Two of Steph's long guns, the .50 caliber M82 A1 and the M4 .223 caliber carbine. Size comparison is valid, as these weapons are represented to equal scale. Stephanie found them quite useful for home defense, and just kinda nice and reassuring to have around.

"Blimey, Steph, who are these sods?" Lizzie complained with annoyance. "Why, they've no bloody manners at all, standing about before the screen like this. They claimed to be FBI they did, but "From Boyhood Impotence" is a punk band, and these blokes are done up in suits. I rang up WSFX and the DJ said they're playing in Seattle tonight, don't you know. We chatted for a while about this, of course. Upon my word, they're poxy fibbing imposters, they are! The nerve, I say. I ought to flog their bums red with a seat belt, I should."

Some time later, the agents had called their office and attributed the attack they'd sustained in Steph's driveway to subversive elements, perhaps allied with the bombers. The news crews filled in the story of how the fortuitous appearance of four FBI agents had foiled an attempt on the life of the heroic bomb removal officer. As usual, the public ate up the dramatic and acceptable lies. Thankfully, the bureau found the explanation plausible as well. Well, mostly they did. (Author's note: There is no X-Files section in the real FBI. Take my word for it, I called their public information line and asked.)

"I see," the commissioner replied with approval, "good work, Sergeant Walker, guts and compassion. All the more admirable since you've overcome your speech impediment. Are you dyslexic?" (Author's note: He probably meant dysphonic.)

Stephanie twitched. The Glock barked. Oops, Steph exclaimed silently, (Author's note: can one exclaim silently? Gotta ask the editor.), as the captain's body was flung out of the limo by the impact of the 9mm hollow point bullet. It had opened a perfect round hole in her forehead. The exit wound would be the size of an orange.

Hi, I'm Michelle Allen. I'm 20 years old now, but I was 19 when things got interesting. People I know sometimes me call me Chelle, (pronouncing it like Shelly, even though it should be like Shell, ya know? People are so stupid!). So anyway…my friends, (and other people I don't know), call me Michelle, Ms. Allen…or Candy, (teehee).

(Author's note: Ok, that's sorta embarrassing. I was young, and well, you know, I'd grown up wearing midriff tees that said Pornstar. I started swimming at the YMCA in a wicked weasel when I was 13, and I went to school in my first latex mini-dress at 15, so hey, what was I supposed to think? Anyway, like my email thingie says, chellesok now. So, anyway, I'm gonna like, trust ya not to tell Steph until I can somehow figure out how to ease the topic into an innocent conversation, preferably after a few beers.)

It had been another stiflingly hot, overly bright day in mid-September, just like every other day between January and December. I'd guess it was about 115°F, because it always was. The TV was on as usual, since there wasn't anything to do in Kettleman City but watch TV, drink, smoke cigarettes, and have sex. It was even too hot to masturbate until after dark. Take my word for it, I know. I grew up there trying to do it in a bathtub full of tepid water. So anyway, enough about that until I know you better, (grin).

I can count the number of unexpected things that have happened in my life on one finger. That event occurred one day when I was 9, and I met a beautiful, mysterious woman dressed as a hooker, crying in the shadow of her old car. She was stopped at the dead end on Becky Pease St., and I was running away from home with my talking cat. That was 11 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday because I fantasized about that woman almost every day. In Kettleman City, she passed for glamorous.

She was drunk and I was miserable, so she seemed like good company. When I asked her if she'd been crying, she looked at me funny and offered me a seat. I accepted and told her my problems, while she listened, genuinely concerned. I had recently lost my mother, and that morning my father had nearly died of his allergies. He was demanding that I take my only friend to the vet to be put to sleep. Barney the Cat had been my oldest and closest friend since I was 5, and I was willing to leave home to protect him. In the end, the woman talked me out of running away and promised to save Barney. I was heartbroken at having to go on without him, but he told me it was for the best, and so she drove away with him. I prayed every night that he was safe and happy.

Anyway, with a history of talking to my cat and being naturally sorta withdrawn, I did the obvious thing. I overcompensated and became a tart. I was addicted to glamour after meeting Stephanie, and like any good father, my dad encouraged me.

My dad was in charge of security for the oil field. Mostly, he was bored. Not many people steal oil, ya know? (He said it was crude). So anyway, I guess he just started to indulge his darker side after my mom died. He stayed wired on caffeine, constantly watched professional wrestling, and bought a compound bow and hunting arrows. There was nothing to shoot at, so even I knew he was crazy. Still, I loved him because he bought me the sexiest clothes and encouraged me to "flaunt it". I know he loved me. He understood what I needed to know to succeed, so he showed me instructional videos and lots of hot pics. Eventually, we did "workshops" together, you know, like, late at night and on the weekends. He called them "Sarah-gutsy" training…or something like that. Well, anyway, he said that I'm not supposed to talk about it, so…nevermind.

At 17, I graduated from Corcoran High School in Corcoran, (duh), California, and then settled into a really dull day job at the convenience store. That's where I got addicted to Skittles. It was boring and it sucked. I was working up the nerve to go to Los Angeles and become a prostitute, because for years I'd assumed that's what that woman I'd met was. On that momentous afternoon, I'd been watching the Sex Channel on CableBlue, before the yellow car showed up and the pounding started on the door. (I was taking their home study course on "adult services careers"). When I noticed the cougar with the fedora, slouching in the front seat, and the bob kitten on my doorstep, I knew a change had arrived. I was ready…I'd been ready for the last eight years.

HI! So okay, it's me. I had this pic taken by some guy I used to have sex with. He said he'd help me become an "actress", in LA. Anyway, he was an asshole, cause he sold my pics to some website. It really pissed me off, ya know? Enough about that. Anyway, I had met Stephanie Walker when I was 9, and had become inordinately attracted to her in only one hour (grin). She talked me out of running away from home, and she drove off with my cat, Barney, who was my best and only friend. I spent years wanting to be a prostitute like her, (giggle) and later I spent years finding out everything I could about her. It didn't amount to much. I'd only hoped that we'd cross paths again, until one afternoon when her friends came to my house in need of help. It was 10 years later, and I'd grown up. Guys had been all over me for years, but I was hoping that just maybe I could get into Stephanie's pants. So anyway, do ya think I look sexy?

I could tell there was no way this day was normal, thank god, so I scooped up the kitten, thinking he'd want milk. Actually, he mostly wanted to talk. The poor thing was practically beside himself, babbling on and on about an explosion in San Francisco, and how insane the yellow car drove. Then he begged me to hide the three of them so they wouldn't get "chopped up to see what made them tick". I was curious myself, but I could sympathize with not wanting to end up in pieces, preserved in a jar somewhere. Besides, even I knew that it was impossible to really understand what makes another person tick.

To be honest, I had started off wondering about the kitten's story. It sounded so far fetched that I suspected he'd gotten some bad tuna and was reiterating a nightmare. Then I realized that I should question his friends outside. I set him down in front of the TV with a saucer of milk, and walked outside into the blazing heat. The little yellow car was still there, and the cougar was lounging on the curb in the car's shadow. They eyed me questioningly, the car tilting on its tires to watch my approach.

"Hey guys, kitty there tells me you've fallen on some rough times," I said, "but his narrative was a bit fragmented, so I was wondering if you could fill me in."

It seemed like they both breathed sighs of relief. The cougar grinned at me, which was a bit unnerving considering his teeth, and tipped his hat. I smiled. He was a gentleman, a nonexistent quantity in Kettleman City, where the usual mode of greeting I got included a leer and a flashing of cash.

"I'm Michelle," I told them, "what're your names?"

"Lizzie Cooper here," the car began politely, "and allow me to introduce my dear friend, John Cougar. The kitten doesn't have a name yet, poor dear, at least not a one that we rightly know. We live in San Francisco, but we've had to fly the coop, don't ya know. Our dearest friend is still there, but she's dreadfully hurt, and I'm so very worried about her. I do apologize heartily for simply appearing on your doorstep, Michelle, but aye, hard times have befallen us indeed." By the end of her statement, Lizzie's front end was drooping and she was shaking her fenders back and forth sadly. John Cougar draped a paw on her roof and stroked her reassuringly.

The poor thing looked so sad, and god, did I love her accent. I knew I had to help them.

"Why don't you come up to the house? You must be tired after your trip, and I can offer you some refreshments. Then, you can tell me what happened, and if you want, we can figure out what to do."

They agreed without too much prompting, and I led Lizzie to the carport next to the kitchen. She breathed a sigh of relief once she'd settled in the shade. I brought out a frozen pizza and set it on the driveway to cook, and then turned on the lawn sprinkler to cool off my guests. John Cougar requested seltzer with a twist of lemon. I gave Lizzie 5 gallons of fresh, homemade high-test gasoline, and replenished her fluids and battery electrolyte. The kitten had finished his milk, and wandered out to join us. I had pulled up a folding recliner and a raspberry wine cooler. I'd put on my neon yellow wicked weasel suit and Foster-Grants, and I was amused to see John Cougar gulp as I adjusted the thong. After we settled in, enjoying the shade as the shadows of the late afternoon lengthened, it was time for a serious talk. With a sigh, Lizzie began to relate their story.

Well, it was the most incredible thing I'd ever heard. I was completely entranced, eating up every detail. Lizzie Cooper and John Cougar traded off their narration of the events of the last year and 9 months. I was thinking, movie script. Ya see, in my spare time I write fiction and stuff, mostly porn, but also some sci-fi, horror, and mystery. I can't even remember when I started; it was so long ago. Anyway, the tale those two told me was beyond anything that I could ever remember hearing. The audiences would eat it up just like I had. We would all be rich and famous, and back then, I couldn't imagine wanting anything else. Long before they finished, I was wondering, what had happened before Lizzie and John had entered their friend's life. I was kinda hoping it hadn't been boring.

One thing that I'm sure you'll think was incredible, was that I didn't put two and two together. Yes, their friend and the woman I was fixated on were both named Stephanie Walker, but I figured that the name was common enough that their friend and the woman I'd met were two different people. I mean, I had discovered that the woman who had taken my cat was named Stephanie Walker, that she was from Bakersfield, and that she'd disappeared right after graduating from Bakersfield High School at the top of her class. That was about it. I figured that she must have gone to L.A. and become a Pornstar. Why else was she dressed like such a slut, and how else could she afford that car? She'd been drunk, and she'd smelled like a brewery smokestack. I'd guessed that she'd been crying because she was either disadvantageously pregnant or had learned that she had an infection. I never expected to see her again, but she'd inspired me and I'd emulated her.

The woman they described was a cop, a hero, and even I had heard about her between songs on the radio news. I didn't read a newspaper or watch the TV news, just movies, music vids, and educational programs on CableBlue, the Sex Channel. I mean, why bother? Nothing ever happened in Kettleman City and the rest of the world didn't even know we existed. For all practical purposes, we didn't. Hence my constant search for notoriety, fame, and glamour. (I'd made a start at least. The guys in town knew me, called at all hours of the day, and always greeted me on the streets with wolf whistles and 1-hour job offers.). Deep inside, I couldn't have believed these two women were the same. I mean, I'd built my whole life around the glamorous image of what I thought she was. It would have required me to acknowledge that everything I'd ever done was wrong.

Between the three of us, we decided that Lizzie and John should lay low for a while. We watched the news together on the aging Mitsubishi in the living room. The glass doors to the back yard allowed Lizzie to pull up on the lawn and watch too. In San Francisco, people were trying to sort out the terrorist attack on the parade. CNN was carrying the story with updates every half-hour, but before midnight, they had nothing new to add. For "security purposes", no mention was made of the whereabouts of Sergeant Stephanie Walker, the mayor, or the police commissioner. The low quality pictures they showed of her, in her bomb disposal HAZMAT suit, could have been anyone with dark hair pulled back and sunglasses. The rumors of a talking car and cougar were a comic sidebar, and the witnesses had been discounted as traumatized or crazy.

I switched the cable off and played a DVD of "Babes Behind Bars", one of my personal favorites. The plot was a bit thin, but the women were so beautiful that I could ignore the fact that they stared at the camera while delivering their lines. Within 5 minutes I could tell it was a mistake. John Cougar was peeking at the screen from between his paws, and Lizzie was blushing orange. They weren't appreciating the soft jazz soundtrack either.

I sighed, thinking, prudes, and switched it for the "Return to Oz" DVD. They loved it and took everything at face value. Fairuza Balk's portrayal of the delusional little Dorothy Gale reflected their own world. Like Steph, Dorothy lived in a world of talking animal friends and improbable adventures. But where Dorothy had been alone in her belief in the Land of Oz, Stephanie Walker had allies. There were other parallels. The friendly, happy Land of Oz was surrounded by a deadly desert that could turn the living into sand. I went into the bathroom to lie in the tub since the house was finally cooling off enough to…never mind.

Later that night, after entertaining my "Sunday night regular", I had to awaken Lizzie from a bad dream. She was sputtering and grinding her gears in the carport, having a nightmare about the Gnome King. The poor sensitive thing was so apologetic and finally broke down and admitted that she was scared and lonely. I ended up crawling into the back seat and curling up. We chatted in whispers for a while before finally dozing off. The next morning my back was as stiff as a nice hard…uh, never mind…from sleeping curled up funny without a pillow between my thighs.

The next day we watched the CNN news and heard that a few details had been released. The mayor was recovering at an undisclosed location and the election had been postponed for a month. The police commissioner was recovering at an undisclosed location and there were rumors of his resignation. A police captain was found dead, and the official word was that she was the only person shot by the terrorist.

Several days later, we heard that Sergeant Stephanie Walker had been stabilized at an undisclosed location and then flown to Walter Reed Army Hospital, in the Washington, D.C. suburb of Bethesda, Md. Apparently this was done for her protection from further terrorist retribution that was suspected by the FBI. We decided to sit tight for the time being.

About the only thing of interest to this story that happened during the two weeks following the explosion in San Francisco was that we named the kitten. He'd been getting whiny about being called "the kitten", and Lizzie had insisted that Steph believed anyone who could voice an opinion should have a name. I'd caught her on the Internet, searching through websites filled with baby names. Some of them were pretty appalling. To John Cougar, who had existed for years without a name, the concept was less imperative, but Lizzie was adamant. We decided to call him Homey the Kitten. He hated it and went off to sulk. Later on we all gave in to his desires and agreed to call him Elvis the Kitten. (Author's note: the self-aggrandizing little shit.)

As the weeks went by and no more terrorist activity came to light, the stories disappeared from the news. The media has a short attention span, knowing their consumers, and so we began to realize that when Stephanie returned to San Francisco, there was no guarantee that the TV would tell us.

We later found out that Steph had been trapped in the Walter Reed Army Hospital for a total of five and a half weeks. It was one of the most dismal times in her life. At first her injuries had restrained her, but dark forces were at work too. The FBI had actually been superseded by a special government "research group". They had reason to believe that there was some truth to the stories about a talking car and cougar that associated with Sgt. Walker. As always, they were thinking about strategic applications, but to Steph, her friends were never going to become a government black box project. They were her family.

When it became clear that Stephanie wouldn't tell them what they wanted to hear, they threatened to destroy her career by leaking the fact that she'd shot Capt. Martinez. Steph laughed at them. She knew the media and the people loved her. So the Feds stepped up the pressure. They'd already been keeping Steph drugged, attempting to break her by enforcing her helplessness. Now they upped the dosages. They were counting on the damage to her strong sense of self-reliance to make her crack. When even that didn't work, they switched tactics again. They sicced the freelance agent, Connie Stanton, on her. By the time we freed her, it was almost too late. She'd been brainwashed and at first, her friends could barely recognize her.

When you drop your drawers,

I see the moon,

And the stars of Hollywood,

Can bite my sleeve.

It was simply the most recent in a succession of incidents proceeding a pathetic and ill-fated tryst, based on the projections of one woman's fantasies, and the other woman's forced abstention and horniness. (Author's note: How very sordid, teehee.)

It was mid-November 2001, and two months had gone by since the explosion. Once a week, we'd driven out to different town to call Steph's house, but we never got a person to answer. Finally one afternoon, after calling from Fresno and getting the answering machine again, Lizzie decided it was time to go home. John Cougar agreed, saying that he could only leave the land untended for so long before the ecosystem broke down. I didn't really understand his reasoning, but I went along to sit in the driver's seat as cover.

The day before we left, I took Lizzie to the Speedy Finish Shop in Bakersfield, and had her painted a deep royal blue. She looked gorgeous and glossy, and she was really happy with her new colored baked enamel. Best of all, she wouldn't be easily recognized.

"Why, Michelle, thank you ever so much for the new outfit," she joyfully said, "I feel as if I'm decked out for the holidays, like Cinderella off to the ball." She was so sweet, and seeing her happiness made me fell really good.

"You look very lovely, hon," I told her, "that shade of blue is very becoming on you."

Bright and early the next morning, we locked up the house. It was still warm during the daylight, but the night temperatures could be downright chilly. Further north it was cool and damp; the start of the rainy season in the Pacific Northwest along the coast. I wore blue jean cutoffs, vintage LA Gear sneakers, and a powder blue baby doll tee that said "Pornstar" in glitter across my chest. I'd packed a small overnight bag and brought Elvis' dishes and litterbox.

"We're so indebted to you, Michelle, for your wonderful hospitality, don't you know," Lizzie said as she released her parking brake, "you've been a blessing to us, 'tis the gods' honest truth."

"It's really true," John Cougar said when I began to protest, "Steph was right to trust you. You've kept Lizzie and me safe these past few weeks. I doubt that we can ever repay you for your kindness."

It was one of the first times I'd experienced honest gratitude, but then, I wasn't given to being a benefactor. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, rather than hot and slick inside, a condition I was much more familiar with. I'll admit I kinda liked it since it was so much less messy.

Lizzie pulled out of the driveway and onto General Petroleum Ave., headed for SR-41. As we rolled down her windows, she put on some tunes, hard rockin' oldies to begin our trip. Rachel Sweet blasted through her speakers, "Tonight", "Jealous", "Spellbound", and "Foul Play", from her second album, "Protect The Innocent". It had been released in 1979, 22 years ago. The music was older than I was and I was hearing it for the first time. When the first song started, I'd thought it was early Pat Benetar, but it was harder, faster, and rawer. Sweet had been 17 when the album was recorded, but by then she'd already been a professional musician for 12 years. The album ended and another began. this time, Lizzie was playing Lene Lovitch, from her 1979 "Stateless" album. She was another artist I'd never heard before, a pioneer of the old New Wave. There was humor in her lyrics, and she used her clear, theatrical, highly controlled voice to give the numbers a unique character. Lizzie finished her eclectic set with "Milano Calibro 9", by the Italian art rock band, Osanna. I heard hard heavy tunes like the old King Crimson, a fast breathless flute that reminded me of Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson, and melodic orchestral ballads.

"Where did you find this music, Lizzie? I've never heard of any of these people."

"Oh, why I've some friends at the radio stations in San Francisco," she told me, "and they're bloody wizardly at music. Those chaps know every blooming song recorded in the last fifty years, they do, and they've made me countless CDs, God bless 'em."

Lizzie Cooper, with her new blue paint job, leaves Kettleman City amidst heat waves, November 2001. She was headed back to San Francisco to look for Stephanie, with John Cougar, Elvis the Kitten, and their new friend, Michelle Allen, (the now grown-up little girl who had once owned Barney the Cat). She had met Steph and Brittanie the Desoto, at the age of 9.

The trip up I-5 passed quickly as the miles flew by. John Cougar and Elvis the Kitten were quiet in the back seat, neither being veteran automobile passengers, and both still nervous from their previous trip. The distance from my house in Kettleman City, to Steph's house in Sausalito, was about 220 road miles, and the drive took almost 5 hours. We finally pulled off of East Rd., and into Stephanie's driveway, at 2:00 pm.

At first sight, Lizzie Cooper and John Cougar reported that the premises looked unchanged, though we assumed that the FBI had probably broken in and searched the house and grounds. Sure enough, when we got further up the driveway, we could see craters in the yard from several exploded land mines. At the house, Lizzie used her garage door opener to disarm the alarm systems. After a programmed delay, the door slid sideways in a track along the wall, rather than rolling upwards as expected. As soon as we were inside, Lizzie closed up the garage door and reset the outside alarms.

John Cougar, Elvis the Kitten, and I climbed out and looked around. There was some evidence of disturbance; some DVDs out of place and furnishings moved around. Lizzie turned on a video monitor with a remote that John plugged into her cell phone outlet. She rapidly reset a DVD-RW disc and we watched the surveillance recording from one of the many cameras around the house and grounds. There would be a set of discs, each fed from a different camera, and each triggered to record when the alarm system was tripped.

We witnessed four incidents of intrusion. The first two had been aborted when Steph's countermeasures caused casualties among the trespassers. The third intrusion had seen the rifling of the rooms' furnishings, a moderately through search that proceeded at a slow and paranoid pace. They'd been inside the house for over three hours and had left with very little "evidence". The last incident had been for the purpose of planting listening devices in the hopes of learning if anyone entered.

The bugs were of two types. The first kind sensed sounds in the house and would activate its microphones whenever a noise was detected. Somewhere in a remote office, an agent would be listening and recording whatever the microphones picked up, ready to dispatch a team of agents to the house. They must have become very bored. Stephanie had rigged her house with a tone generator that filled the rooms with white noise when she wasn't home, and the bugs would have been activated by the constant buzzing.

The second type of bug was activated when the telephones rang or a computer modem initialized. These reported on conversations and Internet usage. Stephanie's phone lines were protected by a pulse generator that burned out the bugs' circuits on a regular basis. They had probably been rendered inoperable in the first half-hour after their installation. They would have required hourly replacement since.

Lizzie pointed out a sliding panel in the ceiling and told me to open it and retrieve a circuit detector. I spent the next 20 minutes searching out the bugs and removing them. I finally had a collection of a dozen small devices. Lizzie had me microwave them all for 30 seconds on HI. After that, I went outside and flung them over the cliff into the bay. John Cougar had wandered outside with a mini-DV cam the size of a cigarette pack.

When I came back in, Lizzie was already online, her "chatty phone" wired to a computer with voice recognition software. She was searching websites for clues to Steph's whereabouts. I watched in awe as she hacked into the patient database for Walter Reed and found out that Steph had been discharged ten days before. She sighed and logged off. John Cougar unplugged the cell phone from the modem and Lizzie Cooper started autodialing.

"Good day, Lizzie Cooper here, would you be so kind as to connect me with Maxwell Blackthorne, the program director, if you please," Lizzie asked politely of someone who had answered her call. She waited a few moments before someone picked up on the other end.

"Oh yes, it has been a while, hasn't it. Dear me, I've just returned home, but I've become privy to some exceptional footage exposing a scandal…if you're interested of course."

She listened for a while, and I would have sworn she was smiling.

"Blimey, Maxwell, it's a bloody shame what I've seen. Surely I can leave you with a tape. You'll send a courier straight away? That would be capitol, Maxwell. I'll leave it with my assistant, Michelle…yes, she's new here. Of course we can arrange a luncheon, somehow between your schedule and mine. Oh I'll be sure to have my people call yours. Capitol, Maxwell, top of the day to you…cheerio." And with that she rang off.

"So, uh, what was that all about?" I asked, curious about how I'd come to be her assistant.

"Well, luv, we've some dubbing to do. Now if you'd be so kind, would you and John make VHS copies of the surveillance DVDs? I've arranged to have them shown on Bay Watch, on the 5:00 p.m. edition, don't you know?" Lizzie giggled, imagining the FBI's embarrassment.

It was within my area of interest. Media manipulation and image broadcast, the keys to glamour and stardom. I could learn a few tricks from Lizzie. We set to work, making two tapes from the DVDs. The first showed the FBI breaking in and searching Steph's house. The second showed them planting bugs. Lizzie Cooper was plugged into an editing board, writing text explaining the footage, when a monitor lit up showing the courier's motorcycle at the East Rd. gate. I buzzed him in and watched as he drove up to the house. By the time he rang the doorbell, the tape was finished and I met him at the door. (He spent the entire time ogling my breasts. He was nice about it though…he didn't drool on my tee. I rewarded him with a jiggle and a pout, getting the expected reaction. I figured if it was hard…riding like that.)

Lizzie had spent the rest of the afternoon on the web, trying to find clues as to where Stephanie had disappeared to. I wandered around the house, trying to straighten up the mess that the agents had left. I felt like I was intruding into the life of a very private person. Aside from clothing and the photographs, there were very few personal items to be seen. There were no family pictures or any of the knick-knacks I had expected. There were some framed photos of Stephanie's friends, an old car, a bobcat, a Japanese man in BDUs, and a pig. There were some shots of a series of railroad cars overlooking a cliff with the bay in the background, and I realized they had once sat where Steph's house now stood. There were only a few images with Steph herself in them, mostly group shots. There were no portraits of her at all. There was a story here for sure.

Stephanie's wardrobe was dominated by black BDUs, but there were also some civilian clothes, nice casual wear, some really slutty looking pieces, and a lot of shoes. I held up a pair of jeans, worn pale by years of washing, and realized that Steph was very tall. The cuffs hung 4" below the soles of my feet, and even in stilettos I would have tripped over a couple inches of cloth. I held up a jumpsuit and noted that Stephanie would probably stand a head taller than me, at least.

I looked at the photos again. There was one taken of her in an Army MPs uniform, standing with a company of soldiers in a desert somewhere. They were posing in front of a Humvee with "Chrissie" scrawled across the doors in chalk. She was as tall as anyone there. The next photo showed Steph with a bobcat, sitting on the hood of an old car. She was smiling at the camera, with the bay in the background. It showed her closer, and it was the first time I had seen her face clearly. She was a dark haired beauty with pale blue eyes. Her expressive mouth curved up at the corners, and was fuller, almost pouty, at the center…very kissable. I was standing about 6" from the glass in the frame, staring at her image without blinking. There was something about those eyes; the earnest, almost sad expression on her face, despite the smile that curled her lips. I'd seen that look before.

I reeled away from the picture on the wall and collapsed onto the bed that lay in the center of the room. The mattress was warm, and it gave slightly under my weight before rebounding, raising my body before letting it sink back down again. A waterbed. I hardly noticed. I was a little girl again, looking up into a kindly woman's face while sitting in the shadow of her car. I was 9 years old and I was running away from home to save my cat; to save the life of my only friend. She had been there and she had been here. And she had been in my heart for more than half my life. I had been so totally wrong about her and everything I had believed was wrong too. My whole life had been based on a false dream, and one picture had brought it crashing down. My Stephanie Walker was this Stephanie Walker. The girl who had disappeared after graduating from Bakersfield High was the same woman who had become a hero in San Francisco, not a prostitute or a pornstar in LA.

I probably lay there crying for over an hour. Elvis found me curled in a ball on Steph's waterbed, sobbing quietly. I felt him snuggle up against me and I heard the rumbling of his purr. It was the most comforting thing I could imagine. I gathered him closer against my chest and held him, letting the warm contact with his fur sooth me. Eventually my tears ceased and I drifted off into a sleep that was troubled by unwelcome dreams. I remembered the last one.

I was standing on a street corner in a seedy part of a nameless city. It was a summer night and I was dressed for work. The shorts I wore showed the bottoms of my ass cheeks clearly, my legs taut in 5" heels. The fabric was sheer and clingy, and showed no panty lines because I wasn't wearing any. I shimmied to adjust myself in my hot pink tube top, noting that I had placed tiny rubber bands around my nipples to keep them prominently pointed. The tube was barely 5" wide and the curves at the bottoms of my breasts were revealed, along with an ample depth of cleavage. I was already heated and moist, so I knew I had been out for a while. I checked my tiny clutch bag. Sure enough, it held nothing but condoms and handy wipes, a cell phone and a roll of cash, breath mints and some basic makeup.

Across the street stood a nightclub with darkened windows and a few flashing lights above the door. A scattering of people were entering and exiting as I watched. I crossed the street to advertise myself close up; noting the appraising looks the patrons gave me. I watched their eyes, looking for the look that said they wanted more than a glance and were willing to pay for my company. I strutted slowly by them, looking them in the eyes. The letter of the law said I couldn't offer, but I could accept if they asked, so I waited for an offer of interest. There'd be a short negotiation and then a quick walk, either into the alley across the street, or to the motel around the corner that rented rooms by the hour. So far this group was just gawking. I turned my back and bent down to adjust the strap on my pump. I heard breaths being sucked in behind me, but still no one approached.

I'd stayed down as long as I needed to, to know that all I could expect was that they'd enjoyed seeing the wedgie from my tightened shorts. I had started to straighten back up when a pair of jeans came into my field of view. The snakeskin cowboy boots below the jeans had moved in a step away from me and I followed the long legs up to a swirling silver belt buckle and the bottom of a white dress shirt. It was a woman, I could tell from the jean-clad swell of her hips that had risen from the slenderness of her calves and thighs. I followed her shirt up across a flat belly to where it tightened across breasts that looked so full on her slender torso. Above her collar a slim neck rose to a beautiful face with defined cheekbones, a straight nose, tapered lips that were full at the center, and pale blue eyes darkened in the streetlights. She had elegantly curving brows and wore her dark auburn hair loose on her shoulders, where it fell in waves from a slight widow's peak at her hairline. She was looking intently at me, but her expression was somewhat sad. She moved closer and leaned down to whisper to me. Even in my 5" heels she was still half a head taller.

"Sweetheart," she said in a slightly raspy voice, "I'm so very sorry that you got the wrong idea about me and patterned your life after what you thought mine was like. I wish I had known. I wish I could have told you how things really were. I know it's too late now for any of that, but when we meet, I'll make it up to you somehow. I promise."

She leaned in closer towards me, wrapping my slim body in her strong arms, and I felt her breathing as she brought her mouth towards mine. My eyes were closing in anticipation, and then I felt her lips, so soft and warm. I whimpered into her mouth as her tongue stroked my open lips, before slipping inside where I stroked it with my own. I had wrapped my arms around her neck, and I was holding on for dear life. I could feel her breasts resting above mine, and I could feel her hands caressing the bare skin at the small of my back. I leaned into her body, pressing against her for the warmth and the security that I felt. It was as if I belonged there. We were breathing together, our chests rising and falling in tandem, and I was becoming extremely aroused by her kiss and her embrace. This had nothing to do with my profession.

"I want you with me, Michelle. I want to take care of you," she whispered as she reached up and cupped my cheek. For the first time that I could remember, it wasn't code talk for a trick.

Even though we were enjoying intense physical contact, I was stimulated way out of proportion to what was happening. I felt the pressure building in my belly and the heat throbbing between my legs. I was shamelessly thrusting myself against her thigh, my knees apart and bent, my back arched. My body was demanding this expression, and then I was cumming. I clutched at her, gasping, clenching my thighs as I rode out the spasms, as my insides tightened around themselves and jerked. A shot of slippery fluid squirted from my body in a gush of release. (Author's note: Yes, I'm a "squirter", which I'd thought would be an asset as a pornstar, but like everything, it has a downside.) My heart rate peaked, and for golden moments I felt the darkness calling as I nearly passed out. Then the orgasm subsided and my breathing slowed, and I slept dreamlessly.

When I awoke it was dark outside the bedroom windows. Someone had pulled a light blanket over me and slipped a pillow beneath my head. I was still dressed, but my shoes were lying on the floor. It must have been hours later. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, dislodging the crusts of dried tears. I didn't want to confront myself in a mirror.

When I started to sit up I felt a sharp painful pulling between my legs. Owwwww, I was stuck, damn it, pasted to my Jockeys by my now dried passion. This had happened before a few times, and usually I took the precaution of sleeping nude. I reached down and undid my belt, then unsnapped my cutoffs. I slowly slid a hand under my clothes and confirmed that it was going to be uncomfortable. Somehow the Jockeys had crawled, migrating to give me the wedgie I'd dreamed about, and now they were securely pasted to my lips. So much for my nice absorbent cotton underwear. Oh cruel world, I thought, as I struggled out of my cutoffs and socks. Walking gingerly, I tiptoed to the bathroom, trying my best not to move my pelvis. I'd found that sitting in a tub for a minute was less painful than just gritting my teeth and giving them a yank.

Eventually, I made it downstairs. I'd pulled on a pair of Steph's jogging shorts, (Author's note: Yeah, I know, but what could I do, Lizzie still had my overnight bag), and a pair of her panties that I'd found in a drawer. I'd also "borrowed" a bra and a black CK tank top. Though Steph was definitely taller, we had similar measurements on different length frames, and could wear some of the same clothes. Lizzie was glued to the TV while Elvis the Kitten was curled on the couch. John Cougar had gone out to check on the land.

"Good evening, Michelle," Lizzie said, tilting towards me on her tires, her grille seeming to pull up into a grin, "you've awakened just in time for the 10 o'clock Bay Watch. Oh you absolutely must see what Maxwell has presented. Why bless me, it's beyond priceless, if I do say so myself." She seemed quite pleased.

I sat on the couch next to Elvis and watched as the anchorwoman appeared. Her theatrically chiseled face radiated a smug expression, as though she'd done the nasty below her desk and then popped up just as the camera light went red.

"Blimey, Michelle, she looks like she's just done boffing the weatherman, she does," Lizzie commented, as if reading my mind, "why, she was beyond insufferable at 5:00."

I watched as she began her introductory monologue. She was still insufferable.

"Good evening, San Francisco. Welcome to the 10:00 p.m. edition of Bay Watch. Tonight we have obtained exclusive footage documenting a breach of the public's trust, on the part of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Not only is what you are about to see an illegal intrusion into the home of a heroic citizen of the Bay City, but it's a blow to the civil rights guaranteed to us all under the law. I think most of you will also agree that the actions you are about to witness are a slap in the face to a woman who has, time and time again, proven her courage, her patriotism, and her dedication to law and order. Be aware that investigators for San Francisco Bay Watch are actively seeking the details of this story, and will not cease in their efforts until justice is done. Gerry, let's roll the tape."

And the footage played out. Somehow it began with a shot of the approach up the driveway from the road, panning across the yard to the mine craters. It showed Stephanie's home, with the cliffs and the view of the bay beyond. Then it cut to the interior shots from the surveillance cameras. It was clear, concise, and barely edited after Lizzie's compilation of the scenes. A voice over had been added, and I realized it had been drawn mostly from the text she had written. It showed the ransacking of Steph's rooms, with the time/date stamp clear in the lower right corner, ticking off the minutes of the crime. The screen shifted, and now it showed the agents bugging the phone lines and placing covert listening devices in Steph's living spaces.

I could imagine citizens across the city shivering, wondering if their privacy was as fragile as what they were seeing. They were ordinary people who viscerally feared the power of their government, at the same time they felt pride in their country's ideals and way of life. At best these incidents left them even more conflicted, at worst, disillusioned or even rebellious.

The presentation ended with a montage of pictures of Sgt. Stephanie Walker, SFPD. It showed her in uniform, years ago, on street patrol. It showed the destruction of her Chinatown apartment. It showed her giving the camera a thumbs up after disarming the shopping mall bomb in June of 2000. It showed her gazing at the camera with the atomic bomb behind her, her feet surrounded by a pile of parts. It showed a picture of her in the uniform of a US Army MP, guarding an Abrams tank in the Saudi desert, in the fall of 1990. And finally, it showed a picture of a much younger Steph, looking serious in a black dress. Below it were the words, Stephanie Walker-Valedictorian, President of the Class of 1989, Bakersfield High School, Captain of the Varsity Cheerleaders.

Stephanie Walker-Valedictorian, President of the Class of 1989,

Bakersfield High School, Captain of the Varsity Cheerleaders

The screen shifted, cutting back to the anchorwoman. The smug look was gone, and I would have sworn that there were tears threatening her perfect eyes. She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then she gazed into the camera, which obligingly pulled in to frame her face.

"Where is Stephanie Walker tonight? That's the question we need to answer now. She was secretly taken from St. Luke's Hospital by Federal agents, one week after foiling a terrorist attack at a parade through the financial district that was held in her honor. That was eight weeks ago. Informed sources have revealed that she was whisked to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, in Bethesda Md., and discharged ten days ago. She has not been heard from since and she has not come home. While she was recuperating, lying helplessly in a hospital bed in pain, agents of the U.S. government were searching her home and planting bugs on her phones. We have been unable to obtain a statement on either the intrusions at Sgt. Walker's home, or her current whereabouts. And so tonight we wonder, has San Francisco lost a hero? Have the American people lost a hero?"

The anchorwoman sighed and then passed the show over to the weatherman.

"Geeez, Lizzie, they really laid it on thick."

"Good old Maxwell, I knew I could count on him. He's a right stand up sort of chap, don't you know." She seemed to be nodding approvingly, making small up and down movements with her front end.

She clicked off the cable and started a DVD of "Return to Oz", the very same movie I'd shown her on her first night in Kettleman City. It had become her favorite. Soon I could hear her fretting and muttering about Dorothy's plight, strapped to a gurney against her will, in the hospital of Dr. J.B. Worley, the Electro-Healer. What had happened to Steph? Where was she now? I found myself dozing off again, wondering if we’d ever find out.