The drive home to San Francisco commenced the next morning, just before dawn. John and I had loaded Stephanie into the back seat, while Lizzie clucked and whispered sympathetic words to her. She was still mostly unconscious, as her lungs and trachea reacted in horrified disgust to the intake of swamp water. Her larynx had been mortified, but Steph's hindbrain had explained the incident away, blaming her sympathetic nervous system for its "gasp reflex". After reviving, John Cougar had spent hours in the tub scrubbing at the black Grecian Formula coloring, but had only succeeded in rendering himself a dark tawny gray. He sulked in the passenger's seat. Elvis the Kitten and Nightshade the Cat were cranky, confined to the area behind the back seat with the duffel bag. I slid into the driver's seat and Lizzie took us out of the parking lot at a somber pace, playing Gregorian Chants. I rolled my eyes and made a show of perusing the CD collection.

When we were about halfway down US-82 to I-95, Lizzie huffed and said, "Michelle, are you going to make a selection, or will you merely fondle those CDs all day? You're making me bloody antsy fumbling around and sighing like that."

"I'm not sighing," I sighed, "and this funereal atmosphere you're creating is sooo going to make me depressed. I'll end up eating chocolate and shopping if this doesn't stop. You'll make me gain five pounds and get zits. I mean, geeezus, we rescued Stephanie and she's alive again. You should be happy. What's the matter?"

Lizzie was silent for almost a mile. Finally she told me, "Michelle, you're right. We accomplished our mission, don't you know, but you see, love, I haven't a clue as to what Stephanie's mental condition is now. She was like a dearest big sister to me, she was. She took care of me and showed me wonderful things. She loved me, and I never expected anything like that from an owner. All my friends on the transport, coming across the pond, claimed that Americans are superficial and temporally handicapped. They told me I'd be ignored, and then most likely abused as soon as I was off warranty. They said I'd surely be left to rust before being given to a teenager learning to drive."

She sighed and I could almost see her closing her eyes and drawing up pleasant memories of her life in San Francisco with Stephanie.

"Michelle, I shall never forget that day when I first saw Stephanie at the dealership. She came in and she looked so beautiful, and I could see that her heart was warm. She wasn't like anyone else who'd come into the showroom. I thought she'd go for the Jaguar straight away, but, don't you know, she told Nigel that she wanted a Mini.

Oh, how I held my breath as she walked towards us. I tried to catch her eye, watching her each and every step. When she stopped in front of me, I smiled at her and wished with every drop of oil in me that she'd just give me a chance.

Why, do you know that the first thing she said to me was how nice my stereo sounded and how well I silenced the outside world? I took a chance and thanked her. I was sooooo very nervous, speaking up at first. She introduced herself and said she was pleased to meet me and wanted us to be friends. And then she made the decision to take me home with her…right then, not five minutes after we met. Since that day, she showed me nothing but the utmost consideration and loving kindness. She's one-of-a-kind, Stephanie is, and when I said I'd take care of her for the rest of my life, I meant every word. She's everything a person like me dreams of finding, and I'm so very worried that she won't remember me, or anything else."

I really didn't know what to tell the poor dear. I had never known the real Stephanie Walker; only my mistaken image of her. I would never claim to understand the loss of the individual that had inhabited the body that lay in a stupor on the back seat. But Lizzie would notice even the slightest change in her, and John Cougar would also know. For John, Lizzie's unhappiness and doubts added a layer of sorrow on top of his own feelings for Steph. I looked over the seat back and noticed Steph's hands moving, absently checking herself. At first I thought she was acting out some bizarre dream, and then I thought that maybe she was searching herself for injuries. Finally though, a realization dawned on me and I smiled.

"Look, Lizzie," I whispered, gesturing over my shoulder at Steph, "she's looking for a Camel."

Lizzie slowed slightly and started straying across her lane toward the shoulder, so I grabbed the wheel and pressed the gas pedal down to maintain our speed. I heard a sputter in Lizzie's engine that would have approximated a gasp from a human, and then the console sprang open revealing a carton of Camels. I snatched them and ripped open a pack, then dropped them when we swerved across the centerline. I cursed the cast on my arm. A terrified gasp came from the passenger's seat. Lizzie and I both went for the controls at the same time, and we lurched across the oncoming lane before jerking back to our own side. I looked over and saw John Cougar grinding his teeth and hiding his eyes behind his paws.

Finally I lit a Camel. Just the first whiff of smoke seemed to calm Steph. Her lands slowed in their frantic search and she exhaled, relaxing into deeper rhythmic breathing. I held the cig over the seat with my good arm and put it to her lips. As if on automatic, she inhaled and a grin curled the corners of her mouth. After holding in the smoke like a hit of pot, she exhaled slowly, drawing some of the smoke back in through her nostrils. The nicotine was working. Steph's eyes fluttered open. They were icy blue.

" Camel…Gimmee…" she rasped, her first words, coherent or otherwise.

She raised an unsteady hand and I slid the cigarette between her fingers. Steph sucked it down like a joint, the ember growing to 2" in length before she struggled up and snuck it through the gap where the rear window was propped open. She looked up at me and then eyed the pack. I handed it to her with the lighter. In moments she had another Camel lit, but this time she smoked it at a nearly normal pace. Finally, when she'd finished, she coughed and took a careful look at her surroundings. We were all looking at her. The fact that one strange person and three different species of cats were her only company didn't phase her a bit. The fact that we were flying down I-95 and I wasn't even looking at the road didn't disturb her at all. She looked each of us in the eyes and then smiled.

"Okay," she said weakly, "I recognize the inside of my own car, but who are all of you?"

John Cougar was miffed, but then realized that he was still dingy gray from his Grecian Formula. He made the introductions.

"Stephanie, it's John. John Cougar, though I've had to assume a disguise. This is Michelle Allen, who you sent us to find in Kettleman City. Elvis the Kitten you met briefly the day of your 'accident'," here he gulped at the memory, "and this is Nightshade the Cat…Michelle's cat," he added, though I'd never thought of her as mine. "Of course, Lizzie Cooper is driving."

We all held our breaths, wondering if any of it made sense to her. I was startled by the tears that began to flow down Stephanie's cheeks. She looked us over again, trying hard to compose herself. I wondered if she thought she'd awakened in a nightmare of insanity, because although I'd grown comfortable with my companions, most people wouldn't have been convinced that this was completely normal. Maybe she was still "broken" from her ordeal in that trailer.

"Oh, my friends," she finally choked out, "I can never thank you all enough for somehow getting me back. I don't even know where I was…am…whatever. John, thank you, thank you, my friend. Dear, dear Lizzie, I love you so very much. I can't believe I'm here. The last thing I really remember was being in a hospital and being given a handful of pills. Then I was traveling to another hospital, but I don't know where I went. Later, I do remember that I was in a trailer, but everything was really fuzzy. It's still not really clear. I was being given so many pills. But for the last week, I was sneaking them into that blonde woman's drinks and not taking any of them myself. She's immensely disturbed, I know that much…she's uh, Connie, that's her name…I think."

She'd become uncertain about the details. Tears were still rolling freely down her cheeks, and I reached over the seat back to stroke them away with my thumb.

"I'm afraid I don’t know you at all," she said to me, "but you're really beautiful…you have violet eyes."

I was ready to burst with happiness from her compliment and a warm feeling grew inside me that I really don't think I'd ever felt before. It wasn't devoid of lust, but it was so very much more.

"Stephanie, I met you once, you know, years ago in Kettleman City? So, anyway, I was just a little girl, running away to the desert with my cat. Somehow, you managed to convince me to go home, and you took Barney and drove away. I haven't lived a day since then without wishing that I'd see you again. When your friends came to my house looking for help, it felt like a dream come true.

Anyway, I tried to find out about you all my life, but everything I thought I'd learned about you was wrong. Steph, I've been hopelessly infatuated with you since all those years ago, and I think maybe I'm falling in love with you all over again…for real this time. So, anyway, uh, Hi."

She looked at me as if I had three heads and then lit a third Camel. I didn't mind because I had her attention. We smiled shyly at each other.

"Oh, love, I'm so very, very happy to have you back," Lizzie burst in emotionally, "in both body and soul. Bless me, but I can't tell you how horribly I've fretted. I really don't know what I'd have done if we hadn't found you and freed you from that wretched trailer and that Connie monster. I still shudder to think of what you must have gone through, I do, but it's over now, and we're taking you home at last."

"Home…" Steph whispered uncertainly, "where there's a sunset lighting the towers of a great bridge, rising over a sea of fog?"

"Yes, hon," Lizzie confirmed, "home to your wonderful house in San Francisco…our house. We're your family, Stephanie, and we love you, we do."

We spent hours talking and getting acquainted or reacquainted. As the miles passed by, I fell more and more hopelessly in love with Stephanie Walker. I felt more and more a part of the unusual family that she'd forged, and I knew that, (for the first time since my father had died of his allergies in a cat house), I was going home too. I was cramped into the driver's seat of a small, over-crowded blue car, on a cross-country run. The food sucked, the scenery was boring, and the clothes I was wearing smelled more like me than me. I was also happier than I had been since I was a little girl, back when I still had both my parents and Barney the Cat.

Well, the trip home seemed to take only half as long as the drive from California. We arrived in the early evening, after two and a half days on the road with barely a break. When Lizzie finally pulled into the driveway off East Rd., Steph breathed a sigh of relief as she surveyed her surroundings. She asked Lizzie to drive around the side of the house, so we could look out over the cliff. I think she needed to see the bridge and the bay.

We climbed out, leaving the doors open so Lizzie could air out her interior, and took seats in front of her with our legs dangling over the cliff. Nightshade and Elvis curled up on the hood, enjoying the warmth of Lizzie's engine in the cool November night. We'd been so preoccupied that none of us had realized it was Thanksgiving.

The sun sank gently into the west behind us, throwing its glorious ruddy light on the spans of the Golden Gate Bridge, and illuminating its towers in warm evening hues. Fog unrolled across the water, like a cloudbank creeping across the watery reflection of the sky. Soon the carpet of vapor stretched across the bay, to Berkley and Oakland in the east. It was an enchanted homecoming, beautiful beyond belief.

I leaned back against Lizzie's bumper, watching the progression of colors that painted the great bridge; deepening orange to red, finally falling to violet. The fog bank rolled in slow motion, reflecting the colors of the sky, before sinking in to a ghostly dusk. South of us, the city's lights came on, winking in the distance like a field of stars.

To me, it seemed almost a vision of flying while sitting still. We were floating above the world like eagles or ancient gods. From below, muted sounds rose from the city to our ears, reassuring and undemanding. Their distance defeated their ability to command our attention, yet acknowledged the comforting presence of humanity. We all sat together watching the spectacle unfold. Neither Stephanie nor I noticed when our hands clasped or that our fingers intertwined. In all my life, I had never felt so at peace. I had never felt that everything was so right. I desired no fame or glamour, nor any riches beyond what I held at that moment in my hand. It was Thanksgiving, and I felt that I had never been so blessed.

Finally full dark fell, and with a sigh we rose and went into the garage. We unpacked Lizzie and cleaned her interior. Later, we settled on the couch, with burritos and longnecks, hot salsa verde and cool sour cream, tangy salsa roja and salty corn chips, watching a DVD of "A Friend in Need", the series finale of Xena Warrior Princess. Steph fell asleep as Gabrielle received Akemi's gift, the tattoo of a dragon, to protect her from Yodoshi, the Eater of Souls. I gently coaxed the Camel from her fingers and turned down the sound. Beside us, Lizzie was snoring lightly. It had been another long day. I cuddled up to a sleeping Stephanie, and felt Morpheus coaxing my eyelids down as the warmth of her body lulled me to sleep.

The next day there was a lot to do. Aside from resettling Stephanie in her house, we had to figure out how to handle her return. As usual, Lizzie Cooper was the voice of reason.

"Oh Stephanie, we'll not be able to keep your whereabouts a secret for long, don't you know," she said, "and to keep you from vanishing again, I should say the best place for you is in the spotlight, it is."

I had to agree with her, because if the media and the public knew she was back, they'd watch her and raise hell if she disappeared again. Especially if the circumstances were suspicious. Lizzie had friends in TV and radio who could orchestrate good coverage for the return of our hero. Fame and glamour were just around the corner. I could smell them like a hot dog on the breath of a 49ers fan.

"I would have to agree as well," John Cougar said. "The more visible Steph is right now, the better her chances of remaining free. I suggest we produce a short statement for the press as soon as possible."

Convincing Steph was the hardest part. She was more inclined to await the next crises with a longneck and a rifle, holed up in her garage with one eye on the video monitors and one eye on a bowl of taco chips and guacamole. She was already talking about teaching me weapons handling. The rest of us were less eager for a shootout. We suspected that Stephanie might still have some residual medications in her system, affecting her judgement.

"Feeling more yourself this morning, I should say," Lizzie stated, as she watched Steph loading magazines on the couch, "but 'tis video we should be shooting, it is."

"Lizzie, dear, I guess I don't mind a little self-promotion," Stephanie replied, though it had never been her favorite thing, "if ya really think it'll keep the Feds away. But I need to feel ready in case it doesn't end there. They aren't my only enemies." She would never forget the destruction of her apartment, or the losses of Barney and Brittanie. Never.

As usual, Steph was less than enthusiastic about self-promoting when the time for filming came. She grumbled a bit and procrastinated a bit. I would have said she sulked, but by the time she finally acquiesced, she was too drunk for the term to apply. I'd offered to stand in as her spokeswoman, but Lizzie would hear nothing of it. The little car was getting downright bossy. Eventually I was ordered to unpack the camcorder and set up the tripod. I sulked.

In the end, when I saw the footage, I grudgingly agreed with Lizzie. Steph looked softer and sexier, and the public would relate to her with sympathy. Even I could see that. Her delivery was flawless. She was slouching near a wall of utility hookups, smoking a Camel and making flirty eye contact, while reading from the teleprompter and slurring her words. She actually seemed…sorta feminine and vulnerable, a combination that she habitually detested and I characteristically mocked. Lizzie spent a little time furiously editing the final tape. Finally, she autodialed on her "chatty" phone.

"Good day, Lizzie Cooper here. Would you be so kind as to connect me with Maxwell Blackthorne? I'd be ever so thankful," Lizzie asked of whoever had answered her call to the TV station. "Yes, he's the program director for Bay Watch. Thank you so much, of course I'll hold the line. Yes, he knows me, of course, just tell him it's Lizzie C, dear. Why, thank you kindly, luv, yes, Bristol."

"They always love my accent," Lizzie stage whispered to me.

I chuckled. Maxwell Blackthorne was the same contact that Lizzie had sent the video of the break in at Steph's house to, just over a week ago. He'd arranged the program that we'd watched, fostering a tone of moral outrage at the violation of her home. The show had given its audience a very sympathetic biographical sketch of Stephanie, and publicly questioned her disappearance. I had a question about Max.

"Lizzie, is Maxwell Blackthorne British?"

"Oh, why he most surely is, Michelle," Lizzie answered, and I could sense her impish grin. "In point of fact, he's the most British person I know. Twenty-five years here stateside and he still takes his Earl Grey and scones every afternoon. Why, I always hear the BBC, playing in the background in his office. He always has the inside dirt on the goings on back home, don't you know; who's playing up across the pond. Especially the Royals." Here she actually giggled, then recovered quickly when he came on the line.

"Maxwell, dear, I'm so glad to have been able to catch you," she said, "thank you sincerely for sparing me a moment. Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But of course it's an exclusive, luv, and I think you'll really like it, too…happy endings and all. Yes, she's back…yes, exactly. We're worried, of course." I could imagine him salivating in his office downtown. Lizzie finally finished with a giggle and a conspiratorial, "we Brits must stick together, don't you know."

She clicked off and then looked over at me. Stephanie was just coming down the stairs with a longneck and a bowl of chips. She looked at Lizzie expectantly, setting down the chips and lighting a Camel.

"Maxwell is sending over a courier straight away, and just guess what. He's setting up a special report! Stephanie, he's going to air your statement just as soon as he's viewed it himself. In fact, he'll be doing the on air commentary personally!"

We just looked at her. A program director usurping the place of his talking heads was pretty much unheard of. I couldn't remember it ever happening. Even Steph seemed impressed. She sat down hard on the sofa and lit a second Camel. After a couple puffs, she smiled.

"All this fuss over little 'ol me?"

"Hon, there's nothing else in the bloody news right now with a decent human interest angle," Lizzie stated, "and you know news people are just overpaid gossips at heart. Besides, this city was so proud of you after that atom bomb affair, it was. Why, you've no idea how outraged everyone here was when Bay Watch showed the tape of your home being searched and bugged. People were up in arms, they were."

"That's right, Steph." I told her. "There were actually street protests over your disappearance. Especially in Chinatown, around your old beat. In fact, the day after the Bay Watch report, a crowd of marchers turned a thousand rats loose at the FBI office."

Steph chuckled at that, but I noticed Elvis' eyes bugging out at the comment about the rats. He had puffed up his fur and laid back his ears. Even Nightshade was mincing on her paws; her claws dug into the carpet. Steph seemed to notice it too, but said nothing.

Before the chips were gone, the doorbell rang. I went upstairs and handed the envelope with the videocassette to the courier at the door. He leered at me, took the tape and signed a receipt, then thanked my breasts and hopped back on his motorcycle. I went back inside and rejoined the others in the garage.

Predictably, Lizzie already had the TV tuned in. I knew the media worked fast, but even I was amazed when the same criminally beautiful anchorwoman from Bay Watch appeared on the screen less than 30 minutes later. The game show that had been in progress simply cut off…no fabulous prizes would be awarded there today. The talking head was practically frothing at the mouth.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she smirked, obviously privy to a choice morsel of news, "we have interrupted our normally scheduled programming to present a Special Bulletin. San Francisco Bay Watch has received an exclusive report that is of interest to all citizens of the Bay City. And now, Mr. Maxwell Blackthorne III, President, Executive Producer, and Program Director for San Francisco Bay Watch."

The screen went dark for a moment as the video feed switched from the Bay Watch set to a genteel office interior. At a heavy mahogany desk sat a late middle-aged man who could have been Alistair Cooke's younger brother. The man looked British…he exuded a mannered presence that we American provincials would immediately associate with "English Lord". Maxwell Blackthorne gazed into the camera solemnly; composing his already immaculately composed self. When he spoke, the expected British accent was understated and flawless.

"Ladies and gentlemen. These United States were founded on the principal of universal laws, which are to be applied equally to all citizens as God given rights. Among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…the cornerstones lying at the heart of all subsequent mortal legislation. Since the founding of this nation, these rights have required defense against assaults, both from without and from within. Since the founding of this nation, many citizens have come forward to fight in this defense. This has been true, both in times of war and in times of peace.

Among those who have defended the rights and upheld the laws of this nation, we must number a local hero. In both times of war and peace, Stephanie Walker has defended the United States. She has spent her entire adult life in service to this country. First, as a Sergeant First Class in the US Army Military Police, she served in Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Later, she served with the San Francisco Police Department, first as a patrol officer, and then as a Sergeant, in charge of the Bomb Removal Team. It is in this most recent role, that Sgt. Stephanie Walker's heroism has been most publicly recognized…notably, when she led her team in the deactivation of the atomic bomb, planted earlier this fall by terrorists, in the 3COM stadium.

Many of you will recall that it was shortly after the parade in honor of this hero, a parade in which, I might add, she again neutralized a public threat, when Stephanie Walker mysteriously disappeared. She was, in fact, spirited out of a hospital, to places unknown, by parties unknown. That incident was over 8 weeks ago. Sgt. Stephanie Walker had not been heard from since.

Many of you will recall the footage that was obtained and exclusively aired here on San Francisco Bay Watch, documenting the shameful violation of this hero's private property. In that footage, we witnessed the illegal entry and bugging of a citizen's home. I'm sure that you will also recall the 'plausible denial' which our investigators met, whilst questioning federal authorities about this matter.

This afternoon, I am pleased, relieved, and thankful, to finally be able to provide you with an update. In answer to the hopes and prayers of the citizens of this city, San Francisco Bay Watch has obtained documentation of the return of our hero. Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard me correctly. Sgt. Stephanie Walker has returned to San Francisco safely. She has released a statement which will now be aired, exclusively, here on San Francisco Bay Watch."

With that, Maxwell Blackthorne turned to a monitor on his left, revealing his right profile, which I'm sure he considered his more flattering side. The screen cut to the footage we'd shot that morning.

"He's the bloody president and the executive producer," Lizzie muttered in disbelief, "the bloke always introduces himself as just the program director. So then, that explains Rolls Rita."

"Huh?" I asked. The last comment had lost me.

"I got his number from his bloody Rolls Royce, Rita," Lizzie answered. "I met her one afternoon at the dealership. We were both in for warranty maintenance, we were. Thought at first she'd be stuffy, I did, but she was a lively one. We had such a pleasant chat, don't you know. Of course, she has her own phone too, so now we chat regularly. Feisty lass, that Rita."

I was shaking my head. Lizzie was networking with other vehicles; socializing with contacts unsuspected by the human world. Steph seemed not at all surprised. Lizzie was following in the tradition of Brittanie the Desoto. Remembering his reaction to the comment about rats, Stephanie also realized that Elvis the Kitten was feeling the call to follow in the footsteps of Barney the Cat.

Well, I could imagine the public's reaction to Steph's little speech, or at least I thought I could. None of us could really predict all of its ramifications on that day though. Still, I thought, for the average person, she symbolized someone who had tangled with the might of the government…and got away. An angsty teen had become a hero, and now a hero was becoming a legend. Bay Watch broadcast the exclusive, but the national networks picked up the story second hand. By the time they finished airing their evening reports, Stephanie's return was known across America.

Stephanie lounged on the couch, sucking down a longneck and smoking her third Camel. An overflowing ashtray sat on her thigh. The air quality in the garage was equivalent to a Los Angeles parking garage on fire. Elvis and Nightshade had already fled upstairs to camp out with John Cougar, in the fresh air on the deck. I was smoking defensively, figuring I'd prefer to die from my own second hand smoke. Beside us, Lizzie was washing her windshield for the second time.

"Could we turn on the exhaust fan, please and thank you," she muttered in a huff.

"Huh?" Steph asked, looking toward her from the TV screen.

"Its so bloody smoky in here that my paint's dulling, it is," Lizzie claimed, tilting on her tires to regard her finish, "and I'll be needing a new air filter within the week, I shall."

"Oh, uh, sorry," Steph said, hastily stubbing out her Camel and picking up a small remote. She pointed it at a panel on the wall and pressed a button, starting a whisper fan in the ceiling. The air cleared at a visibly rapid rate. "Guess I'm smoking a bit more than usual, huh," she admitted sheepishly, "sorry."

Steph leaned over the arm of the couch and dumped the ashtray into a bullet can, then absently chugged down the last three inches of Bud and added the longneck bottle. Lizzie looked pointedly at her and cleared her throat.

"I know, I know…I'll sort it out later." Stephanie assured her. "Glass in the recycling bin…I know."

John Cougar padded down the stairs to join us, an uncertain and worried look on his face. He sniffed the air briefly, then nodded his head in approval. Finally he took a seat next to Lizzie, curling his tail around his feet. Though it was obvious that something was troubling him, he held his peace. A few moments later, Nightshade and Elvis came back too. They seemed as unsettled as John was.

The TV was showing a report about the ongoing protests in San Francisco. Almost immediately after the Bay Watch airing of Steph's video statement, angry mobs of people had taken to the streets. They'd marched on several federal offices, waving hastily made signs, shouting slogans, and releasing rats. The commentator interviewed a scientist who claimed that over twenty-three thousand rats had been released in the city since Steph's disappearance. Neither of them understood the logic driving this particular form of protest. They thought it was a gay thing.

"What the fuck? Are they stupid or something?" Steph grumbled, before lighting another Camel. "Don't they have any idea about Barney, or my work in Chinatown on my old beat? All they'd have to do is ask anyone in Chinatown…or probably any protester. Instead, they ask a scientist. Everyone knows that those guys don't know squat about the real world."

"Stephanie, dear, of course they don't understand," Lizzie said with sympathetic but condescending certainty. "Scientists are required to be retarded by their intelligence, they are. The sods go to school for it. They live in isolation. Just look at them, hon."

"Well, yeah, you're describing an A-B Synch Error between their midbrains and forebrains," I agreed, "sorta like a dopey form of insanity."

"It's true, Steph," Nightshade added, "I saw some of the ones my prior owner worked with. They were supposed to be making great discoveries, but the best they could come up with was microwave pork rinds and mildew-proof shower curtains. The one I was stuck with couldn't even remember to feed me regularly…it's no wonder his family drove off without me. They probably didn’t even remember from moment to moment that they owned a cat." Here, she grimaced and spat.

"See," Lizzie chuckled, "would you want to trust them with your life?"

"Hell no," Steph said, opening another longneck and lighting a second Camel. She took a puff and then self-consciously realized she already had one in the ashtray. I gently slipped the new one from her fingers. We exchanged a brief smile that sped my heart rate. For a moment there was silence.

"But, what about the 23,000 rats…?" It was Elvis the Kitten, finally iterating what was in the back of everyone's minds.

"What if they aren't really rats?" John Cougar cryptically asked, in a voice so soft that it was almost a whisper. He was looking down, regarding his paws. Lizzie inched forward to lightly contact his back and offer her support.

Steph looked at him sharply. She'd learned long ago that no one knew rats as well as cats. Now she was hearing doubts from the largest of cats, a cat whose life was dedicated to managing the land around them. It was more upsetting than the sheer numbers of vermin.

"John, what do you mean?" Stephanie asked. Her esophagus was twitching and she slugged down the rest of her longneck to settle it, then immediately opened another. I lit another Camel off the butt of the one I'd taken from Steph and listened with my full attention.

"Well, Stephanie, I've heard rumors from the city. Some of these new rats aren't right…they're just 'gush' inside, like bugs…and they don't taste right either." He looked back down at his feet, probably thinking that we thought he'd lost it. Finally, he turned to address Lizzie. "Lizzie dear, I need a favor. I need to go into the city. I need to find out what's really going on across the channel over there. Maybe tonight, late?"

Lizzie looked briefly at Steph and received a barely perceptible nod.

"Would 2:00 am be appropriate, John?" Lizzie asked.

"That would be fine, I should think," John Cougar replied with relief, "I dread going into the city on foot. It's a foregone conclusion that my appearance on the streets would cause a panic."

"I think I'll go along for the ride," Steph said, "I think this is all part of something bigger. The thing is, if they look like rats, but they're not rats, then what are they?"

At 1:45am, a thoroughly drunk Stephanie was draped over Lizzie's wheel, nodding off in the driver's seat as the little car crossed the Golden Gate Channel into San Francisco. In the passenger's seat, John Cougar nervously eyed the sparse oncoming traffic.

"Where should I be headed first, luv?" Lizzie asked John, as she steered off the US-101 exit ramp and onto Lombard St.

"I need to contact several fellows in Chinatown, where the initial reports came from," John replied. "In fact, it was another member of Barney's family that first noticed the presence of these suspected ersatz rats. Now I'm wondering if we shouldn't have brought Elvis along."

"Well hey, here I am," Elvis the Kitten announced, popping up from behind the rear seat. He'd stowed away under the rather ominous deployment bag that Steph had dumped in just before they'd left. "I couldn't resist a chance to check out the city at night. Bright lights, big city here I come!"

"Elvis, dear, this isn't a joy ride, don't you know," Lizzie informed him.

"All too true," John said with concern, "I'm uncertain as to the level of danger we could encounter, and the city can be a very dangerous place. We'll be in unfamiliar territory, with a multitude of real rats all around us, not to mention the paranoid and hysterical humans, and these suspected…umm, things."

"What's going on back there?" Stephanie slurred, rising halfway from her stupor. She reflexively clutched at the steering wheel, sending the little car across a couple of opposing lanes before Lizzie wrenched back the controls. John Cougar was cringing as oncoming headlights swept the interior and a horn blared.

"It seems that Elvis has chosen to join our excursion," John told her.

"Stowed away in the boot with your munitions, he did," Lizzie elaborated.

"Come see, cum saw," Steph articulated absently before passing out again with a snort.

"So I guess I'm in, huh?" Elvis crowed.

"Guess so," John agreed reluctantly, "just stay close."

A few minutes behind it, a bright red rental Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder slipped out of the Avis lot. Jennie had used her employee preferences to score a sexy set of wheels, suitable for a love goddess. She too headed north, on US-101; passing other cars and weaving through the traffic like a snake. Chelle was waiting. As she swept past a state highway patrol cruiser, Jen dialed her cell phone and gave the author a call. (I answered, after a couple of rings had logged her on the call ID).

"Hi hon, I'm on my way," Jen told Michelle breathlessly while passing an ambulance. She hated squinting through the reflections from the flashing lights. It could cause wrinkles around her eyes.

"Oh, goody, babe…can't wait to see ya. I thought of a question, though. That passenger who gave you the creeps?"

"So anyway, like, you wouldn't happen to remember her name by any chance?" I asked, knowing better. "It's just that I'm getting a tingly-bad feeling here…you know, after your description."

"Well, duh, of course I remember her name," Jennie said with an exasperated sigh. I could actually hear her rolling her eyes. "I still remember the names of every guy I've had sex with too. I'm the best with names. You know that." It was true. I could almost see Jen's pouty smile as she proudly reminded me of her astonishing ability with names. "She was Connie Stanton."

"Oh, yuck," I choked out; a sudden rush of anxiety made my chest constrict and left me fighting for breath. At the same time, alarm bells went off in my head, filling my sinuses with a ringing sensation. (I could hear my forebrain berating my hindbrain for the reaction). The monster had tracked Stephanie down and she was almost certainly coming here. Nothing else could have prodded Connie Stanton all the way across the country from her trailer in the swamp. I had to warn Steph.

"Jen," I gasped, finally catching my breath, "I've gotta go…this is horrible."

I immediately dialed Lizzie's number, figuring that Steph would be too passed out to answer hers. It was the right thing to do. Lizzie picked up on the second ring.

"And a good evening to you, Lizzie Cooper here," she said while passing a car full of drunken teenagers. God, I could hear their hip-hop music flashing past and dropping into the background. I couldn't tell if they were frat boys or a ghetto gang.

"Lizzie, it's me," I sputtered, "oh god, Lizzie…it's Connie, she's here!"

I heard her brakes screeching in a panic stop. I heard John Cougar let out a horrified shriek. Then I heard the screaming of brakes from other cars behind her…and a crash with breaking glass. Oh yeah, and the hip-hop music kept blaring above it all.

"Oops," Lizzie muttered, then she asked in alarm, "Chelle, what…Connie's here? In bloody San Francisco?"

"I…yes! My friend Jennie was a stewardess on her flight and she just told me…I mean she called and she told me about this creepy woman porn writer and she was eating snacks through the whole flight and she acted like she was drugged and she was shooting up stuff and she was blonde and she was…Connie Stanton!" I was babbling out a really bad run-on sentence, without commas, periods, or editing.

"Oh bloody hell! And she's headed for Stephanie's house?" Lizzie was shocked but remarkably coherent, answering her own question while I gibbered in panic. "Of course she is. She's got no other reason to be here and nowhere else to go. Damn."

"Lizzie…what should I do?" I asked, but now she was ignoring me; how irritating.

"Stephanie…Stephanie, wake up there! Wake up, I say, we've an emergency!" I could hear Lizzie trying to rouse Steph, and Steph muttering with slowly increasing awareness. I could imagine John Cougar looking over his shoulder and nervously appraising the accident they'd caused, while worrying about unwanted attention. The last thing we needed was to have Stephanie found drunk in the driver's seat.

"Huh? Uhhh, what…where?" Steph was at the stage of trying to understand her surroundings. It was a good sign. Then, "Oh shit! Whatthefuckhappened?"

"Stephanie, hon, it's Chelle on the line, it is. She says an informant reported that Connie Stanton is in San Francisco, and she's probably headed for your house."

"Awww hell," Steph replied, "then let's get out of here."

"But, Stephanie, there's a sizable automobile wreck behind us that we were instrumental in precipitating…"

"Lizzie, are you ok?" Steph asked, her concern shading to panic, "god, please be ok."

"Not a scratch, hon," Lizzie replied reassuringly, "but the five cars behind us are really hurting, don't you know."

I had been listening to the discussion, and now I heard rising voices in the background; it was some guy yelling and someone else cursing in anger rather than pain.

"Ladies," John Cougar interjected, "the locals are expressing some aggravation at our unexpected stop. I believe several young people are converging…."

"They're going to lynch us," Elvis wailed from the backseat.

The next thing I heard was what sounded like gunshots and then the squealing of tires.

"That'll give 'em something to think about…young punks," I heard Steph say, "now, let's take Marina to Baker. We can head back on Old Mason St. and catch 101 at the junction with 1."

"Oh, why that's such an irritating roundabout, Stephanie," Lizzie complained, "let me take Baker to California St. and then I can get on US-1 straightaway."

"Whatever," Steph agreed as the tires squealed again, the Mini Cooper drifting around another corner. "Geeez, Lizzie, ya wanna cause an accident?"

In the background, I heard John Cougar choke as Lizzie giggled.

"What's going on?" I screamed into the phone, hoping to get their attention.

"Chelle, what is this about Connie being in San Francisco?" Steph had taken the phone and she was sounding pretty rational for having finished a six-pack before getting in the car.

"Steph, my friend, Jennie, is a stewardess. She just flew into town and one of her passengers was Connie Stanton. Her description was exact. She must be heading here…she was talking about finding her soulmate."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Steph whined. "Why tonight? Why this lifetime?"

"What are you going to do?" I asked. "What should I do?"

"Are all the alarms on?"

"Well, yeah, Steph, of course," I answered. "Uhhh, except that my friend Jennie is coming over here and I'll have to shut them down to let her in."

"She's…WHAT? How well do you know her, Chelle?" Stephanie asked suspiciously, "you've never known her to breed rats, have you?"

"God no, Steph. I've known Jen since grade school. She hates icky things…rats, fish, spiders…even babies. She's still my best friend from Kettleman City."

"Where is she now?"

"Uhhh, somewhere on the road? Like, between the airport and here, I mean. I just talked to her before I called you."

"That was all of five minutes ago, dear," Lizzie interjected. "She's probably still south of the city."

"What's her number, Chelle?" Steph asked in her 'take charge' voice, the words still adorably slurred. "I'll call her and we can escort her in. Maybe we can even spy on Connie. She's probably somewhere on the road nearby."

"Jen's number's toll-free…800-550-6969."

"That's…that's a phone sex line," Steph gulped out.

"Well, yeah," I told her, "she's always getting calls. So anyway, I'm really scared thinking about all of you being anywhere near Connie. Now I'm scared for Jennie, too."

"Hon, we'll be alright," Steph reassured me. In the background though, I heard her checking the magazine in her sidearm. "I've gotta hang up now and call your friend. We'll make sure she's ok."

"Alright," I agreed, "please, please be careful. I'd just die if I lost you…again."

I heard Steph swallow hard as she hung up. Then I could only wait, smoking Camels and chowing down Skittles. Pretty soon the sugar was making me pace, as I worried myself sick about my friends.

My beloved friends; they really were closer and dearer to my heart than anyone I could remember in all my years growing up. I'd come to value them so much more than the guys who gave me money, or told me they could make me a star. They were the strangest crew I'd ever met, I realized, but they were becoming my family, just like they were to Stephanie.

And then there was Stephanie. I'd fallen in love with the image of her that I'd created in my head so long ago. I'd spent all my years since then emulating a phantasm. Now that I'd met her, I was not just infatuated, I was head over heels in love with her. She seemed like she could do anything, survive any challenge. (Even if we hadn't rescued her, she'd probably have escaped in another week or two, as her body shed the effects of the drugs, and Connie became less lucid). Despite what conventional thinkers would have considered personality flaws, Steph had excelled in a dangerous and demanding career for years, and she had become a hero. She had met the world on her own terms, though many people thought her insane because of it.

She went around naming things and talking to them, seeing what no one else could even accept as possible. Unlike the garden-variety psychopaths, who talked to their sandwiches and themselves, the things Steph talked to answered her, revealing a whole world of unsuspected experiences and points of view. They became her friends, her family…they gave her information, and they'd saved her life. Stephanie embraced diversity on a scale that would have confounded the politically correct…and it was second nature to her.

The Skittles rendered up their sugar, supercharging my forebrain, so that the synapses crackled with acetylcholine. Throughout my cells, ADP and ATP danced a tango. In that state of hyper-reality, I foresaw that Steph could perhaps enlist the masses of sentient beings that only she could recognize and communicate with. A whole world was available to her and to no one else. Her circle of friends could eventually grow to surround her with love and companionship beyond that claimed by any person who had ever lived. She could slay her deadly desert.

Before my blood sugar level dropped off and I fell into a state of lethargy, I had two more insights. First, I wondered if any of Steph's enemies realized just what they were up against, and second, I wondered if Steph had any idea of the value of her resources. Then my cells belly-flopped into an energy shortfall, like a sorta bio-brownout, and I staggered off to the kitchen seeking coffee and Mexican food.

Stephanie called Jen right after she got off the phone with me; before she could think about it being a phone sex line and lose her nerve. Jennie, of course, not recognizing the number that appeared on her call ID, assumed it was a customer.

"Jennie?"

"Hi, sweetheart. It's $3.99 a minute, no limits, so what charge card will you be using?"

"Huh? Uhhh, oh, no. Ummm, my name's Stephanie Walker and Michelle Allen gave me your number," Steph said, trying to clarify what was causing a fizz in her own mind.

"Oh goody! If you're a friend of Chelle's you must be a hottie. I'll give you the first ten minutes free. You sound a bit drunk, hon," Jen giggled, "but you've got a sexy voice…kinda smoky and dangerous. This'll be fun. So, what are you wearing?"

Steph was shocked into a sputtering silence and Jennie wondered if she was stripping.

"Ya there, hon? Did you want a particular fantasy? Schoolgirl and teacher? Mistress and slave? Animals? Incest?"

At the mention of incest, Stephanie remembered Connie's childhood, and the danger of the situation came back to her. Steph found her voice and prodded her forebrain to cooperate, even as her hindbrain considered the school girl and teacher option.

"Jennie," Steph said, regaining control of her Broca's area, "this isn't a phone-sex call. It's about Connie Stanton. She's a real threat and you could be in danger. Chelle will have to deactivate my alarm systems to let you in, and I'm nervous about lowering my guard with Connie in town. I know she's planning to show up at my house."

"Well, OMG…" Jennie was horrified that she might actually see her passenger again.

"Yeah, but he's no help in this, so tell me where you are and we'll escort you in."

"Okay," Jennie agreed hopefully. Steph had made her paranoid, and her driving suffered as she frantically looked around at all the other cars. She was just passing a cab and happened to look into the rear seat. "Gaaaaah, it's her!"

"Jennie! Are you alright?" Steph shouted into the phone. "What…You see her?"

"Ewwwwww…she's in a cab I just passed," Jen said in horror as her car slewed across a lane. She was looking over her shoulder at the cab behind her. "She was still eating, and the cabbie looked terrified."

"Geeeez, the poor guy. Where are you now? What are you driving? Can you see the cab's number?"

"Yes." Jen whispered in morbid fascination, hypnotized as Connie engulfed an entire cakeroll in one bite. She was pacing the cab, her tires squealing as she wove across the centerline. "It's number 666."

"Jen! Snap out of it and watch the road!"

Connie had noticed the beautiful blonde in the flashy red car pacing them, and she'd leered at her out the window, making brief eye contact. Why, it was her stewardess from the flight, she realized! She must have gotten hot reading my story, Connie thought. Maybe if she couldn't find Steph right away, she could have a little tryst with her. Maybe she could even write her into her new story. Connie waved. Jennie floored the Spyder.

"I'm on US-101 north…uhhh, I just passed the Oyster Point exit. She…she saw me," Jen gasped.

"Oh shit! Floor it, Jennie! Get out of there! We'll meet you…hold on a sec," Steph was conferring with Lizzie about the route. "We'll get on at 280…we're in a custom blue Mini Cooper, and we'll catch up with you. Keep this line open, hon. I'm sure you can outrun the cab if you have to. Just be careful, 'kay?"

"Oh god, oh god, oh god! Please hurry! I'm already doing 80 and I can see them in the mirror speeding up. She's leaning over the driver's seat, waving her arms and pointing at me…and the cabby's wild-eyed with terror. Here they come."

"Hold on, Jennie…we're on the way! Just stay ahead of them, hon!" And then Steph turned to Lizzie, yelling, "Floor it!"

The race was on! Jennie, never the best driver even when she wasn't under pressure, was accelerating in a panic. Behind her, the cab was holding even. It was mechanically inferior, but driven by a professional who felt like his life was on the line. In other words, it was a dead heat, and only Jen's slight initial lead kept her from being caught, as both cars wove through traffic at close to 80mph.

Lizzie broke traction and spun 270° to decelerate; ending up facing southbound on US-1. Behind her, traffic slammed to a halt on Lake St. with several crunches of sheetmetal and breaking glass.

"Sorry," Lizzie called back to the cars in the pile up. "Police business!" She was answered with curses from both the drivers and their cars.

Then she was upshifting, tires squealing as she accelerated down Park Presidio Blvd. Stephanie calmly reached out her window and attached the revolving emergency beacon to the roof, then she lit a Camel. Lizzie hit 75mph within five blocks, crossing Balboa St. When she crossed Fulton St., two blocks later and entered Golden Gate Park, she was doing 90. She had only 70 yards to decelerate, to make the first right turn in the park, and she took the corner at 50mph in four-wheel drift. John Cougar had covered his eyes with his paws, and was screaming like a child on a roller coaster. Steph was smoking and glancing at her watch. In the back, Elvis had crawled under Steph's gear bag.

Once they cleared the last turn in the park, Lizzie went full out. Her little 4-cylinder engine screamed as she topped 90mph leaving the park, blasting down the straightaway of 19^th Ave. 95mph was her top speed, and for a fleeting moment, Stephanie wished for Brittanie's V-8 Firedome hemi engine. It would have pushed them to over 135mph, but Brittanie wouldn't have been able to make the turns that Lizzie executed with such ease. The comparison made Steph think, and thinking made Steph plan. Yes, she decided, (as Lizzie drifted around the corner onto Vincente St.), with a few modifications to the suspension and drive train, it could work.

In another three minutes, Lizzie blasted onto I-280, at the San Jose Ave. entrances. The flashing light cleared their way, and on the highway, Steph suspected that being capable of another 40 or 50mph would come in handy someday. Less than a mile and a half ahead lay the junction with US-101. It flew by in 45 seconds.

"There they are!" Stephanie crowed. "You did it, Lizzie! You caught them!"

A red Eclipse Spyder, closely followed by a cab, had just sped by, northbound on 101.

"Oh, they'll not be getting away from me, they won't," Lizzie declared a she careened around the ramp onto US-101, "not in this lifetime."

In another two minutes, Lizzie was tailgating the cab, looking for a chance to pass. The revolving light had unnerved the cabbie, and when Stephanie blipped the siren she'd installed, he slowed down and pulled it over to the side. Lizzie jabbed left around him and followed Jen's Eclipse, finally pulling alongside the terrified woman.

Stephanie was gesturing to Jen, holding up her cell phone and yelling into it. It did no good. The blonde was paralyzed, her eyes on the road, her hands in a white-knuckled death grip on the wheel. She'd overloaded her forebrain, her midbrain had given up in a huff, and she was driving on instinct, her panicky hindbrain firmly in control.

"God, she's adrenaline locked," Steph cursed, "and she's not answering her phone. How can I tell her to slow down and get off this highway?"

"Not to worry, luv," Lizzie calmly replied, "I'll handle it. Let me just have a word with her vehicle. Now, be a dear and take the wheel, please."

Stephanie assumed control, her brain lucid, but her body still very drunk. She wove erratically, but somehow kept pace beside the Eclipse. In the passenger's seat, John Cougar crouched down into a crash position, gritting his teeth.

"He's having the time of his life, he is," Lizzie reported a few moments later, "but I informed him that the highway ends at Fell St. up yonder, and he promised to slow down then. The poor dear has had nothing but posers and pompous wannabes renting him out for his looks. Claims he hasn't stretched his motor in ages."

"Oh well, let him have his fun then, I guess," Steph agreed, lighting another Camel, "tell you the truth, I'm more worried about the cabbie."

"The bloke's royally pissed off, he is," Lizzie chuckled, "I mean the cab, that is. He was cursing up a storm, moaning about not being kept in tune and being forced to participate in a race. He was also deathly afraid of that passenger vomiting in the back, but I assured him that Connie never wastes food." Here, Lizzie giggled and took back the controls. "Now that they've come to a stop, he's not moving again tonight…absolutely refused, he did, pleading vapor lock and loose wiring."

"So much for Connie Stanton," Stephanie laughed, opening a longneck, "at least for now."

Well, anyway, after the highway ended at Fell St., the two cars made their way at a legal pace through the Bay City. They skirted Chinatown on their way back to the house, and only John Cougar heard Steph's softly whispered observation that, "tonight they're releasing rats." Then she passed out in the driver's seat again, trusting dear Lizzie to get both cars home.

Miles behind them, the cabby got out, under the pretense of checking under the hood. The cab had stalled dead and refused to start. He threw the hood up, patted the air cleaner with thankful affection, and then fled for his life. Connie barely noticed, being focused entirely on draining a Yoo-hoo.

I heard the garage door opening while I was still in the kitchen, groaning as I digested a plate of nachos. All I'd been able to think about was the safety of my friends. I think there must still have been tears streaking down my face when I rushed into the garage and leapt into Steph's arms. Jennie was just getting out of the Eclipse, and she witnessed my desperate hug, and the frantic kiss I plastered on Stephanie's lips. Steph, still reasonably drunk, staggered under my onslaught, but her arms came up around me and she slipped her tongue into my mouth for the count of 30.

"Jalapenos," she commented, when we finally broke apart. Jen giggled in the background as she watched Stephanie stroke the tears from my cheeks.

"I was so worried about you," I told her, still trembling with relief.

"We're all okay, sweetheart," Steph said, the endearment bringing a tentative smile to my lips, "and your friend Jennie's safe too."

"Finally," Jen commented theatrically to herself, "Michelle's found a meaningful relationship."

She looked around at her surroundings and then blanched when John Cougar and Elvis the Kitten got out and appraised her. Elvis let out a low wolf whistle and I heard him mutter, "what a babe."

Jennie looked them over and I could see that Elvis' talking had profoundly surprised her. Finally she looked back at us and nervously asked, "Is that a wolverine?" She was pointing nervously at John Cougar.

"Madam, I am a cougar," John began, somewhat indignantly, "a felid, whereas a wolverine is a mustelid, really just an overgrown ferret," Jen gave him a blank look, shocked into silence because he too spoke. John misinterpreted her expression as mental deficiency and offered clarification, "…Puma? Mountain Lion? Panther? Panthera concolor?" Finally, he bared his teeth, reasoning that the dental formulae of felids and mustelids was diagnostically significant, (especially with respect to lower premolars).

"Oh, John, luv, I don't think she understands a word," Lizzie commented sadly.

Jennie whipped around to look for the source of the lilting British accented voice. Because of the direction, her gaze settled on Lizzie, almost by default. I could tell that her grasp on her composure was marginal at best, after everything she'd been through since we'd talked on the phone.

"Hello there, Jennie," the little car said brightly, bobbing slightly on her tires, "I'm Lizzie Cooper, and any friend of Michelle's is a friend of mine, don't you know."

"Ummm, uhhh…" Jen managed to choke out in shock, before she passed out cold and landed on the carpet. As it turned out, she remained senseless for quite a while.

"Poor dear's exhausted after that chase with Connie," Lizzie sympathized. Then she turned to me and added, "but what a fun race it was, if I do say so myself. Why I must tell you all about it."

We laid Jennie out in a bedroom upstairs, with an explanatory note and a glass of water on the nightstand. Nightshade the Cat curled up beside her, to keep an eye on her and let us know when she came to. Steph and I went back down to the garage, to make plans with John and Lizzie. It was only a matter of time before Connie showed up, and there were still those rats to be dealt with.