The livery of Eternity was a good-sized building, and deceptively quiet as Sara and Mr. Peppermint entered it side by side through the double doors. A sweet, musty scent of warm hay drifted out, along with the soft odor of sun bleached wood and a faint trace of horse sweat. Sara tensed, looking around in a quick scan.

Mr. Peppermint took in a deep breath. “Would you believe that Mike actually stables horses here part of the year to get the smell just right? I try to take details to the tenth degree; Mike goes to the hundredth.”

“Potential death here—“ Sara growled back, not relaxing an inch.

Mr. Peppermint gave a nod and looked at his watch. He counted aloud, ”Four, three, two, one—“

The livery doors swung closed behind them silently. Sara spun, and darted over to them, giving a push that did nothing to budge them. Mr. Peppermint didn’t bother glancing back. “He’s scrupulously fair, so things won’t happen until we’re officially inside the stable. We’re locked in now, so, let’s look for our clue, shall we?”

Mr. Peppermint took three steps into the stable, looking alert, his gaze sweeping around the large open area. A blacksmith’s anvil stood against the brick wall along the back, near the cold fireplace. To the right were various stalls, all empty, and above them a hayloft filled with sweet-smelling mown hay.

Off to the right was a small corral with a roll top desk and a stool; clearly the stable manager’s meager office. Sara glanced at it, and made a move to step closer. Mr. Peppermint shook his head. “Look first—overhead, underfoot all around.”

She did, and noticed the nearly invisible filament line a few inches up from the dirt floor, stretched across the little opening to the corral, right a tripping level. “Oh. Nasty.”

“Look up,” Mr. Peppermint commanded, and she did, noting that the line ran up along the wall and was tied to the heavy bale of hay perched just on the edge of the loft overhead. An quick curse flew out of her, and her partner smirked as Sara carefully stepped back. “It would have hurt, but it wouldn’t have killed you; nevertheless, better to play it safe. I’m betting we need to look at that desk, so let’s see what other traps are in place.”

Sara looked around the little corral area more closely, noting a woven Navajo rug under the desk, and a messy pile of papers on the surface. She shot Grissom a sidelong glance and he nodded. At his assurance, she stepped over the tripwire and moved closer to the desk as he leaned on the edge of the corral and looked on. Sara eyed the roll top carefully, then studied the papers. “Oh how cute---a bill to Sam Braun for stabling his horse, a receipt for two wagonloads of hay, and an inventory list for tack, although it seems odd to me . . . “

“Liveries hired horses and not just wagons,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out.

Sara nodded impatiently, but picked up the list. “Oh I know that, but I don’t think a sidesaddle was a common item for a western town.”

“Good catch,” Mr. Peppermint murmured, and smiled. He glanced at the list she held up to him. “So—what makes a sidesaddle stand out in context of where we are right now?”

“They were for ladies,” Sara responded promptly.

Mr. Peppermint nodded, speaking softly. “They weren’t commonplace in the Old West; a few had two pommels; they were left-sided—“

“This desk has drawers on the left side—“ Sara pointed out with an arch of one eyebrow.

Mr. Peppermint met her gaze and shifted, coming into the corral and squatting down by the desk. “That’s a leap of faith—still--let’s see what might be in them.”

There were three drawers stacked vertically, and Sara noted that the bottom one was slightly ajar. Mr. Peppermint noted it too, and fished along his ankle, drawing out a long knife.

“How the hell—“ Sara breathed, “—did you get that by the metal detector?”

“Not metal, ceramic, “ Mr. Peppermint replied with a roguish grin, holding it up. “I won’t get away with it next time, but right now is the only time that matters, right?”

Carefully he worked the white flecked blade into the open crack and used it to pull the drawer open. It was empty except for a small silver key on the bottom. Sara began to reach for it, but Mr. Peppermint shook his head. He lowered the blade of the knife into the drawer and touched the key; instantly two hidden wire bars snapped shut on it like a bear trap, catching the blade between them.

Mr. Peppermint sighed reached around the trap, picking up the key. With a careful yank he tugged the knife free of the metal bars while Sara winced, thinking how painful that trap would have been on her fingers or wrist. “First rule of the gauntlet—if it looks uncomplicated, it’s not.”

“So I’m learning—“ Sara muttered.

Mr. Peppermint tossed her the key and resheathed his knife. He looked up and around the ceiling of the barn, and focused on a small mud swallow nest in one corner, playfully shaking his finger at it. “Not nice, Mike—although I’ll admit I’m glad you didn’t use the one with the spikes.”

Inside the Control Room of the Desert Rose, Mike TeeVee smirked, shaking his head at the screen. “That one wasn’t set for you, it was set for her,” he replied, even though he knew Grissom couldn’t hear him.

In the comfortable chair next to him, Mr. Sugar gave a low chuckle of admiration. “So far so good—is there anything else in the livery to trip them up?”

Mike nodded and crossed his arms behind his head. “Plenty.”

The two girls chattered in Italian as all three of them showered and dressed. He was clean, and the clothes from the floor fit, so it was a safe bet that they were his, but the disturbing matter of the wallet bothered him as he chewed on the Pop Tarts the girls offered him. “Grazie.”

He wasn’t David Phillips of 353 North Mesa Road; anyone with half an eye could see he didn’t match the photo or stats on the driver’s license at all. A search through the pockets of his clothing turned up a few other interesting items including a set of lockpicks, a card for a Singing Chicken Telegram service, a ring of keys and a little empty amber bottle. He’d sniffed it and it smelt pretty nice, so he dabbed the remaining droplets along his jaw line, wondering if it was homemade cologne.

Then the girls came back to kiss him goodbye before they went to work, and somehow the kisses got longer and more frantic, one thing leading to another, and suddenly they were all back in bed.

It was a damned good thing he had stamina, even if he didn’t have a name, he mused.

Catherine looked over at Heather and slowly shook her head in amazement. The two of them were sitting in a little waterfront restaurant, nursing fancy cocktails instead of tea, and looking out over the Atlantic. The waitress had already taken their orders, and in the interim Heather had talked. First hypothetically, and then with gradual references of a more concrete nature. Catherine listened, and made a few quick leaps of logic.

It was a conversation on several levels, one of which was strictly intuitive, and Catherine felt less surprise with each revelation. Carefully she reached for her drink. “So Mike, Mr. Peppermint, the one who played his wife—they all work for you?”

Heather nodded slowly. “You could say that. I run the operation, but in reality they’re all working for themselves to a certain degree. It’s not your average agency.”

“I BET. So—they all met you . . . professionally?”

This was a delicate area, and Heather kept her gaze steady. Catherine saw the answer in the other woman’s eyes and sighed, taking a sip of her drink.

“Catherine . . .” Heather murmured gently, setting her glass down, “You’ve been in political circles long enough to know not only how the game is played, but how crooked it is as well. Not just in a town like Washington, but all across the country. For all the good that our legal system manages, there is always a percentage of tragedy, of injustice that is never corrected. It’s a niche that nobody else wants to deal with and the one most prone to exploitation.”

“The one that hurts the most,” Catherine nodded sagely. “The level from which my father pulls his . . . victims.”

Heather said nothing, but the quick purse of her mouth spoke volumes, and for a moment both women were silent. Abruptly, Catherine pulled herself forward and folded her arms on the table, her gaze sharp. “I want in.”

“I beg your pardon?” But Heather was smiling as she said it, and the other woman pressed harder.

“Listen, you never would have told me any of this if you didn’t expect something out of it, and I wasn’t born yesterday. You either want my contacts or my skills—maybe both.”

“Both,” Heather admitted. “Washington is a nerve center for the nation, and having someone on the inside of the social circles would be a tremendous benefit. The only downside of course, is your father.”

Catherine looked down into her drink and idly stirred it. “He’s . . . dangerous. I’ve suspected it for years—you know that—but this last couple of months have really opened my eyes. If he takes a fall, he might take me and my daughter with him.”

Heather shook her head slowly. “Not necessarily. My agency has been compiling evidence against him for a while now, and we’ve got more than enough to force him into an early retirement if we leak it to the right sources.”

“So why haven’t you?” came the aggrieved question.

Heather leaned forward, and looked somber. “Because part of that evidence deals with your husband, Catherine.”

“Okay, so we have a clue, and forty-two minutes to figure out what it’s to—“ Miss Chocolate murmured. She and Grissom were seated on the anvil, letting a shaft of sunlight dance over the little silver key on her palm.

“What’s the first assumption?” Grissom asked, taking the opportunity to lean over her shoulder and breathe in the scent of her hair.

“That it goes to a vault in the bank. However, it’s not the right shape,” Miss Chocolate replied. “Vault keys are steel or iron, and generally are flat, from the bow all the way down the blade. This key however, has a rounded blade and an inscription on the bow.”

“Which makes it the key to . . . ?”

“ . . . Something more personal,” Miss Chocolate decided. She held it up and studied it closely again. “Trying to figure out what’s engraved here--“

They both scrutinized the key carefully and Grissom cocked his head. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d say it says ‘memento mori.’”

“Which means it probably goes to something inside the First Congregational,” Miss Chocolate concluded triumphantly. Grissom gave a quick nod and straightened up.

“I concur—so now the task is to escape . . . think I can get you to the church on time?” he teased. Miss Chocolate arched an eyebrow at him and deftly tucked the key into the pocket of her jeans.

“Maybe I’m the one getting you there—“ came her counter. Grissom stepped out of the corral and towards the double doors, his hands touching the rough wood as he spoke over his shoulder to her.

“In tandem or in tow, we’ll get there together. I don’t think Mike will have left a window open, but it never hurts to check—quick check around the perimeter for any hidden doors or loose boards. Look out for further triplines or anything that gives off a buzzing sound.”

Miss Chocolate nodded, and minutes later they had cautiously circled around the lower level of the stable. The stalls, the blacksmith hearth, the rest of the office corral all proved depressingly solid, and even the chimney was blocked off. When they met up in the center of the livery, Grissom smiled and gestured to the flat, wooden ladder nailed along the wall near the main doors. “Hayloft?”

She managed a smirk. “I wondered when you’d get around to inviting me up.”

“If we didn’t have cameras on us, it probably would have been the first order of business,” he conceded sweetly. Miss Chocolate rolled her eyes but ascended first, moving up the ladder cautiously.

Her caution was justified—two of the rungs had been sawn through and broke under her weight. With an oath, she leaned over to pull herself up on the edge, feeling carefully for a good handhold. Within a few minutes she was standing amid the bales, leaning against the center post as Grissom hoisted himself up.

“Hay there,” he punned gently. Miss Chocolate held out a hand to help him along.

“Mike TeeVee is stacking the deck,” she grumbled. Grissom shot her a commiserating glance and looked around the hayloft, taking in the neatly stacked bales and huge pile of loose hay filling the floor at their feet. Light came from the other end, where a chicken wire covered window and a set of double doors stood.

“He’s been known to do that—“ Grissom murmured. “But there is always a way out. What would seem the easy one to you, dear?”

“Through the double doors, jump to the ground,” Miss Chocolate replied. “Which means it will be booby-trapped.”

“Most likely. Let’s take a look to be sure—what’s our time?”

“Twenty two minutes,” came the prompt reply as she checked her watch. Together Miss Chocolate and Grissom took a few steps into the thick hay, looking carefully around. Miss Chocolate caught sight of something swooping and in a quick gesture wrapped an arm around her partner, pulling him down as the sandbag owl zipped past the spot where their heads had been. They tumbled into the straw together as the heavy weight slammed against the opposite wall, hitting with enough force to rattle the building.

“That was nasty.” Grissom scowled over at the point of impact. Miss Chocolate took his moment of distraction to lightly lick his ear. He quivered pleasurably for a moment and cleared his throat. “And that was delightful. However—“

“All work and no play—“ she teased. He caught her chin and kissed her quickly.

“—keeps Chocolate and Peppermint alive, for the moment. Let’s take a look at that window over the doors.”

He slipped out while the girls were asleep, feeling tired but smiling just the same, and not too concerned about the fresh scratches along his back and butt. He ached a lot more now, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. The real issue for the moment was how to figure out who the hell he was.

The drastic way would be to get arrested—not something he wanted to resort to, but something to consider if all else failed. Carefully he looked around the neighborhood outside the apartment building to see if there was anything to jog the memory and get him back on track. The mid morning heat hit hard, and he winced a little at the blinding light as he stared around.

“Still Vegas . . . west of the Strip, and a little north too . . . “ he murmured, orienting himself. A bit of confidence came back, and he turned his gaze eastward, and started walking. It was an easy stride, even in the heat, and after twenty minutes he came to an overpass for the highway. He jogged up and turned a winning smile towards the oncoming traffic, working hard at projecting an all-American innocence to his features. It seemed to have worked; after forty minutes of walking backwards with his thumb out, a small Subaru slowed down and pulled to the side. The window unrolled and a soft voice called out, “Need a ride?”

He nodded, and moved to the car, ready to launch into a prepared sob story, but froze as he made eye contact with the man behind the wheel.

“Ah . . . yeah. Yeah, I could sure use a ride—“ he mumbled as David Phillips opened the door for him.

“Eddie,” Catherine sighed, her gaze dropping down to the glass in front of her. “I have a feeling that what you’re going to say isn’t really going to surprise me.”

“Probably not,” Heather admitted gently. “But then again, all you’ve had were suspicions up to this point.”

“Sam had Eddie killed, didn’t he?” came the low question. Heather’s silence hung in the air, and suddenly all the little sounds around them: the waves of the water, the rinky sound of the Muzak; the clink of dishes and chatter of other conversations sounded ridiculously loud in the void. Catherine blinked hard and sighed. “He had him killed, and you’ve got proof somehow. Something solid, but inadmissible in court.”

Heather nodded. “Yes.”

With a grimace, Catherine scooped up her drink and finished it off in two deep swallows, gasping as the burn heated her throat. Heather watched her, neither shocked nor alarmed, waiting patiently until Catherine wiped a hand along her own cheekbones. “God I needed to hear that. Been a long time coming, but . . . yeah.”

“Yes. So you understand that you’re in that niche too, Catherine. There won’t be any legal justice for what happened to Eddie—but there can be closure.”

“Closure,” Catherine’s mouth twisted into a bitter expression. “I’ve always hated that term. As if you could simply shut the memory of someone away like a coat in a closet. As if by knowing the answers you could forget them, or the pain.”

Heather shook her head. “The point of closure is not forgetting, Catherine. Not EVER forgetting. None of the people working with me have forgotten the reason why they’re doing this. Do you still want to join?”

Catherine’s expression shifted into something fierce and determined. “Try and stop me.”

The two women smiled at each other, and slowly grasped hands over the table.

Fingers flying, Gum Drop and Bubble Gum stared at file after file dredged up from the hard drive. Curled in his basket in the lab, Grenadine snored loudly.

“So, you really screwed up,” Bubble Gum began cheerfully. “I hear that Sugar Daddy threatened to use you for target practice if you didn’t come up with the number.”

“He didn’t threaten, he simply made it clear what was in the best interest for the entire organization . . .” Gum Drop sulked slightly, “Keep looking.”

“I am—man you have a lot of junk—Ebay, Curly’s Vintage Shoppe, Salty’s Record Attic—do you actually have any WORK on this thing?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Grenadine woke with a jump, and whined fretfully.

“Yeah, whatever,” Bubble Gum grinned. He shifted to another page and after a moment, pulled up something onscreen. “I think we may have paydirt here—“

“Yessss—“ Gum Drop nodded. “That’s it. Now let’s get the damned number—“

Just as Bubble Gum began a quick copy and paste, the overhead lights swayed and the floor rumbled. Alarmed, both men looked up quickly as the shaking continued. As one, they shifted to the doorway of the office. The faint sound of broken glass and a few muffled yells came from down the hall, and Grenadine barked.

“Not good—“ Gum Drop muttered, “NOT good!”

“Shut up, it’s just a little one,” Bubble Gum shot back tensely. “No big—it happens around here, okay?”

A few seconds later the trembling stopped, and things were relatively calm again for approximately three seconds. Then the power went off, plunging the entire Candy Shop into darkness. More yells came from down the hall, and at their feet, Grenadine gave a little concerned whine.

“Oh greeeeeat. Yeah, this is going to make things much better,” Gum Drop shot back. “We’re trapped underground in the dark and we can’t call for help because nobody in Truman Towers is supposed to know we’re down here—“

Bubble Gum spoke up lightly. “Yeah, but on the bright side, you have a really good excuse for not getting the chip number now.”