"So what do you think, Stephie?" Connie asked, her legs bouncing as if she were trotting in her chair. She'd eaten an entire box of powdered doughnuts, and now the crumbs and sugar dust were covering every surface within reaching distance. Connie was wired on the sucrose, and she'd been typing furiously for most of the afternoon.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still sitting on the garage couch and Lizzie had jolted me out of a dream by honking her horn. God, it was worse than an alarm clock. I was getting an impression of what it must be like to be homeless and live in a cardboard box on a city street. Hell, I wouldn't wash either, just to take revenge on the world. Anyway, she was highly excited, bouncing on her tires and activating her blinkers as if she'd picked up a nervous tick. She had the computer booted up and was saving a screen onto the hard drive.

"Blimey, Michelle, why, we may have a lead, don't you know," she sputtered, "I'd wager a pound to a penny that we'll be finding Stephanie straight away." She was happier than I'd ever seen her. "Oh, and top of the morning to you."

"Whadda ya mean?" I asked, stifling a yawn and stretching, trying to realign my back after sleeping all night sitting up on the sofa. I rubbed my eyes and muttered, "I need coffee."

"Lookie, lookie, look," she babbled, gesturing to the screen by tilting on her springs.

I sighed and walked over to stare across her fender at the monitor. The screen showed the results of an AOL Search for Stephanie Walker, and listed the first 5 of 364,000 results. It was an astonishing number of matches, but then, Steph was a hero and actually had a fan base creating tribute sites. Amazingly, Lizzie wasn't concentrating on one of those. She was focusing on a fan fiction story, the second listing on the search page.

A screen showing the results of Lizzie Cooper's AOL search for Stephanie Walker.

"Heart of a Diver?" I asked in confusion, "what the fuck, Lizzie? Why this, and what's a beta?" Steph's work had nothing to do with diving, or sea rescue, or writing.

"I had the search filtered for recency, I did," she explained, "and this blooming story, why, 'twas posted just yesterday, it was!"

"And?"

"Michelle, it means Stephanie worked on this story recently if it was just posted yesterday," she said with a touch of exasperation, "and she was the beta reader…like a bloody editor." A car was treating me like a dimwit.

"So have you read it?"

"I don't read uber," she declared with conviction, "I honestly can't relate to it, don't you know, and I absolutely hate it when they bloody well post incomplete stories in chapters."

"Uh, okay," I agreed, mostly for the sake of keeping the peace. I never read net fiction and wasn't really sure what she was talking about. "I don't really know Stephanie, but do you actually think she'd beta edit an uber fanfic?"

"Of course not, Michelle!" Lizzie spat, her tone hardening in anger. "Blimey, she's certainly being victimized. Why, 'tis clear as day, it is. Stephanie's probably been brainwashed…maybe drugged as well."

I had to stare at her in amazement. This was the X-Files twisted into a cheesy B-grade spy flick. I could see the teaser now; 'American hero brainwashed by the government and forced to edit net fiction'. Yeah, right.

"So, what are you going to do, Lizzie? Even if it really is Steph, the web's anonymous. I mean, like, spatially it's only a point. How will you find her? That story could have come from anywhere."

The little car looked up at me with an expression that clearly condemned me to the nether regions of mental deficiency. "Feedback," she declared with certainty, "all bloody authors thrive on feedback. It's an email filled with empty praise I'll be sending her, it is, and mark my words, Michelle, this Connie Stanton will answer. They always do."

It must have been bad. Lizzie endured a read that had left her grimacing and leaking oil, well before noon. She muttered that it went on and on…68 chapters long. I looked in on her hourly and saw her becoming more and more angry as she scan read. By 2:30 p.m., when she finally finished it, she was seething.

"Bloody, word bloated, vacuum headed, coprophageous, self-indulged psychopath, I say," she ground out, "oh my poor Steph. Lass, what did they put you through? I'd pray for the chance to shoehorn that Connie's keyboard down her very own throat, I would, if I thought anyone would listen to my prayers. Aye, t'would be a mercy killing, it would."

She began typing, deleted the email, typed again, snarled at the machine and deleted the results. It went on like that for a while. Finally Lizzie growled and hit send. The little car shook herself and shut off the computer, then finally relaxed with a sigh and looked over at me.

"I just can't imagine Stephanie's suffering," she quietly said, "forced, as she must have been, to participate in that gross demonstration of inanity." Lizzie was so sad that she actually seemed about to cry, and I moved to where she was parked and stroked her roofline. "That story was oh so absolutely banal, and just being associated with it would have made the Stephanie Walker that I know regurgitate a kidney, it would. Michelle, I'm praying for all I'm worth that we're not to late to salvage some of poor Stephanie's sanity, and I'm truly fearing what her condition must be. She's obviously in a sad way if she'd submit to involving herself with such a work of pathos."

"And I guess now all we can do is wait, huh?"

"Yes, Michelle, I've broached the idea of chatting a tad, perhaps even an IM chat, though I fear I'll lose my temper dealing with this Connie Stanton in real time. Writing of how much I loved her story very nearly chipped my valves."

"Think it'll take her long to respond?"

"No, not a bit. I predict she'll be checking her email like a teen hunting zits, sniffing every hour for any tidbits of validation. She's ripe for striking up an online 'relationship' with a 'web fan', and I shan't have long to await her reply. I wager I'll find out where she lives on the second or third email, mark my words. Why, I'd chance 10 pounds that I find out today, before suppertime."

Steph idly focused on the sender's address, wondering who could be so thoroughly retarded as to send fan mail for "Heart of a Diver". The form showed the sender as lizziecooperbombgirl@aol.com (Lizzie Cooper). Steph started and nearly inhaled a mouthful of Bud. She knew that address…she knew Lizzie Cooper. But she still couldn't remember how, from where, or just whom Lizzie Cooper actually was. Steph sat in her chair gritting her teeth, nearly biting through the filter of her Camel. It seemed so cruel. Her poor brain was straining, actually whimpering in her skull, as her brain muscles flexed in a spasm of effort, trying to remember. Eventually one of them cramped, and Steph groaned as a headache blossomed in her hindbrain. Finally, she forced herself to relax. She admitted that she couldn't remember who Lizzie Cooper was…yet.

I had come back into the garage, after lounging on the deck, with Elvis, following a late lunch. John Cougar had leapt up on the railing, and then dropped down beside me to visit. He'd been busy examining the plant growth since returning, but was finally able to relax. I'd left him stretching in the sun, chatting with Elvis the Kitten, and had gone back in to check on Lizzie. I was thinking that maybe we should go for a short drive, just so she could get out for a bit of fresh air. She'd been parked ever since we'd returned to the house, completely obsessed with her search for Steph. It wasn't healthy.

Lizzie was staring into the computer's monitor again, reading an email from cstantonwarriorprincess@hotmail.com, shaking her front end, and wearing a pitying expression.

"This is so very sad, hon," she finally said, "Connie Stanton is horribly maladjusted and she hasn't the foggiest. Why, her forebrain is being lied to by her midbrain, and she hasn't a clue that she's crazy. That's ever so dangerous, don't you know. Leaves the hindbrain unsupervised, it does. She could be capable of anything. I'm even more scared for Stephanie now than before."

"God, Lizzie, that's like, so horrible. I mean, at least we all know we're crazy. This Connie, she really thinks that she's sane?"

"Oh goodness yes, she's convinced that she's a budding literary talent." Her expression became even sadder. "Worst of all though, she's going to write the sequel…and she's going to force Stephanie to beta it too."

"A sequel? To 'Heart of a Diver'? Well, yuck!" The idea was preposterous.

"Oh, Michelle," Lizzie cried in remorse, "I suggested it, just in an offhand way. Just to stroke her ego and gain her confidence, don't you know. I've prodded her into torturing my beloved Stephanie even further. Oh dear, why, I don't think I can forgive myself."

I could see how horrified and guilty she felt. Her expression was heartbreaking. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tight, hating to see her hurting like that. Lizzie was such a sweetheart, and she was trying so hard to find Steph.

"Lizzie, you got Connie to write back and you've found Steph. That was brilliant, and now we know for sure that she's holding Steph hostage. Did she say where they are?"

"Oh yes, she's so inordinately proud of her rusting trailer in the Likkapoonee swamp. She bragged of it being a, 'cozy little love nest for herself and her dark warrior, Stephie'." Here Lizzie grimaced and began shedding windshield washer fluid tears. "It must be so very horrible for Stephanie. No vistas, no sunsets, no ocean breezes, and no wide-open sky. She's a prisoner in a horrible little trailer in a Georgia swamp."

"Then that's where we're going," I told her, "and we're leaving this afternoon."

I fled upstairs and started packing. I packed not only my own meager bag, but also a duffel bag full of stuff for Stephanie, knowing that I could wear a lot of the clothes too. I also took a Glock pistol, with a spare magazine, from a drawer of her nightstand. My hand shook as I lifted it; I'd never touched a handgun before.

I went back out on the deck and announced our departure to John Cougar. He seemed very curious about the mission. Elvis the Kitten padded inside to select his favorite foods for me to pack, along with a catnip ball we'd gotten for him on the drive to Fresno when Lizzie had tried to call Steph. I was a bit hesitant; the thought of a crazed kitten in the car wasn't my favorite idea, but he pouted and threatened a tantrum. Being as I was in a hurry, I humored him and sealed it in airtight Tupperware.

When I got back to the garage, I noticed that Lizzie had donned a bug bra and a set of full moon hubcaps. They covered her racing wheels with low domes of smooth chrome.

"They're to cheat the wind on the highways," Lizzie explained, "not unlike swimmers or cyclists shaving their legs, don't you know?"

We loaded up everything we thought we'd need for a cross-country rescue mission. Lizzie had transferred all the pertinent computer files to a laptop. It was powered from a transformer, which protruded like a gargoyle from the cigarette lighter, that must have had a half-dozen sockets. She'd set up her chatty phone with an answering machine, and I'd also noticed that there was a GPS unit and a police band radio scanner. The most absurd thing was a "Jesus Our Savior" bobble head doll, which Lizzie confided in a hushed tone, concealed a radar detector. She asked me to constrict all the power cords into a bundle, with wire ties from a workbench in the garage. I found a couple really long ones and threw them into the glove compartment, remembering cop shows where they had used them instead of handcuffs.

When we rolled the garage door open, we found John Cougar waiting beside the driveway. He was seated on a battered old carpetbag, and he was wearing a trench coat and his fedora. I don't think I'd ever seen anything so ridiculous.

"I'm coming too," he declared, "I'd never be able to stay here knowing that you might be heading into danger. If anything happened to you I'd never forgive myself." Here he looked pointedly at Lizzie. "Besides," he added, "I have relatives in those swamps."

The passenger's door popped open and he hopped in, tossing his bag into the back, where it nearly flattened Elvis and was received with a hiss. Then he pulled the door closed, and Lizzie activated the garage door and the half-dozen alarm systems.

It was already after 6:00 p.m., and the early dark of the November night had fallen, as we pulled out of the driveway onto East Rd. Lizzie played some Enya as we crossed the Golden Gate channel on US-101, following it onto Lombard St., and then Van Ness Ave., through San Francisco. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, picking up I-580 to I-5, heading south. By midnight we had turned east, away from Los Angeles on I-10, heading for Phoenix. Lizzie drove through the darkness completely focused on the road. She didn't speed radically, but as I nodded drowsily, I noticed clots of cars falling steadily behind us as she continued passing them one after another. She had prodded me awake in Santa Clara, as she puled into a BP station, so I that could pump her a tankful of petrol. Then she let me doze off again as she accelerated back onto the highway. John Cougar had kept his hat pulled down over his face, as he huddled in the passenger's seat, scrunching down in his trench coat. He knew that people tended to stare at Lizzie, unusual as she was with her custom blue paintjob.

The next time I awoke, we were in Blythe, half way to Phoenix. It was 3:30 a.m., and we stopped again for petrol. We'd driven over 700 miles in less than 10 hours, and Lizzie was beginning to feel tired.

"I'm about bushed, I am," she told me, "but I'll get us to Phoenix, being 'tis but another 145 miles. I'll be needing you to take the wheel then, Michelle, while I catch a bit of shut eye. 'Twill be for the best, I say, since the sun will be up, and seeing a car with a sleeping driver would make the other motorists nervous, it would."

I could only agree with her reasoning. Between the two of us we could drive almost nonstop, taking turns across the southern United States..

"I've been sleeping most of the night, hon, so I'll be fresh to drive through the day. Just wake me when we get to Phoenix and I’ll top off the tank."

5:30 a.m. saw us passing the urban avenues of Phoenix. It seemed that each one had its own exit, and the morning rush hour traffic was beginning to slow us down. I was pouring myself a cup of coffee from the thermos that John Cougar had handed to me. It was a pumpkin spice high-test blend, appropriate for the season.

"Blimey, Michelle, they're herding like a school of mackerel, they are," Lizzie complained, her temper shortened by fatigue, "We're losing precious time here and we've still a need for petrol…I've but 4 liters left. At least the road's smooth and 'tis not sloshing. I do so hate getting a bubble in my fuel lines…'tis like a beer gas belch trying to get out, or so I'd imagine."

Lizzie had become poetically descriptive in her fatigue.

"Why don't I take over, hon," I offered, "it'll let me ease into driving before we get back on the open road. I've got to deal with the gas station anyway."

"Why bless you, Michelle," Lizzie said around a yawn, "I do appreciate your offer greatly, I do. Go ahead. I think I'll just doze off then."

I took the wheel and settled my sneakers on the pedals, and I felt the control of our course pass over to me. The radio gave a burst of static and I knew Lizzie had retreated into herself, seeking sleep. John Cougar put in a Sophie B. Hawkins CD, and "Strange Thing" tickled its way through the speakers.

"I hardly recognize myself, it's such a strange thing. To find another woman walking in my blue jeans. I've come so far and I've been so long away from home. I'm like a photograph whose image is still changing. The letter I never sent to you explaining. All I want is a place for my heart to belong…."

Sophie B.'s lyrics expressed my own desires, and the feeling of a personal change realized unexpectedly, hit home. Two months before, I'd been studying for a career in the porn industry, inspired by a false perception of a woman from a childhood crush. I'd been driven by a search for notoriety and fame. Now I was driving through a desert city with the most unlikely of friends, charging off on a mission to rescue a woman I'd met and didn't know. A woman that I still loved; my crush transmuted, through my newfound understanding of her life, into respectful fondness tinged with hero worship. That Stephanie commanded the devotion and respect of her friends only reinforced my feelings for her. I wanted to be a part of her interesting and unorthodox life. I was ready to beg her to take me with her on the journey and teach me everything she knew. In return, I would be her friend, maybe her only human friend, and I would give her my devotion, my support, and if she'd let me, my love.

I filled up at a BP station just off S.24^th St., after getting back onto I-10 near the Sky Harbor Int'l Airport. We'd taken a short detour on I-17 to bypass the center of town because we had been running on fumes. Lizzie dozed through the whole thing. In 10 minutes we were back on the road, crossing the Salt River and heading southeast, towards Tucson and the deserts of the southern route through Texas. We were taking the same roads that Stephanie had drunkenly driven in Brittanie the Desoto, back in 1991, on her return to California from the Army.

The miles flew by, but the scenery remained the same. I saw what looked like an endless progression of dun colored rocky land sprouting scrubby vegetation. Overhead, a huge blue sky played host to fluffy fair weather clouds, sailing into the distant west behind us. The road held itself almost straight for hundreds of miles, the centerline hypnotic, and the pavement singing a single tone under Lizzie's tires. Really boring.

110 miles passed and we saw Tucson. 320 miles from Phoenix and 5 hours of driving brought us to Deming, where we stopped again for fuel. 60 miles later, we blasted through Las Cruces, and 50 miles after that we pulled into El Peso, having crossed into Texas about 20 miles before.

I'd been driving for 7 hours straight, with only a short stop to refuel, pee, and eat an industrial open-faced turkey sandwich. It could have been the same sandwich I'd eaten as a child at a Howard Johnson's in San Diego, or in Oakland, across the bay from Steph's house, or in Chicago, (where I'd never been but had seen a restaurant spread in a picture on the web). The things were ubiquitous and timeless; the equivalent of brined beef in the days of tall masted sailing ships.

I drove Lizzie off the highway, and along the Rio Grande, to a park overlooking the border. It was a drainage canal, the once river constrained within concrete and paralleled by the Border Highway. In the park, Ascarate Lake reflected the afternoon sky from gently rippled water. Lizzie slept through the entire stop, but John Cougar and I took the opportunity to stretch, while Elvis wandered off to find a sandy patch of ground to use as a litter box. After a half-hour break, we got back on the road.

For another 3 ½ hours I drove, reaching Ft. Stockton at 5:00 p.m., 230 miles out of El Peso. After 11 hours at the wheel I was road drunk, hypnotized by the monotony of sight and sound…the endless blacktop, the whine of the tires, and the wind shrouding the little car. I'd stopped hearing the stereo hours ago and I had no idea if it had even been on.

I pulled Lizzie off I-10 and sat in the parking lot of a rest stop, staring into space. There was a dog run, a building with restrooms and vending machines, and a gas station. I think I must have stared at the empty dog run for 15 minutes without moving or saying a word. In the passenger's seat, John Cougar looked at me out of the corners of his eyes, probably wondering if anyone was still home. Finally I sighed and got out, arching my back and then leaning down to touch my toes.

In the building I got change and bought junk food and ice cream. Feeling naughty, I snuck into the men's room and peed standing up. It was a little messy, but the place was a sty anyway, and I came out in hysterics, just as a cowboy looking guy was heading in. He did a double take when he saw me, but must have been in a hurry because he turned around and kept moving without saying a word.

I looked over at the dog run again on my way back to rejoin Lizzie, John, and Elvis, and I thought I saw a shadow moving near a fence post. Out of boredom I looked closer, and watched as the shadow resolved itself into a completely black cat. It wasn't just mostly black, but it was extremely black, without any white bib, paws, or facial spots. Even its whiskers seemed to be black. It was looking back and forth, first at me, and then at the Mini Cooper…specifically at Elvis, lounging on the seatbacks, and the figure of John Cougar, hunched down in the passenger's seat.

It was a good-sized housecat, with shortish fur and yellowish green eyes, which stood out in sharp contrast to its midnight pelt. It did a semi-interested, semi-bored, catty approach, walking paw in front of paw, carefully across the dirt towards us. Finally it stopped about ten feet away and carefully sat, regarding us with bored curiosity.

After examining it for a few moments, I decided it was nothing out of the ordinary, and tired though I was, I'd finished my ice cream and was ready for another couple hours of driving before turning the wheel over to Lizzie.

"Have a good day," I muttered to it, turning back to open Lizzie's door.

"Not likely," the black cat replied sarcastically, "not in this piss hole of a place."

Now I looked back at it again, for though I had become used to talking with Lizzie, John Cougar, and Elvis the Kitten, I hadn't encountered anyone else non-human who spoke to me. The cat's voice was distinctly female, and bitchy.

"Yeah, that's right," she said in a challenging tone, "I talk. I'm a talking cat. Boo!"

"To be honest, I'm hardly impressed," I replied, "especially with a rest stop drama queen from the armpit of Texas." I was tired and in no mood to bandy insults with a strange cat. I opened Lizzie's door. The cat got quickly to her feet and sauntered closer, appraising me.

"You act like you talk to a cat everyday," she said, a bit testily, "you should feel lucky when a cat is willing to talk with you at all. I don't talk to every person I meet."

"So you're antisocial," I said, "and I do talk to cats everyday. They're much more learned and friendly than you are, missy." I had dropped into the driver's seat and John Cougar was looking at the black cat through the windshield. My words had visibly taken the wind out of the black cat's sails, now that she realized that I wasn't struck dumb with awe or ready to mortgage my soul for her company.

"My name's Nightshade," she said more civilly, "and this place is the armpit of Texas, at least what I've seen of it."

"Chelle, we really should be on our way, dear," John Cougar said, "we need to be in San Antonio by 9:30 p.m. to stay on schedule. It's pretty much empty between here and there and you should be able to fly. Just remember to watch Jesus," he reminded me, nodding to the radar detector bobble-head doll on the dash, "he could be our savior."

"You're right, John, I've been dawdling. I don't want to disappoint Lizzie."

The black cat's eyes had grown a couple sizes when she realized that John Cougar wasn't an ugly old gent in a funny hat. She looked at the passengers more closely, and her eyes enlarged even further.

"You're a puma," she said in amazement, then nodded at Elvis and added, "and that's a bobcat."

"Well duh," Elvis mouthed off, looking her over closely, "you're a cutie, but you're kinda, uh…are you sure you're not a blonde?"

I had never seen an animal look so insulted. At first she puffed up her all fur, her eyes blazing in indignation, and she prepared to hiss, but then she seemed to shrink into herself and she blinked, settled her coat, and then looked down at her paws. She actually looked sad, with her ears and whiskers drooping. When she looked back up at us, I would have sworn she was on the verge of tears.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I don't want to have to spend another night here. It's cold and dirty, and there's nothing to eat. The people I was traveling with just left me here and drove off. I thought they'd come back when they realized I was missing, but they never even bothered to look for me. They abandoned me here and I'm all alone."

She leapt lightly up onto Lizzie's fender, startling the Mini Cooper awake, and causing her to shake herself and flash her headlights. The radio came on and the wipers whisked through a cycle before Lizzie oriented herself and identified the weight resting alongside her hood. The cat was visibly startled to the point of speechlessness, having almost been dislodged from her seat.

In desperation, Nightshade the Cat joins the rescue team. She had been abandoned at a rest stop outside of Ft. Stockton, the "…armpit of Texas…" and was willing to do anything so as not to be left behind "…in this god-forsaken dump."

"Chelle, dear, now where in the world are we?" Lizzie asked before yawning, "And whom, might I ask, is this sitting on my fender?"

"She says her name's Nightshade, Lizzie, and she was abandoned at this rest stop. Uh, we're just outside of Ft. Stockton, between El Peso and San Antonio and it's almost 5:30."

"Well, hello there, Nightshade. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," the little car said. "We're in Texas? Have you seen any cowboys or any wagon trains? Any Indians? But, oh dear me, never mind, we've no time for that. Now, Michelle, we're getting a bit behind schedule, if I do say so, and we really should be on our way."

The engine started itself and I closed the door, settling myself in for the drive.

"I'll be dozing for another couple hours if that's quite alright with you," Lizzie said to me, "pardon my lack of sociability, but I'll be needing my wits about me if we're to see Mobile by morning, don't you know. Wake me in San Antonio, hon. Nightshade, time to hop off now, dearie, we've got to be motoring down the highway."

"Wait," Nightshade cried, finally losing all composure, "take me with you! Please don't leave me in this god-forsaken dump. I'll die here, or end up being taken by some cowpoke in his rotting pickup truck and end up as a barn cat."

We all looked at each other, wondering whether we could leave her there in good conscience. Nightshade looked at us in such a beseeching manner that finally, kind-hearted Lizzie popped open the passenger's side door. Nightshade scrambled across the hood and leapt onto John Cougar's lap, and then settled herself on the console.

"Just so you don't mistake us," Lizzie said seriously, "we're on a rescue mission. A friend of ours is being held hostage by government agents, and we're off to free her. There will almost certainly be danger ahead."

"Whatever," Nightshade replied, "I'll do anything you need me to do. Just get me out of this place and away from Texas."

I pulled out of the rest stop and back onto the highway, accelerating back up to 80mph. Nightshade eventually settled in the back, sharing the seat with Elvis, and for a long time I could hear them conversing. Then I tuned out everything except the road, and as the evening passed into night, I watched the miles of Texas disappear under Lizzie's tires.

Sometime in the night, and I don't remember when at all, Lizzie took the wheel and I dozed off. I was probably dead to the world for three hours. She'd made good time, and had pulled off onto SR-36, then driven into a small town called Macedonia. I stretched as we pulled into a BP station and came to a halt beside a pump. It was about 1:00 a.m., and I was a bit surprised that the gas station was open. When I got out and looked around, I realized that it was the only thing open.

I pumped us a tankful of high-test and then wandered into the office to pay. John Cougar was hoping for a cup of coffee. A teenaged boy was slouching in a chair behind a small counter that held an antique cash register. He stuffed a SWANK magazine out of sight when he saw me enter, and then tried to look serious. I smiled at the hard-on that was poking up inside his jeans and handed him thirty dollars for the gas.

"Anyplace to get a cup of coffee in this town?" I asked, as he handed me $4.50 change.

"Yeah," he replied to my tits, "there's a machine around the corner of the station where the rest rooms are, but the stuff sucks. And roaches live in the candy machine."

"Tastes like somebody pissed through the grounds, huh?" I asked him with a smile, happily shocking him. He bobbed a quick glance up at my face.

"Um, yeah, something like that," he choked out to my breasts. At least a part of me had his attention.

"Guess I'll pass then," I told him, "thanks anyway, stud."

I heard him gulp as I walked out, and I could feel his eyes on my ass. My breasts were a bit jealous because of his infidelity, so I walked sexy just to punish him.

"You're so very bad, Michelle," Lizzie commented as I got back in, "you're such a flirt."

"And that's a bad thing?" I asked with a smile.

The next time I woke up, Lizzie was pulling into a full service rest station just outside of Beaumont. It was maybe an hour and a quarter later.

"Just thought you might like to get yourself some supper, Michelle," she said softly as she played some light jazz. "You haven't had a proper meal all day, and you should stretch and get your kidneys working. You wouldn't want a bladder stone forming from sitting for a whole day straight." I could almost see her smiling.

I realized that I was actually famished. I'd had junk food in FT. Stockton before we'd met Nightshade, but the last real meal I'd eaten was the open faced turkey sandwich, somewhere before El Peso. Lizzie's door popped open and I staggered out with my overnight bag, lurching up to the restaurant like a drunk. I was trying desperately to regain my land legs. My reflection in the glass door depicted a wild eyed, sexy tart with wind blasted hair, who stank of Camels and sweat. I made a beeline to the ladies room before even trying to get a seat. When I came out, I felt 100% better, having soaked my face in cold water, applied a fresh layer of deodorant, and plastered down my hair.

The waitress was about my own age, obnoxiously perky, and obviously gay. She flirted with me throughout my meal, and since she was cute, I played along. I had the industrial open-faced roast beef sandwich. The mashed potatoes could have come out of the same pot that the ones with the turkey sandwich had been born in. When I remarked on this, my waitress calmly explained that it was the law, and then asked if she could she fondle me in the ladies room. I told her I intended to change clothes in a stall after my dinner, and she could come in and help me if she wanted. She winked at me and made a slurping noise, then laid my check on the table. I was sure that the check wasn't the only thing getting laid in that restaurant.

After eating, and drinking a cup of decaf, I took my bag into the ladies room, making eye contact with the waitress on the way. I'd barely set my bag down and pulled out cut offs and a tank top when she entered and locked the door with a key. Within minutes I was naked, standing over a pile of dirty clothes, while she leaned against a sink and stroked herself under her skirt. I walked over to her and leaned in to kiss her. She pulled me closer and felt her fingers slide up my thigh to go exploring between my legs. She was stroking me very effectively as she pushed her tongue into my mouth. Then she slid two fingers inside me and started pumping them in and out. My knees felt weak and I was lightheaded. I reached for her, pulling her blouse out of her skirt and sliding my hands underneath. I cupped her breasts and found that they felt unexpectedly firm and round. What the fuck, I thought, implants? Then I was cumming, my insides clenching around her wet fingers as I gasped and moaned.

When I regained my breath, she gently pressed me down on my knees and raised her skirt. I slipped my hands under the waistband of her panties and slid them down. Imagine my surprise when her cock popped out, 7", cut and hard, the head glistening with precum. My eyes were probably starting out of my head as she/he moved forward, sliding it into my mouth. I felt the head at the back of my throat, and I was still too surprised to do anything but suck it.

"Swallow, honey," she/he said softly, and then thrust it deeper as I did. I felt several inches going down my throat as my lips tightened around the smoothly shaved base of the shaft. I reached up to fondle the full heavy balls, while a hand held my head in place. "Keep swallowing so you don't gag…oh god, that feels good."

It took only a minute before I felt it jerking in my throat. I snugged my lips tighter around the shaft, so as she/he pulled it out, the last drops squeezed out behind my tongue. I hadn't tasted a thing. I swallowed and licked my lips, watching as it rapidly softened and shrank.

She/he was entirely convincing as a woman, and a very attractive young one at that. My mind still wasn't believing what had happened, but I had no problem reaching another climax when she/he put her/his face between my legs and thoroughly tongue fucked me as well as I had ever been eaten. I think I came twice, squirting to soak her/his face the second time. After a quick clean up, we kissed again to say goodbye. I staggered, weak kneed, into my clothes as she/he unlocked the door and left. It was my first and only experience with a transsexual.

"Took your time did you?" Lizzie asked when I got back in. "Constipated, hon? You were in there for quite a while just to change." She giggled and I blushed. We got back on the road and I dozed off feeling sleepy and satisfied with my supper.

When I woke up and took over the driving duties, we were just outside of Biloxi, Mississippi, about 60 miles shy of Mobile, Alabama. The desert had given way to wetlands somewhere in the darkness, and we were flying down I-10 about 5 miles inland from the gulf coast. It was already humid and getting warmer, even though the sun was barely up.

"Good morning, luv," Lizzie said, "I'm bushed and oh so overdue for a rest, don't you know. Have a good drive, Michelle, and watch out for Jesus, I say. The very last thing we need is for a southern sheriff to be stopping and questioning us."

"She's right," Nightshade added with certainty, "down here they'll make us into roast beef sandwiches instead of lab specimens. Although panthers are protected in Florida, that won't even do him any good for another hundred miles." She nodded at John Cougar.

"Perhaps we should keep the speed limit through Mississippi and Alabama," John Cougar nervously said. "We'll lose a half-hour at the most."

"Oh, why I very nearly forgot," Lizzie added sleepily, "I sent off another email to that Connie Stanton. I asked her for an update regarding her progress on the sequel…."

Silence followed. After a moment, I realized that she wasn't going to continue. The poor dear had dozed off in the middle of a sentence.

"I've talked a bit about this mission with Elvis," Nightshade said from the back seat, "but I was wondering what you could tell me about this Stephanie Walker. He really didn't know her."

"Well, I don’t really know her either," I admitted, "though I met her once as a child. I had a huge crush on her and grew up trying to be like her, but I didn't really know her, and what I thought I knew about her was all wrong."

"So, the only ones who do know her are Lizzie and John Cougar?"

"Yeah, that's about it," I told her, "but I do know that she's a good person who doesn't deserve to be treated the way she's been treated, and we're not going to let it go on."

"Stephanie is a true hero," John Cougar said with sleepy conviction, "she's saved so many lives in San Francisco that they're truly beyond count. It's a part of what she is. All her life she's excelled at everything she's done. She's the best of the best."

"And just what is it that she does?" Nightshade asked, perking up with interest.

"In the last 6 years, all of the bombs that didn't go off were deactivated by Stephanie and her team. Including the atomic bomb early this fall, she's probably saved a million lives. I know of no one who can claim to have done so much good, and to her it's just a job."

Around 11:00 a.m., I stopped for an early lunch outside of Tallahassee. A little before 3:30 p.m., I turned north on I-95, the East Coast highway that stretches from Miami to the Canadian border in Maine. I'd skirted Jacksonville, on its beltway, I-295.

Lizzie had awakened after lunch and checked her email. Sure enough, Connie Stanton had replied. The message left Lizzie even more worried. She said that Connie sounded as if she were losing what paltry wits she possessed, and she was even more worried about Steph's safety. I kept my foot on the pedal, watching Jesus with one eye, and the road with the other. On the sides of the road, I was seeing the dense plant growth I associated with the south. Spanish moss hung from the trees and Kudzu smothered the landscape. The air was heavy with humidity, and I was thankful that it wasn't summer. As the afternoon slipped away, I was again hypnotized by the road, the lines separating the lanes endlessly disappearing beneath our wheels.

After less than a half-hour on I-95, we crossed into the state of Georgia. It was barely 4:00 p.m.

"Stay on I-95, Michelle, and keep an eye peeled for US-82." Lizzie instructed. "We'll be wanting to head west, towards Waycross town, I say. Bless me, but we're getting close."

"Where are we actually going," I asked. "Is Connie's trailer in Waycross?"

"No, dear." Lizzie replied, "'It's in a dismal swamp, 35 miles west of Waycross, as the crow flies. I'm guessing 'tis actually 45 malarial, alligator infested miles, out on some filthy dirt roads. I'll be wanting you to pop off my hubcaps and store them in the boot, don't you know."

"So are we just going to drive right up?" Nightshade asked from the backseat.

"Oh, dear me, no," Lizzie exclaimed, horrified by the thought, "this Connie Stanton's very dangerously insane, and the dear Lord only knows how many government agents are lurking about. No, we'll first be needing to establish a base of operations."

Lizzie was in planning mode, silent, as I continued to drive up I-95. After another half-hour I saw the exit for US-82 and took it heading west towards Waycross. A sign claimed that the town was 50 miles ahead. On the bridge over the Satilla River, just past Atkinson, a traffic accident made the 55-minute trip into an hour and a quarter. It was closing in on 6:30 p.m., and I was tired and hungry again.

I bloated myself on BBQ at the Pig restaurant, on State St., in Waycross. I couldn't believe how good it was, and since I was planning to sleep when Lizzie took over the driving, I didn't mind eating more meat than I'd had since the senior class orgy at Corcoran High. When I staggered back from dinner and got in, Lizzie muttered about the weight gain causing uneven tread wear on her tires, then giggled at my dismayed expression. I filled up her tank at the BP station, muttering about added wear on her rear tires, then reclined the driver's seat and dozed off. Lizzie took over the driving as we moved down the backcountry roads in the dark.

When I woke up again, it was 10:30 p.m., and we were in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn. I looked around and saw we were on Memorial Dr., barely a hundred yards from part of US-82 that I'd driven down right before dinner. I stared in shock. We were still in Waycross.

"Right-Oh. We're back in bloody Waycross," Lizzie snapped, "this blooming hayseed landscape has no amenities whatsoever."

"What Lizzie means to convey," John Cougar said more calmly, "is that we've driven for the last three hours, in a rather large circle. We've passed down US-82 to 221, then to 108. We actually drove past the driveway to Connie Stanton's trailer. I could see the lights on in several windows. Long story short, there were no motels; no place to stay anywhere closer than this. We're about 50 miles from Stephanie, and we'll have to set up our base of operations here."

"Bloody inconvenient," Lizzie Cooper groused, "and the local sods will soon be eyeing to us, driving back and forth. Worse yet, in these nether regions, I'll surely be one of a kind, if I do say so myself. We're sure to draw too much attention."

Ironic, I thought, traveling with a talking cougar and bob kitten, and then having to worry about unwanted attention because of a foreign car. It was a sign of how odd my life had become…and I liked it.

I got a room on the ground floor of the Holiday Inn and dragged our things inside. With Nightshade keeping a lookout, John Cougar slouched quickly inside, leaning on me like an arthritic drunk. Elvis bounced along at his side, and was soon rolling on the carpet with his catnip ball. At Nightshade's request, I turned on the TV so the sound would cover our voices. It was good thinking. Being the only human in the room, I'd have been presumed guilty of talking to myself, in several voices.

Lizzie parked in the nearest spot, just a few feet from the room's windows. We could communicate with cell phones, but I was happy to have her close by. She was the brains of the operation after all, but she was still muttering about "these barbaric colonies", "uncivilized peasant settlers", and "watered gasoline". The barbecue had been pretty good, I thought to myself. Though it was still before midnight, I took a shower and lay down on the bed. I was asleep in moments.

When I woke up, Nightshade was curled up, with me spooned around her and the phone was ringing. I grabbed the phone on the nightstand and heard only a dial tone. The ringing continued. Elvis brought the cell phone over to me, ringing. I clicked the "Talk" button and heard Lizzie's voice.

"Rise and shine, Michelle," she said all too brightly, "we've work to do. Come out please." I groaned in response, wondering if she was still on Greenwich time.

I staggered out of the room in black Nike running shorts and a pink spaghetti strap tank, barefoot, with Nightshade the Cat pacing me. Just outside the door, I happened to look over and spied a pair of good-ol-boys, dressed for fishing, ogling me and drooling. I waved and smiled, then opened Lizzie's door and sat down in the driver's seat. The engine started and the radio came on. Lizzie played heavy metal…Black Sabbath, I think, both to wake me up and cover our conversation.

Lizzie had printed out several sheets of information, which she gave to me along with explanations and an agenda for the day. She was intending to prepare for night surveillance of Connie Stanton's trailer. Along with a couple of maps, there was a shopping list and some background on Connie and Steph. I pretended to be cleaning litter off the car mats, bent down below the dash and whispering while Nightshade lay on the dash, keeping a lookout.

"After your breakfast, I need you to go shopping, Michelle," Lizzie said. "We will need all the items on the list, though where you'll find some of these amenities in this god forsaken frontier town, well, I haven't the foggiest."

I'd looked over the items and didn't think there'd be any problem. What she was asking for could be found at any strip mall, and we'd passed a couple in Waycross.

"I think I can get all this stuff, Lizzie," I assured her, "we brought all the things that would have been a problem."

"Very well then, hon," the Mini Cooper giggled, "go have some breakfast and then we'll be off on a spree. Have John ring me up when you get back inside, please."

I could feel her smile and I was wondering what she had in store for the cougar.

When I got out with Nightshade, the fishermen were still standing outside their room staring at me, and they were following every move I made. It was like they'd never seen a wannabe porn starlet in the flesh. The thought made me grin and I was rewarded with wolf-whistles. I made a theatrical curtsey and shoved the door closed behind us.

The phone rang immediately and I snatched it off the bed.

"Michelle, I would be ever so very thankful if you would not draw unwanted attention from the locals," Lizzie's voice admonished, "you're an obsessive flirt, I say."

"Uh, you're right of course, Lizzie," I admitted, "I always have been. I guess I just need attention whenever possible. Sorry."

There was a snort from the phone, and then Lizzie requested that I put John Cougar on the line. He listened with a deepening frown of concentration, tried to speak, getting no further than, "But, but…but, I…yes, Lizzie." I could tell when she hung up. John sat down with a sigh and looked at me with an exasperated expression. I slipped an arm over his shoulders to offer support, not really knowing what Lizzie had said. He just shook his head.

"Ah, well. When the heart leads the head, dignity can't stand in its path. I'm but a fool."

"A fool in love," I said, commiserating with him, "you and me both."

"Awwww, how cute," Nightshade commented from atop the TV, as Elvis giggled.

"Shut up!" John and I both said.

The breakfast consisted of coffee, blacker than swamp water, and a deep-fried battercake, coated with powdered sugar. I felt myself developing diabetes before it was half finished. Afterwards, I grabbed my shoulder bag, slipped on my running shoes, and went out to go shopping with Lizzie. John Cougar, Elvis the Kitten, and Nightshade the Cat stayed behind in the room. I left the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob, hoping to keep the housekeeper from having a cardiac event.

Shopping in Waycross, with Lizzie, was a mixed experience at best. Although I soon had all the items on Lizzie's list, we both drew outstanding levels of attention. I strutted from store to store in my Nike shorts and tank, capturing every male and 20% of the female eyes with lust. The remaining 80% of the women could be heard muttering "slut" under their breaths and scolding their male companions. I made a point of using my languorous sexy walk. Fuck 'em.

Meanwhile, in the parking lots, the admiring yokels quickly surrounded Lizzie. She was painted brilliant gemlike blue, with a black top and racing stripes, dark tinted glass, custom wheels, fog lights, a bug bra, and vanity plates. She was fighting the impulse to take off without me, and at the same time, I could see she was basking in their attention. When we'd pull out, she'd start on the first touch of the key, rev up her engine, and chirp her tires. She was flirting with the crowds in her own way. I had to smile. It was addictive. We giggled all the way back to the motel.

When we arrived, the manager came out and knocked on the door. I answered and let him in. He was a kindly older man, obviously nervous and embarrassed by having to confront me.

"Ms. Allen," he began in a classic southern drawl, "I'm very sorry to have to ask this, but this is a family motel and, um, a couple of the patrons have mentioned you."

"Well, I'm not surprised," I said, "a couple of your patrons probably scorched their eyeballs on me this morning." He coughed and swallowed, then took a deep breath before continuing.

"It's just that a rumor has begun circulating that you're engaging in acts of, uh, well, that you're providing services that are, um, that favors are being given in return for monetary compensation." He finally got his point across. I laughed.

"You're wondering if I'm actually a hooker, right?" I asked, watching him flinch. "Actually, no. I'm here on vacation, really just passing through, and I'd be more than happy to be left alone. Unfortunately, it appears that most of the local males have never seen a woman before."

"Um, it's not that they haven't seen women before," he hedged, "it's just that they're not used to seeing so much of one that they're not married to…outside of those magazines, anyway."

"Oh, I see," I replied, "well, maybe you could spread a rumor that I'm from California like the plates on my car say, and that this is how a lot of women dress there. I'm sure they've seen it on TV. Really, we're all like Bay Watch out there, ya know?"

He seemed to think it over for a moment, then he agreed to give it a try. "By the way," he added on his way out, "are you sure you don't want the housekeeper to straighten up the room?"

"No, I'd rather not have her disturb my cats," I told him, pointing out Nightshade and Elvis.

"I understand," he said. "Alright, Ms. Allen, I'll just have her leave the sheets and towels for you at the desk, ok?"

"That would be fine, thanks," I said, happy to have avoided trouble. He seemed like a nice guy at heart. "By the way, you can call me Michelle, or Candy."

His eyes bugged out as he choked, and I covered my grimace with a grin. Oops.

"Just kidding," I hastily added. It seemed to satisfy him and he chuckled, thinking he'd gotten the joke.

After he left, I happened to glance at the TV. They were showing a shot of the audience at a NASCAR racetrack, and sure enough, right up in front; there stood a crew of party girls. They were dressed for the beach, and they looked way sluttier than me. I must admit I was a bit jealous.

"Well, you seem to be gaining some notoriety among the locals, Candy," John Cougar commented, straight-faced, as he stalked out of the bathroom. I had to give him credit for his mirthless delivery.

"Look, Stephie," Connie chortled, "I've just set up the conflict. You've gotta admit it's a brilliant kinda psychological trauma thingie, inherited from the original story. It's such a great tie-in for a sequel, to have a conflict derived from a minor detail in the original story. It forces the reader to go back and read the first one so they can understand what they're reading now. All the good authors do it."

Lunatic and uber fiction author; she was also a freelance agent for the secret government study group that took over the investigation of Stephanie after her accident. Connie was unable to remain focused on her mission, constantly distracted by her delusions and junk foods. So anyway, talk about not being able to get good help, (guffaw). (Stephanie related that when settling in to write, she would perform an awkward wind up before assaulting the keyboard. It was not unlike that butler, Lurch, sketching a flourish, while preparing to serenade the Addams family on the harpsichord. See the program intro for the TV series, The Addams Family.)

After my conversation with the motel owner, I started on the preparations that Lizzie Cooper had outlined for our night surveillance of Connie Stanton's trailer. It was my very first covert operation, not counting selling favors in the stairwell at school, and I was somewhat nervous. That's not to say there wasn't a laugh or two to be had. Among the items on Lizzie's shopping list had been a half-dozen packages of Grecian Formula. (Author's note: This product is used, supposedly primarily by men, for banishing that distinguished gray. In fact, the manufacturer's market research indicates that usage is roughly equal among men and women with naturally dark hair.)

I drew a full tub of bath water, as John Cougar stood by shaking his head.

"The things we do for love, eh, Michelle? Once the heart is lost, all reason retreats along with it," he declared, philosophizing to ease his discomfort.

"Well, yeah," I agreed "Just consider it like, a temporary camouflage," I told him, "and your consolation is that it will wash out…eventually."

He looked at me with a sad grin, shaking his head. "Stephanie will owe us big time."

I worked the product thoroughly through his fur, as he sat, trying to maintain his dignity, in a tub of darkening water. It took several applications to achieve the desired look, but after blow drying him, he was completely black, looking for all the world like a black leopard from a Sri Lanka jungle. In a way, I envied him. My own make-up included the grease paint pancakes we'd found among Steph's old military paraphernalia. At least I only had to black out the space around my eyes. I looked like a raccoon, or maybe Chrissie Hynde.

As my consolation, I could fantasize about being the world's sexiest commando. I had dressed in a slinky black leotard and Magnum boots, and had added a black Nomex balaclava and kevlar gloves. The only down side was the utility belt. It weighed a ton. The belt carried a cell phone, Maglight, ultrasonic insect repeller, and the holster with Steph's handgun. I glanced at my reflection.

"Well, hey," I said to myself with a wink, "hello there, Lara Croft." The Catwoman had nothing on me.

The actual job really sucked. Skulking around in a dark swamp all night was not my idea of a good time. I'll confess that I whined for a while, sitting hip deep in the black water with John Cougar, and watching the lighted windows of the rusting trailer. I don't know what was worse. The constant buzzing of mosquitoes that circled around smacking their lips, or the muffled clacking of a keyboard from inside the trailer. The bugs were just waiting for the battery in the ultrasonic repeller to die, so they could charge in and suck out my blood and bodily fluids. The keyboard signaled the growth of another wretched prose that would soon be foisted on the world. It was also the harbinger of continued suffering for Stephanie. Beside me, John Cougar sighed, having perfected the mannerism earlier in the evening. Every so often the cell phone would vibrate, and I'd ease it out of its holster and click "Talk". It was always Lizzie, waiting in antsy anticipation by the road.

"Anything yet, love?" She'd whisper, just as she had ten minutes before.

"Not a thing moving that I can see," I'd reply, not taking my eyes off the windows.

"Well, let me know if anything changes, don't you know."

"Lizzie, I'm so bored that watching this Connie person taking out the trash would seem like a monumentous event," I whined. "In fact, I'd consider myself lucky to get bitten and die of malaria."

"Oh, why I do believe that such that an event could be arranged," Lizzie answered with a trace of sarcasm. "Do you believe for a single moment that sitting here in the dark by this picturesque country lane is at all my heart's desire? Do you? You just keep your eyes peeled, Candy, or I'll be off and you can walk home!"

"You leave me in this filthy swamp, and I'll put sugar in your tank!" I hissed back, the vitriol boiling out of my ears as sweat trickled into my eyes. I wiped the back of my glove across my face and then growled as I realized it was covered with algae-laced mud.

"Ladies, ladies, please," John Cougar beseeched us, having overheard the whole exchange, "can't we all just get along?" He was lounging on a log next to me, bored, but at least reasonably dry.

"Oh…alright," I said, trying to regain a shred of composure, "no activity, Swamp Eyes out." I clicked the phone off. I could practically hear Lizzie fuming and muttering to herself by the roadside 40 yards away. It was the very first night of our actual mission, and we were already snarling at each other.

"I'm going to take a closer look," John Cougar said softly. "I think I can get pretty close without alerting the natives."

He leapt off into the shadows, clearing the bank with ease and blending into the black of the swamp night like a ghost. Before he'd gone 20 feet, I couldn't see him at all, and he was completely silent. (Author's note: the cougar, Panthera concolor, is known among felids as the, 'Athlete of the Americas', being capable of running leaps on level ground, of as much as 35 feet. They can also leap down from perches as high as 50 feet and jump upward over 12 feet. They can climb trees, swim, and cover short distances with frightening speed. A 125 to 150 lb. adult male cougar is an extremely formidable creature, similar in mass to the Old World leopard.)

Since it was futile to try catching a glimpse of him, I went back to watching the glowing rectangles of the trailer windows. Before long, I noticed the silhouette of his head, appearing like a black blotch against the yellowish lighted windows. He glanced into them, one after another, until he'd made a complete circuit of the trailer. After a few more moments, he appeared right in front of me with his lanky gait. He silently leapt onto the log and sat with his tail curled around his feet.

"Oh, Michelle, what pathos I have witnessed," he said, his voice cracking with sorrow. "Our dear friend is indeed a captive in that squalid hovel. I have seen the monster flaying her terminal in a fit of activity, while poor Stephanie languished nearby in a stupor."

"You saw her?" I asked excitedly. "What's wrong with her?"

"It's so very sad; why, it very nearly broke my heart. Steph was such a vital and active woman, but tonight I saw only a remnant, merely the ghost of the person I knew. Oh Michelle, she was collapsed on a fetid sofa, empty longnecks laid haphazardly at her feet beside an overflowing ashtray. She appeared to have been grievously injured in body and spirit. And in the very next room, exhibiting not a shred of concern for her pitiful condition, the monster, that Connie Stanton creature, sat stuffing her face with all manner of abominable sweets and drinking Yoo-hoo, as she intimated her delusions upon the keyboard. I was actually close enough to read somewhat of her thesis. What unmitigated twaddle. She cares nothing for our dear Stephanie; only her own pathetic and miasmic verbal excrement." He finished with a choking gasp that might have been the sound of a heart actually breaking. I moved over to the log he sat on and wrapped my arms around him, hugging him tight. I could feel him softly hitching as he quietly sobbed.

"C'mon, let's get out of here," I whispered, "we should report all of this to Lizzie and then decide on how to rescue Steph. I don't think there's anything more to be gained tonight by staying here in this disgusting swamp."

He nodded, still not trusting his voice, and I slowly waded out of the water and walked back down the driveway. At least there didn't seem to be any security precautions here, I thought, remembering how tightly Steph's house in San Francisco was guarded against intruders. If this had really been her home, I suspected that we would both have succumbed to booby traps long before. For me, that knowledge alone drove home just how badly Steph's condition must have deteriorated.

When Lizzie heard John's report, she visibly sank on her springs, and a trickle of windshield washer fluid tears trailed across her hood. She shook her front end sadly back and forth as if in denial.

"Oh my poor beloved Stephanie," she softly wailed. "I swear, to all the gods that be, that I shall free you from that dismal prison. Even if you are never the same, I shall bring you home and I shall take care of you so long as I live."

I was weeping as I got into the driver's seat. It was the most touching thing I'd ever heard.

"Could you drive please, Michelle," Lizzie softly asked me, "I don't think I'm quite up to it at the moment, love."

"Of course, hon," I told her as I pulled us out onto US-108. The road wavered all the way back to Waycross, as I peered ahead through my tears.

By the time we'd reached the Holiday Inn, Lizzie's sorrow had graduated to rage. She was all for going back and storming the trailer, guns blazing. The fact that we only had one gun, which none of us really knew much about, didn't dissuade her in the least. Eventually, John Cougar calmed her down to a barely convincing level of rationality.

"Well then, if not tonight, we'll bloody well go in there tomorrow," she declared, "even if I have to push that trailer over myself, Stephanie is not spending another night in that tin dungeon. Now, are you with me or not?"

I gulped, but I wasn't going to let her go alone. Neither was John Cougar.

"Of course we're with you, hon," I told her, "we've come all the way 'cross country for this, and somehow, we'll make it work. But, maybe we should get there a bit earlier…before Steph's completely inebriated. I don't think I can carry her if she's passed out." Well, as things turned out, I'd opened my big mouth and spoken too soon.

Later that night, as I lay in the tub, soaking off the grime and masturba…never mind…I thought about coming all the way to the east coast, and preparing to risk my life, for a woman I'd never really known. It was ridiculous, chancy, and, except for squatting in the swamp, I'd enjoyed the trip immensely. So all right, the drive had been tiring and the scenery boring, and the food had sucked, (except for my after dinner treat in the ladies' room), but I was on an adventure…a real live adventure. And, it was for a good cause.

As I dozed off in the tub, I wondered if anyone would have done this for me if I'd been kidnapped. I realized that there wasn't a flaming chance in hell that anyone would even have really missed me. I slipped down a couple inches and the water ran into my nose, and I jerked bolt upright, hacking water out of my throat. Okaaaay, that'll teach me, I thought. Bath time's supposed to be happy and relaxing, I sternly scolded myself. I stood up and shook off the excess water before stepping out and wrapping myself in a towel. Tomorrow night, I'd either have rescued a very sick woman, or I'd be dead.

I thought I'd just dozed off when the phone rang. Lizzie was giving me my wake up call. What a short night, I thought, but the sun is up and I guess I can't argue with that…damn it. Breakfast was another battercake, with coffee, and a leer from the fishermen in the next room. The rest of the day we spent on the phones, discussing plans with Lizzie, who was parked across the lot by herself, trying to keep from being overheard. The fishermen were getting nosey, lingering in their doorway.

They were still outside, (or maybe they were outside again), hopefully looking to catch another glance at my chest, when we trooped out to Lizzie after dinner. The guys looked progressively more amazed as first Nightshade the Cat, and then Elvis the Kitten, walked through the parking and got straight into the car.

"Really well behaved," one of them muttered, "guess they're not headed for the vet."

"Weird, the one's missing most of its tail," the other observed, "and I'd swear its just a kitten judging by the size of its paws."

They both did double-takes when John Cougar stumbled out in his raincoat and hat, shuffling and leaning on my arm, as we hastened to the passenger's side.

"Oh, this is sooo not good," I muttered to myself.

"Just keep moving," John Cougar whispered urgently, "they probably think I'm just an old decrepit moonshiner or something."

We managed to get in and take off without comment, though I was sure the rumor would be all over Waycross in an hour. Well, it really didn't matter.

We drove back to Connie Stanton's trailer in silence; each of us occupied with our own thoughts. Our parts in the plan had been assigned and we reviewed them in our minds, looking for ways to head off potential disasters. Actually, we were kind of proud of ourselves. Not only did we have the primary operation memorized, but a backup option as well. If the first attempt went awry, we had a contingency plan, and if stealth failed us, then we were willing to stage an all out assault. One way or another, we weren't leaving without Steph.

I could have sworn that the roads had shortened somehow. We arrived at the driveway, off US-108, way before I was mentally ready. Still, it was time for the grit, guts, and glory, as Lizzie put it. She killed her headlights as she slipped into the shadows alongside the driveway, seeking concealment. Little did we know that we'd already been made.

As soon as Lizzie killed her engine, we slid out, careful to maintain silence and stay in the shadows.

"Remember, the night is your friend," John Cougar had advised us, looking rather pointedly at me, "those of you who are cats will understand this instinctively." Nightshade and Elvis nodded gravely to him. "Glad you're not still that bright yellow, my dear," he told Lizzie with a smile, "though I'll never forget how you looked when we first met." The little car smiled back at him.

Now we were edging forward through the deep shadows of the driveway, inching forward in silence. We needn't have bothered. Inside the trailer, Steph was desperately trying to glimpse us, in a rising state of paranoia, out the kitchen window, while Connie, doped up and completely seduced by her profound passages, would never have noticed if we'd driven up in a trash truck.

"I saw a light go out in the kitchen," John commented to me softly, "perhaps I should have a look in there first. We could be compromised." I could hear the tension in his voice. We still didn't know what level of violence Connie Stanton was capable of. I nodded my agreement. Off to our left, something splashed into the swamp. I held my breath and nervously fingered the thumb catch on the holster of Steph's handgun.

Nightshade and Elvis had slipped around to the back of the trailer, hopping up onto the trashcans to watch Connie through the den window. I sidled up to the front door, leaning my back flat against the rusting tin beside the doorframe, trying to control my breathing. John Cougar moved to the kitchen window, and I watched as he slowly raised himself so he could peek in.

He'd just risen high enough to look through the screen when there was a stifled gasp and a crash from inside the trailer. Awww shit, I thought, the enemy knows we're here. I popped the thumb catch and slid the pistol from its holster, being careful to keep my finger off the trigger and not sweep my left hand with the barrel. I held the handgun beside me, pointing the barrel up, as I pressed myself against the trailer wall. There was a scrabbling and crashing from inside, which changed to a dragging and thumping. My god, Connie's killing her, I thought melodramatically, she knows she's under attack, and she's murdering Steph for spite. It was for real now, and I slipped the pistol's safety off.

I had prepared to grab the doorknob and rip the door open, when it was slammed open wide, nearly taking off my fingers. My heart leapt against the upper wall of my thoracic cavity and then slapped a couple times against the front of my trachea, before rebounding off my sternum and settling down to a pulse rate of 150. I actually felt my spleen shiver while my liver whimpered in fright. I tried to calm them as a body launched itself out the door with an awkward, panicked gait. I saw the moonlight flash off metal along the figure's leg and I thought of Mad Max. Then I noticed the thick unnatural shoes, like props from two different versions of the movie Frankenstein, as the figure fled away from me towards the swamp. John Cougar had leapt from beside the window and was quickly gaining on the figure. I heard him calling desperately just above a whisper, "Steph…Steph, stop! It's me, John Cougar!"

As always, he was moving silently, and I could imagine his disembodied voice impinging on Stephanie's psyche like the call of a ghost. She was in a complete state of panic, driven only by her terrified hindbrain. I doubt she even heard him. I could only watch the drama unfolding before my eyes. She was almost at the edge of the swamp, and John was reaching out for her shoulder. None of us saw the opossum.

Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling shriek. It came from close to the ground and it wasn't Stephanie or John. Steph's right leg slipped out from under her, and then she was jerking away to the left, her muscles spasaming in a reflex arc that was way too fast to be a conscious movement. It had been powered by sheer visceral terror, and it propelled her forward, way off balance. I could only watch in horror. Even John Cougar couldn't reach her in that last instant. Awww, shit, I heard him utter.

Steph was airborne. I watched, (while the action slowed down as it does in fan fiction, like at the climax of a fight, for example), as she pinwheeled her arms and legs, flailing at the air and finding purchase on nothing. She described a modified ballistic arc and belly flopped into the black water of the swamp. She was very close to where I'd sat next to John Cougar's seat on the log, watching the trailer for several hours the night before. I thought they could have heard the splash back in Waycross, and so I aimed the barrel of the handgun back through the door. I was determined to stop Connie Stanton at any cost. There was a tremendous splashing, the terrified fight of a drowning person trying to keep her head above water for even another single instant. It went on for what seemed an eternity, and then it subsided into silence.

A moment later, there was a second splash as John Cougar leapt in after her. I looked back and forth, unsure of what to do. Nothing even remotely close to this scenario had appeared in our plans at all. I was indecisive. Should I guard our rear or should I offer assistance in the rescue? I bounced on my toes, trying to decide. I could hear the clatter of Connie's keyboard continuing undisturbed inside. She was completely oblivious to the life and death struggle going on just outside her doorway. Incredible!

My decision was finally made when I heard John Cougar sputtering and calling for my aid. I slammed the pistol back into its holster and took off towards him at a dead run. He was ducking back under, desperately searching below the surface, and then coming back up for a quick breath. I jumped in, trying to minimize the splash.

"She's gone under, Michelle," John told me desperately, "we've got to find her and get her out."

That was all I needed to hear. I took a deep breath, and without a second thought, I dove under the murky surface. I went down with my hands outstretched, feeling my way to the muck at the bottom. It wasn't that large an area we were in, and soon I felt Steph's clothing. I could already tell she was in trouble because she wasn't even struggling. She was limp and floating below the surface. I came up and took a deep breath, and then I went under again. I followed her body with my blind hands, identifying her torso, her arms and legs, and getting myself oriented. I tried to lift her through the water, but something was holding her down. I came back up, gasping for another breath. Back down I went, feeling that her arms were free, and feeling the resistance when I tried to mover her left leg. I felt my way down her leg brace, and finally, right at the ankle where it attached to the stirrup beneath her shoe, I found a branch wedged tightly beneath the metal bar. I came up gasping again, then sucked in the rank, humid swamp air, and dove back under. I went straight for the branch, tugging on it and trying to pull the leg brace free. It wouldn't budge. The damn thing wouldn't move, and I thought desperately that, even if I had tried in the light of day, I wouldn’t have been able to wedge it in as securely.

I had to come back up for yet another breath. My lungs were screaming now, but the adrenaline was pumping, dumped wholesale into my bloodstream by my adrenal glands. I reached underwater and found the thigh strap for the leg brace, and undid it by feel. Then I went back down into the darkness, and this time, instead of pulling or tugging, I unlaced Steph's shoe. I frantically pulled the wet laces apart as quickly as I could. Thankfully, the shoe slipped down part of the way off her foot, and sure enough, it was just barely enough to free the branch from the brace.

I lifted Steph's body partly out of the water, raising her head free of the black murk. She looked as if she was dead. There was no poetic image of a sleeping princess or of youth recovered in repose. She just looked soaked and dead. Next to me John Cougar tried to cover a horrified gasp. I squatted, using the bouncy of the water to aid me as I hefted Steph onto my shoulders in a fireman's carry. Water cascaded from her mouth and nose as she dangled, head down across my shoulders. I barely made it out of the swamp. The first time I tried, I slid back down the bank and landed on my butt with Steph sinking below the surface behind me. I recovered her body and tried again, crawling up the bank on all fours. I staggered when I finally made it out onto dry land. There was simply no possible way I could carry her down the driveway to where Lizzie waited.

"John, get Lizzie," I panted, pulling the handgun from its holster, "I can't go any further, but I'll shoot anyone who comes to stop us."

He didn't even reply. With a leap, he was lost in the darkness. I crouched over Steph's dead body, my eyes sweeping the area, an unfamiliar pistol clenched in my hand. In what seemed like only seconds, I heard Lizzie's engine start, and then the crunching of gravel as she drove towards us down the driveway. A moment later, I saw a pair of small shadows scampering around the side of the trailer and making for the Mini Cooper at a desperate pace. They all reached me at about the same moment.

"Get us out of here," Nightshade urgently hissed, "Connie's on the move."

"She's looking for Steph," Elvis added, looking back at the trailer fearfully.

"We have got no time," John Cougar said, flinging the passenger's door open and pushing the seat forward, "get in both of you."

Elvis and Nightshade bolted into the back. I took a deep breath and found strength that I didn't know I possessed. I lifted Steph's body and slid her into the small back seat. John Cougar leapt in with her and I jumped into the passenger's seat. Lizzie took off; spinning her tires and throwing gravel as we fled. Behind us, a light came on over the front door of the trailer, where houses have a porch. In the side mirror, I caught a bouncing glimpse of a short, overweight blonde lurching out of the door. I leaned out the window and fired several shots into the woods past the trailer, trying to make her duck and cover. It seemed like she didn't even really notice.

Lizzie fishtailed onto 108, screeching rubber like a dragster. I heard her upshifting although we were still in two-wheel drift, but her front wheel drive clawed for traction and dragged us onto the pavement. She didn't let up on the gas until we were flying down the road at almost 90mph. She finally snapped on her headlights as we drifted around a curve, where she smoothly downshifted and swung around a pickup truck so fast that I thought she'd pulled the paint off his hood.

When we made the turn onto US-221, she finally began to relax, dropping our speed to 70mph. It was a 30mph zone, but she had no trouble taking the turns, flawlessly choosing her line and cutting the groove in four-wheel drift, like a Lamborghini at Le Mans. I doubt any human driver could have made a run like that, for fear, rather than lack of skill, would have limited them. On that night, Lizzie Cooper knew no fear of the road. In her own way, she embodied the same courageous spirit of defiance that had once driven her countrymen face down the rockets and bombers of Luftwaffer. Until the night that the world changed, this was her finest hour.

Lizzie literally slid into the parking space outside our room, with all four tires smoking. She'd nailed the brakes to break traction and then drifted into the space moving laterally, coming to a halt centered between the lines. She'd barely engaged the parking brake when I leapt out of the door and pushed the front seat forward. I leaned in and lifted Steph's body onto my shoulders, and then I actually ran to the door. There were only seconds to spare. I'd unlocked our room and had just made it inside when the fishermen next door ran out to see what all the noise was. I wasn't so naïve as to think that there'd be no problem being caught bringing a dead body in, rather than dragging one out.

I didn't see what happened, but Nightshade told me later. I did hear a man's scream and a door slamming closed. Apparently, the fishermen had opened their door only to be confronted by a "Black Panther", which lunged at them from behind the small blue car. The car's doors were still hanging open, while the door to my room was slamming closed. They assumed that I'd fled inside to avoid an attack by the large wild cat. The younger of the two men screamed, dragged his petrified friend back inside, and slammed their door too. They didn't notice Nightshade and Elvis rolling on the floor of the blue car in hysterics. As soon as the men were out of sight, they jumped out and banged on my door until I let them in. John Cougar slipped in quietly after them, while outside Lizzie closed her doors.

I had laid Stephanie out on the bed and drained at least a liter of foul water from her lungs. She was soaked inside and out, and stank of the swamp. On top of that, she was dead and hadn't taken a breath in almost half an hour. She should have stayed dead. She should already have been profoundly brain damaged. Instead, not knowing any better, I began administering artificial respiration. I breathed into her mouth while I held her nose. The air rushed back out with a wet rasping wheeze. In between breaths, I begged her not to die. It was ridiculous, since she was already certifiably dead. As the moments passed, I became more and more frantic. I had lived my whole life in emulation of her, and now it seemed as though I would never get to meet her. I had missed knowing my hero by minutes and it just wasn't fair.

"Don't you die on me, damn it," I cried, before giving her another lungful of air, "I need to know you, so don't you leave me, Steph, don't you dare leave me!"

Nightshade the Cat switched on the TV to cover my hysterics. It was a rerun of "Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea", on the cable Sci-Fi Channel. Amazingly, Richard Baseheart was talking about drowning a radiation-bred undersea monster.

John Cougar sat beside the bed, slowly shaking his head. He'd handled life and death in its rawest state all his life. It was a part of his duty, his responsibility to the piece of land he managed. Steph's death was a blow to him, and it meant the loss of a dear friend, but he could accept it with sorrow. I couldn't. Everything I'd been and done had been modeled on my image of her. I had to know what was real.

"Breath damn you!" I screamed at her. "You can't die on me like this. I never even got to meet you." Another breath as I cried. "Don't you die Stephanie Walker! You come back to me. You come back to me, because I've loved you all my life!" Another breath through tears I didn't even notice. "I deserve to meet you. I deserve a chance to love you." Another breath that came from my heart. "And damn it, you deserve to love me!" I pounded hard on her chest, once, twice, and then a third time. Maybe the blows cracked loose the creeping rigor mortis, maybe she came back to defend her body against my onslaught, or maybe it was…destiny.

Stephanie's body jerked and she gasped, coughing up another mouthful of swamp water. She lurched upright; her eyes popping open in stark terror as she fought for air. Inside her cranium, Stephanie's brain muscles poked her gray matter back into action. In an instant, her brain was pulsing with nerve impulses, goading her metabolism back into action. By reflex, one of her hands latched onto my forearm and she clamped down on it. The years of training in the Eagle Claw system had strengthened her grip unnaturally. I felt the radius, the slimmer bone in my left forearm, cracking. I was so amazed she was alive that I barely noticed the pain. I do remember hearing the thump as John Cougar passed out and fell over on the rug.

Later, Lizzie and I made a short trip, driving out to find the only doctor in Waycross. He was an aging, overweight, red-nosed man who was almost too drunk to set the bone in my arm. Doc Johnson greeted me at the door with a leer and offered me Jim Beam neat…then tried to convince me to put on an open-backed gown. He was the only person I'd ever seen who wore a string tie. It reminded me of "Doc" Holliday, from the Wyatt Erp movies, and wondered if he kept a sawed off shotgun in his desk drawer. At least he dispensed some Percocet, drawling that the dispensary wasn't open till 10 in the morning and people had been known to die waiting. Then he chuckled and took one himself. I supposed it went well with the Jim Beam. I left his office, (as he passed out in the foyer), wearing the sloppiest cast I'd ever seen. I guess we both ended up plastered.