Rehearsal

Disclaimers: Tim and Bill aren't mine, unfortunately. Neither are Frank, Mary, or John. Or Mary or Billie, to make things more confusing ;-). Ruth, Sarah, and some of the others are mine, though.

Spoilers: Takes place after both movies, after Going Under, after Comfort Food, and is part 3 of Married with Children, after Touch My Stump.

Category: Slash (Boisy/Bayliss), Crossover (HCL/HLoTS)

Warnings: Lots of angst and violence in this one. Minor character death. No actual sex in this one—sorry.

Summary: Friends and family arrive in Arizona the week before the wedding. Bad things happen.

Feedback me! bodge38@earthlink.net

Rehearsal

by shell

copyright 2002

The summer passes fucking fast, and before I know it, it's the beginning of September. Things are going well with the house, but it's still going to be tight getting it finished in time for the wedding. It doesn't help that Tim's like a kid in a candy store every time we have to make a decision, either about the house or the wedding—he wants everything, thinks everything's a great idea, has no ability to cut to the fucking chase and make up his mind.

So I end up making most of the final decisions, but it works out okay, because he ends up happy with whatever I pick. There are things he insists on, though—state of the art security system, the most environmentally correct materials, passive solar heating, shit like that. So our wood floors are recycled from a warehouse, the house has a steel frame, and we'll be composting whatever we can, which Tim will definitely be in charge of. I don't even understand all the security stuff we've got, which is somehow run by a computer program, which has a back-up generator for any power outages—whatthefuckever. Tim says it'll be simple to operate and very safe, and he's the expert.

The architect is fucking amazing—she manages to get all of Tim's requirements met in a design that's beautiful, spacious, full of light, functional, and basically just fucking perfect. I never dreamed I could live in a house like this; combine that with Tim and the kids—I'm blown away every time I think about it.

The studio, which is a separate building, is also fucking perfect; Chelle, Kat, and Deeja had a hand in its design, and they insisted on picking up three quarters of the cost between the three of them. They say there's no reason for us to ever record anywhere else.

Ruth, Sarah, and Billie all met with the architect as well, and had considerable input in the design of their rooms, which are upstairs, along with a couple guest rooms. The master suite is at the back of the house, with a large bank of windows facing the mountains and no stairs for Tim to climb. There's a small deck off the bedroom where he can eat his breakfast in the summers, and a larger deck off the living room. There's a meditation room between the living room and the bedroom, with another view of the mountains.

Ruth and Tim worked together with a separate architect on the pool, or pools, really. The guy had been on some cable show on fucking HGTV or something, and you can see why. There's an outdoor pool for the summers, with what they call an "infinity edge" that looks out over the mountains, an indoor/outdoor lap pool for Tim downstairs, and a jacuzzi on the deck. There's also a water slide accessible from the upstairs deck, off the girls' rooms, which was Ruth's suggestion. The water's filtered and cleaned by some environmentally friendly, ozone, non-chlorine system, so there'll be no stink, and it won't be too harsh on Tim's scars. It's all pretty fucking impressive, and it'll be good exercise for Tim. If it means I get to see him in swim trunks more often, well, I just consider that an added bonus.

Chris Rawls made some suggestions about the kitchen, which Sarah's happy about—she announced last week that she's going to be a chef. Tim's doubtful she won't change her mind again, but for now we're enjoying her cooking, always wonderful, but less simple now—she emails Chris all the time about new recipe ideas. She still makes Tim macaroni and cheese about once a week, though.

Chris and Hiroshi will be coming out for the wedding, along with a whole contingent of Baltimore cops and Bayliss relatives. There won't be nearly as many people coming from LA—Mark, Gwen, Gloria, Deeja, Chelle and Kat, who assure me their midwife okayed the trip. Alicia and Karen will be there, too. From Canada, Mary, Evan, and Billie will be there, and John's standing up for me. Mulligan's coming, and I actually managed to find Pipe and invite him, although I'm far from sure he'll actually show up. And a few folks will be coming from Phoenix—Marilyn, Cheryl, Lisa, Dr. Taggert. It'll be good to see them again, and great for them to see how much progress Tim has made.

Detective Angst got on a predictable guilt trip when we were making up the guest list. I think I finally convinced him I don't give a shit that three quarters of the people coming to the wedding are friends and relatives of his. The people I care about will be there, and that's all that matters.

He's such a fucking goofball. He won't let me see him in his tux, and he's insisting that we spend the night before the wedding apart. It's not that he really believes in any of the traditional wedding superstitions—he's just into the ritual, the tradition, wants as many of the trappings as he can get into what is, after all, a totally non-traditional wedding.

One thing he is completely serious about is security. There's fencing all along the road in to the house, and a security gate at the end of the road. The FBI, Arizona State Troopers, and US Park Rangers will all be a presence at the wedding. The fencing doesn't surround the whole property—can't fence the wildlife in or out—but there aren't any trails that lead in to our property, no direct access except for the road. It'll be a hell of a lot safer than living in fucking Beverly Hills.

The security system was installed before practically anything else, so even though there's still some detail work to be done, we end up moving in a few weeks early. Tim says it'll give us time to figure out any problems before the wedding, and I'm good with that. Plus the girls get a chance to familiarize themselves with the town and the routine before school starts.

There haven't been any death threats for a couple months now, and that's got us almost more on edge than when they were coming every couple weeks. We know there are members of Eisen's church who have been paroled or gotten off, and we're both waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's a bit of a relief knowing there will be dozens of cops and a few FBI agents among the guests at the wedding. We've got enough on our minds, just with the house and the wedding plans. We're due a break.

Of course, it's just when you think everything's okay that the shit really hits the fucking fan.

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A few folks are coming out early—my mom, of course; John, Celine, Frank, and Mary; Gordon, Danny, and Eli; Billie's been with us all summer. Mary and Evan won't get here until the day of the wedding. Kat, Chelle, and Deeja come out as well for sort of a rehearsal dinner the week before the wedding. We decide on a new restaurant in Sedona that Chris recommended—one of his classmates at whatever chef school he went to owns it. We've got the back room reserved, so after we show everyone the house—still needing a few finishing touches, but it should be done by the end of the week—we head south.

Frank and Mary are in the jeep with us, Ruth, and Billie, and Sarah's in with Eli, Gordon, and Danny. Olivia and Frankie stayed home in Baltimore, but they'll be coming out in a few days. Sarah's got quite a crush on Eli, but he's pretty oblivious—still thinks of her as a kid sister type, I guess. That might change when he sees her in her dress—she's definitely growing up, and she looks beautiful, no matter what she's wearing. After years of wearing nothing but the modest dresses that were expected in Church Canyon, she pretty much lives in jeans and t shirts these days, her favorites sporting logos from Bill's two bands. He hasn't said anything, but I see the way he smiles when she and Ruth borrow his old Hard Core Logo shirts.

The drive passes pleasantly enough, Mary and I chatting about the scenery along the way. She and Frank are taking their kids to the Grand Canyon the day before the wedding, so we spend some time talking about the girls' recent trip down the Colorado, which we managed to reschedule for the week Bill and I moved to the new house. Frank's quiet most of the way, only holding forth rarely, and so is Bill, although I catch him looking at me and smiling every so often.

We have a good time during dinner. No one orders anything alcoholic, in deference to Bill, except for Deeja. She's the only sore spot—Bill and Kat are planning on talking to her after dinner about her drinking, which is steadily getting worse. They've had a couple talks with her already over the last month or so, but apparently made no impression. By the time we're ordering dessert, she's totally smashed, and she goes outside to smoke after ordering an Irish coffee. Bill gets up to go with her, but Chelle motions him back down and goes out herself. She comes in by herself a few minutes later, looking even more worried, but doesn't say anything, just exchanges looks with her fellow bandmates. Bill gestures with those long fingers of his, and I know they'll all be talking about the conversation later, but have decided as a group to focus on the celebration.

We're finished with dessert by the time she comes back, carrying a wedding gift, which she adds to the pile already on a table in the corner. Then she comes over and gives Bill a sloppy kiss and tells us she has to leave.

"You're not driving, Deeja—" say half the people in the room.

"Don't worry, I got a fucking cab, okay? Enjoy the rest of your evening." With that she walks out the door, ignoring the pained expressions and even outright anger on some faces.

"What is going on with her?" Bill asks indignantly, and I can tell how hard he's working to keep his vocabulary under control in deference to the kids. "Chelle, you talked to her—what did she say?"

"Do you really want to get into this now?" she asks quietly.

"We can't ignore it any more. She's an accident waiting to happen, and if we care about her, which we do, we need to let her know that."

"Billy—" Kat starts, then pauses, with a wretched look on her face. Suddenly I think I understand what's going on, and my mouth opens in surprise. Then I wonder why I didn't realize it sooner.

"Bill, let's deal with this later, all right?" I ask him. "This is our party, and besides, we need to respect her privacy." He gives me a hard look, and he must see something in my eyes, because he sighs, then nods.

Celine, bless her, gets up and heads over to the gifts, asking for help bringing them to us. Before long, Ruth and Billie are wearing the cowboy hats John and Celine got us, giggling. Danny and Gordon are standing next to them when Ruth picks up the gift Deeja left on the table.

But Deeja's name was on the card with Kat and Chelle—she contributed to the handmade quilt they got us. Why did she bring another gift? Bill's frowning a little, probably wondering the same thing. And the wrapping's different—this one's hand-wrapped, not done to perfection by some professional. Dan catches our expressions and moves to take the gift from Ruth, and Gordon comes up and looks over his shoulder.

"There's no card on this one," Danny says, and my heart's in my throat.

"Billie, Ruth, come over here, okay?" I say, struggling to stand up, trying not to let the panic into my voice. Bill hears it, though, figures out what I'm thinking, and he quickly gestures the girls over, tries to unobtrusively round them and Kat towards the door.

"Chelle, would you get Agent Stefanski in here? Frank, call in the squad, okay?" I ask. "And get everyone out. Everyone, please leave the room. Go on, get going, now. Mom, go, please." Frank gets it, starts ushering people out, then heads into the hallway.

"What is it, Tim?" Gordon asks. He's got one arm around Danny, and they're both looking at me like I'm nuts.

"Danny, listen to me," I say, speaking slowly and carefully. "This is important. I want you to put the package back on the table, as gently as you can, and then move—"

That's all I manage to get out before it explodes.

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I've got my back to the table, trying to hurry everyone the fuck out of the room, at the back of the pack, because I'm not leaving without Tim. I'm listening to his voice when I'm knocked flat, landing on top of Billie, managing to get my hands out first so that I don't crush her. I'm dazed for a couple seconds, ears ringing from the noise, but then I shake it off and check on Billie. She's crying, really scared, but she shakes her head when I ask her if she's hurt. I check her over, just to be sure, but there's not a scratch on her. She points to my face and I realize I've got a couple cuts on the back and side of my head, and a couple scratches on my arms. They sting a little, but they're nothing serious.

Then I turn around and look behind me. Jesus fuck. Tim's on his back on the floor. His eyes are closed, probably knocked out from the blast, bleeding from some cuts, but I can see him breathing. Please let him just have a little concussion. Gordon and Danny—fuck, oh fuck. Danny's face is blown off, along with most of the front of him. His body must have sheltered Gordon a little, but not enough—one of his arms is laying off to the side, and his throat's been cut wide open. There's blood fucking everywhere, worse than that night up in the Canyon, and I never thought I'd see worse than that. I push Billie back behind me, and Chelle, paler than I've ever seen her, takes her by the hand and leads her out the door.

Frank and Agent Stefanski have called the medics and the bomb squad, in case there are more bombs somewhere, and I realize I'm still standing there, and Tim's still on the floor, and I stumble over to him and kneel down next to him just in time to see him open his eyes. He immediately brings his hand up to my face and says my name.

"Hey, are you okay?" I ask, my voice shaking with relief.

"My head hurts, and my leg, but I don't think anything's broken. Are the girls—"

"They're fine. And so am I," I add as he looks worriedly at the blood on his fingers.

"Danny? And Gordon?"

I shake my head slowly, and tears come to his eyes. I put my head down on his chest and he puts his arms around me. Then I hear Sarah's voice.

"Dad? Bill, is he okay?"

I sit back up and try to smile at her. "He's fine, sweetie. Just got a little banged up, that's all."

"Sarah, I don't want Ruthie in here, you understand?" Tim tells her. "She doesn't need to see this. I'm going to be fine, and I'm glad you two are both safe and sound, but not everyone was as lucky as we were—" his voice breaks, and I get up, blocking her view of the carnage behind me.

"Your father's right, Sarah. Can we put you in charge of Ruth and Billie? Make sure they know we're okay, and we love them, and that we'll be with them soon—we're going to get Tim to the hospital, make sure he's okay, and I'm sure someone will drive you there."

Sarah nods, resolute. "I'll take care of them, Bill. What about—are Gordon and Danny—"

"I'm not sure, Mouse—let's wait for the paramedics, okay?" I say as gently as I can. She nods again, tears in her eyes, but staying strong for her family, and I pull her into a hug. She kisses my cheek, then gets down on the floor and does the same to Tim. I can see her glance over at the bodies; her face pales, but she doesn't say anything. He tells her he loves her and that he'll see them all soon, and that he feels fine, the trip to the hospital will just be to see if he needs any stitches.

"Bill, you take good care of my dad, okay? I know you know how to do that," she says with a ghost of a smile. I promise I will. Then the paramedics arrive and start to work on getting Tim onto a backboard and a stretcher, and loading Gordon and Danny up as well, covering them with sheets. The bomb squad makes me leave the room, and Tim and his entourage of EMTs come out a moment later. He makes them stop so he can see for himself that Ruth and Billie are all right, and I take the opportunity for a couple more hugs before we get into the ambulance and head to the ER. I grab Chelle and ask if she'll bring the girls over to the hospital, and she says she will, that she wants to get Kat checked out anyway.

"Fuck, Chelle, is she okay?"

"Yeah, just got pushed into the wall and bumped her belly kinda hard. She doesn't want to go, but I insisted."

"Tim didn't want to go either." She gives me an understanding glance and gestures for me to follow Tim out the door to the ambulance. "Hey, Chelle? Find Deeja, okay?" I tell her as I leave. "The cops are gonna want to talk to her."

"Shit, you're right. We'll find her—go on, get out of here."

They insist on separating us once we get to the hospital—they need to take Tim to radiology, and they want to check, clean, and dress every stupid fucking scratch on me. Just one, on the back of my head, is big enough for stitches. By the time they're finished with me, Tim's back from radiology, and he's sitting up, off the fucking backboard and out of the cervical collar. I come over and sit by him while they go through the same routine with him. He gets stitches a few more places than I did, and there will be a couple small scars to join the old ones on his chest, but other than a mild concussion and some bruises he's fine.

I'm holding his hand when Frank walks up. He nods at me, asks how Tim's doing, and then gives us the latest news.

"Gordon and Dan were killed instantly—ME said they didn't suffer. They found another bomb in the kitchen—apparently the killer didn't have a chance to get it into the room. The feds are questioning Deeja now."

"Is she okay?" I ask.

"She's drunk." All the arrogance of the mighty fucking Pembleton goes into those two words, but for once I don't mind. "I don't think she quite realizes what happened yet, but apparently some kid on the street came up to her, said he was a Jenifur fan, and gave her the package, asked her to give it to you two." Frank's voice is harsh and judging, and I wonder if he finds my bandmates and me somehow responsible. I'm about to give him a piece of my mind when Tim puts his hand on my arm and shakes his head.

"Tim, what the fuck kind of federal agent doesn't think to check the package she brings in?" Pembleton asks, gesturing wildly. "Who is this Stefanski, and what the hell was he thinking? Why was he even there, if he's not gonna do his damned job?"

"I don't know, Frank, but believe me, I'm not letting this go. This is by no means the first time the agents assigned to us have fucked up, and it's not going to happen again. Jesus, Gordon and Danny are dead, they're dead, and we're damned lucky they were the only ones—" he turns away, squeezing my hand tightly. He wipes his eyes quickly, then adds, "I'm getting Bartlett on the phone as soon as we get out of here."

Chelle comes up to us, still looking a little pale, followed by Ruth and Sarah. Ruth immediately sits down on the gurney next to Tim, who gives both of them a long hug. I can hear Ruth start sobbing, so I draw Chelle off to the side to give them some privacy.

"How are Kat and the baby?" I ask Chelle.

"She's a little shaken up—shit, I think we all are—but they did an ultrasound and everything looks fine. The placenta's okay, and she's not having any contractions. Billie wanted me to let you know she's with Virginia and Eli at the FBI office—they're questioning everyone, so we'll all have to go over there after we're done here."

I nod, then look at her more closely. Fuck, she's shaking like a leaf. I put my arm around her and guide her over to a chair, and then she starts crying.

"Jesus, Billy, what the fuck was that? Those boys, they were so fucking sweet, and now they're dead, and all I can think of is how grateful I am that Kat's okay. How many of those fucking psychos are out there, trying to kill you and Tim? When are we ever going to feel safe again?"

I don't have a fucking clue what to say to that, so I just hold onto her and let her cry, wondering if I should just quit, go solo or something, so that at least the rest of them will be safe. I sure as shit don't want to do that, but maybe I'll have to. God, I want a fucking drink.

Finally she calms down, sits up, blows her nose, and it occurs to me I've never seen her cry before. I guess I'm not the only one trying to keep up a hardass image. She's looking a little embarrassed, so I tease her a little, tell her to get her fucking self together before someone sees her. She smiles and tells me to fuck off, so I know she's okay.

Tim's got Sarah and Ruth calmed down, although they both get a little teary eyed again when they see me, and they grab on pretty tightly when they give me a hug. Not that I mind. Yeah, I'm a putz where they're concerned, too. Thank fucking god all three girls are okay.

They've finished up on Tim, so after some instruction on waking him up every couple hours, they send us on our way. There's an FBI agent and a Arizona State Trooper who've been watching us like hawks, or rather watching everyone else around us like hawks, and they direct us carefully through each hallway and door and into the trooper's car for the ride back to the house—they're checking all our vehicles for tampering and car bombs. Fucking car bombs, jesus.

Tim's pretty sore; he makes no objection to riding in a wheelchair out to the car. Once we're in the back of the cruiser, he collapses into my arms, shaking with silent tears. I stroke his back, murmur reassurance, kiss the top of his head, and let a few tears of my own fall into his hair.

A few hours ago the only thing I was worried about was whether everything would be done at the house in time for the wedding. Now Gordon and Dan are dead, and I'm fucking relieved that the security system was the first thing installed once the walls were up. And I'm thinking about leaving the band that's been a huge part of my life for the past 7 years. That and a fucking huge desire for a drink, because getting drunk would be so easy, and it would let me forget, for a little while, what Danny looked like with his fucking face blown off.

Soon the balance has shifted—I'm the one shaking now, and Tim's comforting me, holding me, kissing the back of my neck, my temple, my cheek. Then we're kissing like I'm drowning and he's my only air, kisses bittersweet with tears and gratitude and guilt.

Eventually we remember that we're in the back of a fucking cop car, and we manage to get ourselves under control. Tim looks into the rearview mirror apologetically, and the young woman behind the wheel smiles at us and tells us she's sorry for our loss. We both relax a little and lean back in our seats for the rest of the ride to the Bureau office in Flagstaff, where we'll no doubt be questioned for hours before we can get back to our home and our family. And round the clock surveillance.

Tim asks the question I know we're both thinking about.

"Do you think we should postpone the wedding?"

"Shit, Tim, I don't know. I don't want to, believe me, but unless they catch the fuckers that did this right away, I think we have to."

"Yeah." I feel his chin on my shoulder as he nods. "But let's wait a day or two before we decide for sure, okay? If we can go ahead with it—fuck, Bill, I don't want to wait any longer. I don't want to wait at all." I hear the tremor in his voice, and I turn to look at him.

"Tim, you know—" I hesitate, wanting to get this right. "The ceremony—it's going to be great, and I'm glad we're doing it, believe me, but I couldn't be any more married to you than I already am. You've got me, richer or poorer, sickness and health, until death—you know that, don't you?"

He looks into my eyes and nods. "For me, too—richer or poorer, sickness and health, until death."

"Okay then," I answer, kissing him softly. "Done. We're married."

"I love you so fucking much, Bill," he answers. I kiss him again, framing his beautiful face between my hands, then tell him I love him too. Then the trooper in the front seat clears her throat and I realize we've pulled into a very familiar parking lot, the one at the Flagstaff FBI office, and I stroke Tim's face one more time, then get ready to help him out of the car.

He's limping much worse than usual, barely able to take a step, not quite succeeding at keeping quiet. I know he's really hurting, so I get on his bad side. He gives me a grateful look and slings his arm around my shoulders, shifting his cane to his left hand, still barely able to take a step. Bartlett meets us at the door with a wheelchair—don't know where he got it, but I'm glad he did. He takes Tim away with him while Zoe guides me to an interview room down another hall.

It doesn't take long for Zoe to establish that I didn't see much, and then she updates me on the investigation so far. There was a bomb hooked up to our jeep, and they found a couple in the restaurant besides the one in the kitchen. None of the bombs were especially well-made, for which we can be grateful—if they'd arranged things a little better, the whole restaurant would have gone up in flames.

They arrested one of the bus boys—apparently he got pretty hinky when they were questioning the employees, and they found traces of some sort of chemical residue that indicated he made at least one of the bombs. They got a description from Deeja of the kid that gave her the package, but she was drunk enough that they're not too confident it'll help. She's agreed to work with a sketch artist and look at some photos of known Eisenites, but they're pretty cautious about that as well.

I ask about Stefanski, and they give me a run around about lack of staffing, inadequate budgets for training agents, and the like. I can tell they're hiding something, but I figure Tim will get to the bottom of it better than I ever could—and I know that even if the agents I'm talking to now don't want to admit responsibility, Bartlett won't rest until he's rooted out whatever problems he can find.

Then they're finally done with me, but they're going to keep Tim a bit longer, so I'm welcome to wait. Yeah, like I'm going anywhere without him. They show me into a conference room—the same one with the same bathroom we hid in last year—and I see Kat and Chelle sitting there. I give Kat a gentle hug, nervous about her belly, and sit down wearily next to them.

"What's wrong, Billy?" Kat asks. "Beyond the obvious, I mean—Tim's okay?"

"He's fine, just a little bruised and cut up. I think we're both about to fucking fall apart, but physically we're okay."

"How are the girls?"

"Fuck, I haven't seen them since we left the hospital. Fucking feds, told me they had to take our statements separately. I know they're just doing their job, but that doesn't make it any fucking easier, you know? Jesus, I want a fucking drink like you wouldn't believe."

Chelle comes over and puts her arm around me, like we're playing some sort of fucking musical chairs, and it's her turn to comfort. And I am just so fucking exhausted that I almost lose it.

"Drinking's not going to solve anything, Billy."

"I said I wanted a fucking drink, Kat, not that I was going to get one," I snap. "What with Deeja and all, jesus—" I rest my head in my hands, fighting the urge to just lay it on the table.

"You feel up to talking about her? We don't have to, not tonight—shit, forget I even said it, it'll wait," Chelle says, moving back over to Kat. Neither one of them will look me in the eye.

"No, it won't wait, not anymore. What the fuck's going on with her? What did you not want to talk about at dinner?"

The women look at each other for a second, like they're deciding who's going to tell me whatever bad news there is. Then Kat speaks up.

"Have you noticed how she looks at you?"

"What the fuck do you mean, how she looks at me? Okay, I admit there might be a little hero worship going on, which I don't fucking understand, but she's young and pretty new to all of this, so I guess it makes some fucking kind of sense."

"She's in love with you, Billy," Chelle says seriously. "At least, that's what she told a couple of the roadies when she was drinking with them."

Try as I might, I can't wrap my brain around this one. I sit there for a minute, no doubt with a completely blank look on my face. Deeja? In love with me?

"That's ridiculous, Chelle. There must be a mistake—she was drunk, they were drunk, maybe she just said it to get them off her back or something." I want to believe that.

Kat interrupts. "Bill, the way she looks at you, it's not fucking hero worship. Shit, even Tim figured it out tonight, or at least I think he did."

"You're serious."

They nod. "Look," I say, scrounging for something to make sense, "Deeja knows all about Tim and me. She knows I love him. I've never hidden that from her, or from anyone. And I'm practically old enough to be her father, for christ's sake. Why the fuck would she fall in love with me? It doesn't make any fucking sense!"

"Listen to yourself, Billy, jesus! You of all people should know that falling in love doesn't have jackshit to do with logic! You're the alcoholic punk with a juvie record who's in love with a fucking FBI agent!"

Chelle's practically yelling at me by this point. And what she's saying makes a fucking uncomfortable sort of sense. Deeja does hang out with me all the time when we're on tour—all the time, until I tell her I'm going to my room or whatever. She gets a puppy dog look on her face sometimes when I'm talking to Tim on the phone. And that was a pretty messy kiss she laid on me before she walked out of the restaurant tonight, complete with tongue. Fuck, I guess I knew she was attracted to me, but this?

"Maybe you're right. But if you are—shit, what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? If she is in love with me, that still doesn't excuse what happened tonight, or all the drinking she's been doing."

Then some agent I've never met wheels Tim in. He looks totally fucked—exhausted, hurting, wrung out.

"What is it?" I ask, taking his hand.

He looks at me with defeat in his eyes.

"Stefanski was in on it," he says quietly. And all the jaws around the table drop.

"Wait a minute. What the fuck do you mean, Stefanski was in on it?" I ask.

"He was in on it, Bill. He planted the bomb they found on our jeep. If that kid hadn't given the package to Deeja, he would have brought it in, said it was a present from the agents who'd been watching us. The people who built the bomb, though, they didn't do a very good job. It was supposed to be a lot more of a bang. The car bomb, that was just supposed to be some sort of fucking insurance policy, in case we were out of the room or something. He made the smart move, made a deal with the federal prosecutor, confessed, gave up a whole shitload of names and contacts. So now he'll be eligible for fucking parole in forty years instead of getting the death penalty." His voice is tired, bitter.

"But he gave it up?" Chelle asks tentatively. "They got the names and the testimony they need, for sure this time?" Tim just nods slowly and puts his head in his hands.

"So it's over?" Kat asks. "No more Eisen psychos out to kill you? They'll catch the bad guys, and it'll be over, right?"

"That's the plan," he says wearily. "But I don't know if it'll ever really be over. There will always be more of them out there: Eisen's people, skinheads, homophobes, racists, your garden variety hate crime waiting to happen." He looks up at me. "I'd like to go home now, Bill."

"Yeah, of course. Where are the girls?" Fuck, how late is it anyway? Past time for them to be in bed, that's for damned sure.

"Already there. Zoe took them a little while ago—she's staying there with them until we get back."

"Go, get out of here—we'll talk to you tomorrow," Chelle says. "I need to get Kat back to the hotel anyway. We'll make sure Deeja gets to the hotel, too, and we'll all talk tomorrow."

I nod and get up to wheel Tim out.

We get a different trooper this time, an older guy with a paunch and a gruff stare, but he helps me get Tim into the back seat and drives carefully over the crappy roads, so I don't care. Tim falls asleep during the short drive, the first time he's done that in months, and wakes with a start when the trooper opens the door for us. He looks a little panicked for a second, but he relaxes when he realizes where we are.

There were Flagstaff city cops at the gate, and there are state troopers at the house, settling in to the living room with coffee, donuts, and sidearms, or patrolling outside. For once, there's not a single FBI agent. The trooper helps me get Tim inside, and I'm grateful for the extra muscle, because I'm starting to realize that my whole body aches. And if I'm hurting, I know Tim's got to be hurting a lot worse.

Sure enough, by the time I get him into the bedroom, he's pale, and his legs are shaking so much I have to help him get them up on the bed. They don't want him to have any narcotics because of the concussion, so I give him one of the horse-pills of ibuprofen they sent us home with, then take one myself.

"Did I ever tell you about the case Felton had, the tourists from Iowa?"

"Tim, I don't have a clue who Felton is, much less any tourists from Iowa." I don't say what else I'm thinking, which is what the fuck are you talking about some case for, because he's going to tell me anyway. Needs to tell me, probably.

"Beau Felton, he was a detective I used to work with, and he caught this case, a real motherfucker of a redball, where this tourist got shot in a robbery by Camden Yards, while her husband and her two kids watched."

"If you're trying to cheer me up, Detective, it's not fucking working." That goes right by him. He's in Earnest Tim mode, so I settle down on the bed next to him and listen.

"No, it's just—Munch and I, we interviewed them, you know? I remember the boy; he was in 8th grade, 8th fucking grade and he gets to see his mother's face blown off in front of him. The little girl, she didn't see much, 'cause her mom pushed her behind her, you know, protected her. And I remember the look on those kids' faces, on the husband's face. And he, when I brought him his wife's things, he wanted to hold my gun, just so he could know what it felt like, because he felt guilty, I guess, that he didn't do anything to stop the punk that killed his wife. And at the time, I thought I understood—thought I was the sensitive detective, you know? Felton nearly got thrown off the case, joking around about overtime in front of the guy, but good old Bayliss, he tried to help.

"But I didn't understand, Bill. I didn't have a fucking clue. I know that now. Because my kids—our kids—they lost two people they loved tonight, and even though I know I did everything I could to protect them, I'm always going to wonder why I didn't pick up on the gift sooner, or that Stefanski was acting strange, or what else I could have done to stop Danny and Gordon from getting blown to fucking bits."

"You saved lives tonight, Tim. If you hadn't figured out what was going on when you did, we would have lost Billie and Ruth along with Danny and Gordon, and maybe some others."

"Maybe if I'd gotten up there to where they were standing—"

"Do not fucking go there, Timothy. I don't need to deal with your fucking death wish again, do you hear me? As it was, you were too fucking close, but at least you didn't move any closer."

"You don't need to worry about that anymore, Bill. Shit, I've never been so fucking scared in my life—it was all I could do not to grab you and the girls and run out of the room, as if I even could."

"Glad to hear you're not on such a self-destruction trip anymore."

"Yeah, well, things change. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

Neither one of us has more to say, so I'm just sitting there with him when Zoe knocks on the door.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I promised the girls I'd ask you something for them."

"What is it, Zoe?" Tim says.

"They said they didn't think they'd be able to get to sleep, and they wanted one of you to check on them when you got home, so they could know you'd made it here all right. Oh, and don't be worried when you see Ruth's room is empty—she insisted on sleeping with Sarah."

"Don't even think about it, Tim," I say immediately. "You're staying right here. If any of them are awake, I'll bring them in here to see you, okay?"

"That would be great, Bill," he says with a slight smile, and I want to go find Stefanski and every single other fucker involved and strangle them with my bare hands, although I'm not sure how I'd find the energy. I settle for giving him a gentle kiss and stroking his hair.

I go to Billie's room first. She's asleep, but she wakes up when I sit down on the bed.

"Hey, lovebug."

"Dad—is Tim okay?"

"He's hurting, but he's going to be fine. You can go see him if you want—he's in the bedroom. I think he'd like to see you."

"I guess you were pretty scared when you saw him on the floor, huh?"

"Yeah, I was, just like I was scared that you might have gotten hurt. You feeling okay? Any bumps or bruises?"

"I think I got a couple on my knees and hands when you pushed me down, but no big deal. How about you?" She reaches up tentatively to touch the butterflies on my neck.

"I'm a little sore, but I'll be fine. Just don't be surprised if I'm a little gimpy tomorrow."

"We'll take care of you and Tim, don't worry. I'm really sorry he got hurt."

"Why don't you go on in and give him a hug? I've got to go check on Sarah and Ruthie, but I'll be in in a minute. But give your old man a hug first."

"Okay." She climbs into my arms, and jesus, I never want to let her go. She seems to understand that her dad's more than a little needy right now, because she squeezes back pretty tightly, and stays there until I'm finally ready to loosen my grip, give her a kiss, and send her on to see Tim.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she tells me as we both get off the bed. "I'm glad you and Tim and Ruth and Sarah are all right."

"So am I, lovebug."

"Sarah and Ruth are really upset—they knew Gordon and Danny really well, their whole lives. And they're really worried about Tim, and about you, too. You're kind of like another dad to them, like I've got you and Evan."

"You've got Tim, too. He loves you, Billie."

"Yeah, I know," she says, sounding troubled.

"Are you sure you're okay? This was a pretty rough night for all of us."

"I'm fine, Daddy. I'll go see Tim now—I know Sarah and Ruth are probably waiting for you."

I give her a kiss on the forehead and send her down the hall.

The door is open to Sarah's room, and the light is on. They're both awake, curled up in bed together, and Sarah's reading to Ruthie. I watch them for a minute. When they see me in the doorway, they jump up and run over to me with identical worried expressions, then grab onto me. They're both talking at once, asking how Tim is, how I am, and what's going on.

"Hold on a minute, you two. Why don't we all sit down for a sec, and then I'll answer all your questions." They sit down on either side of me on Sarah's bed, and I put my arms around them and drop a kiss on each temple.

"First of all, your dad's fine. He and I both got a few cuts and scrapes, but we're basically just a little banged up, him a little more than me. He's in the bedroom, and Billie's already gone in there to see him. We'll go in ourselves in a sec."

"Didn't they say at the hospital he had a concussion?" Sarah asks.

"Yes, a mild one—they did a CT scan and didn't see any broken bones or swelling in his brain. He's got a headache, and he's pretty exhausted, but he really is okay."

That seems to satisfy her for the moment, but I can tell both of them are going to be watching Tim very carefully the next few days. Since I'm going to be doing the same thing, I can't blame them.

"Now, there are police inside and outside the house, and they have the names of the people who did this and are tracking them down and arresting them. They checked over the house very carefully, and everything here is perfectly safe. Still, we're all going to be a little jumpy for awhile, and we're going to have to put up with some inconvenience to make sure we stay safe."

Sarah has another question. "Are you canceling the wedding, Bill?"

"No, we'd never do that, Mouse. We might have to reschedule it, postpone it for a little while, but we're still getting married. We'll just have to wait and see what the next couple of days bring before we can make that decision for sure."

"Will there be a funeral?"

Shit, I hadn't even thought about that. One more thing to take care of. "Of course there will be. I don't know exactly when or where—we'll have to figure some stuff out—but of course there'll be a funeral, and we'll all be there, unless you don't feel comfortable going."

"We want to go," Sarah answers for both of them. "They didn't have any family, you know, except for us and Eli." She starts to cry, and so does her sister, so I pull them into another hug and tell them how sorry I am. Fuck. Eli's been living with Gordon and Danny.

It doesn't take long for them to stop crying, and I'm reminded again of all the horrible shit they've been through, of all the people they've lost already, with no funerals or opportunities to mourn. It's fucking amazing that they're such great kids.

"Listen, girls, I want to tell you something important. You two—I know you've been through a lot, more than most people two or three times your age. You're strong—you've had to be, to make it this far—but you haven't lost your ability to connect, to let folks into your lives and love them, and that's really fucking amazing, and don't you dare tell your dad I used that word. You know how much you mean to him, but I hope you know how much you mean to me, too."

"We do, Bill," Ruth tells me, and gives me a kiss. Sarah puts her arm around my waist and squeezes, tucking her head onto my shoulder. We sit there for a second, give all of us a chance to feel some security, some family feeling. Then I realize again how tired I am, how tired we all are.

"Come on, you two, let's go, before your dad falls asleep again."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've made it to the bathroom and back, and I'm losing the fight to keep my eyes open when there's a tentative knock on the door and Billie comes in. She walks over to the bed, and I can see her eyes filling with tears as she gets closer.

"Billie, honey, it's all right," I tell her, gesturing for her to join me on the bed. She climbs up and into my arms, buries her face in my chest, and starts to cry. "What's wrong, sweetie? What is it?"

She finally lifts her head off my chest, although she doesn't look at me. "I'm sorry, Tim. I'm so sorry."

What the hell is she sorry for? I'm at a loss, so I settle for saying, "It's all right. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

She still won't look at me.

"Billie, whatever it is, you can tell me."

"You won't like it. You might not like me anymore."

"Nothing you could say would make that happen. I love you, Billie—don't you know that?"

"But I don't want you to marry my father. I don't want him to move here. I was hoping something would happen and he'd change his mind, and then something did happen, but I didn't want anything like this!" She's crying even harder now, and I try to just hold on to her and let her know it's all right. After a couple minutes she sits up again and wipes her eyes.

"It wasn't your fault," I tell her. "No matter what you might have wished or thought, that had nothing to do with what happened."

"I know that, but I still feel terrible. I know you love my dad, and you love me, and really, Tim, I pretty much love you, too, but I didn't want to."

I pause a minute and look at her seriously. I know she's been unhappy with all the attention Ruth, Sarah, and I have gotten from her father, and I know it must have been hard for her to admit it.

"You know, when my mom and my baby sister came home from the hospital, I didn't like her. I wanted someone to come and take her away. It's normal to feel what you've been feeling—it makes perfect sense that you didn't want to like me, that you felt like I was taking your dad away from you. But I know how much he loves you, and I think you probably do too. No one could ever take your place with your dad. He'll always love you. It's just that he's got more people to love now, more people to love him. I think that's good, don't you? Because you can't be with him all the time, and I think he was a little lonely."

"I know he was. And I know he's really happy now, that you guys love each other. I'm glad you're here to take care of him. Evan said I'm jealous that you and them get to be with him all the time, and I don't; I told him he was wrong, but maybe he wasn't. Is it mean to be jealous of Ruth and Sarah? Because I know they don't have a mom like I do."

"No, they don't. They're probably a little jealous of you, too."

"I never thought of that."

"Have you talked to them at all about where they grew up?"

"Not really. Ruth doesn't like to talk about it, and I think Sarah's worried she might scare me. They both have nightmares sometimes. They did when we were on that trip, but they wouldn't talk about it."

"Well, it might take them awhile before they feel comfortable talking about it, but I bet they'd appreciate it if you let them know you're willing to listen."

"Maybe you could tell me about it sometime, too. Dad hasn't told me much. Even though he never said anything about you when you were there, I could tell he was really worried—I just didn't know why. When he called me from the hospital, I almost didn't recognize his voice, because he was trying to sound normal, but he was really scared. But all he ever really told me was that some really bad people tried to kill you."

"Well, that's the gist of it, but I'll tell you whatever you want to know—just not tonight."

"Okay. Thanks, Tim." She's giving me another hug when Sarah and Ruth come in with Bill. Everyone climbs up around me, just like they did at Christmas. Our new bed is huge—Bill said he special ordered it out of desperation, because of the way I sprawl all over the place at night—so there's plenty of room. Sarah and Ruth curl up on either side of me, and Billie climbs over so she's in between Sarah and Bill. My hand reaches over Billie and Sarah's heads to Bill's shoulder. I reach out and run my fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and sighs.

"Dad?" Ruth asks.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"Can we sleep here tonight?" Bill meets my eyes and nods.

"Sure, Ruth, you can sleep here if you want. Billie, Sarah, you can too, or you can sleep in your rooms, wherever you want. But Bill's going to be waking me up every couple hours, so if you think that'll bother you, you might want to sleep in your own beds."

"And while you kids decide where you're going to sleep, I'm going to get ready for bed," Bill says, ruffling heads, including mine, as he gets up. Ruth climbs over to the middle of the bed, in between Billie and Sarah, and gets under the covers. Sarah looks down at her for a second, then gets in next to her, cuddling her close.

I look over at Billie. She's obviously torn between joining in and going back to her own room—she's an only child, not used to the kind of closeness Sarah and Ruth grew up with. She barely knew Gordon and Danny. But she shrugs and climbs in next to Ruth, who smiles appreciatively at her.

I fluff up the pillows under their heads, then my own, and get under the covers with them. Bill comes back in his sleep attire—we've both taken to wearing pajama pants and t shirts since Sarah and Ruth moved in, although I still sometimes laugh at the sight of the hardass punk in flannel pants and bed head while eating his breakfast—and he smiles at the sight of the three girls nestled together in the middle of the bed. He heads over to the other side of the bed, gives Billie a goodnight kiss, then reaches over her to Sarah and Ruth. Then he turns out the light on that side and comes over to my side of the bed, gesturing for me to scoot over.

"Hey," he says softly, then kisses me. "Love you."

"Love you," I answer, and kiss him back. He turns out the other light, and I take the opportunity to spoon around him. I need to feel that wiry body next to mine, especially tonight. I bury my nose in his hair, pulling him tightly to me. He understands, maybe feels the same, because he brings my hands up to his lips, kisses them softly, and keeps them there, where I can feel his warm breath on my knuckles.

His chest expands against me as we both sigh. I can feel his lips quirk up in a smile as he presses another kiss on my knuckles, and I kiss the top of his head in return. We both lay there, awake, listening as each of the girls' breathing slowly deepens into sleep.

He turns to face me then, hands framing my face, lips meeting mine softly. "You okay?" he whispers. I nod, kiss him again.

"Love you so much," I breathe, suddenly close to tears again.

"Love you. Not going anywhere. Think you could sleep?"

"Yeah, maybe." And surprisingly, I do, until I wake around dawn. The girls have gone back to their own rooms at some point, and Bill's obviously forgotten to set the alarm to wake me, but I'm just as obviously fine, so I get some ibuprofen and then curl back around him and fall back asleep immediately.

The next thing I know, I'm hearing Bill's voice, a little panicked, saying, "Shit! Tim, wake up, are you okay?"

I open my eyes. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"I just fucking woke up, that's all—I forgot to set the alarm to check on you. How are you feeling?"

"A little achy, that's all. Well, that and I have to pee like a fucking racehorse."

He helps me into the bathroom, then out to the living room, where we are immediately but gently beset by Billie, Ruth, and Sarah, all of them demanding to know how we could have slept so long, and do we know what time it is, and what do we want to eat, and there have been phone calls from Mom, Frank, and a bunch of other people, all of whom left messages, and Bartlett's coming over in a couple hours to talk to us, so it's a good thing we finally got up, and so on. It's exhausting just listening to them, and I'm tempted to head right back into the bedroom.

The phone rings as Sarah's getting us some sandwiches. Officer Tsinnee from the Flagstaff Police answers it, then hands it to me.

"Hello?"

"Teej, is that you?" Jesus—I can't believe it. I haven't heard that soft voice in years, but I'd recognize it anywhere.

"Yeah, it's me, Jim."

"I heard about the bombing on the news—are you all right?"

"Bill and I both got a little banged up, but we were lucky. We lost some good friends, and the girls are pretty shaken up." I'm not about to hide my family, even if it makes him uncomfortable.

"Yeah, your mom told me about how you adopted those girls. I always thought you'd be a great dad—I'm glad you've finally gotten the chance."

"Thanks. How are yours doing?" The conversation feels so strange—unreal, but still so completely familiar, like so many conversations we've had in the past.

"Great, they're great. Well, pissed off at their dad for being so stubborn, but otherwise great. They miss you. And so do I."

"I miss you, too, you know. Didn't think I'd ever talk to you again, though. Didn't think you wanted anything to do with me."

"Well, I didn't, at least not at first. Shit, Tim, you really threw me for a loop. I never in a million years had you pegged that way, and I couldn't believe I could be so wrong about you. I got worried about all the time you were spending with the kids."

"My sexuality's not catching, Jim," I say firmly, with just a trace of bitterness. "And I'm happy. I'm happier with Bill than I've ever been."

"Yeah, I know, Nancy told me, and your mom. But when you told me, you weren't happy then. You were a mess, and I thought you were just trying to mess up your life some more."

"I couldn't have messed it up any more than it was already. I was unhappy—I was depressed—Jim, I went to you for some support, and you called me a pervert and threw me out of your house!"

I realize I'm shouting, the girls are staring at me, and Bill's there, next to me, hand on my shoulder. I take a deep breath. There's silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds before I hear Jim's anguished voice.

"I didn't know, Tim, you have to believe me. I didn't know about Uncle George, about what he did to you. I should have, but I was so damned jealous of all the attention he gave you, the extra presents. And I should have known how much you were hurting. I'm sorry, Tim. Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I was afraid—some part of me thought that if I told you, he'd know, and he'd start doing it to you."

Bill is listening, and inhales when he hears what I've just said. He leans his forehead against my shoulder, then kisses my neck. My eyes are burning, and I pull him closer with my free hand and brush a kiss on his cheek. Jim's silent again.

"Jim—he didn't ever hurt you, did he?"

"No. He never hurt me, just you."

"Thank god. I spent a lot of time worrying about that, you know."

"Jesus, Tim—how can you be so damned calm about it?"

"I've had a lot of time to think about it. I've been seeing a counselor. And I've been happy, Jim, for the first time in my life—I'm in love, I have wonderful kids, a great job, and I'm very aware of how lucky I am. Two people who mean a lot to me and my family died last night, but my family, the people I love, are all right. No one will ever abuse my daughters again. Uncle George is dead—he won't ever abuse me, or anyone else, ever again. That's enough—it's got to be."

There's another pause, then a sigh.

"You're really in love with this guy Bill?"

"More than I can tell you. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but this is it for me. I'm going to have what you always said you wanted for me—someone to love, a marriage, kids—is it so horrible that the person I found is another man? Can't you still be happy for me? Even Frank's okay with it."

"Nancy told me he was going to be your best man."

"Yeah—he thinks it's absurd for two men to be getting married, but he's still gonna stand up for me." I pause, gather my courage, and speak again. "Jim, I meant it when I said I miss you. I'd like you to meet Ruth and Sarah, my daughters, and Bill, and his daughter. You're welcome any time, but if you could make it out for the wedding, that would mean a lot to me."

"I—uh—I don't know if I'm ready for that yet. I think your pal Frank was right when he called me a redneck. Give me a little more time to get used to it, okay?"

"Sure, Jim," I say, trying not to let my disappointment overwhelm the relief that we've actually managed a civil conversation for the first time in nearly three years. "Give my love to Shannon and the kids, okay? And maybe we can talk again soon."

"Yeah, let's do that. Give Aunt Virginia a hug for me, and take care of yourself, Teej."

"You too, Jim. I love you, you know."

"I know. And I still love you. Bye."

"Bye."

I turn off the phone with a sigh as Bill puts his arms around me and Sarah comes over to sit on my other side. Billie and Ruth are visible outside on the deck, being unobtrusively watched by one of the local officers.

"Big surprise there, huh?" Bill asks softly.

"You could say that," I reply dryly.

"Who was that, Dad?"

"My cousin Jim. I haven't spoken to him in a few years—he wasn't too happy when I told him I was bisexual."

"But he's okay with it now, right?" she asks hopefully.

"Okay with it? Not really, Mouse, but he's getting there. He's getting there, and that's good enough news for now."

"Virginia will be thrilled. You know she and Nancy will be working on him to get out here for the wedding, even if he did say no when you asked him."

"I think we need to push it back a few weeks."

"You okay with that?"

"It wouldn't be right—we've got to have the funeral, you know? And I think we all need some time."

He nods, his arms still around me. "Sarah, would you mind going out and seeing how Ruth and Billie are doing? I think your dad and I need a little time to talk."

"Okay, but call me if you need me."

"Thanks, Mouse," I say, giving her a quick squeeze. "We'll be out in a little while."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim's still looking a little shell-shocked, which I guess is no surprise after the last twenty-four hours. I'm feeling pretty fucking shell-shocked myself, so I lean my forehead on his shoulder and sigh.

"You okay?" he asks, stroking my hair. "Did you take some ibuprofen?"

"Yes, Dr. Bayliss, I took some ibuprofen. Freak."

"Your freak. I have a feeling there's a lot we need to talk about."

"Planning a funeral, planning a wedding, taking care of the kids, whether I should quit Jenifur—"

"What?"

I sigh again. "Tim, it's bad enough we're in danger—you, me, our family—but last night, jesus, it could have been Kat and the baby, you know? First the bombs in Alabama, and now this—I don't want to put them in any more danger."

"Bill—" he hesitates. "Of course I'll support you no matter what, but maybe now's not the best time for a decision like that."

"I just feel so fucking helpless, you know? Jesus, Tim, I really wanted a drink last night. Still do."

"Did you talk to Deeja?"

"Fuck. No. Chelle says she thinks she's in love with me—what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?"

"I don't know, Bill. But I do know one thing—it's not your fault she's drinking, or that she's in love with you. That part's pretty easy, at least from my perspective."

"You're not upset about it?"

"I'm worried about her, just like you are, but I'm not upset. Why should I be? I'm the love of your fucking life, or so you've told me." He's smiling fondly, obviously trying to cheer me up, which should annoy the fuck out of me but doesn't.

"Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head or anything," I say. "It's not like I had any choice in the matter."

He laughs. "You mean you didn't always want to marry a fucked-up, Buddhist, vegetarian, male, former cop and FBI agent? I'm shocked, Bill, just shocked."

"Shut up and kiss me, freak," I tell him. He obliges me, quite fucking thoroughly. When we come up for air, I mention the other thing that's been bothering me.

"What about Eli?"

"Yeah, I know," he sighs.

"Where did he stay last night?"

"They put him in a safe house."

"He's a year older than Sarah, right? Sixteen?"

"Uh, I think he's seventeen now—Gordon was telling me—shit." He takes a minute. "They had a birthday party for him a couple weeks ago."

"Sarah's got quite a crush on him."

"Yeah. She'd love it, but I'm not sure it would be such a great idea."

"Still. He could bunk in the studio."

"Yeah. I'll make the call."

"What do you think about October?"

"October. Second weekend? It shouldn't be too cold yet."

"Second weekend it is. We'll get through this. The kids will, too."

"I know. Love you."

"I know. Love you, gonna marry you, raise our kids together, blah blah blah blah blah," I tell him, giving him another kiss before getting up. "Come on, let's take a couple phones outside, make our calls in the sunshine getting hugs from kids, okay?"

The rest of the day is filled with shit like getting Eli set up in the studio, at least for now, talking with various detectives, agents, social workers, and lawyers from various local, state, and federal agencies, arranging for yet more security measures, and rescheduling everything for the wedding. Later that afternoon, Kat and Chelle come by, and it's time to have a conversation with them I wish I didn't have to have.

They follow me into a small conference room in the studio and sit down when I ask them to, sharing a knowing look that makes me a little nervous. First I catch them up on the new date for the wedding, the plans for the funeral, and how Eli's bunking in the studio for now. Then I swallow and light a cigarette, putting it out a second later when I remember why Kat and Chelle don't smoke anymore.

"This is going to be hard to get out, so don't say anything until I'm done, okay?"

They nod at me, then exchange another knowing glance.

"I love you two, and I love the music we've made over the last seven years. Being in Jenifur has been like a fucking dream come true, both artistically and personally. But my life is different now—I'm with Tim, and because of that, I've put you in danger. I'd never be able to forgive myself if something happened to either one of you, or the baby, because the psychos who are after Tim saw me as a target. So I'm going to have to leave the band."

"Fuck that, Billy," Kat says fiercely. "You're not leaving the band. Chelle and I talked last night—we figured you'd pull some shit like this—and we've decided that we should take some time off, starting now. We were going to do it anyway, once the baby was born, so we'll just start a little earlier. We'll take as much time as we need to make sure that you and Tim are safe, and then we'll start recording and touring again. It's not up for discussion."

I stare at them. "Just how long of a fucking break are you thinking of taking? I appreciate what you're saying, but we all know this isn't going to just go away. I hope there'll be a time in the future where we'll be safe, but there aren't any guarantees, and I meant what I said—I am not putting you two and your child at risk again."

"I think you've forgotten something," Chelle says sweetly, always a dangerous sign with her.

"What's that?" I ask warily.

"The fact that we own half of this studio, and Deeja owns another quarter. When we're ready to record again, this is where we're going to do it. If you want to sulk in the house instead of joining us, I guess that'll be your right, but we'll be here, no matter what."

"Fuck."

"Well put, Billy." Kat's voice has some of the same sugary sweetness as Chelle's, but the sarcasm's more out in the open. "Now that that's settled, can we talk about Deeja?"

I sigh. "What the fuck are we going to do? Where is she now, anyway?"

"She's in Sedona, undergoing treatment," Chelle answers. "Signed herself in for thirty days."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Just for a minute last night, before she got in the taxi. It's one of those programs where there's no contact for a couple weeks, but Kat talked to the center this morning, confirmed that Deeja got there okay."

"And this is a good place, right? Not some fucking new-age country club?"

"It's a tough program. Got a good rep—we checked it out. After last night, she's pretty motivated, so hopefully it'll work." Kat pauses, looks at Chelle. "And if it doesn't, we'll figure something else out. We never gave up on you, and we're not giving up on her."

"How's the label feel about all this?"

"They're pissed," Chelle admits. "But our contract's rock solid, and we're shipping more albums than ever. Even donating our back end to the Fund, the label's still getting their cut, and all this is just more free publicity as far as they're concerned. Taking time off to have a baby never hurt Madonna any. They'll deal."

"Mark said they offered, or maybe threatened, to get a special security detail for Deeja, to keep her away from bars, make sure she gets drug tests, that sort of thing," Kat says.

"Yeah, they do those things these days," I answer wryly. The two of them look at each other, then at me. "What? You didn't know? Jesus, they were on my ass for nearly two years after Joe. You mean to tell me you didn't notice?"

"We knew, Bill," Chelle answers kindly. "We just haven't thought about it lately."

"It's another good reason for Jenifur to take a break for awhile. Deej said it was all right with her if we wanted to put out a press release about her entering treatment, since it'll probably come out anyway. Between that, the bombing, the wedding coming up, and the baby, you'd think even the label would understand," Kat adds. And once again, I have to admit she makes a lot of sense.

So I give up on leaving the band and go back to getting ready for the wedding, still worried about keeping my friends and family safe, but feeling pretty fucking confident we'll be okay, at least for awhile.

As usual when I'm feeling confident, more trouble's just around the fucking corner.

END

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