad sighed and leaned back in his chair.  "Okay," he challenged 
her.  "The playground abduction.  What do you sense from that?"

Monica opened her briefcase and thumbed through the files.  She 
pulled out one folder and put it in her lap.  She opened it and 
rested her hands on it, one hand over the picture of the child, 
the other over the typed report.  The heat of the image seared 
into her fingertips, but she breathed deeply, the serenity she'd 
found in the martial arts class rising from some unknown source 
and giving her more distance from the feeling.  She closed her 
eyes and saw a playground, children playing basketball, another 
child looking on.  She exhaled, her breath pushing the heat away 
from the image.  A cold wind blew across her face, and she saw 
the child pull up the hood of his sweatshirt and turn toward 
her.  She felt herself sliding backward as the child walked 
toward her, then she saw a car door open.  The child leaned 
toward it and something pulled him in.  The door slammed and she 
could see his face pressed against the window as it drove off.  
She could make out his words as he mouthed "Help me..."  Her 
mind's eye followed the car as it drove down a divided 
boulevard, then wound through traffic and crossed the Brooklyn 
Bridge.  She suddenly felt nauseous, and instinctively closed 
the folder and threw it on the floor.

"Well," Brad said skeptically.  "Sense anything?"

"The boy was pulled into a car -- a dark green four-door.  A big 
car...  It drove along a divided road, with trees growing in the 
median...  It crossed the Brooklyn Bridge....  I'm sorry, that's 
all I saw."

"Most of that was in the report.  Try another one."

She pulled another folder from her briefcase and repeated her 
procedure.  "This child went to the emergency room for an ear 
infection... she's in the waiting room, crying, playing with a 
toy...  a teddy bear, I think...  her mother is talking to a 
nurse...  a man with a moustache, dark hair, very short... he's 
watching the child...  someone rushes in with blood all over his 
shirt...  everybody's attention is on him..."

"Okay, that's enough," Brad interrupted. "ALL of that was in the 
report.  The witnesses described that entire scene."

"But I haven't read it," Monica said innocently.  "The report 
was stolen before I had a chance to..."

"Monica," Brad said, not attempting to mask his annoyance.  "We 
have fake psychics offering us their services all the time.  We 
don't need someone in the division pulling this crap."

Monica struggled to maintain her composure, but couldn't help 
raising her voice.  "I can prove it to you.  Pick a file at 
random -- one that I haven't read..."

"Monica, I want to believe you, but you have to admit..." he 
tried to calm her.

"Please, let me prove it to you.  In the conference room.  I 
won't sense something in every file, but I'll sense something 
there.  I'm sure of it.  It's how I knew that baby was in the 
dumpster."

Brad stared at her intently.  "What?"

"I sensed there was something there.  At first I thought it was 
the files, but it just kept getting stronger..."  Her eyes 
pleaded with him, even as her voice rose in anger.  "You don't 
believe me?  What do I have to do to make you believe me?"

"Okay," he said, standing up.  "Let's go to the conference 
room."

Monica picked up her briefcase and was at the door before he 
was.  In the conference room, Monica stood defiantly, her hands 
on her hips, looking him directly into his eyes.  "Pull out a 
file.  Any file."  She wasn't completely sure this would work, 
but she needed for him to believe her.

He pulled a picture from the wall and handed it to her.  "Try 
this," he ordered.

Monica took the picture in one hand, and laid her other hand 
over the top.  "This child is dead," she started.  "Her step-
father killed her, and he threw her body from a boat..." She 
sniffed.  "A fishing boat, I think."

Brad looked at her in disbelief.  "This is Catherine Cahill.  
Cathy's step-father is the prime suspect...  We've never been 
able to prove anything.  He tried to implicate her natural 
father."

Monica walked to the wall near Brad, and placed her hand over 
the picture of a boy.  "Nothing.  I don't sense a thing here..."

"Davon Smith, he disappeared from a beachhouse on Long Island.  
He'd been missing for several hours before his parents noticed.  
He may have drowned, but we never found a body."

Monica placed her hand on another picture and instantly felt 
heat.  She pulled her hand away.  "Something horrible happened 
to her.  I don't know if I can..."  She pushed her hand close to 
the picture, feeling heat rising from it as if from a flame.  
"Very, very bad..." She pulled her hand away and looked at Brad.

He shrugged his shoulders.  "Disappeared without a trace.  Her 
name is Keisha Campbell.  She was one of my first cases, and I 
think about her a lot.  You can't tell me more?"

Reaching out tentatively, Monica steeled herself against the 
heat, but needed to pull back.  "I'm sorry," she said, tears 
coming to her eyes.  "Can I try her file instead?"

Brad went to the file drawer, and to her file, in a matter of 
seconds.  Monica looked at the well-worn folder and then at 
Follmer's face.  "I want to believe you can do this, Monica," he 
said.  "Please try."

She sat down and put the file in front of her.  This was easier.  
She felt less heat, her legs were sturdier...  "She's dead," 
Monica started.  "She's been dead a long time...  She was 
stabbed...  Cut up..."  She looked up at Brad, tears moistening 
her eyes.  "Her body was put through a meat grinder."

Brad looked at her in horror.  "Can you see who did it?"

Closing her eyes, she forced her mind to look around, to look 
away from the child.  "It looks like a butcher shop...  Meat...  
A man is doing this... He's strong...  he has gray hair, but he 
isn't old...  He has a tattoo on his forearm...  No, both 
forearms..."

Brad grabbed the folder and flipped through the pages.  He laid 
it on the table.  "Is that the guy?" he demanded, nodding toward 
the picture looking up at her.

She gasped and looked from the picture to his face.  "Yes," she 
said, as amazed as he.

He turned and sprinted out the door and down the hallway.  
Monica followed the sound of his footsteps.  She found him 
standing at the elevators, pounding the call button.  "Damn him, 
damn him, damn him..." he muttered to himself.  He didn't notice 
her approaching, and when the elevator door opened, he didn't 
notice her slip in behind him.

In the elevator, Monica tugged at Brad's elbow.  He whirled 
around, surprised to see her.  "Agent Follmer," she said.  "Mind 
if I come with you?"

He thought for a moment, and decided her psychic ability 
overrided her inexperience at the FBI.  "Sure," he answered.  
"But let me do the talking."  She nodded.

They drove in silence, Brad's lips curled inward as he navigated 
the busy streets of lower Manhattan, passed through a long 
tunnel, and emerged on a highway in Brooklyn.  Monica sighed and 
rested her head against the window, trying to establish where 
she was, looking for landmarks.  They left the highway and drove 
onto a divided road, then to a residential street lined with 
large two-storey houses that contrasted with the pre-war brick 
buildings of the main streets.  "Where are we?" Monica asked.

"Flatbush," Brad answered.  His eyes remained focused ahead, as 
if seeing his destination while he was driving.  He turned onto 
a main street and parked next to a fire hydrant.  He pulled his 
FBI placard from the glovebox and threw it onto the dashboard.  
Monica could barely keep up as he strode to the front door of a 
butcher shop.

He approached the middle-aged woman behind the counter and 
flashed his badge.  "Where is he?"

She nervously glanced toward the back of the shop, and Brad 
raced to the doorway.  Monica followed behind, and the woman 
followed her.  

"What is it?" the woman cried out.  "What's wrong?"

Monica turned around and put her hands on the woman's shoulders.  
"Is he your husband?" Monica asked.  The woman nodded.  "We need 
to question him about a case."

"That little girl?" the woman asked anxiously.  Monica looked 
grimly back at her.  "We told the police -- we only saw her once 
or twice.  We don't know where she went."

"Stay here," Monica ordered, and the woman stayed where she was, 
as Monica raced to catch up with Brad.

She found him in a workroom, the workroom of her vision.  Brad 
grabbed the man by the neck and pushed him up against the wall.  
"Why did you do it, you bastard!" he shouted.

The man's face reddened instantly, but he managed to croak, "Do 
what? I didn't do nothing!"

Brad pulled the man away from the wall, then slammed him against 
it again.  "What did you do with her body?"

"Agent Follmer!" Monica shouted.  Brad seemed not to hear her.  
She ran up behind him and souted again, "Agent Follmer!"  The 
man's eye's started to bulge out, and Monica could hear him 
gasping for air.

Monica took a few backward steps and pulled out her gun.  She 
trained it on Brad and shouted, "Brad, let him go or I'll 
shoot."

Brad noticed the man's eyes looking over his shoulder, and he 
turned around.  The sight of Monica's resolute expression made 
Brad remember himself, and he let go of the man.  In the 
distance they could hear his wife yelling "He's killing him, 
he's killing him!"

Brad and Monica stared at each other for a moment as the butcher 
slid sideways against the wall, edging toward the doorway.  
Monica turned and pointed her gun toward him.  "You too," she 
said authoritatively.  "Don't move." The man raised his hands, 
the redness fading from his face, leaving him blanched and wide-
eyed.  Monica faced Brad and said, "Okay, ask him what you 
want," she ordered.

Brad was stunned by her reaction, and he looked from her to his 
suspect.  He walked slowly and deliberately toward the butcher, 
and put his hands into his pants pockets, as if to restrain 
himself.  In a low, controlled voice, he said, "You remember 
Keisha Campbell?"

The man looked puzzled.  "Who?" he said, with deliberate 
innocence.

"Seven years old?  Missing for two years?  Lived on the sixth 
floor," Brad's eyes looked upward as if to indicate the 
apartment building above the shop.

"Oh, yes.  Very sad.  What about it?" the butcher said, looking 
a little relieved.

Brad paused, a little confused by the suspect's reaction.  His 
silence was filled with the sound of footsteps and the voice of 
the butcher's wife saying, "In the back..."

Monica kept her gun pointed toward the butcher but readied 
herself to aim for the doorway.  A massive shadow grew on the 
floor in front of the doorway, until a man's silhouette arrived.  
From the doorway they heard a voice say, "Monica?"

"Joe?" Monica answered, subconsciously allowing her gun to 
follow the direction of her eyes. 

"What's going on here?" Joe asked, his hand on his holster. 

"We're questioning a suspect," Brad interjected. "Brad Follmer, 
we met yesterday..." Brad said in a saccharine tone, his hand 
exteded for a handshake. 

"Oh, yes," Joe responded, looking from Reyes' gun to Brad' face. 

"Agent Reyes," Brad took the hint. "Put away your gun." Monica 
did as she was told, but kept a wary eye on the butcher. Brad 
continued, "We are investiating a cold case. This man was a 
witness then, but..." 

Monica only half-listened as Brad filed Joe in on the details of 
the crime. She started to think about the crime, her vision, the 
meat grinder... She wandered to the side of the workshop then 
back to where she had been standing. Joe listened as Brad 
detailed the reasons why a beat cop needn't be on the scene, but 
he trained his eye on Monica's movements. 

Monica sensed something, something different from her vision. 
Was it being in that place that made it diffent? she wondered. 
Or was something else wrong here. She followed her sense as if 
following an odor, and felt herself feeling warmer and warmer as 
she walked further toward the back of the shop. She came to a 
metal door, and felt the handle. It was hot, as if the room on 
theother side were on fire. She slowly opened the door, and when 
it was opened an inch she could tell there was no fire. She 
walked in to the dark room, light from the doorway casting her 
shadow ahead of her. She felt heat under her feet, even as a 
cold draft cooled her cheeks. Stopping in the middle of the 
room, she closed her eyes and calmed her mind. Her heartbeat, 
which had been racing since pulling her gun on Brad, started to 
slow. She breathed deeply and let her body balance itself over 
her feet. Slowly, she felt the heat less, and started to develop 
a vision, different from the earlier vision. 

A child, about nine years old, a girl... with black hair, light 
skin, freckles, light blue eyes.. playing with dolls... Barbie 
and Ken?... No, G.I. Joe, and ... a little girl doll. G.I. Joe 
is putting his hands under the smaller doll's dress, and... 
Monica was horrified by the next part of her vision and shook it 
off. She opened her eyes, and gradually felt the heat return to 
her feet, then her legs... Voices from a distance were calling 
her. "Monica... Monica....' 

"Monica..." Joe said as he put his hand on her shoulder. She 
seemed not to recognize him at first. "Monica? Are you okay? 
What are you doing in the freezer?" 

Suddenly the light went on, and Monica could see the carcasses 
of frozen animals suspended from hooks. Brad stood in the 
doorway, a look of annoyance on his face. Monica could tell that 
he was talking to her, but she felt as if time had slowed down. 
She looked from Brad to Joe, then to the floor. She knelt down 
and pulled at a loose flap of linoleum, exposing a large 
stainless-steel box, the body of a dark-haired, freckle-faced 
little girl curled up inside, frozen solid. 

Brad approached and leaned over the opening.  "Maureen Cahill," 
he said matter-of-factly, and pulled his cellphone from his 
pocket.  He nodded in the direction of Monica and Joe.  Joe 
nodded back, and grabbed Monica by the hand.  They raced back to 
the shop, Monica gaining in consciousness as she ran.

Joe let go of Monica's hand and leapt onto the butcher's back.  
His left arm around the man's neck, he said, "You have the right 
to remain silent.  You have the right to an attorney..." as his 
right hand worked his handcuffs.

"What?" the man cried out.  His wife ran towards them, her arm 
stretched toward Joe's arm.  Monica instinctively intercepted 
the arm and pulled her back, sharply.

The older woman's eyes filled with tears and in a gurgling voice 
she said, "What are you people doing?  He didn't do nothing...  
Leave him alone... He's a good man.."  Monica continued pulling 
the woman, walking her backwards toward the front of the shop.  
She was still holding the struggling woman when she saw Brad 
come from the back.

Brad ran to Joe and said, "I'll take over from here.  You and 
your partner start securing the crime scene..."  Joe nodded and 
walked briskly to the front door.  Monica and Brad stared at 
each other silently.  Monica studied Brad's demeanor.  He was 
panting slightly, but he seemed to be in complete control of 
himself.  She couldn't believe it was the same man she'd aimed 
her gun at earlier.

Brad turned to the butcher and said, "How many?  How many have 
there been..." He added with sarcasm, "MISter Jeffries?"

Jeffries' eyes were half closed, and he looked coldly at Brad.  
"Talk to my lawyer," was all he said.

After the crime scene had been secured, and the victim had been 
removed, Brad showed Monica to a countertop and took out a small 
notebook.  "Here," he started.  "Before you leave, be sure to 
take down the details you'll need in case you're questioned..."  
He recited the basic facts of the case as Monica dutifully wrote 
everything in tiny, precise handwriting.  

She was mid-sentence when Brad stopped talking.  She looked up 
and saw Joe looming over her on the opposite side from Brad.  
She smiled broadly, exhaling loudly through her nostrils.  Brad 
couldn't help notice the gleam in her eyes, and he didn't like 
it.

"We're just about done here," Joe said, almost sadly.

"It was good to see you again," Monica answered, her eyes 
telling him the same things they'd told Brad.

"I don't think you need a self-defense course, Monica..." Joe 
started.

"I'm interested... Really!  And I definitely want to join the 
gym."

"I'm going again tonight," Joe said a little more softly, as if 
trying to keep Brad from listening.  Brad stood by, showing a 
carefully measured expression of displeasure.  Joe continued, 
"Want me to pick you up?"  Monica nodded.  "Same time?"  

She nodded again and smiled.  "This time I want to try out the 
whirlpool afterward, if you don't mind eating a little later."

Joe swallowed uncomfortably, the image of Monica in a bathing 
suit draining the moisture from his throat.  "That's good.  We 
can do that..."

Monica set down her pen and reached for his hand.  "See you 
then," she said, squeezing his hand gently.  His hand was so 
strong she wasn't sure she'd really squeezed it, then she felt a 
very gentle pressure from his hand.  "See you then," he 
answered.

She watched as he exited, her eyes on his triangular form, 
following the lines of his silhouette down to his well-defined 
ass.  She lost track of her surroundings, then felt the tug of 
Brad's hand on her sleeve.  "You're not going out with that ape, 
are you?"

Monica stared at him, open-mouthed, before defiantly answering, 
"Why shouldn't I?" 

Brad sighed and closed his eyes. "Monica," he started slowly, 
shaking his head slightly. He opened his eyes and looked 
pityingly into hers, "He's the cop who took your report when 
your briefcase was stolen..." 

"So?" Monica interrupted, both puzzled and angry. 

"So..." Brad said condescendingly. "You are a victim in one of 
his cases. There's nothing lower than a cop who takes advantage 
of a victim." 

"He's not taking advantage of me," she shot back. "We went to 
the gym together -- ONCE! -- That was it. And anyway, how do you 
know I'm not taking advantage of him?" 

He looked into her face, and he found her defiance exhilirating. 
Her eyes were gleaming with anger, their pupils wide and liquid. 
For the second time that day he felt he was under her control. 
He wanted to tell her she could do anything she wanted, but he 
also wanted to keep her from getting hurt. As he tried to think 
of the right words, she took a step backward and spread her legs 
slightly, as if preparing for a boxing match. He felt himself 
obeying her demand for respect, and before he could think 
through his approach, he said, "Just be careful, okay?" 

"Of course," she answered, tight-lipped. "Are we finished here?" 
she demanded. 

They drove back to Manhattan, and this time the silence was her 
doing. She leaned against the window, reviewing the morning's 
events. It seemed that everything she did was wrong in her 
supervisor's eyes. He was so sure of himself, so experienced, so 
knowledgeable... She wanted so much to be respected by him, and 
she felt that goal receding further and further into the 
distance. She glanced at him and he returned her glance, showing 
her the concern she'd seen far too many times already. He's 
worried because I'm not talking, she thought. She tried to think 
of something to say, but she couldn't think of anything that 
wouldn't make things worse. 

They emerged from the tunnel, and Brad drove a different route, 
along the East River, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. "Where are we 
going?" she asked, a little nervously. 

"It's lunch time. We're going to the South Street Seaport, where 
we can talk." 

Monica felt a flash of panic, as if she'd been kidnapped. She 
looked at him and could see the hurt in his eyes as he saw her 
expression. "There are a few things we need to straighten out, 
away from prying ears," he said, smiling the most comforting 
smile he could manage. She knew it was a phony smile, but the 
attempt was comforting nonetheless. 

They went to a seafood restaurant, and while they were waiting 
for their meal, Brad said, "Monica, you need to understand the 
difference between the local P.D. and the FBI." She looked at 
him quizzically and he continued, "Especially the beat cops. 
They operate on a more basic level than we do... I mean, look at 
their training. It isn't half what ours is..." 

Monica felt nauseous suddenly. Was she hearing right? "They were 
there for me when I needed them..." she started. 

"But who went dumpster diving for you?" Monica opened her mouth 
to object, but Brad quickly added, "And when they can't solve a 
case, who do they go to? Don't get me wrong, they have their 
place, but ... Monica, ..." he sighed again. "You can do better, 
is all I'm saying." 

She stared silently at him, her accusative expression making him 
feel like a small man in a tall body. He fought against the 
shriveling of his ego, but her displeasure won and he thought, 
well at least I tried. "Just be careful... promise me?" he said 
pleadingly. 

She nodded silently, her eyes fixed on his. 

After they arrived at their building, Brad walked Monica to her 
office and said in his most business-like tone, "About your 
training... There are some procedures I'd like you to review. 
Study them this afternoon then come to my office at about four 
o'clock." He pulled a large procedure manual from her desk 
drawer, marked some pages for her to study, then left.  She 
stood silently, watching him as he walked purposefully down the 
hallway.  She hoped he would turn around.  He didn't.

When Brad got back to his office, he found an 
uncharacteristically nervous Janet jumping up to greet him. 
"A.D. Williams wants to see you," she said grimly.

"Did you make an appointment?" Brad answered as unemotionally as 
he could, despite the knot that had just formed in his stomach.

"He wanted to see you as soon as you got back," Janet replied, 
knowing that the A.D. rarely made such a request.  Brad offered 
no answer, except a silent "Oh shit!" in his mind.

Follmer sat across from Williams, hoping for the best, yet 
fearing the worst. The A.D. had his arms outstretched on his 
desk, each hand resting on a manilla file folder. 

Williams pulled a sheet of paper from the thinner, brighter, 
file folder and handed it to Brad. Brad looked at him in 
confusion, and Wiliams answered, "Read it... out loud." 

He read the top line silently: "Investigative Request for 
Employment, Data and Supervisor Information," a form sent to 
previous employers by the Office of Personnel Management. Brad 
knew that there were several of these in Reyes' folder, as there 
were for most federal employees. He didn't remember any of them 
saying anything bad about Reyes. He furrowed his brow and looked 
again at Williams' poker face. Williams said, "Read the other 
side. Number 6" 

Brad turned the page over, and at Number 6 read, "Additional 
information... derogatory as well as positive information.... 
Monica Reyes is one of the best employees I've ever supervised. 
She is dependable, intelligent, and a model of self-control. She 
would make a fine addition to your staff." After he'd finished 
reading, Brad's brow was even more furrowed. "I don't 
understand," he said cautiously. "What am I supposed to be 
seeing here?" 
Williams reached for the page and put it back in its folder, 
then pulled an identical form from the larger, older, folder. 
"Read Number 6 on this one." 

Brad's face flushed immediately. "Brad Follmer is intelligent 
and quick to learn. He has a strong sense of duty and is easy to 
supervise. His main fault is that he sometimes acts without 
thinking, letting his emotions rule his actions. He has made 
some progress controlling his emotions, and I expect continued 
progress along these lines." Brad's voice started to crack as he 
neared the end, and when Williams reached for the page, it shook 
slightly in Brad's hand. 

"Agent Follmer," Williams said, eyeing Brad carefully. "Would 
you expect an agent who has been described as 'a model of self-
control' to point a gun at her supervisor without good reason?" 

"No sir," Brad answered. 

"What was her reason, then?" 

Brad's stomach was in knots as he realized Williams knew 
everything. "Because I had let my emotions rule my actions." 

"Oh?" Williams said with feigned curiosity. "In what way?" 

Brad gulped. "I was holding a suspect by his neck. Agent Reyes 
believed I was hurting him." 

"The suspect agrees with her. And so does the judge," Williams 
said sternly. Brad's face changed from a flushed and dappled 
pink, to a near-white pallor. 'Oh, crap,' he thought. 

"Fortunately, we have a body..." Williams continued. Brad 
exhaled and his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Unfortunately," 
Williams added, "there was no search warrant. You do know what a 
search warrant is?" Brad nodded. 

Williams' face reddened slightly, the first sign of anger Brad 
had seen. "And you do know how to go about procuring one?" 

Brad nodded vigorously and said, "I'm sorry... I..." 

Williams cut him off. "Just what were you doing there anyway? 
And with a rookie agent?" 

Brad, relieved at being given a chance for some damage control, 
took a deep breath and said, "I was going over some cold case 
files with Agent Reyes, when I suddenly had a hunch... I was 
following up on that hunch... and I was right." 

"That's the only thing saving your career right now, Agent 
Follmer. Even though the case will no doubt be thrown out, and 
the D.A.'s office is now reviewing every pending case we've 
brought to their office, and the Brooklyn P.D. is even less 
likely to cooperate with us, you were indeed correct. This hunch 
of yours may save a child's life. Don't think I haven't 
considered that..." 

"But...?" Brad interjected. 

"You're new to your position, so you're already on probation. I 
will be watching you more carefully now." He pulled a sheet of 
paper out from under Monica's file folder. "Here is Agent Reyes' 
training schedule. Note that she will not be going into the 
field for at least two weeks. Note that you will be accompanying 
her at every stage. You will not be going into the field for at 
least two weeks, either. Her training period will also be a re-
training period for you." 

Brad glanced at the schedule. It looked good -- better than what 
he'd been planning for her. "Thank you, sir," Brad said, his 
voice indicating a wish to close their meeting. "I'll get on it 
right away." He put his hands on the arms of the chair and 
started to push himself up. 

"One more thing," Williams said. "Why did Agent Reyes point her 
gun at a police officer?" Brad's face was ashen. Was there 
anything Williams didn't know? He was speechless, and Williams 
provided his own answer. "My guess is that she pointed her gun 
in the direction she was looking. Be sure she gets over that 
tendency. She's a model of self-control, remember? Make sure she 
learns how to control her gun." 

Monica arrived at Brad's office a few minutes before 4:00. Janet 
typed busily at her computer, and Monica felt as if she were 
intruding. She sat perfectly still, her eyes closed, mentally 
reviewing the procedures she'd been studying. They were all 
procedures that had been covered at the academy, and she was 
both bored and insulted by her assignment.
 
The sound of the intercom buzzer startled both her and Janet. 
Janet pushed a button and Monica could hear Follmer's voice say, 
"When Agent Reyes gets here, send her right in, please." 

"She's here now, Agent Follmer," Janet answered efficiently. 

There was silence from the intercom for a moment, then the inner 
office door suddenly opened. An overly cheerful Brad Follmer 
smiled and said, "Come in Agent Reyes." Monica could tell by his 
voice and by Janet's face that something was wrong. 

Brad ushered her in and shut the door behind them. "Agent Reyes, 
I have your training schedule prepared." He handed her a copy of 
the schedule and continued, "I will be training you personally 
for the next two weeks, except for a few sessions instructed by 
specialists, but I will attend those with you. I felt it best 
for me to know what you know first-hand before assigning you to 
a partner." 

Monica nodded. This wasn't bad news, she thought. Why did he 
seem so nervous? She looked over the schedule. It looked 
rigorous, but not more rigorous than the academy. "I've already 
had courses in..." 

Brad interrupted her, "This may seem like a mere review..." He 
walked around her chair and leaned over her shoulder from 
behind. He pointed at a few sessions and said, "Here, here, 
here, and... here. These sessions will concentrate on cases 
involving children." 

She turned her head to look up, and as she did he couldn't help 
looking into her eyes. Their faces were only inches from each 
other, and he suddenly felt a wave of desire for her. He closed 
his mouth in a tight-lipped grin and took a deep breath. Instead 
of relaxing him, the breath gave him a whiff of her scented 
shampoo, and he felt transfixed. 
She could see the desire in his eyes, and she felt both 
flattered and excited. After that first day in the lobby, she'd 
tried to rid herself of unwelcome feelings about him, but 
looking at him looking at her was weakening her resolve. 

They were startled by the sound of the door opening, and Janet's 
voice saying, "Agent Follmer, is it okay if I leave early today? 
I've typed that report for you, and unless you have something 
else..." 

"No, no, that's fine, Janet," Brad answered hastily. "Thank you 
for rushing that. You can go." 

Janet looked from Brad to Monica, and both flushed. She backed 
through the doorway and closed the door behind her. Brad went to 
the door and locked it, then sat behind his desk. Monica 
exhaled, relieved to have several feet between them once again. 

"About these procedures," Monica started. "I've read them. Is 
there anything else I need to know?" 

Brad's face was inscrutable for a moment, and he pulled at the 
skin under his nose as he thought about his response. Finally he 
said, "Yes, let's go to the shooting range. If you're going to 
be pointing your gun at your supervisor, I want to be sure you 
know what you're doing." 

Monica flushed and attempted to smile. "Sorry about that. Just 
instinct, I guess." 

Brad grabbed his coat and said, "Let's go." In the outer office, 
Janet hurriedly hit a button on the intercom. 

On the way to the shooting range Brad reviewed the kinds of 
distractions she would encounter, and how he would help her 
train for them. As he held the door open for her, he added, 
"Although in today's incident, shooting at the distraction might 
have been a good thing." 

Her angry glare told him he shouldn't have said it, but he 
couldn't help himself. He hated beat cops. He hated muscular 
guys. He hated cops who dated victims. And he was growing to 
like Monica. He mentally kicked himself for opening his mouth, 
but felt no regrets about his feelings. 
Later, as Monica stood facing a paper target, Brad moved behind 
her, making noises first on one side, then the other, trying 
vain to make her move her gun. He pulled his flashlight from his 
pocket and shone the beam near the target, first one side, then 
the other. Again, Monica's aim was true. He put the flashlight 
in his pocket, then crept up close behind her, pulled up on her 
ear protection, and whispered into her right ear, "The bad guy's 
coming..." 

Monica twitched and yanked her gun to the right, shooting a hole 
in another agent's target. "Don't do that!" she said, turning 
her head toward his. Again she found herself within inches of 
his face, and her heart started to race. 

"What happens when the bad guy does that?" Brad asked, keeping 
his eyes on hers. This time he didn't notice her shampoo; he was 
truly concerned for her performance. "Here, let's try this 
again," he said gently. 
He stood behind her and removed her ear protection. "Okay, now 
hold your gun out as usual..." he said, then gave her a few 
seconds to reposition herself. He placed his arms against the 
outsides of hers, and pressed inward. 

"Okay, now just keep shooting, and don't let anything make you 
move your gun. Ready?" She nodded. 

He let her shoot a few rounds then said into her left ear, 
"Who's that?" Her left arm pressed against his, and he pressed 
back, but the bullet still missed its target. She sighed in 
exasperation. "It's okay," he said patiently. Let's try again." 

He let her shoot one round, then in her right ear he said, "It's 
Bugs Bunny." Her right arm pressed against his, and she started 
shaking in laughter. 

"That's not fair!" she cried out. "Let me try again!" She felt 
determined to overcome this fault, and the image of Bugs Bunny 
in her mind's eye somehow made her feel better. 

She shot another few rounds as Brad tried to think of another 
trick. Having his arms around her, her body so close to his, was 
starting to make him feel uncomfortable. But he didn't want to 
let go. 

She continued shooting, anxiously awaiting her next distraction, 
when suddenly she felt his gun against the small of her back. 
She clenched her jaw and kept her eye on the target, firing 
nearly perfect shots. But when she felt him blowing gently 
against her ear, she lost her composure again, and the shot went 
wild. Instinctively, she whirled to face him, and the look in 
his eyes told her everything -- that wasn't his gun she'd felt, 
and his breath on her ear was no training exercise. 

She jumped backward, breathing heavily.  "What was that?" she 
demanded.

"Whatever it was, it made you lose your cool," he answered, his 
voice a little gravelly.  He stepped backward and took a deep 
breath.  He kept his eyes trained on hers, hoping she wasn't 
thinking less of him.  "And tomorrow you'll be in a simulator.  
I'm going to help set it up.  I'll observe, but I won't be with 
you."

Monica relaxed and put her gun in its holster.  She looked at 
her watch, as much to get his eyes off hers as to check the 
time, then said "I really have to get going.  Joe's picking me 
up at 6:30."

Brad sighed but said nothing.  He looked down at his feet and 
ground his teeth.  As Monica brushed past him, he said softly 
and apologetically, "I'll give you a lift.  I don't want you to 
be late."  He looked into her face and saw skepticism borne of 
betrayal.  "Really," he said sincerely.  "I didn't mean to keep 
you so long.  I don't want you to be late... Really, I don't" he 
said sincerely.

As they drove, Brad thought about Williams.  How many people had 
seen what he'd done?  How long would it take to get back to 
Williams?  In the tunnel the lights on the walls cast an eerie 
glow on Monica's face.  "Look," he said finally.  "Your training 
is important.  It's not just skills... It's socialization... 
into the profession.  It's not enough to know FBI rules, have 
all the right skills... you need a certain mindset."  Monica 
sulked but listened.  "So what I'm saying... he's a cop, they 
think differently... and he's not a particularly good one."

"Why do you think that?" she asked defensively.

"He didn't recognize my name the first time I met him, he didn't 
remember my face the second time I met him, and he didn't react 
when you pointed your gun at him..."  Brad looked toward her as 
they sat in front of her apartment. "He's going to get hurt.  
And if he gets hurt, you get hurt," he said significantly.

"Nice try," Reyes answered, and left the car.  Brad watched as 
she ran up the steps to the stoop and quickly entered her 
apartment.

When Joe picked her up, Monica was still feeling humiliated and 
angry with Brad, but she didn't say anything about him to Joe. 
Joe sensed her discomfort and tried to cajole her into smiling, 
but she looked wistfully at him and said simply, "Long day at 
work. I'm looking forward to burning off some steam." 

Monica was disappointed by the self-defense course. It covered 
techniques she already knew, so she left and went to the 
exercycles. She pedalled faster and faster, her mind stuck on 
Brad... She knew about sexual harrassment law, about why she 
shouldn't have feelings about her supervisor, how he'd put her 
in an awkward position... She repeated to herself 'Don't think 
about Brad... Don't think about Brad... Don't think about 
Brad...' and focused her attention on the poster on the opposite 
wall. Gradually her emotions calmed and her mind returned to the 
present. She slowed to a stop and sighed. They're adults, and 
professionals, she assured herself. Everything will be alright. 
Just then a woman wearing a Bugs Bunny T-shirt mounted the cycle 
opposite her, and Monica chuckled to herself. She left the cycle 
area, and checked in on Joe. He was doing leg exercises, and 
grabbed her hand as she approached. 

"All done?" he asked, smiling with eagerness. "I just have 
another ten minutes or so..." 

Monica smiled down at him and sighed. His pleasure at seeing her 
was 
intoxicating. "I'll meet you in the hot tub in ten minutes 
then." She turned to go but he pulled her back and downward, 
lifting his face towards hers. She felt giddy and flattered by 
his possessiveness, and leaned the rest of the way to meet his 
lips. She pulled back and they smiled at each other. 

"Ten minutes..." she said, and flitted toward the martial arts 
room. 
Monica found the schedule of classes and tried in vain to make 
sense of it. What wasn't abbreviated was in transliterated 
Chinese... She recognized a few words from her studies of 
mythology, but had no idea what they would mean here. A man 
approached her from the side and said, "Can I help you?" 
She turned and saw a muscular man, a little shorter than she, 
with nappy African hair, light brown skin, and green eyes. His 
unusual looks caugh her off-guard and she stammered, "I'm 
interested in some classes... I've had self-defense... and" 

"And you wish to pursue martial arts to protect yourself 
better?" the man answered calmly. 

"Yes... um, no," Reyes stammered. "I watched a class 
yesterday... at 
seven... they were doing a kind of breathing exercise first. I 
liked that. What is that?" 

"It is called Chi Kung, one of the components of the Shaolin 
Martial Art," he answered, "Breathing practices are united with 
combat arts. There is a saying: 'Before a foot or hand strikes, 
comes Breath.' Chi which is transferred with blood is the base 
of Courage and Strength. The heart is the marshal of the body 
and the Breath Chi is the dignitary who goes in advance. The 
eyes are standards and banners; if they are clouded, you loose 
orientation; they do not comprehend the meaning of enemy's 
disposition and can not determine movement and tranquility."

Monica was stunned. Could this be the answer to her problems on 
the firing range? "How do I learn that?" she asked eagerly. 

"We do not teach it as a single skill," the instructor replied. 
"When practicing Chi Kung, your thoughts must be in a state of 
full concentration. The concentration of the mind on Dantien, 
the Cinnabar Field," the instructor patted his abdomen, just 
below his navel. 
"... is the main secret and the basic principle of Chi Kung 
practice. It takes daily practice, not just a few lessons... 
And, we teach it as part of Shaolin Kung Fu, and Tai Chi Chuan, 
which are in turn part of a larger spiritual truth. Shaolin 
philosophy has three spiritual goals: Leading a morally upright 
and happy life. Enjoying heavenly bliss in the after-life. 
Attaining enlightenment in Zen." 

Monica nodded, transfixed, her eyes beaming with enthusiasm. 
"When do I start?" 

The instructor looked at her skeptically, "Most of our students 
come to us for instruction in martial arts, for fighting. You do 
not seem to be interested in fighting..." 

"I'm an FBI agent ... well, as of a few days ago," she 
confessed. "I've learned about fighting. But something has been 
missing from my training... I can feel it." 

A trace of desperation flashed over her face, and the instructor 
nodded sympathetically. "A new class begins in two weeks. But 
you may join my classes for the chi breathing excercises if you 
wish." 

"Thank you," she gushed. She grabbed his hand and shook it in 
both of hers. "I can't wait." She looked at the schedule, and 
before she could ask, he answered, "You may come to any class 
with my initials on it. My name is Dennis Gray -- DG." Monica 
was relieved to find he taught classes most evenings. "Thank 
you," she gushed again.
 
Monica hurriedly changed into her bathing suit and wrapped a gym 
towel around her waist.  Joe was sitting in the hot tub when she 
arrived, his flushed face telling her she'd kept him waiting.  
"Sorry," she said breathlessly.  "I lost track of time -- 
talking kung fu.."

Joe smiled up at her and held his hand up to do karate chops in 
the air.  "Monica, grasshopper... come to the hot tub... your 
chi awaits you..."  She threw the towel to the side then stepped 
toward him and took his hand.  His eyes were sparkling, and she 
couldn't help pausing to let him admire her.  She grinned and 
looked down on him, like a princess and her suitor.  She forgot 
all about chi breathing, and was almost hyperventilating as she 
stepped forward and dipped her toe into the water.  Joe stood up 
to help her, letting her see the ripples of his abdominal 
muscles, and the veins stretching against his arm muscles.  
Monica took in the sight, and giggled as the warm water swirled 
around her ankles.  She felt awkward and silly as her long legs 
tried to find their way.  Joe seemed not to mind -- he kept his 
eyes on hers, but they told her they'd taken in everything else 
too.  

They seated themselves gingerly, and Joe put his arm around her 
shoulders.  She leaned against him, helping him pull her to him, 
and her arm slid over his chest.  She slipped her other arm 
behind him, and their lips met for a tender, electric kiss.  It 
was brief, but powerful, and they pulled away from each other 
reluctantly.  He brought his far arm around to cup her chin and 
they gazed giddily at each other.  Joe broke the silence saying, 
"Isn't this relaxing?"

Monica hummed, deep in her throat.  "You'd think.  But I don't 
feel relaxed right now."

"No?" he teased.  "How do you feel?"

She chuckled, a throaty chuckle from even deeper in her throat.  
"Wet," she said, stretching out the "w."

He leaned in for another kiss, and this one was open-mouthed and 
sensuous, softness against softness, tongue against tongue.  Joe 
moved toward Monica until his broad shoulders and back were 
covering her body, blocking the view from the doorway, giving 
his hand permission to slide over places that shouldn't be 
touched in public.  She arched toward him and let her lips show 
him her appreciation for the movements of his hand.  He moved 
his mouth to her ear and whispered, "want to order Chinese 
instead of going out to eat?"

She put her mouth to his ear and murmured, "Moo Goo Gai Pan."

Joe dropped off Monica at her apartment and she hurriedly 
straightened things out while she waited for him to park his 
car.  After twenty minutes, the apartment was ready for company, 
the table was set for dinner, candles burned from several 
directions.  She started to feel anxious, wondering if she'd 
been teased.  She stood behind the door and listened for his 
footsteps.  Finally she heard his footsteps pounding toward her 
door.  She flung the door open and greeted him with a smile.  
His surly expression surprised her.  "It's impossible parking in 
this neighborhood," he grunted.

"That's why I don't have a car," she said cheerfully.  She 
locked the door and followed him into the living room.  "Relax," 
she said soothingly, running her hands over his upper arms.  
"It's okay now."

He turned and started to object, then felt the frustration of 
parking melt away into the chocolate pools of her eyes.  "Yes, 
you're right," he said gently.  He put his arms around her waist 
and pulled her to him.  They kissed, not as passionately as 
before, but sincerely nonetheless.  He pulled away from her and 
smiled appreciatively.  "Do you have this effect on everyone?" 
he asked.

"What effect?"

"Somehow," he kept his hands on her waist and rocked her from 
side to side.  "Somehow, you make everything seem okay.  Did you 
know that?"

She blushed.  "It must be just you," she said.  "Maybe it's 
because you have that effect on me."  She put her hands behind 
his neck and pulled him to her.  They kissed more passionately, 
their bodies grinding against each other, their hands grasping 
each other firmly.  He walked her backwards toward her futon, 
and when she felt the mattress against her calves she turned and 
looked down.  She let herself fall backwards onto it, pulling 
Joe down with her.  They sat there, kissing, touching, rubbing 
for what seemed like hours, when suddenly Joe pulled away and 
said, "I hate to say this, but where's your bathroom?"

She nodded toward it, then said, "Should I call for the food?"

"Sure," he answered.  She couldn't help feeling disappointed, 
but tried to be cheerful as he told her what to order for him.  
As she thumbed through the Yellow Pages she sighed, and felt 
nostalgic for the feel of his body.  She closed her eyes and 
relived the past few moments, feeling his lips, hands, and...  
Suddenly she opened her eyes, her heart racing.  That wasn't Joe 
pressing against her back, it was Brad.  She felt panicky.  What 
was she doing here?  How could she feel this way?  She hurriedly 
phoned the restaurant and put in her order, then slammed down 
the phone.  She looked anxiously toward the bathroom when she 
heard the flush, her feelings still conflicted.

Joe walked toward her, a spring in his step, as he shoved his T-
shirt into his jeans.  "Sorry that took so long..." he started.

Monica moved toward him, and tugged at the fold of fabric he was 
trying to shove into his pants.  "The food will be here in 
twenty minutes," she said, pulling sideways and out on his 
shirt.  "But we can always heat it up later..."  She started 
pulling up on his shirt and he grinned.

"Yeah, we could do that."

When his shirt was off, Monica ran her hands over his chest, 
shoulders, and abdomen, gently at first, then more firmly as she 
sensed his muscles flexing under her touch.  Even a man this 
buff held his breath at a time like this, she marveled.  She 
stepped back and pulled at the hem of her own T-shirt, exposing 
a few inches of her flat midriff.  His hand went toward it 
instantly, then slid under her shirt as far as it could reach.  
Monica was starting to feel frustrated with his teasing, and she 
grasped her shirt by both hands, pulling it over her head in one 
smooth motion.

Joe reached out and slid one hand over her breasts as put his 
other hand around her waist.  After throwing her T-shirt to the 
floor, Monica tilted her head in expectation of a kiss.  Joe did 
not disappoint.  The kiss was urgent, almost hard, and the 
ragged exhalations from his nostrils sent tingles up her spine.  
After gently massaging each breast, Joe found the clasp of her 
bra and expertly undid it.  She let his movements guide hers as 
he pulled the straps down her arms, the fresh air causing her 
newly liberated nipples to harden.  Before he could move his 
hands back to her breasts, she pressed them into his chest.  The 
feeling of his skin on hers made her groan softly, and she began 
to rub against him in tiny circles.  Joe grabbed her ass, and he 
began massaging each cheek in his massive hands.  Monica 
responded by gyrating against him, feeling exhilirated yet safe 
and protected by his body on one side, his hands on the other. 
She slid her hands over his back, pressing firmly against his 
taut skin, until they found the waistband of his pants.  She 
tried to slip her hands under his pants, but they were too 
tight.  He pulled away from her and grinned as he undid his 
belt, then his fly, then her belt, and her fly.  She stepped 
backward and pulled at the front edge of her futon, turning it 
into a bed.  She sat at the edge and looked invitingly up at 
him.  He stood in front of her and bent forward to pull at the 
sides of her jeans.  She lifted her legs and cooperated as he 
pulled them off completely, taking her underwear with them.  He 
gasped and quickly slid his own pants down.  His conservative 
white underwear bulged invitingly, and Monica put her hand over 
the bulge, at first tentatively, then more boldly as she heard 
his nearly-silent sighs.  She slid his underwear down, her body 
leaning forward as she did so, until his underpants were at his 
knees, and her mouth was within inches of his turgid member.  He 
put his hands on the back of her head and wove his fingers 
through her hair, inviting but not pressuring her.  She accepted 
the invitation, first licking the tip with her tongue, then 
exploring the rest.  It was smaller than she'd expected, but 
also thicker.  She was able to take him almost completely into 
her mouth. Her hands cupped his balls as her tongue moved under 
his cock.  His groans became lower and more frequent, and his 
body swayed as she continued to work his most sensitive areas.  
Sensing he was ready to come, Monica pulled away.  He looked 
down on her with a nearly inhuman expression of lust, and she 
grabbed his hands, pulling him downward onto the futon.  When 
they had repositioned themselves, Joe moved his hand to her 
pubic mound.  The smooth skin of his palm against her wiry hairs 
made Monica's legs instinctively move apart, her knees pulling 
upward. Joe moved his fingers over her dripping gorge.  He 
dipped his middle finger into her gushing torrent as his other 
fingers parted her slick lips.  She groaned and pushed up to 
meet his pressure.  He pulled his hand away, and she opened her 
eyes to see why.  He moved over her body, crab-like, and kissed 
the hollow at the base of her neck.  She purred against his 
mouth, and he took the hint.  Carefully positioning himself at 
her opening, he pushed gently until he had fully entered her, 
then started pumping slowly.  Monica felt her entire being had 
been erased, and all that was left was a sequence of sensations 
that grew more and more powerful with every thrust.   Monica 
wrapped her legs around his, matching his thrusts with subtle 
yet urgent thrusts of her own.  Her breathing quickened, and she 
started to want their movements to quicken as well, when 
suddenly she heard Joe groan and felt a surge of warmth flooding 
her vagina.  Joe hugged her closely to him, and slowed to a 
stop. He pulled out of her and rolled to the side, keeping his 
face near hers.  "That was incredible," he whispered into her 
ear.  He slid his hand over her breasts in absent, random 
patterns.  "You're so beautiful..." he whispered even more 
softly, then kissed her cheek.

Monica laid next to him, thinking 'Is that it?' She looked at 
her clock -- ten more minutes until the food came.  She sighed.  
"Thank you," she whispered.

They were dressed by the time the food arrived, and Monica tried 
her best to hide her disappointment.  He has no idea, she 
thought.  Well, there's time... Next time I'll tell him what I 
want...  

She chewed her food silently as he exuberantly described some of 
his adventures on the job.  Then, he turned serious for a 
moment, and said, "My partner asked for a transfer -- all these 
cases with children, he just can't take it -- and we're having a 
little party for him.  Can you come?"

Monica smiled and swallowed.  "When?"

"Saturday afternoon.  We're going to have a pot-luck, and his 
wife and kid will be there.  I'm bringing my mom's baked ziti.  
You gotta try it.  My mom makes the best baked ziti in 
Brooklyn!"

She found his enthusiasm infectious, and said "Just say when -- 
I'm there!"

After dinner, Monica cleared the table, and put the dirty dishes 
in the sink.  Joe came up behind her and wrapped his arms around 
her waist.  He nuzzled her neck, then said, "I hate to do this, 
but I gotta go... My mom will wonder where I am."

Monica wheeled around.  "Your mom?  You live with your mother?"

"Sure, at least until I get married, and even then, it will take 
awhile to save money for a house..."

Monica blushed at his use of the m-word.  "I'm just a little 
surprised...  You seem so independent..."

"Thanks, but the city's expensive, and besides," he stroked her 
hair gently as he spoke.  "Ma needs me since dad died.  She 
shouldn't be living alone...."  He bent forward and gave her a 
peck on the cheek.  "Want to come to the gym again tomorrow?  
Lots of guest passes left..."  Monica nodded and he kissed her, 
briefly, on the lips.  "See you at 6:30," he said.  He walked to 
the door and let himself out.

****************************************************************
***********
THURSDAY

The next day, Monica's performance at the simulator was dismal.  
Brad looked on from a distance, until she finally turned and 
asked for his help.

"Let me see what you've done," he said, and with a few 
keystrokes was able to see a computer read-out of her results.  
"Hmmmmm.  You've killed three innocents, and died five times 
yourself....  What do you think the trouble is?"

"Distractions," Monica said immediately.  "Just like yesterday -
- worse, in fact."

"Well, this simulator is designed to be realistic, and yesterday 
you were firing at a known object, with limited distractions.  
Maybe you need an easier simulation to start with." He typed a 
few lines of text, clicked his mouse a few times, then said, 
"Let's see how you do with this one."

Monica positioned herself and put her gun out in front of her as 
Brad looked on from behind.  The simulator started, and a street 
scene appeared on the screen.  Her eyes darted from one part of 
the scene to the other, and from person to person.  A dog ran in 
front of her and she started to breathe faster, her mouth 
grimacing.  Finally, a figure emerged from the left and she shot 
at it, leaving her defenseless against the figure from the right 
who had a gun.  "Bang, bang, you're dead," said Brad.

Monica turned to face him, tears welling up in her eyes.  "What 
am I missing?" she asked in desperation.

Brad walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.  
"It's going to run again, exactly the same, now put up your 
gun," he said.  Monica did as she was told.  "Okay," he said, 
shaking her shoulders gently.  "Now, the important thing is to 
know which guy is the right guy.  You don't want to nail the 
first guy you see...  The right guy could come at you from any 
direction, and you won't notice him if you're distracted by the 
wrong guy.  Now, watch..." he described the scenario as it 
unfolded, instructing her on what to watch for.  He ran his 
hands down her arms to her elbows.  As he did so, his body moved 
closer to hers, his voice speaking more and more directly into 
her ear.

She turned her head to face him, and their lips accidentally 
grazed each other.  She lowered her arms and his hands moved 
from her elbows to her waist.  Their mouths went to each other, 
and they kissed hungrily.  She dropped the simulated gun and 
turned to wrap her arms around his waist.  She ran her hands 
over his back, and he drew his hands up and into her hair.  She 
pulled back a few inches and whispered, "People can see us.  We 
shouldn't..."

"Who cares?" he answered.  He kissed her passionately, and a 
throaty groan escaped his throat.  He moved his mouth to her ear 
and said in a loud whisper, "God, you're beautiful...  I can't 
stop thinking about you..."

Suddenly a very loud "ahem" caught their attention.  There, with 
a very stern and disapproving look, was Janet.  Brad and Monica 
stared at her, saying nothing.

"I've been sent here to tell you," Janet said grimly.  "That you 
are fired.  Both of you."

Before Brad or Monica could answer...  the alarm went off.  It 
was 6:00 a.m., time to get ready for another eight hours of work 
and sexual self-denial.

At 8:05, Monica rushed up the subway stairs, eager for a morning 
chat with the smoking secretaries, but they weren't at the 
entrance. She was running late, and she'd missed them. 

Janet sat at her desk, checking her e-mail while she sipped on 
her coffee. She looked up as a somewhat rushed and disheveled 
Monica threw open the door. "I'm late!" Monica announced, 
breathing heavily. 

"Relax," said Janet. "He's not here yet." Monica sighed loudly 
and sat down on the guest chair. "So tell me," Janet said, a 
glint in her eye. "Did you see Joe again?" 

"Yes," Monica said, smiling a little dreamily. "We went to the 
gym again..." Monica's mind drifted to the more pleasant 
memories of her evening with Joe. 

"When is he going to take you on a real date?" 

Monica was taken aback by this question. "He invited me to the 
farewell party for his partner. That's sort of like a date..." 
Monica's voice trailed off. "I get to meet his mother's baked 
ziti." 

"I bet his mother's baked ziti is the best in Brooklyn," Janet 
nodded knowingly. Monica looked at her with a startled 
expression. In answer, Janet added, "Every Italian boy's mama 
makes the best baked ziti in Brooklyn. Someday I'll bring some 
of mine in, and you'll see whose ziti is really the best." Janet 
winked, and Monica grinned. 

"Anyway, we're just getting to know each other," Monica said, a 
little defensively. "Going to the gym together is as good a way 
to get to know someone as going to the movies." 

"Just don't go too far too fast," Janet warned. "Italian boys 
don't marry hussies." 

Monica's jaw dropped. "Janet!" she exclaimed. "I'm not a hussy!" 
"I hope not!" Janet answered. "But I had to say it. If you 
didn't know about baked ziti..." She stopped talking when the 
outer door swung open. A flushed and panting Brad threw himself 
into the waiting room. 

Janet and Monica looked at him, then at each other. "I'm sorry 
I'm late," Brad said to Monica. It sounded to her as if he were 
truly sorry, not just making excuses for himself, and she was 
flattered. 

Janet interrupted, "A.D. Williams called. He wants you to call 
him right away." 

Brad's worried expression surprised Monica, but he didn't 
notice. He raced into his office and shut the door. Monica 
looked to Janet for an explanation, but Janet had assumed the 
professional demeanor of her office. 

A moment later Brad emerged, more calm, his color back to 
normal. 
"Agent Reyes," he said in his most professional voice. "We've 
had a change of schedule. Instead of the simulator, this morning 
we'll be observing an autopsy. It's the child from the 
dumpster." 

Monica swallowed and could feel panic threatening to overtake 
her. If merely being near that child made her vomit... "I'm not 
sure I can..." she looked at Brad pleadingly. 

"Surely you observed some autopsies at Quantico?" Brad replied, 
keeping his businesslike expression. Monica nodded. "Well," he 
said, "it's harder when it's a child, but it's part of our job. 
And it's part of your training. As A.D. Williams pointed out, we 
don't know when there will be another opportunity." He turned to 
Janet and said "Please reschedule Ms. Reyes' simulator 
training." 

At the morgue, Monica felt her legs becoming heavier with every 
step they took toward the autopsy room. Brad's steps seemed to 
become louder and more determined in response to her attempt to 
slow down. A few feet from the door, he turned to her and looked 
into her eyes. "Monica," he said gently, "you don't have to stay 
the whole time, but at least try." 

She felt a rush of gratitude, admiration, and, to her 
astonishment, lust when he said this. "Thank you," she said 
through lips that were stiffening in response to impending 
quivering. "I'll do my best." 

"That's all I ask," he responded tenderly. He put his hand 
behind her elbow, and escorted her to the door. 

Once inside, the matter-of-fact attitude of the medical examiner 
helped Monica to put aside her feelings of dread. Brad explained 
to him that Monica was there as an observer, and that he was 
there because he had discovered the body. A glance from Follmer 
told Monica not to let on that she'd been there. The three stood 
together in an awkward silence, until the M.E. offered, "We're 
waiting for the local P.D." 

As if on cue, Joe entered, his blue uniform straining over his 
muscular physique, and Monica suddenly remembered her first, 
very exhilirating, impresssions of him. She couldn't help 
sighing, and Brad couldn't help noticing her sigh. He shook his 
head and resolved to figure out a way to nip this in the bud. 

Another man followed behind Joe. This man was tall and thin, and 
wore street clothes. His shocking red hair topped a pale, 
freckled face, his bright blue eyes piercing the pale fog of his 
face. The man walked quickly up to the M.E. and extended his 
hand. "Detective Patrick Williams." 
Brad made the connection instantly. Williams! That's how news 
was getting back to FBI! He sighed as he realized how much work 
it was going to be putting a plug in this leak.

The group maintained a respectful distance as the M.E. pulled 
back the zipper on the tiny body bag and started his 
investigation.  Follmer positioned himself to keep an eye on his 
trainee and the two men who already knew too much.

As the M.E. described the injuries inflicted on this child, 
Monica started to see the events surrounding them.  Repeated 
blows to the same few locations, barely perceptible bruising 
revealing weeks of injuries at different stages of healing, a 
broken wrist, cigarette burns at very specific locations, each 
paralleled by another on the opposite side of the child's 
body... Monica felt the heat and nausea she'd felt when she'd 
first encountered the body, and breathed deeply in an attempt to 
quell these feelings.  It seemed to be working, and as the M.E. 
opened the body and examined the organs, she felt in control of 
herself.  One by one he pulled out the organs, described their 
condition, weighed them.... and Monica felt stronger with each 
one.  Until he came to the heart...

The baby's heart was slightly enlarged, according to the M.E., 
and when he pulled it out of the chest, Monica could swear she 
saw it beat.  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and 
when she opened them, the heart beat faintly, but regularly, its 
muscles contracting and expanding more and more vigorously until 
Monica felt overwhelmed by a wave of nausea.  She ran for the 
door, feeling a hot breeze as from a hot furnace, chasing behind 
her.  She slammed the door against he feeling, and looked for a 
trash can.  She grabbed a small trash container and sat on one 
of the benches that lined the hallway, wretching violently the 
second the can was under her.

After she was finished, her head still poised over the trash 
can, Monica tried to focus on breathing deeply, her eyes closed 
against the visions.  As her breathing slowed, her mind cleared, 
her visions faded to black, and her stomach returned to normal.  
She rested that way for a moment, resolved to return to the 
autopsy, when she felt a hand brushing her hair back.  She 
looked up to see Joe, and she grinned grimly.  He offered her a 
glass of water and she put both of her hands around it, lifting 
it to her mouth and draining it quickly, keeping her eyes on 
his.  "Thank you," she said when she was finished.

He stroked her hair with gentleness that astonished her.  "Are 
you sure you're in the right profession?" he asked with genuine 
concern.  Her eyebrows showed him he'd made a mistake.  "I 
mean," he continued awkwardly.  "You are so sensitive...  and 
you seem to love children... It's hard enough for a man...  I 
can't even imagine what it must be like for a woman to see 
something like that."

A cold glint jumped into her eyes and her chin jutted out 
slightly.  "I can handle this.  I'm not used to it... and what I 
saw and felt, it's not just the body...  it's evil itself..."  
Joe's only response was an expression of pity mixed with 
condescension, making Monica bristle more.  "Really, Joe.  If I 
don't see those evil visions, I'm fine."

"Monica, think about it.  In your division, you will be seeing 
these evil visions every day," Joe responded, enveloping one of 
her hands into both of his, focusing his eyes on hers.

She looked back into his eyes, but before she could answer, Brad 
appeared in front of them.  Monica's face flushed, her hand 
instinctively pulled out of Joe's grasp, and she looked up into 
his disapproving face.  "Are you okay, Agent Reyes?"  His voice 
was hard-edged and professional, carefully modulated to mask all 
traces of his jealousy, concern, and fear.

Absently handing the glass to Joe, Monica nodded and started to 
rise.  Brad took a step backward to give her space.  As she 
star