In a soft voice, Parkins said, "Different time - different climate, Tony. And your people weren't systematically hunted down and killed like the Hmong people were. It's different."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Parkins shuffled the database printout in his hands. "Besides, it says here Mr. Vang works at the Ford plant and Mrs. Her is a - "

"Office worker," Jaylynn said.

"Yeah, that's right." Parkins nodded. "That family looks like they are working plenty hard. Tsorro didn't respond.

They arrived back at the station and Jaylynn got out. The detectives drove off to return the car, and the rookie plodded up the stairs through the gathering snow into the warm station. By the time she reached the coat rack, she was yawning from fatigue, lack of food, and the muggy warmth in the squad room.

After checking in with Lieutenant Finn and giving her a brief update, she went to the break room and got her brown bag out of the refrigerator. She sat at the table and ate, not really tasting any of the tuna sandwich. As long as she was busy, she was fine, but it was quiet times like these when she found she missed Dez the most. She had continued to call the apartment periodically, but no one ever answered.

She finished her sandwich and some carrots, and put the remaining items back in the bag and into the refrigerator for later. She still had a long night ahead of her.

PART SEVEN

The curly haired psychiatrist pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. She hummed an old John Denver tune as she moved around her office watering plants. She'd already had her morning cup of coffee - multiple cups, in fact - and seen an eight a.m. client. Now she was ready for her ten o'clock challenge, but she had a twenty minute break until then.

She opened a door near the kitchen area and leaned in to set the watering pitcher on the back of the toilet tank in the small bathroom, then pulled that door closed and opened the one next to it to enter her office. Her sanctuary from her patients was a pleasant haven. One wall of the large, square room contained six 4 drawer file cabinets next to a tall table with a fax machine on it. The west wall was floor to ceiling bookcases spilling over with many volumes: medical books, novels, self-help/how-to books, and diagnostic manuals. The remaining two adjoining walls had a built-in corner desk with work surfaces that stretched twelve feet along the walls each way. Built-in drawers underneath and cabinets overhead gave her plenty of space for storage. Her computer fit nicely at the point where the two desk surfaces met in the corner. She had paid a pretty penny to outfit the office, but it was worth it to her. She had plenty of room to organize, to sort, to research, and to work.

In the middle of the room was one long table, three feet wide and about six feet long. On it were papers and research cards for the topic of her current investigation about a new therapy, EMDR, which was short for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. She hoped the treatment would be a useful tool to help patients who were dealing with the after-effects of trauma and extreme stress.

She sat at her desk and went over the notes she'd made after Monday's session with Desiree Reilly, then looked over the reports from the police department and from her colleague, Dr. Raina Goldman. In a sidenote on a Post-it attached to her official report, Raina had written, "Uncooperative, headstrong, unresponsive, and damn hard to deal with. You'll be lucky to pry any information at all out of this client."

Making a tsk-tsk noise, the therapist muttered, "Raina, Raina, what you don't know...." Marie liked Raina, but the younger psychologist wasn't always very patient, and some clients - particularly cops and firemen - needed a certain amount of coaxing. Reilly was probably no exception.

Marie had attempted to mentor the younger doctor, but Goldman was just as headstrong as she claimed Officer Reilly to be. Marie smiled. Ah, youth, she thought. To be that young again....

She wondered how old Reilly was. The tall woman seemed weary and worldly wise - and yet, her face was unlined. By her demeanor, she would seem to be in her early 40's, but her appearance put her in late 20's. Marie flipped through her reports until she found Goldman's biographical notes.

Desiree Reilly, born 12-16-71

Single (?) Father, deceased police officer, died, heart attack 1988, at age 42 Mother, ophthalmologist, age 54 One sibling, Patrick, two years younger Grandparents, deceased Numerous aunts and uncles Estranged

Estranged from the aunts and uncles? Or from the whole family? And why the question mark next to "Single"? Goldman's notes were less than clear. She would have to touch base with her colleague and verify this information. The one thing that seemed clear was that the dark-haired woman would soon celebrate her thirtieth birthday. Twenty-nine years old now ... hmmm.

She reorganized the loose paperwork, evened up the edges, and inserted the top under a two-hole punch, then tacked the reports in a folder which she labeled with the officer's name. She grabbed a sheaf of blank paper on which to write notes and tacked it to the other side of the file. She had no doubt that before she and Dez Reilly completed their appointments, she would have written a great many pages of notes.

She checked her watch and discovered she still had ten minutes before her patient was due. Setting the case file aside, she rose and left her office. In the kitchen area, she rinsed out her latest favorite coffee conveyor, the Minnie Mouse mug, which was a gift following her granddaughter's recent visit to Disneyland. The creak of the front door signaled her client's arrival, so she poured herself a mug of hot black coffee and took it to the coffee table. Next to that low table was a basket full of Barbie dolls in various stages of undress. Little shoes and jackets and dresses were piled underneath a jumbled assortment of long, multi-colored limbs and impossibly ratty hair. She sighed. Why children liked Barbie dolls was beyond her. Just about every morning she attempted to bring some semblance of order to the collection.

It was early, but she opened the door to the waiting room to find her patient seated stiffly in a blue chair. Once again she noted the fatigue and misery that enveloped the tall, dark-haired woman. "Hey, Dez. You're early."

"Yup."

"Want to come in and help me with something?"

The lanky policewoman rose, cradling something in her left hand. "Depends on what it is."

Marie smiled. "It's nothing too terribly onerous. Come on in."

As Dez reached the doorway, she held her hand out with the wooden carving resting in it. "I - uh - well, I accidentally made off with this on Tuesday. Sorry about that."

Marie smiled again. "Not to worry. I knew you'd bring it in today."

Dez stopped and took an almost imperceptible step back. "How'd you know I'd come back?"

Marie had to fight to hold back a chuckle. "Dez, every report I read said you are an honest person. I knew you'd bring back the carving."

"I could have mailed it."

"Too much trouble. You're here before it'd ever have come in the mail." She ushered her patient in. "Have a seat, and let's see if we can get this stuff organized."

Dez looked at her blankly, but folded herself down into the same chair she'd sat in two days earlier. Marie set the bear carving on the coffee table and slid it and all the knick-knacks to the far left. She picked up the basket of Barbie paraphernalia and dumped it onto the right side of the table. The woman across from her cocked her head to the side and frowned. Marie picked up the Rainbow Princess Barbie and rooted around until she found a pink tulle dress and a pair of matching slippers. She glanced up at Dez. "Well? You going to help or just watch me?"

"I know you must do some child psychiatry, but-" Dez shook her head slowly from side to side, "-you're not going to make me play with dolls... are you?"

Marie let out a peal of laughter. "No, no, no, no. Just help me get these damn things dressed. I have little girls to see all afternoon, and I feel it's best if the dolls at least start out clothed. In matters of sexual and physical abuse, when the kids play with the dolls they usually undress them, and it tells me a lot about what they're coping with. But most of them don't ever get the clothes back on them. There are plenty of fancy getups here. Just grab anything that sort of matches and put it on."

Despite her splinted finger, Dez proved adept at threading the stiff plastic limbs into their little outfits and getting them snapped up, something that Marie had trouble with. She was starting to worry that she might need reading glasses. The snaps never seemed to line up for her. Dez, however, was easily dressing two dolls to every one Marie worked on.

"How many of these things do you have?" Dez said, gesturing at the heap of dolls.

"Oh, maybe twenty. But sometimes I let a child take one, and they do break occasionally. I have a whole drawer full of new ones that replace these as I dump 'em or give 'em away."

Dez nodded. They worked quietly for a couple more minutes until Marie picked up the last doll. The black haired woman tossed a Skipper doll on the table, after dressing her in pink and white striped pants, a hot pink blouse, and pink shoes. "Doctor, you can talk me into dressing these ridiculous creatures, but I will not brush that rats' nest of hair."

Marie looked up in a surprise, expecting a sly smirk on the other woman's face, but instead, Dez looked dour and serious. The tall woman leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and said, "I never liked Barbie dolls. I pretty much hated them. My mother was so disappointed." She paused. "Pretty much everybody is disappointed in me."

Marie tried once more to snap the top of a tiny fur coat, then gave up. She set the final doll on the table, along with the stack of others, and looked at the woman across from her. "Is there a list of everyone who is disappointed in you?"

Dez shrugged. "I could make one."

"Are you disappointed in yourself?"

Looking down at the floor, Dez nodded.

"Tell me why."

With vehemence, the younger woman said, "Because I have to be here. Because I'm not able to work. Because my whole life has fallen into shit."

Marie nodded. "Tell me more." She wondered what had happened in the intervening 48 hours since she had last seen Dez. Something had changed.

But the well had run dry, and though the tall woman did talk some more, she didn't say anything of great consequence. For just a moment, Marie had seen a little crack in the façade, but just as quickly, it closed up. Still, it was a start. Maybe today would not be a break-through day, but soon. Patience, that's what I need. All will be revealed if I just wait.

* * *

The dark-haired woman rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. She had a splitting headache, and everything was bleary. Now I know why I so rarely drink. She sat up slowly, on the edge of the bed, and waited until the pounding lessened, then rose and crept toward the bathroom.

One look at herself in the mirror was enough to make her happy she wasn't going anywhere for the day.

She didn't think she was ready for a pelting shower, and she didn't have any aspirin, so she ran some cool water, scooped it up in her hands, and immersed her face in the clear water over and over. It didn't help. Leaning over the sink, she let the water drip from her face as she reached for a towel to dry herself off with. She looked in the mirror. If anything, she looked worse, paler than before. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her skin looked transparent. She could see blue veins under the surface.

For cripesake, why did I go and do that? Sometimes, I'm a total idiot. She stumbled out of the bathroom and back to the king-sized bed. She lowered herself cautiously, then thought that perhaps she should go get some water to flush her system out, but she was suddenly woozy and fatigued.

She had stopped the night before at the tavern half a mile up the highway, and after eating a hamburger and drinking a beer, she'd ordered another Michelob. And another. She stayed and watched basketball and boxing on the sports channel. She sat in the back of the bar by herself, her feet up on the bench on the other side of the booth. Nobody bothered her. The waitress stopped by every twenty minutes or so to refresh her drink, and almost three hours later, when the dark-haired cop rose to go, she had wobbly legs and a $27.95 bill to pay.

She made her way out to the truck, but realized she was too drunk to drive. She wasn't too drunk to walk, though. She took her gun and holster, locked up the Ford, and set off down the road to Dewey's cabins. The cold cleared her head a little, but all that beer made her feel mournful. She thought of Jaylynn, of Luella, of Ryan. She thought of her family, remembering the handsome face of her father, and found herself crying. When a car came around the bend toward her on the road, she could hardly see through the blur of tears. As the car passed, she wiped them away with the sleeve of her Levi jacket and kept walking.

By the time she reached the cabin, her face was freezing cold from tears and falling snow. Though it was only nine p.m., she struggled out of her clothes and got into bed, wearing only a t-shirt, and spent the night dreaming troubling nightmares that she could not banish by sheer dint of will or by any other means.

Now, in the light of day, she realized that when she slept - or any time her conscious thought wandered - she had a little movie going in her mind, some sort of timeless, tireless projector that was running soundless, wordless movies. Images, clear scenes, flashed on her mind's screen, with a sequence of events that ran in slow motion. She could hear her own breath, but nothing else. She couldn't taste or smell, only see. And what she saw terrified her.

She didn't think any amount of alcohol would obliterate the visions, and actually, last night they had seemed worse - bloodier, more confusing, with strange scenes eddying totally out of control around her. Nope, no more beer for me.

After a while, she fell back to sleep again, and when she woke up three hours later, her head wasn't pounding nearly as badly. She took a warm shower and made some tea. Sitting at the breakfast table, she looked out the window toward the trees behind Dewey's spread. A chattering chipmunk ran up the trunk of a giant oak, then along a branch. Isn't he a lively fellow? How come he's not hibernating? He made a little hop from one branch to another and disappeared on the other side of the tree. In the night, about four inches of snow had fallen, and the blanket of white stretched as far as she could see out the window. She rose and looked around the corner into the living room. She had quite a bit of wood, but it wouldn't hurt to split some more. She looked at her watch. Eleven a.m. She'd give herself a little more time, time for her head to stop beating like a snare drum. In a few hours, before dark, she would go out to Dewey's woodshed and chop up a storm.

* * *

It had been five days since Jaylynn had last seen Dez, and she was sick with worry about the dark-haired woman. It was all she could do to keep from crying every time she thought of her. She felt entirely out of sorts, both physically and emotionally. Tonight she tried to take her mind off it by cleaning and organizing her room. She had her stereo cranked up and was humming along to Melissa Etheridge's new song. Despite the fact that it was peppy, it wasn't helping much.

The heap of clothes on the couch belonged mostly to Dez. She pulled her own sweats and two t-shirts out of the pile, leaving a pair of jeans, two long-sleeved shirts, three t-shirts, and a sweatshirt, all of which she began folding and stacking at the far end of the couch. She picked up the St. Patrick's sweatshirt last and pressed her face to it. It smelled like Dez, sort of woodsy and sweet.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Why don't you call and tell me where you are? Why? You can't think I meant what I said at the hospital? A sick feeling rolled over her. She sat on the couch, still holding the sweatshirt, and let the tears come. She had tried paging the tall cop to no avail. Every time she dialed the cell phone number, the carrier's recording came on to say that the phone was out of service. Dez didn't ever answer the phone at the apartment either.

The Melissa song ended, and she heard some strings, then a rhythmic bass beat began.

You're beautiful, that's for sure, you'll never ever fade. You're lovely but it's not for sure, that I won't ever change ...

It was like a message from Dez directly to her, and she didn't like the sound of it. The song went on until the chorus:

I'm like a bird, I'll only fly away, I don't know where my soul is, I don't know where my home is ...

Jaylynn wadded up the sweatshirt in her lap and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and slid down. "Damn you, Dez! Why are you doing this? To punish me?" She reached over and turned the radio off, and as she did, a figure appeared in her doorway, startling her. "Sara! Geez! You snuck up on me."

The brown-haired woman gave her a funny look. "Your music was loud. It's not like I meant to scare you. Jay?"

The blonde looked away. "What?"

"What's the matter?" This brought on a fresh spate of tears. Sara came into the room and sat on the couch next to her friend. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine."