The overripe smell of garbage and fish guts greeted me like a hug from an old friend: oddly comforting but a little too close. Ah, the sweet, sweet welcome of home! I immediately recognized the pungent San Francisco harbor, but everything else seemed different. When I stepped off the gangplank, I was gawking like all the greenhorns around me. I couldn't help myself. Even though we'd lived here years ago, I barely recognized San Francisco at all. Gone were the grazing ranchero cattle; the white laundry flapping just west of old Yerba Buena harbor. The gold rush had changed the town from a sleepy country cousin into a painted lady, all slapdash color and gewgaws. Now the mud streets were covered with planks, and new buildings were crammed cheek-to-jowl. Rows of them lined the steep hillsides so that the gables and spires bristled like spines on a hedgehog. To the south of Market Street, voluptuous black plumes puffed from the smokestacks of the foundries and munitions factories.

There seemed to be no time for a siesta now. It was all go, go, go. Everything and everyone bustled around me. I listened to the water slosh around the pilings, the horses' hooves thundering against the street planks as the dray wagons creaked with their heavy loads from the ships. There were irate shouts from the drivers, sailors ahoy-ing, the glad greetings of reunited families. I searched the crowd for Monte, but among the hats and bare heads, I didn't see his wavy black hair. Hard to miss. At six foot four, he topped everyone else, and if you didn't see him first, you almost always heard his crazy laughter from miles off. Where was he? Whatever his other shortcomings were, Monte was never late. Worried, I listened hard for any hint of him.

Nothing. No sign. Just nearby boys in dusty knickers and caps darting between the well-heeled passengers, and hawking their papers. "Extree! Extree! Read all a-bout it! Dixie pirates strike again."

Pirates? In this day and age? More likely privateers raiding Union ships or running the blockade. So the Civil War touched these shores too. I felt surprised. I'd thought California too far away, but then I remembered the recent sea battle at Cherbourg, France. War was like gangrene. It spread everywhere, respected no boundaries. We'd been lucky to make it here without being attacked. Our clipper had carried cannons for fortifying the Presidio and Fort Point.

I flagged a boy down. His cheeks were still pink from running. He was small and wiry from not enough food and too much work, but despite his scruffy clothes, he was clean, his hair trimmed neatly. There was a pencil stub jammed behind one ear. And behind his spectacles, his pale eyes seemed older than his years as if he'd seen too much of the real world too soon. When he saw me, a disappointed look flashed over his face as he reluctantly walked over to me. He shuffled impatient feet. "Sorry, Miss. No fashion plates. Just news."

"News. Perfect. I'll take a broadsheet, please."

He looked skeptical. "No pictures, Miss."

"That's all right. I can read. I like to read, ummm ..."

"Seymour," he said helpfully. His impatience melted into cheerfulness, no doubt prompted by the prospect of a new sale. He held up a newspaper, snapped it sharply for me to see. "Here you go. Hot off the presses. USS Columbia down. A gen-u-ine blow to the Union. All hands lost."

"Everyone?"

"Well, most. Some anyway." He grinned, displaying three missing teeth. "But all the gold was stolen. One million dollars worth. That's real dollars, not greenbacks, Miss. Supposin' to go to the Union so Lincoln won't have to print those paper bucks. Those ain't worth nothin'. Not like real gold."

"Gold from where? The miners?"

"Ah-yup. And the citizens. All true blue. Patriotic-like. God preserve the Union."

"Is that the truth?"

"True? True as spit. Swear it on my mother's grave. Okay, okay," he added hastily. "Swear on her saintly head then. Since she's still alive."

"The story, Seymour." I held the money just out of his reach.

"Well, it's mostly true. True as anything ever printed. Some of the money's to avoid the draft. You can buy your way out, you know. You can buy your way out of anything if you have enough money."

Laughing, I gave him five sous for The Call.

Seymour bit a coin, then looked at it suspiciously.

"French," I said.

His face brightened. "Frenchie? That's okay then. Thinkin' it might be one of those brass pennies. Not worth nothin'. Couldn't even cash it at Monte Carlo."

Monte Carlo. Monte. That reminded me. My worthless brother. Where was he? I thanked Seymour for the paper, then searched the thinning crowds once again. By now all my fellow passengers had left the dock, and the last carriage was just leaving. Only the sailors were still left, unloading the crates. I felt a tug on my skirt.

"Missy. Missy. Missy," piped a little voice behind me. "Missy. Señorita. Lady."

I wasn't sure about all those titles. Only some of them applied to me. Whoever was gripping my skirt tugged anxiously again on my poor serviceable gray-brown wool. I turned around. It was the cabin boy Li-Chu. He couldn't have been more than five years old. Under the chopped black bangs, his near-black eyes tilted at the corners, and they shone as if he knew a secret. A delicious one. His eyes widened a little like he just remembered something. Hastily he bowed with a short jerk and bob at the waist. He popped up again, his moon-face beaming up at me. He held something in his hands.

I tried to remember the Cantonese he'd taught me. Tone was everything, he'd said. Like singing. Too bad I was tone-deaf. All sounded the same to me; couldn't tell flat from sharp. I tried anyway."Joh sun, Li-Chu."

He giggled. "Joh sun, Missy. Good day. For you." He presented a slim rectangular wooden box to me, bowed again, then ran off, his queue bouncing against his little retreating back.

What? Whose was this? There must be some mistake. I'd carefully packed my few belongings inside my black satchel, hadn't left anything behind. Certainly not this. This wasn't mine. The box was fashioned out of a cinnamon-colored wood that I'd never seen before. Its plain surface felt smooth and cool as I fumbled with the clasp. The well-oiled hinges opened noiselessly. I peeked. My breath caught. Inside the top lid was a picture of two hands stretching over a wild ocean. The hands cupped something. I looked closer. Something faceted. A diamond? No, a blackberry? Couldn't tell. Didn't get it exactly, but its beauty touched me. It was all done in inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl. Each piece joined perfectly so that it looked seamless - more like a painting than a puzzle. Zarzamora was carved along the bottom of the picture. What did that mean? It sounded like an exotic place with white sand and turquoise seas, rustling palm trees and sweet succulent fruit. I wanted to go there. Right now. But not by myself.

I looked further. There was more inside the box, something wrapped in linen. I carefully opened the wrapping, and smelled new kid leather. There lay a pair of dove-gray gloves with tiny pearl buttons on the side. The buttonholes were stitched with fine silk twist. I'd never owned such a pair, had only seen them on the hands of fine ladies or through shop windows. I stared at the gloves, my dismay growing by the second. I couldn't wear these. I'd either lose one or pop a button. And the stains I'd get! Chloroform, carbolic acid, phlegm and worse ... My gloves would be totally ruined in a New York minute. I loved them, but I could never use them. Their simple elegance reminded me of something I wasn't, never could be. It almost felt like a reproof instead of a gift. I looked under the wrapping for my old ruined glove. But there was no sign of it. I'd have to get a new pair after all, a sensible pair once I saved up enough cash. With a little sigh, I closed the lid and slipped the beautiful box inside my old black leather bag. My finger lingered for a moment over the box, feeling how the corner joints angled together and fit perfectly. Had he made it himself? Probably not. Probably purchased at some waterfront shop. Li-Chu hadn't said who the gift was from, but I already knew. The Captain. A good-bye would have meant more to me, and yet, somehow I was strangely relieved that he had not. My fingers jiggled the latch of my carryall; easing over the stuck clasp. I pushed harder. Click. Click. And the bag locked firmly once again.

###

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. That last saloon had been hell, pure hell. A regular infierno, gung-xsi, perdition. No matter where you were or what those saloons was called, they all stank the same way. The older I got, the more I understood, and the more those places turned my stomach. They'd been the stepping stones to my father's slow ruin, and I was afraid Monte was following the same path. The reek of old whiskey and sawdust stuck to my nostrils like a bad memory as I stormed out of the Welcome Inn and huffed up Montgomery Street again. I shouldered past the few rough-coated pedestrians who either looked completely lost or were rushing to their next destination before the patrol arrested them. Along the waterfront, the Barbary Coast was not a place to linger lightly unless you were interested in some loose change or loose women. Liquor flowed freely. And there was every kind of imaginable vice if you had the right coin and the inclination. Anything goes here. And anything frequently did.

Now the sun was drifting lower in the sky, and the shadows lengthened, creeping up the sides of the half-deserted clapboard buildings. It was late afternoon, and I still hadn't found my brother in any of his old haunts. The neighborhood was deceptively quiet. It was early yet, too early for the gambling and carousing. Along Maiden Lane, the bordello windows were still closed. None of the bare-waisted chippies hung out to advertise their wares and entice customers. And the jayhawkers were just waking up and beginning to prowl Cutthroat Alley for some cow-town boy or a webfoot miner down from Oregon way. There would be plenty of easy marks, ready to part with their cash, maybe their life. I didn't plan to be one of those marks. I walked even faster.

My boots clonked steadily against the plank sidewalk, carelessly kicking aside mud clumps. By the time I'd checked the Bull Run and the El Dorado, I was mightily irritated, and working my way up to furious. My arches ached and my bag felt like it was packed full of cannonballs. A dull gnawing in the pit of my stomach made me miserably aware that it'd been hours since my last meal. Or maybe it was worry instead of hunger. I wasn't sure, but I knew I was seriously pissoir-ed if you don't mind my French. Where the hell was my brother? I was ready to kill him.

I walked another block to where the buildings turned from cheap wood to brownstone with polished brass fixings. Here the people were riding prime horseflesh or in carriages instead of slogging through the mud. I hid my sneer. This was the soft-handed bon-bon crowd. No illnesses, just neuroses, and the same need for vice; the more exclusive - the better. In this high-faluting neighborhood was my last chance - the Golden Lily.

Here we were. The place hadn't changed since the last time I'd been here. Its facade was fancy and anonymous. The Italianate brick and gleaming Doric pillars made it appear like any gentlemen's establishment: fine, elegant, discrete. And so it was, after a fashion. Instead of a thick-necked bouncer, a liveried doorman stood at attention underneath the portico.

I paused in front of the brass-tipped wrought iron fence. Immediately the doorman looked at me and then past me as if I were of no significance at all. Not even a smirk registered. I realized then how I must look to him. I was gloveless. My boots and the hem of my split-skirt were caked with mud, and my little hat hung off to one side, resting low on my bun at the nape of my neck. Bits of hair had straggled out of the hairnet and stuck nastily to my sweaty neck. I must look more like a lady wrestler than a lady doctor. No, drop the "lady." I didn't look like a lady at all. Must be a new lad. I didn't recognize him and he didn't know me. Better not to make a fuss. Lily wouldn't appreciate it. Discretion was the byword of her profession.

So I walked around the fence and into the side alley. Jogged down the narrow stairs leading into the basement and through the delivery entrance. The service hallway reflected its owner's orderliness: all the boxes stacked neatly, the chintz wallpaper unstained. The gas lamps were freshly dusted, everything polished to a proud shine. I passed the open door of the kitchen, which was already busy preparing the light repasts for tonight's visitors. The smell of onions and wine and freshly chopped vegetables made my mouth water.

"There's a fine how-de-do," said a portly woman, wiping her hands on a white apron. Mrs. B used the hem to pat her forehead, then her rosy cheeks. "Mister Crocker's coming tonight. And Don Cabrillo. Ooh, my life. And we're fresh out of pheasant. And those crinkly mushrooms. We're fixed. Just fixed. Lily will kill us. She warned us but I plumb forgot. Oh, I'm having those pappy-tations just thinking about it. The Don is so particular. Nothing else will do. What shall we do, Frankie?"

"Oi there, that's François. Not Frankie. Get the name right," said a growly voice that was born and bred in the Bowery, not Paris. The closest Frankie had ever come to France were the cancan dancers at the El Dorado saloon.

"How can I remember? You change your name faster than your soup de jour's. Why can't you stick with one name and be done with? You can't expect us to remember. Land sakes."

"No fluttering. No hysterics in my kitchen." He stabbed a stumpy finger at her.

"Your kitchen?" she said, her voice rising like a tea kettle about to boil over. "So this is your kitchen? Now see here ..."

Uh oh. Recognized that tone, all right. Time to intervene or else there'd be blood on the kitchen floor. An ounce of prevention, a pound of cure. Didn't want to be stitching anyone up on my first night home. So I ducked my head around the door. "Hello."

"Nikita!" shrieked Mrs. B suddenly. She dropped her wooden spoon and ran to me, embracing me with her meaty dockworker's arms. My breath squeezed out. It took awhile for air to leak back in. "Look at you. Just look at you. Oh my. All grown up and ..." She examined me thoroughly: up and down, made me turn around. "And messy as usual. Mud! Three inches at least. What happened to you, child? Did you fall into one of those potholes? They say the Broadway pothole swallowed a whole coach-and-four. Sure as I'm standing here."

"Give the kid a break, Mrs. B. She just went 'round the Horn. Just docked." Grinning, Frankie punched me on the shoulder. I punched him back. He rubbed the spot, laughing. "Haven't grown soft on me. Good, good. Do you remember the moves?" He tilted his chin, pointed. "Give you a free one. Come on, come on. Take your best shot at me."

Weariness forgotten, I danced a little around him, my fists cocked and up. We bobbed and weaved around each other.

"Stop it. Stop it this instant."

We ignored her. I took a jab. Frankie ducked. "Ahhh, you can do better than that, kid."

Mrs. B pulled me away. "Frankie," she said in an awful voice, "Your consommé is boiling over."

Breaking off, he swore and ran to the stove range.

Mrs. B shook her head, tsking sorrowfully. "Oh, Nikita. Look at you. Still the same. And we had such high hopes for you."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Stop wailing, woman. She's not some milk gone sour. She went to medical school, not finishing school. Leave her be."

"Hmmph. Well, never you mind. Just wait 'til Lily gets a hold of you. Better scoot now. Scat. She'll be waiting for you. I'll send up a nice tray. Some tea and those little cakes you like. Oh, and my blackberry jam. I'll bet you've been missing that."

"I'd like that." Smiling, I walked up the skinny stairs to the main floor. I could walk this way blindfolded, had done so in my dreams. No matter how many years or how many miles had passed, I knew this place. This was my home port. I could only run away for so long, I suppose. And now, I had finally returned.

###

My feet shooshed across the soft thick Turkish carpet as I passed through the pulled-back velvet drapes and into the front parlor. The walls were still covered with red damask, but the crystal chandeliers and the gilt chairs were new. What a far cry from Lily's first "house of joy," which had once been a ship, left in the harbor by its gold-fevered crew. Now, this place .... this was a true casa grande. I was impressed.

Lily must be doing well. Of course she would. She could do whatever she set her mind to. And here was the proof of her determination and grit. I walked by the first sofa. My fingers brushed against its plump velvet cushions while I listened to the slow rippling notes of a fine piano. The music built, moment by moment, like drops of rain gathering together, then flowing from stream to river to sea. And over the fluid bass notes, the treble climbed slowly like a heavenly body, benevolent and stately, across the night sky.

Moonlight Sonata. So he still played that piece. "Hey, Doc," I said softly, "What's up?"

My old mentor didn't reply at first. Doc Calhoun only tilted his head as if he were listening harder to his music, trying to catch every nuance, and continued playing. On top of the baby grand piano were a fine cut-crystal decanter and a glass of bourbon. Next to his drink was a top hat with a pair of white gloves carefully laid over it. A gold-topped ebony cane rested against the keyboard. And his fine coat-tail suit, brocade vest and spats were more suited to a concert hall than a hoochy-koochy joint, even a classy one like this. I bet Walter Calhoun would go to a bear-baiting dressed like a gentleman. He had probably been born in those darned spats.

I set my bag down on to the floor, and walked up to him. Sat next to him on the piano bench. The notes fell like the last random drops of a passing storm; drizzling into the silence. He sighed. His shoulders relaxed forward. His fingers paused as the last note faded, then they suddenly flew over the keys, adding a rinky-tink melodramatic flourish.

"Only you would improve on Beethoven. You always liked Moonlight Sonata. Does it still remind you of Virginia? Sitting there, catching bluegill and crappie at Silver Lake?"

"Why naturally, sugar." Walter pulled back a little from me, gave me a quizzical look. Now his hair was grayer, his skin more seamed with lines than I remembered, but the courtly kindness in his silver-blue eyes was just the same. And he still had that little smile as if he were remembering a good joke and just holding back a laugh. Only this time, his smile seemed tighter than usual. What was wrong? I couldn't quite diagnose it. I looked even closer at him.

He scrutinized me too. When Walter finished, he only said, "We-e-e-ell, Nikita." Shook his head slowly like he did everything else. "Well, well, well. Looky here. My dear, dear Nikita. Or should I say 'Doctor Spencer'? Congratulations. You did it. You finally did it."

He still sat on the velvet-cushioned bench, one foot resting against the piano pedal, the other foot pointed sideways and away as if he didn't know whether he was coming or going. Walter remained there, not moving closer for his usual welcome. He didn't touch me, and I didn't touch him. I should have hugged him, but I didn't. I couldn't. It felt awkward - as if we were strangers; as if I hadn't known him since I was three and unrolling his bandages so Monte and me could dress up like Egyptian mummies. Something had changed, but I didn't know what. I only knew not to touch him. Maybe it would only make things worse. Maybe I might damage something, damage him. He reminded me of that Chinese fan I once had: one careless touch, and snap,b roken forever. I had learned caution since then.

"What's the matter?" I said. "Aren't you happy for me?"

"'Course I am. Powerful happy. Ready to bust my buttons. Why, I couldn't be happier, sugar."

His smile tightened even more at the corners like a man who says something that he thinks is proper, not something that he really believes. I didn't understand this. This wasn't the homecoming I'd expected. My hands reached up and jerked at my bow. I untied the crumpled ribbons, then took off my hat.

What's wrong? The question clogged in my throat, making me miserable and silent. Large Word Obstruction. Impacted. Condition Guarded. I needed a word-ectomy. Really. Surgery was easier than people. Cut. Sew. You're done. Why weren't things ever that simple? I couldn't say what I wanted to, so I fumbled around for something else to say, swinging my useless hat by its ribbons. Finally I thought of something. Courtesy always worked. When in doubt, be polite. And always carry a Lady Colt, Lily used to say. So I fell back on my old lessons. Coughed a little behind one hand. Walter looked up at me.

I said, "Thank you for the stethoscope. Your present arrived just before graduation. I love it. Listening through those rubber tubes is fine, just fine. Makes auscultation much clearer. Heartbeats like snare drums. Real crisp. But my Laënnec looks different than anyone else's. Not just that wooden listening cone. Did you fix it up?"

"No, not much. Just a few modifications here and there."

"Well, you're a genius. A certified genius. You should patent your idea."

He airily waved a hand, then shrugged.

"Do you use it at the Infirmary? I bet you have lots of your inventions there. That dripping cone to measure out the chloroform. And the birthing chair. I can't wait to see your clinic."

"No, sugar. It's ..." He broke off, looking away at something only he could see. His hands lifted, ran along the sounding board, then tapped an agitated rhythm against the top of the piano so hard that his drink trembled. Rings spread outward through the bourbon and splashed against the glass. Finally he said. "It's closed now."

"What?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me. Come on, Doc. This is me. Nikita. You can tell me."

He only closed his eyes as if shutting out the memory, shutting out me. It didn't seem to work. Whatever he was trying to obliterate still seemed to be there, plaguing him like a megrim or something worse. His mouth pulled downwards, deepened into brooding grooves. Walter sighed. "The medical corps needed me, so I went back to Virginny for a spell. And now, we-e-ell, everything's changed ... since Manassas. The War changed everything."

He must think I was slow, because it took a long time before his words sunk in. Closed? How could his clinic be closed? The Infirmary for Women and Children had been his pride and joy. His letters had been full of news, diagrams, scandalous stories about the well-heeled and the roughshod. They had all attended his clinic. But come to think of it, his letters had stopped a year ago. And Lily never wrote. My mouth flapped like a fish; opening, closing, but no words coming out. I felt astonished. Could have knocked me over with a feather right now. I blinked, forced myself to speak. "But why did you close the clinic? What happened, Walter?"

He looked away again, laughing shortly. "What happened? I'll tell you what happened. Did I ever tell you about Red MacGregor? Don't rightly recollect if I ever did. We-e-ell, I met Old Red at Harvard. Class of '40, me and Red. Yessir, he was a big feller. Real big. Big hands, big hearted, right friendly for a Yankee. Don't suppose I'd have passed anatomy without his help. Or physiognomy for that matter. You could say that Red just pushed me through medical school. Then one day we were finished. School was finally over, and we were celebrating the end of our examinations like any old Tom Fool's: full of too much excitement and bourbon, and ice skating where nobody in their right mind should be skating. You can guess the rest. I fell through the ice. Cold as hell. No, colder. The water swallowing me. Thrashing around, slower and slower 'til finally I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I was so damned cold. Next thing I know, Old Red pulls me out of perdition just like he pulled me through school. He saved me that day."

Walter picked up his glass again. He studied his drink as he slowly swirled it around and around again. Sighing, he seemed to come to some decision. Then he knocked back the rest of his drink until the glass was empty. Very carefully set the glass down again. "You only hear about the glory of war. The drums, the fifes, the big hurrahs ... You get called to it, but there's no such thing - no glory, no grace. War is a dirty unchivalrous business. Brother against brother, friend against friend. So there I was, doctoring in the middle of the War - that peculiar living hell as only man or the devil himself can design. And one day, the wagons brought in the casualties - both the blues and the grays. We tended our men first, then the Yankee prisoners. By then, I was knee-deep in misery and blood. And who did you think I saw, sugar? That's right. Old Red, officer in the medical corps just like I was in mine. Only Red wasn't doing so well. Seems that cannon fire plum tore off his distal arm at the elbow, brachial artery raw and exposed. Well, Red begged me. Begged me with his last breath to save his arm even as I counted the drops of chloroform and put my friend asleep. And I sawed it off. Right to the shoulder. Tossed it aside with the other limbs like it was so much offal to be carted away. There. His precious arm - gone, just like that. The good strong arm he used to rescue me on that day on Beakin's pond long ago. I did it even though he asked me not to. That's how I repaid my friend. The one who saved my sorry life." Walter fell silent again.

"But .... but it was a compound avulsion. A dirty wound. You know and I know and Red knew that no amount of ligatures in the whole wide world could save his arm. It would have putrefied if you had just closed it like he asked. Judas. It would have taken a miracle to save his arm."

"Those are the plain scientific facts, but can I hide behind facts? No, sugar. I cannot. You see, I didn't even try to help him. At least I could have tried. I was tired. Powerfully tired. Couldn't even throw another stitch. And maybe that's what made me do what I did. Maybe I didn't do the right thing. Made the wrong decision. It comes back to me. Every now and then, it comes back to me. What I did to Old Red, all the screams I heard, the limbs I had to ..." He broke off. Shuddering, he picked up his glass and tried to sip it. Remembered it was empty, frowned, then refilled it until bourbon slopped over the edge and spilled on to the piano. Walter downed that drink too. Then he rolled the glass between his palms, staring down, still not looking at me. "Why, I was nothing more than a meat-and-chops man. A glorified butcher. That is not why I became a doctor. And when I left the corps and came back to Frisco, I could not do it anymore. Just could not." Walter suddenly winced. One hand reached down and rubbed his calf.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, sugar. Nothing at'all."

"Walter!"

"We-e-ell, a piece of no-account foolishness. Sniper. Bullet in the shin. They wanted to saw it off but I refused. I wouldn't let them. Held them off with my silver Colt. Barbarians. They are barbarians. And I ... I am one of them. Was one of them. And what's worse - I'm a damnable hypocrite. So I don't mind hurtin'. If I hurt a little, then that's nothing more than I deserve. Maybe I deserve it for what I did to Old Red."

I laid my hand on his arm, and squeezed as if I could draw out his sorrow. He had been my childhood hero, had set me on my path. My first studies had been with him; poring over his smelly leather books, translating the engravings to the real human body. I'd seen him soothe his patients a thousand times. It made me sad to think that he wasn't using his gifts any more. And I could see that the pain in his leg was nothing compared to the pain where his heart used to be. He had lost it, simply lost it. "Oh, Walter." I didn't know what else to say.

He didn't reply, only patted my hand. We stood there for a long time, not saying anything at all. Sadness filled the silence, and all the chinks in between.

###

We were still standing there when I heard a woman call out from far away. Her voice sounded like honey and whiskey. All sweetness and sass, comfort with a kick. She yoohoo-ed again. "Where is she? Where's my baby doll? Just let me at her."

Just down the hallway, high heels clicked. Silk skirts rustled loud, then louder still; picking up momentum with each second. Soon Lily sashayed over the threshold - a six-foot Valkyrie in the latest Worth gown. She looked like Victory, sweeping into and dominating the room. All she needed was a trident and a palm wreath.

People said we looked alike - more like sisters than aunt and niece. I didn't see the resemblance. Maybe I had her height and her sky-blue eyes, a little tilted at the corners from some Russian Tartar ancestor. But everything else was different. She was fine, much finer than me. Her hair was as white-blonde as my own, but swept back into an elegant style with ringlets that I could never aspire to. I'd forget about it. Maybe move fast or scratch my head, and lose half the pins so that my hair would look like a tangle of ropes after a shipwreck. I didn't inherit my mother's quiet prettiness or Lily's bold beauty. My aunt was larger than life. She still took my breath away. Just seeing her reminded me.

Had I been anyone else, Lily might have taken the time to pose at the threshold: one foot poised and one hand higher on the wall for dramatic effect. But I wasn't anyone. I was the closest thing she had to a daughter, and she ran into the room.

She picked me up and swirled me around the room like I was still a kid in pigtails. She hugged me hard. I could feel every jet bead on her dress press into me. Probably permanent indentations but I didn't care. I hugged her back, relishing the smell of muguet she always wore and the Cuban cigarillo's she favored. She was the one anchor in my uncertain life, like it or not.

Lily kissed me once, twice on the cheek. Then she set me down and rubbed the marks of her lipstick off my face. "Baby doll. You're back. You look ..." She drew her head back, gave me a once-over. "Different. Something's happened."

"Of course. I'm older now."

"Not that old. Puh-lease. Don't remind me. A lady never speaks of her age, just her ... assets." Lily grinned wickedly. "No, no. It's something else. Why, it almost seems like a ... a ..." Her eyes lit with surprise. She leaned closer as if she were sniffing me for clues. "Like a man. I can see it. Just see it. Oh, Nikita. How precious. A shipboard romance. Those silver barons travel that route, they say. Headed from the Big East banks to the Comstock mines. Oooh, do tell. Tell me about him. Every single sordid detail. Is he old with big -really big- bank accounts? You know, there's well-endowed, and then there's ...well- endowed."

"Lily!" I said, my cheeks burning up. How could she say that? Just stand there and say something like that? Walter just chuckled. He'd heard this all before.

My aunt shook her head. "Oh, don't get all high-falutin' suffragette-ish with me. Those sisters have bread on their table with more coming tomorrow. No question. They can afford those mighty views. But a girl on her own has to think about these things. It's practical. Security. Just security. So tell me. Did you meet someone? Say it isn't so."

"Isn't so. It's not. You're making things up." I folded my arms. This catechism had begun since I grew those unfortunate in-the-way items called breasts. Turning from girl to woman had always felt like an accidental calamity. Just because my body had changed, I was suddenly barred from almost all those things I loved to do best. I had heard Lily's lecture a million times, and it bored me to tears. I had no time for the gentle art of trapping a man. But how to remove a gallbladder? Now that would be interesting and far more useful. Huffing at her, I said, "Really, Lily. You're imagining things. Seeing what's not there. Absolutely not. Shall I check your eyes? I'll get my reading chart. Stand back ten paces and cover one eye."

"Hmmm. Always had a smart mouth. Wondered where you learned that from. Certainly not from your mother. We may have been sisters, but Natasha wasn't not like me. She never said 'boo'. Not once in her life that I remember." Lily absently patted her hair.

I gave her a blistering look. Melodramatically, she stepped back and splayed one bejeweled hand over her bosom. "Me? You can't mean it! You got your smart mouth from me?" She tossed back her head, and laughed, shoulders shaking. "Well, I'm glad you learned something from me even if you won't take my advice about practical matters like any sensible girl would. That's all right. If you say there's no m-a-n, well then, that's the end of it. That's it." Lily beamed, giving me another hug around the shoulders. "It's so good to see you, baby doll. Now tell me. Just where is that brother of yours? We could almost have a family reunion right here in my little old parlor."

I stared blankly at her. "But ... but I thought you knew."

"Me? I never know where Monte is. I only know what happens afterwards. Got run out of Kansas, you know. That Ponce de Leon gimmick. Some Fountain of Youth Tonic."

"Not that patent medicine scheme again!" I groaned.

"Half the territory lost their hair. The other half got spots," said Lily.

My hand flew to my mouth. I giggled. "So what was that one? One of your concoctions, Walter? You were working on a hair-restorer and male vitalizer."

"We-e-e-ell, yes. I do recollect that one, sugar. Only it spilled on my work-table. Discovered then that it made a superior furniture polish. Far superior. Accidents are the mother of all invention. Pure and simple. I cannot be responsible for what Monte does with it."

But I could see the twinkle, once again, in Walter's eyes as he began to play "Buffalo Gals." "Remember this one, Nikita? Taught you to reel to this one."

"Speaking of Monte ..."

Still he played on, not even looking up from the ivories. "Mmmm hmmm?"

"Have you seen him?" I asked.

Da-DUM.Walter banged out a melodramatic chord, then switched to a new popular song, "Champagne Charlie." Silently he played a few light-hearted bars, humming to himself before speaking again. "Monte? And which Monte might that be? That's a common name, sugar. Seems to me, I can recollect a powerful number of Monte's. Just powerful. Let's see. There's Monte del Rio. One-Eyed Monte. Monte the Gibraltar. Lost a grand on him the other day. Why, the man was knocked out in two rounds. Two rounds! Can you believe that? Weak-hearted, glass jaw. Must have been a Yankee." Walter shook his head as his fingers still roamed over the keys.

"You know who I'm talking about. My brother," I said patiently.

"Which brother?"

"I only have one. Montague Blackburn Spencer. That slippier-than-a-snake Monte. Hide-your-purse-and-daughters Monte. The Infamous Three-Card Monte."

"Ohhhhh. ThatMonte. Your brother Monte. Why in tarnation didn't you say so right from the very beginning?"

"Well?" Suspicion grew. I'd seen that conspiring look before, that quick shift of the eyes when Walter and Monte improvised cover stories for each other. Doc Calhoun and my brother. Two peas in a pod, one as bad as the other. "I'm waiting."

"We're both waiting. How much trouble is he in this time? Who do I have to bribe now?" Lily joined me. We tapped our feet in unison.

Walter looked up at the ceiling as if he were contemplating something. "I'm thinking. I'm thinking about it. Don't quite recollect the details. You Yankees. Always in a powerful rush. It just makes a body tired talking with y'all."

While I was waiting, my eyes fell to the newspaper laying across my satchel. "Dixie Pirates," screamed the headline. My mouth dropped open as a new worry flooded through me. "Judas! Don't tell me. Monte wrote me. His letter said something about golden opportunities. You don't mean ... He didn't ... He can't be tied up with this mess! Did he steal the gold?"

Walter looked sorrowfully at me. "Now, now. What did I teach you? A good physician never asks 'yes' or 'no' questions. Those are fly-swatter questions. Whap or splat. Always ask open-ended ones. They're like honey. Draws the flies every time. Gets a patient to talking, and then the information just opens before you. Be careful now, you hear? Mind where you jump with those conclusions. You might not like where you land. You might not like it at'all. And anyway, look on the brighter side of things. Maybe Monte isn't mixed up in this gold heist after all. Maybe Shanghai Kelly got to him first. Maybe the crimps got to Monte, and he's working on that slow boat to China. The boy's been so busy he could use the rest and relaxation an ocean voyage could provide. Yes, indeed, he could." Walter winked slowly.

"Very funny," I muttered.

"You ladies are getting stirred up like a nest of hornets. Buzzing, flying, fussing. Plain het up over nothing. Just settle yourselves down before you form another committee of vigilance, try the wrong someone, and string 'em up. Don't worry yourself none over nothing."

"Maybe you're right," I said reluctantly. After all, Monte was pretty sharp on his feet. And the crimps had been quiet lately. No one was being shanghaied any more. I told myself that because I wanted to believe it. Too bad wanting didn't make it so.

###

Judas Iscariot. Look at that. Just look at that.A major seizure, grand mal at least. I watched the little call bell jangle and jerk on its string for at least a few seconds. Then it was silent again below-stairs in the kitchen.

"Ooh. Room Ten. Mister Crocker must be ready for his restorative," said Mrs. B. She lifted the silver lid of a dish, and sniffed. Nodded. "Estrella. Come here, girl. Oysters to Room Ten."

The doe-eyed maid pouted. "Not Ten. Not 'im again. Señor Crocker ees a banker, but 'e ees cheap. 'e don't give no tip. Give it to Julietta. It's 'er turn this time."

"No, no. It's not." Julietta was stirring a pot on the stove. She looked long and thin like the spoon she was using. The girl lifted the spoon and pointed it like a weapon. Seemed to take aim, then fired it at Estrella. "You say that. You always say that but it's not your turn. Not this time. I wan' Room One. Ay, One. Ay-ay." She pretended to sigh, one hand flapping over her heart. Her long black eyelashes fluttered."Muy guapo.Handsome, that one. And all hombre.I know. At least ..." She held her hands eight inches apart. Giggled. Then increased her handspan by two more inches. "Mucho hombre. Mucho, mucho."

"Too much hombre for you," snapped Estrella.

"Eight inches or eight feet, it's none of your never-you-mind. You can look but you better not touch. You're too young, the both of you. If Lily hears about this, she'll send you packing before you say 'Jack's my nipper'. Is that what you want?" said Mrs. B. Picking up the tray, she used her ample body to separate the maids. Almost shoved the tray into Estrella's resentful hands. "Careful now. Hold it here. Move your other hand there. A little more. Now use your thumbs to steady it. That's right. We don't want the oysters sliding all over the platter, now do we? Good, good. Off you go. Scat."

Before Estrella left the kitchen, she shot a venomous look at Julietta, who had returned to her pots. The younger girl resumed stirring. A knowing smile played about her lips. It should have belonged to a much older woman, far older than Julietta's years. Somehow her expression unsettled me.

Uncomfortable, I cleared my throat. "Well, that's settled. Smooth as clockwork. You still run an efficient ship, Mrs. B. Nothing seems to have changed."

"Well, it's absolute satisfaction guaranteed. All the nobs come here now. Probably the only peaceable place in the whole U.S. of A. North and South, side by side, so to speak. My goodness, there's nothing like a little you-know-what to smooth troubled waters. Everyone can come here, check their politics at the door, and have a helluva good time. See, it's not brass here. It's pure gold. Not like places that serve up unnatural inclinations or animals or those poor little angels with the French pox. No, we have clean companionship, and the conversation's stim-u-lating. That's Lily for you. Real top-notch, and real fair-like too. The girls like it here."

"They must. They must like it a lot. They all seem to be fighting over Room One. Who's in One?" I served myself some more stewed meat from the porcelain bowl in the center of the table.

"Why that would be the Don. Don Cabrillo."

"Don Cabrillo! How could they fight over him? He's ... what? At least sixty-five if he's a day. Ancient. The man's ancient. He's old enough to be their grandfather. No, great-grandfather. I don't care if he's one of the first five Spanish families. And it doesn't matter how rich he is, or if he owns half the land here. The man's creaky. Positively creaky. Eight inches or not, that's disgusting. Plain disgusting. Lily can talk all she wants about social security. I'm not listening. That's too much for me." I made a face, hearing my aunt's interminable lecture replay inside my head once again.Sensible. Practical. Who needed that? It wasn't worth the price of bartering away your happiness. Nothing was. I was certain.

"Land sakes, just what are you yapping about now? No, no. You're thinking of the wrong man. The old Don. Don Juan Cabrillo. He died last year when you were away at school."

My brow furrowed as I tried to remember. The old Don - dead. That left two sons. The older one had a fondness for whiskey and women and song; and there was something about the younger one. Something odd. What were their names? It was just on the tip of my tongue ... Diego. Yes. That was it. Diego and Pedro. "So what's the new Don like?"

Mrs. B put her hands on her hips, her elbows jutting out. She only grinned at me. "Sly boots."

"Just curious. No big deal," I muttered, drawing patterns on the table top and wondering how I'd extract the information without an inquisition of my own. Mrs. B could sure get tighter than a Pismo clam. Then inspiration struck. "Well, I'm sure you know. You know everything that happens here. Upstairs. Downstairs. Everything. Why, half the time I just bet you know even before Lily does."

Mrs. B preened a little. "Well, I reckon I do. I sure do know. No one knows more than me."

"So what can you tell me about the Don?"

"He's a man of regular habits. Always Bordeaux to drink, a mushroom side dish. Always Room One. And always Therese. They say Therese reminds him of his wife, the one who died in that horrible boating accident. They never recovered her body, you know. So mysterious. Tragic. They say ... Well, I don't pay no never mind. Just rumors. Idle mouths with nothing better to jaw about. You take it from me. Don Cabrillo's a good man. I know it. He always has a 'please' or a 'thank you'. Never gropes the girls or spits tobacc-y on the carpets. Real quality. I feel sorry for Therese. Poor girl. She's ambitious, tries so hard. But some men only want one kind of pleasing if you catch my meaning. Don Cabrillo's not interested in anything else. Just one kind of arrangement. Business-like really." Mrs. B suddenly tittered. "He doesn't need any oysters, mind you! Therese should be happy with what she has, and just stick with it. No use pining after the moon. Better to enjoy what's at hand. She's a lucky girl, you know. Some girls live and die without ever having that kind of luck. You mark my words."

"Oh, hmmm. That's right. Lucky. Sure." As usual, I tuned her out when the information steered into the dangerous waters of the matchmaking sermon. In many ways, Mrs. B and Lily were no different. I knew they were proud of me, but they didn't seem to understand me. In their eyes, my new profession wasn't enough. Netting a silver daddy would be a bigger accomplishment, one that could be counted on in the uncertain future. But despite all this, I felt their unconditional love. And that more than made up for anything else. I really couldn't ask them for more. And yet, I wanted to. Ever since my voyage home, I felt as if something was missing, something I couldn't name. It would come to me when I least expected it - a phantom feeling, hollow like the pangs of hunger; searching but not finding. I didn't like it at all.

###

It was one week later, and Mrs. B was still stuffing me with food. "Skin and bones," she would call me, and ladle out something delicious. I didn't mind. Didn't mind at all. Already the memories of hard tack and watery soup that we'd eaten on the voyage were thankfully fading into the distance. They faded faster with each bite of Mrs. B's food.

"Great dinner, Mrs. B. This is really great." I chewed happily at the kitchen table. This food was such an improvement over ship fare. This stuff had real flavor: wine, shallots, and butter. I almost wept over the rich taste of real butter again. And best of all, I couldn't crack a tooth on it. During the three month trip around the Horn, I'd forgotten that food like this even existed. "What is this? Chicken?"

"Lapin au vin a la François. Though why Frankie has to dress it all up in French and name it after himself, I don't really know. Foolishness. Pure foolishness. Like he invented everything on God's green earth! The man takes credit for everything. Just everything. It's my recipe after all."

My fork clattered to the table. I fought the impulse to spit out the food. Tried to swallow it fast instead, but it stuck like a big greasy ball somewhere in my throat. I choked. Coughed. Thumped a fist against my chest. Praying I had heard her wrong, I wheezed,"What did you say it was?"

"Lapin au vin a ..."

"I was afraid you said that." Rabbit. Cripes. It couldn't be rabbit! Not those cute hopping furry things I used to coax out of their holes with my leftover bits of Johnnycake. Just couldn't be them. My stomach roiled a protest. "But it ... it tastes like chicken."

"Everything tastes like chicken, my dear. Everything. All full now? You look done. Are you done?"

"Oh. Yes." Hastily I wiped a napkin across my mouth, and stood up from the long bench. Maybe - if I was lucky - I could keep everything down.

"The slop bucket needs emptying. If you don't mind, my dear."

"No problem. Sure. I can do it." I picked up the heavy wooden bucket, and walked out of the kitchen. The pail banged against my shins as I walked down the narrow hall, then up the steps and into the dark alley between our maison and the other homes in South Park.

It felt good to be outside again. After the kitchen heat, the night air felt pleasantly cool and crisp. Wisps of fog swirled around me as I walked past the herb garden to the waste heap. I could hear the clip-clop of the horses and the creaking wheels of the carriages as they took the nobs from their mansions to the evening theater. Leaning over, I lifted the lid to the compost bin. Steam rose from the old kitchen scraps.

When I raised my bucket, I felt - rather than saw - someone behind me. Heard the cu-u-u-uuh of someone hawking, then the juicy splat of something landed at my feet. I glanced down. Brown globs, spittle, the sharp stink of cheap tobacco.

"What 'ave we got 'ere then, eh?" said a man. I turned slowly. The sneer in his high-pitched voice matched the one on his pointed face. His open-necked plaid shirt and rough wool pants were not the clothes that a swell from this neighborhood would wear. He belonged on the wharf, not here.

What did he want? I was afraid - very much afraid - that it might be me. And here I was, unarmed. What had I been thinking? Trouble was - I hadn't been thinking just now because I was home ... Big deal. The Paris stews. The streets of San Francisco. It didn't matter where. Whatever corner of the world I was in, there was always someone preying on someone else. It ticked me off. Bad. My pulse raced a little faster. "I don't have any money."

"No wuckers, luv, tho' a battler like me ken always use an extra quid. Nah. Got a better idea. A bloody ripper, in fact. Come along wi' me, eh? Let's hit the old frog and toad. Come to old Johnno, nice and quiet-like and she'll be apples. There now, lass. There's a good girl." He moved closer, his sneer deepening with each step.

I retreated as Johnno reached out, palm up, as if offering to take my hand for a dance; a dance I didn't want to take, would probably never finish. I shook my head. His look turned impatient, then feral. "No time to fart-arse around. Don't be a galah. Come wi' me. Now. Right now. Let's make it easy, eh?"

The gap was closing between us. He was moving too fast, faster than I could retreat. I'd never make the door to the house in time. Suddenly I swirled, flinging around the slop bucket like a mace. The temple. Or medulla oblangata. Direct pressure. He's out. I aimed, swung hard; must have connected because something jarred my wrist as I heard a loud cr-r-r-rack.

Johnno yowled. " 'Struth! She broke me bloody nose."

The little man hunched over, his hands covering his face. I leaned back on one leg, and solidly kicked my attacker in the testes. That should rattle his family jewels, enough to reduce any inguinal hernia - if he'd suffered from one to begin with.

Well, he was suffering now all right. His yelping was quite satisfactory as I ran down the stairs again. Only three more feet, then two, one foot to the door. I could feel the rough wood door under my palm; groped for the knob. There. Found it. I twisted it, pushing forward to open the door, when something heavy knocked the base of my skull. Suddenly lightning zig-zagged before my eyes.

"No one shanghai's anyone any more," I told myself firmly as the lightning filled my skull. Pain pounded through me. Louder and louder. Tried to ignore it, run away, even move the slightest bit. But I couldn't. Just couldn't. My whole body was limp, the ground rough and cold against my cheek. No press gangs here. Especially not in this neighborhood. Not South Park. This was where the sirs and the ladies lived, not the wharf-rats and doxies.

Then why...? My thoughts seemed to congeal. I couldn't finish my question, much less answer it. There was no earthly way. I couldn't even think about it. Because I couldn't think at all by then. You see, all the lightning joined into one gigantic blinding flash. It whited out everything. And then just as suddenly, everything all turned black. Blacker than night. Inside me was as dark as outside, and I knew no more.

###

When I finally woke up, it was too quiet; the kind of quiet that rubs my nerves the wrong way instead of settling them into an easy peace. That peculiar absence of noise always meant danger or approaching death. I knew it like the sound of Pop's voice or my brother's wild laughter, because that kind of quiet was their constant companion. And so it had become mine whether I wanted it or not.

I strained my ears for the roar of the waves. There was none of that, nor feel of a ship rocking me. I must still be on land then, but where? Not near the wharf since I didn't hear the yells of costermongers or the dockside cutthroats spilling tales. Not shanghaied then, just kidnapped. A minor relief, but relief, nevertheless.

I listened harder for the voices of other prisoners, even the squeak or scrabbling feet of rats, but I heard none. This was bad. Very bad. Must be isolated. Why was I here again? What had I done this time? It was worse - not knowing. I didn't even know how long I'd been here. My skin prickled with fear even though it was hotter than hell in this dark room I was in. It was too dark to even make out vague shapes. The blackness surrounded me, seemed to suffocate me. The room smelled stale, like dust and disuse. No one had disturbed this air for a very long time. I could be here for even longer, left alone and forgotten. Abandoned with only fear for my companion.

I cautiously moved my cramped arms and legs, and then promptly wished I hadn't. Tingling shot through me as if a million imps with needles were poking me here and there. Everywhere. The back of my head pounded with canon fire. Boom, then recoil. Coshed. It had been a long time since I'd been coshed on the head.

I felt dizzy. I fell backwards, and my elbows banged against the hard dirt floor. Grunting, I persisted. It was some time before I could haul myself up and just sit. Drew up my knees and rested my poor head against them.

My mouth felt dry and scratchy like old woolen socks, and my head spun. Dehydrated. Perhaps I'd lost more blood than I'd realized. Pressing two fingers to my neck, I checked my pulse. Then the five deeper pulses like I'd been trained - rapid, reedy, more like smoke than fire. Yes. Worse than I thought. And what I needed wasn't what I was likely to get in a joint like this. Still, I wasn't a fainting flower. No lah-de-dah airs for me. No sir. Damned if I'd let them beat Nikita Spencer down. No way. I'd fight back. Yeah, that's right. I'd do it. Just as soon as I was done puking. Acid shot up, then down my gut.

Breathe. Now. Again. I focused on each inhalation until the waves of sickness gradually subsided. Then I gingerly felt my swollen mouth, the part of me that was always getting myself into trouble. I remembered waking up, jolted in a carriage, asking questions of people I couldn't see. Maybe I'd asked one too many questions, because the answer had been delivered by the hard end of a hairy-knuckled fist. The second smack must have been to reinforce the answer. I had heard it the first time. And now, I was sure to remember.

I sat there for a few shaky moments, still tasting the metallic tang of old blood. I began to check and catalogue my various aches (contusions, possible hairline fracture on the right sixth thoracic rib, lateral aspect; ooh, a nasty abrasion there) when I heard a loud click. A small white circle appeared in the middle of the gloom surrounding me; and from it, shone a thin shaft of light into the room. A peep hole. So I was being watched. Interesting. By whom?

"Awake, sir. Just as I predicted. Harry found the right kind of muzzle for her," said a muffled young voice, which cracked on the last word. Even from a distance, I could hear the lick-your-boots tone. Obsequious. Disgusting. I hoped he had pimples. Lots of them. "She's ready."

Ready for what? I wondered wearily. My head still rested on my knees, still partially sheltered by my arms folded around me and over my knees. The peephole shuttered closed again. Then metal scraped loudly against metal. The door swung open, slowly creaking until it hit the wall and started to rebound close again. Then light suddenly streamed through the doorway - so bright that I thought I was inside the sun for a moment. It hurt my eyes. I blinked rapidly. I was still half-blinded by the light so I could see only the dark outlines of two shapes, but I could smell them. The shorter one reeked of cheap aftershave cologne and peppermints. He approached me with crisp military steps as if he were on parade.

A taller shadow still waited at the threshold. His shape looked blurrier but I caught the sharp Turkish tobacco, the brandy, and that cloying scent of death he wore like the pomade in his hair. In a flash, I recognized him. How could I not recognize him? He was the man who'd led my father to ruin; had killed Pop just as certainly as if he'd pulled the trigger himself. He was the very devil himself - Major Wolfe.

Paul Wolfe. Still alive, worse luck. So he was the reason why I was here now. For all my short life, he'd been the author of all my miseries. And he was here again. The plague would have been more welcome.

"Stop there, Sergeant Hillinger. Maintain a three-foot radius. Minimum regulation." The major spoke in clipped rapid tones like the rattle of a snake: quiet - not blustery - but with a deadly warning. "No, sergeant. No closer than that. That's close enough."

The marching boots abruptly stopped. I peered over the top of my arm. The sergeant was still a boy with brown fuzz passing for whiskers. His uniform was pressed crisply, buttons polished. I'd been right about the pimples. "She looks harmless to me, sir."

Fine. I was happy to oblige. I bowed my head more, let my shoulders slump forward. Should I try fainting? Maybe submission would work this time. After all, defiance had only earned me a beating before.

My act made Wolfe laugh. "Harmless? She's as harmless as a mountain lion. Best watch your back. Saw her break a man's neck once. I'll never forget that."

I wouldn't either. One quick yank between the first and second cervical vertebrae. Spinal cord severed. Instant death. My first accidental lesson in neurology. And finality.

"Just once. It was self-defense." I could still remember the drunk holding down Monte against the Bull Run saloon; hands raised, locked, struggling; the moonlight glinting off the Bowie knife; and me jumping on the man's back. I had held on to him with all my child-strength, desperation making me stronger even though he had tried to shake me off. I'd bitten him. Tasted dirt and sour flesh, and then suddenly we were all falling backwards. I had grabbed harder, got his neck, clung with all my might as we fell and fell and fell through time and space. It seemed like we were falling forever: the drunk cursing and twisting, me and Monte holding and kicking, scrabbling for safety.

Even now, I could still feel the drunk's sweaty neck: the resistance, then sudden give under my hand. I could hear the snap, then the surprised gasp of the man as his last breath escaped and he went limp in my arms. I don't suppose you ever forget the first man you kill. It didn't matter that I was saving our own lives from that drunk with a Bowie knife. It didn't matter at all.

It had been wrong. Wrong and horribly irreversible. Remembering it sickened me. And in a funny kind of way, it had motivated me too. Everything I had done since then had been some kind of atonement, I suppose. Maybe I'd been trying to apply the magic of medicine to erase one terrible mistake. And after that one mistake, our family had changed forever. Paul Wolfe entered our lives, and it had never been the same again.

"I was only ten. It was an accident," I said dully.

"An accident? 'I didn't mean it'. My dear sweet child, all murderers say the same thing. Every man with a noose around his neck protests his innocence. It's all the same, really. Same story. Very dull."

"What do you want?" I said bluntly.

Wolfe tsk-tsked. "Nikita. How shocking. Is that anyway to greet your uncle?" Next to him, the sergeant sniggered. They exchanged a secret look.

"Uncle!? You're not my uncle! Not that kind. And no blood relation either." The very thought made my skin crawl.

"A courtesy title, but nevertheless ..." His eyes gleamed like a reptile's in the dark. He seemed to be enjoying this, and I hated him even more.

"So what do you want?" I repeated firmly as if I were talking to a slow patient. "You said we were finished. We'd be free after I finished that job for you. Well, I did it. I got those papers from the French Minister."

"And very useful too. Now we know that France will remain neutral. They won't help the Confederacy after all. You did well, Nikita, even if it meant violating patient confidentiality. I wonder what the Minister's wife would think if she only knew that her doctor had prowled around the house after her laying-in? Hmmm? Hardly ethical behavior."

"And then, there's the small matter of stealing," added Hillinger.

"Stealing for you. And the American government. Never took a thing for myself. Never would." I shrugged as if safecracking were my hobby. It had been my first and only time. Really, it was easier than delivering a footling breech baby. And there were some similarities. Timing and calm nerves were everything. Fortunately, I had both to spare. The papers had been secured, and little Jean-Claude had been safely delivered into his mother's arm. It had been a busy day. I didn't want to repeat that experience. "Well, I did it. I helped you out. You said that if I helped you that time, it was done. Over and done."

"It's never done. Don't be so naive. Your father was like that. Handsome. Bright. But simple, too simple for today's world. He didn't understand either. Nothing's cut and dried, black or white. Nothing ever ends," said Wolfe silkily.

"So why am I here? Is this because of Monte?"

His head jerked a little. "Yes."

Panic bubbled through me; rising through my gut, chest, throat; choking me. They already knew. He was as good as caught. They might send him to Alcatraz or even Rock Island, the worst of the Union prisons. They called it the Andersonville of the North, and he would surely die of dysentery or starvation if they sent him there. Or maybe Monte would be executed by the firing squad or strung up somewhere. He was all I had left in the world. I'd do anything - absolutely anything - to protect him. I had to do something. "Well, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Not really. Sure, he's a gambler and a con artist. But he's small potatoes. Nothing like this job. This was a big heist. The biggest. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Fifty Union sailors died when the USS Columbia went down. Fifty. All good church-abiding men. All patriots," said the sergeant.

"And there's the small matter of a million dollars in gold. Still missing, you know," Wolfe added.

"Well, suppose Monte has the gold. I'm not saying he does, but suppose he did. If he does have the money, he can return it. All of it." I crossed my fingers, and hoped that this was true. When I found Monte, I would tie him down and make him do it.

"Too late for that. Much too late. What's done is done. And there will be consequences," promised the major ominously, removing a cigar from his coat pocket. He scratched a match against the wall. The flame flared, then plumped when he cupped his hand around it. He carefully lit his cigar. He puffed until the tip glowed red. "And just what exactly are you proposing?"

"Just tell me where Monte is and I'll talk to him. I'll get him to give it back to the Union. Every last nugget. Down to the last cent."

"And in exchange?"

I could already see the trap yawning at my feet. Wide, then wider still. I was teetering on the brink. The pit of my stomach dropped. Nervously, I licked my lips, gathering air and courage. Say it. Come on. Just say it. "I'll ... do anything ... anything you want."

"Anything? Really? How very gratifying." Wolfe sucked on his cigar, then tilted back his head. Blue smoke streamed out of his nostrils, and curled towards the ceiling. He puffed some more until the tip of the cigar glowed even redder. Embers flew off as his face tightened into what might pass for a pleased expression. At that moment, he looked like Lucifer, cutting a deal amidst his own fire and brimstone. "As it happens, there is something you can do. A job. Right away. Only you - it seems - can do it."

"What is it?" My stomach bunched. I was prepared for the worst.

Major Wolfe casually stood there as if he were enjoying a good smoke at the park instead of blackmailing me inside a jail cell. His nonchalance made me feel worse. Much worse. At that moment, I wanted to hurt him, hurt him badly, maybe even kill him. I think it showed. I think it amused him. Chuckling, he examined the end of his cigar. Flicked off some white ash. He seemed to enjoy my discomfort. The silence lengthened, broken only by the sounds of his interminable puffing. At last he spoke, his voice round with satisfaction. "There's a man I want you to meet. His name is Don Cabrillo. Don Miguel Samuelle Cabrillo."

Continued in Between the Thunder and the Lightning

All non-LFN characters copyright (c) Bonnie Bo 2000. The right of Bonnie Bo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her. All rights reserved.

Author's Note

Many thanks to amw and Jen for translations and curses in Australian slang.

San Francisco is a wicked dame, and I tried to make her as vivid as any character. More than a hundred years ago, the city looked completely different. Much of San Francisco was still harbor front and sand dunes. The Barbary Coast was the wild waterfront where crime, shanghaiiers, and all manners of vice once thrived. The neighborhood centered around Pacific Avenue and Broadway (where there are still nightclubs and strip joints) to what is now contemporary Chinatown and the financial district. South Park (now South of Market) was once the ritzy neighborhood with Regency-style mansions. The cream of the Californian Confederacy lived there, and their homes were "re-zoned" and razed after the Civil War. Yes, political redevelopment occurred even in the 1800's. How about that?

I am indebted to the San Francisco Historical Society and the Bancroft Library. Historic San Francisco; A Concise Guide by R. Richards and Walking San Francisco on the Barbary Coast Trail by D. Bacon were also invaluable.

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