She never saw him again in person, but using her connections in the FBI she was able to piece together some of what she thought was the truth. It appeared that Derran Henderson was a latecomer to Christobal's self-defense team, a rogue mercenary and unfettered free spirit in the underworld of hitmen and terrorists. His background check was dichotomous and confusing to her.

Born in South Carolina he was raised in comfort and grace by his well-to-do parent. An only child, he enjoyed the full attentions of both his parents and his grandparents. Formerly educated in the best prep schools the south had to offer, he won a full scholarship to the Citadel in Charleston. Upon graduating he did not take a career in the military as everyone supposed he would do. Instead he applied to grad school at Harvard and was accepted into the foreign studies program. Derran, the errant hitman, had majored in literature with a sub-major in archeology.

Theresa remembered scratching her head in total confusion when she read that. Derran was, for all intents and purposes, a poster boy for goodness. His volunteer work in each place he worked lent credence to a character that far outshone her own. His apparent commitment to family and his devotion to his mother after the death of his father were remarkable. Why, where, when and how did this man turn into the unprincipled, despicable man who could act as mercenary to one of the most heinous men of the century?

Theresa had her own ideas. Something had happened to him after the death of his father, for that is when his record became convoluted, when he became something other than what he had always been.

"His father is the key," she whispered to herself, as if somehow she really cared. Setting down her coffee cup, Theresa realized that even after five years she did care. She wanted to know what had turned Derran from his chosen path. The one she never knew. Her experience of him was false, all stories, fabrications. As she soundly asserted that to herself, a warmth she could not name began to creep over her. In a flash she was transported to a scene she would rather have forgotten.

Lying beside him in bed. He on his back, she on her belly and supported by her elbows. She gazed onto the face she was coming to love as her own. He caught her gaze and returned it. She fell into him, into his soul. A place no stranger dares to invade in another--and she knew him. They stayed that way for several minutes, and then she lay her head upon his chest, drew a deep breath, sighed and closed her eyes. She was home, her heart and soul were home. This man, this soul was her resting-place. She knew that as she knew her own name. She knew now who he was, from the inside out, and she loved him.

Recalling that moment was important for Theresa, for it helped her to remove herself from the pain of being shot by him. It put her back into a place she needed to go emotionally, to remember that sometimes what you see in the soul is more real than what you see in the physical plane. So which was it? Was he the man she saw behind the eyes? Or was he the merciless killer and aide to world terrorism?

His father was the key. His death and the surrounding circumstances would be the key and for reasons she had yet to define, she knew that today would be spent in an attempt to unravel that mystery.

Theresa rose from the booth with untypical unease, as if the chore before her today was so daunting that even her body was refusing to cooperate. She was, however, determined, and by now even she felt well-connected with what her determination meant. She paid her tab and, taking a quarter from her change, she went to the pay phone to tell her "boss" she would not be in to work today (cramps). She headed out again into the sunlight, to the train station and the FBI building.

Heads turned in amazement as she walked through the venerated hallways of FBI headquarters. She was somewhat well known there for her exploits but she did not usually show up at the office wearing an ensemble such as she had donned today. Different worlds, different clothes for each.

She sought out Vince Procter, her supervisor on this project. She had every intention of telling him who she had seen today and where. She had hoped for some guidance. He was no where to be found. Shrugging her shoulders in quiet acquiescence to the job before her, she hauled herself down to the records department, and using the wonders of her top-secret clearance (not her breasts this time) she gained access to the records room and the secrets of a country and its people.

Sitting at the computer terminal she punched in his father's name. She knew little about him, except his name for the dossier she had been shown after her shooting was "just the facts ma'am." She wondered now why she had not been more curious to follow it up, to dig a little deeper. No matter, there was a time and place for everything.

There, before her eyes, were flashing, trembling little blue words, the name John Allen Henderson. John Allen Henderson, Senator-elect, South Carolina 5th district. She gasped in surprise. Senator-elect? The record she had seen never mentioned that. She hit "enter" and was given the records number. Hastily writing it down, she practically jumped from her chair. Every instinct in her body told her that there was something to find, and that today she would know why.

Finding the shelf, the box, and then the thick heavy file, Theresa slid herself into a chair around one of the many reading tables in the file room. With trembling hands she opened it and began to read. Three hours later she closed the file, replaced it and carefully, very carefully made her way out of the room. The guard at the desk gave her an appreciative grin as she left. At the last minute she turned to him, fired him her brightest smile and said, "Honey, I think I might have a runner in these hose, would you be a dear and pop back here and have a look?" Eagerly, like a puppy rushing to nurse, the young man left his post and squatted down behind her looking very scientifically at the place she had indicated on the back of her ankle. Carefully and with practiced ease, Theresa reached onto the desk and removed her file card, the one she had filled out to gain access to the records, from the top of the pile. No one need know she had ever been there, or what she had learned.

Declaring her hose to be run-free, the guard jumped up and, blushing, returned to his post. Donning her most charming Southern persona, Theresa stepped over, kissed him lingeringly on the cheek and murmured the most gracious "Thank you" she could muster. Then, with wiggle in full gear she slunk down the hallway, around the corner, and threw herself into the nearest elevator.

Panting with relief she regained the ground floor, and with a nonchalance she was certainly not feeling she left the building with nary a word to anyone, and in full ignorance (for a change) that she had been carefully observed.

Taking the train back to her part of town, Theresa had time to think on what she had seen. The file was full of twin reports. Official police reports on top with opposing FBI reports stapled to the back of each of them. There were also lots of pictures. Derran and his family in moments that should have been unobserved by a stranger's camera. Pictures of the would-be Senator and his business cronies. Even photos of the dear Miss Lily Beth Henderson, who Theresa could not for a moment ever imagine having been under the watchful eye of the FBI.

There was one photo that was worth a thousand words. John Allen Henderson shaking hands with the late Senator Ned Billings, the former governor of Idaho. Now buried six feet deep in Arlington National Cemetery, the victim of murder, the very thing she was here to investigate. The photo must have been taken more than ten years ago; still they looked chummy. Somehow there was a connection, and she was going to ferret it out.

The reports on John Allen's death were also of great interest. For they were nothing if not contradictory. The police reports outlined an accidental death. A faulty (factory-recalled) gasket on the gas tank of his Jaguar, an errant spark upon the freeway, and John Allen was quite literally toast. The FBI reports painted a far different picture.

John Allen was under surveillance by the FBI because he was suspected of gaining his new position in the Senate by vote buying. There was another more disturbing thread. There was a photo of John Allen with Sheik Mahmood Al Fadar, the famed Omani oil baron, playboy, and dabbler in world politics.

The picture, as she studied it, brought her full circle in the most amazing way. It was snapped at a sidewalk café in Idaho. To the side, but clearly in the picture, was the doorway and hanging sign to a dress shop she most certainly recognized. Approaching the door from the right and clearly visible was the quarry she had originally set out to hunt. Toni! Dressed from head to toe in the latest Versace of the season, and looking remarkably fine in the wine-colored ensemble, Toni, the big, blonde, cross-dressing hitman on the lam from the mob in LA ... Toni was there in the picture.

Through the telescopic lens of the camera it was clear that the eyes of both John Allen and the Sheik were clearly trained on, and appreciative of, the fine figure Toni was cutting. Jealously she had to admit Toni looked spectacular.

Attached to the back of the photo was the forensics report on the Jaguar. The car had not succumbed to a gasket flaw after all, but a well-placed, well-timed bomb. Derran's father had been assassinated. The implications of this boggled her mind. Theresa struggled to make sense of her recent discoveries.

John Allen had been elected on a platform that screamed against the monopolies of the big Arab oil cartels. He rallied people around his idea of America taking a strong stand against price-gouging and supply controls. The reports, however, indicated that he did not have enough of a following to get elected. So how, she wondered, did he manage to win the seat? Vote-buying. That had to be the answer.

So how were they all connected? Toni the paramour of the late Senator Billings and the proprietor of the dress shop that John Allen and the Sheik were dining al fresco near. Was it possible that the two men met while their wives shopped in the luxury of Toni's exclusive boutique? Were they there by accident or design? How did they all fit together? Was it possible that Derran had somehow accessed the FBI report on his father's death? Did he put together the puzzle she was presently deciphering? Did he know that it was possible that Al Fadar had hired someone to assassinate his father due to his stance on the oil crisis? Was that person Christobal? Was Derran engaged in a ten-year battle to seek revenge on anyone and everyone who had played a part in his father's death? Was it possible that Derran was aiming at Christobal and not her?

Alighting from the train in the station nearest her apartment, Theresa knew that she had to find the answers. It was time to do battle on the ground she knew best. First, though, she had to have a soak; it always cleared her mind.

Amid the bubbles, mist and aroma of her hot bath, Theresa knew something else. It was now not only possible, but probable as well, that not only would she solve this infernal, seething mass of jumbled crimes, but maybe, just maybe, she would get her man. At that prospect she sank even further into the foaming bath and let her fingers do the walking.

Copyright © Terry L. Forney 2003