I think the most amusing part about her self-appointed position as personal bodyguard is that she accompanies me to the gym in the mornings. She purchased a membership last week after she broke the horrific news to me about my "admirer", but so far hasn’t done anything more than sit at the juice bar and drink the coffee she’s brought with her.

Well, that and watch the women exercising.

That bothers me some but I realize I trust her. I know that Harper, for all her flaws, is the most loyal person I have ever met. And her attention is almost always on me, anyway.

However, being at the gym wreaks havoc on her libido and most mornings she insists we go back to her place to shower, change, and do something about releasing that pressure. This morning we didn’t have time. So on days like this, she’s an uncontrollable fury in the studio and it amuses me to no end since I’m the only one who knows why. The shit will hit the fan, though, if she sees my smug grin so I do my best to rein it in.

While I’m sipping my tea and watching the various televisions in my office, the phone rings. Grateful for the distraction, I mute each TV in turn and pick up the receiver.

"Kelsey Stanton."

"Hey, little girl." To my surprise, I recognize the voice immediately. It’s Henry Richardson. He and my grandfather used to work in the Department of Defense as medical engineers for many, many years. Their last position together was in a biomedical lab, refining vaccines against potential chemical warfare. Pa had enjoyed the work, saying it was challenging yet rewarding and he liked the idea of being able to protect the populace from unseen enemies. My grandfather was an excellent man and I miss him dearly.

"Henry," I say softly, shaken from my reverie. It’s hard because when I hear Henry’s voice I remember Pa’s as well. My first instinct is to get Henry off the phone and hide from those memories. I have too much going on right now with Harper and our growing relationship, and the stalker/serial killer mess, to get wrapped up in remembering a happier time with a jovial old man. The memories are still bittersweet; I’ve never said goodbye to Pa and have no desire to do so even now. He was solely responsible for nearly every happy moment in my childhood.

Luckily, it seems Henry isn’t calling to reminisce. "I was wondering if you had the time to help an old friend."

"Always, Henry," I say honestly, leaning back in my chair and picking up a pencil to chew. I’m a little surprised by his lack of subtlety. Henry was a man to beat around every bush in the damn forest before finding a point.

"Your Pa always told me what a great reporter you are and how you can get to the bottom of anything."

I laugh softly. "You and I both know what kinda bullshitter Pa was."

"Not about you, honey. You know that."

"I know." Please, Henry. I can’t do this. Not right now at least.

I listen with half an ear as Henry tells me about what he’s been doing since retiring to his horse ranch a few years ago. He thought he was out of the biochemical warfare game until last week. Seems Texas is one of a few states in the US where anthrax can occur in cattle. And he thinks that someone he knows is trying to isolate the microbe and grow the spores for some evil purpose.

It’s all just supposition and rumor, and a bit too outlandish to be believed. I can’t help but wonder if this is an excuse to get me back to Texas. I swore I’d never go home again.


* * *

"Texas? What the hell is in Texas?" I ask as Kels basically falls into my sofa. It’s all I can do to keep from getting up and going over there and trying my couch out. Stupid aerobics class ran late for her this morning. So, instead of sweating with me, Kels was sweating with a couple dozen women in tight little leotards … oh, Jesus, don’t go there Harper. You’re in enough pain as it is.

"Well," she sighs just a little, crossing her legs in a very "Basic Instinct" manner.

Keep it up, Kels, and we will be trying out the sofa. Right here. Right now. Blinds open and consequences be damned.

"If you must know," she continues, oblivious to my distress. "My family, on my Father’s side is from Texas."

I laugh as I lean forward on my elbows. "You’re not a complete Yankee?"

"Not completely. I was born and raised in New York, but some time was spent with my grandparents in Texas as a child." She smiles quizzically at me. I know she’s wondering why I asked. I’ll tell her later.

Oh, Mama will be thrilled at this news. Texas isn’t exactly the South, but at least it’s below the Mason-Dixon line.

"A friend of my grandfather’s called me this morning. He needs my help. Actually, he needs our help."

"Well, any friend of yours …" I want to say ‘is a pain in my ass’ (for example, Erik and Susan) but I hold back. "Can’t be all bad," I finish politely, rising to move to the front of my desk, leaning on the edge to obtain a better view down the front of her blouse. I cross my arms over my chest. "What’s the problem?"

She leans forward, enhancing my view. I smile; sneaky Kels, you play the flirt game pretty well. "Would you believe anthrax?"


* * *

Henry meets us at the San Antonio International Airport and he’s exactly as Kelsey has described him: grizzly and grinning. This is the Marlboro Man after a three pack a day habit all his life, too much time in the sun without sunscreen, and only a passing acquaintance with non-flannel apparel. I like him. He wraps my partner in a bear hug, squeezing her tight enough to get a grunt out of her, before backing away and shaking my hand.

"Kelsey, you look fabulous," he enthuses, returning his attention to her. "You’ve grown up so pretty."

I can’t argue that statement so I simply nod my agreement and get a gentle nudge in the ribs.

We introduce Olsen and Conrad, who are already working on equipment and hotel accommodations so they desert us quickly to handle those. We head toward baggage claim to take care of our end.

"Your Pa would be so proud, Kelsey," Henry says as we climb onto the escalator.

I’m intrigued by this discussion since Kelsey has told me very little about her grandfather. I only know how important he was to her and that he’s no longer with us. What kind of euphemism is that anyway? Why are people so damn scared about death? And why is it considered impolite to say someone is dead? Unless, despite all our protestations, we really do believe it is the end. That would be depressing if it were true. But I don’t believe it is. I may be a lapsed Catholic, but the concept of eternity is deep within me.

Any of my previous attempts to pry information out of Kelsey about her grandfather have been met with tight lips and watery eyes. Since I hate to see her cry, I drop the topic each time. Even now, seeing Henry, she’s getting maudlin. I rub her back warmly and get a surprised if grateful smile in response. Hey, I can do sensitive. No one seems to believe me, but I can.

"How are your parents?" Henry asks. Man, he knows how to hit all the buttons. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Kelsey brushes him off. "Same as always. Tell me about Irene and your boys."

Her distraction is a complete success and we’re well into the heart of San Antonio before Henry stops talking about his three sons (I now know their ages, occupations, marital status, and college GPA’s), and begins discussing the reason we came here.

"So I thought we could meet everyone for lunch tomorrow, including Clayton Jackson, he’s the fella who owns the ranch I was telling you about. I told the family you’re in town to visit with some friends of your Pa’s, to remember him. They don’t know about my suspicions. I figured it was best that way. Don’t want people to get all panicky. This type of stuff scares the crap out of people. As it should."

Great. Apparently Henry is a Dick Tracy wannabe.

"That’s fine." Kelsey nods, turning in the front passenger seat of the Chevy Suburban to meet my gaze. I must appear amused because she gives me a warning glare and I school my expression, looking to my right and using Jimmy as a distraction. Jims, the orange hair still standing spiky on his head because he was dumb enough to dye it again, is busy examining the console next to him where he can adjust the volume and radio station. He turns on the AC.

Henry turns it off from up front. "Wastes gas, that air conditioning does. No one needs it. Besides, it’s December, for God’s sake."

Jimmy looks at me guiltily and I can’t help but laugh. How is it we end up in such bizarre situations?


* * *

I am about to leave the rest of the crew at the affiliate station to pick up a truck and check the equipment. I can’t, with good conscience, shake Henry who was a dear friend of my Pa’s, so I agree to dinner with him and Irene. He says he will take me back by the hotel later tonight.

I find myself wanting Harper’s company but can’t think of a good enough reason to have the my director/producer come along and no one else on the crew. So Harper pulls me aside and promises to check us into the hotel. At least I’ll get to sleep with her tonight. My little psycho gives us a ready excuse to room together. Wish it gave her a ready excuse to come to dinner. But I don’t want to get Henry all upset, and we don’t have any reason to believe that he followed us here. Besides, the gun rack in the back of the Suburban serves as a deterrent. I know it scares the hell out of me.

"You’ll be okay?" she asks in that dark, worried voice.

I nod, run a hand down the front of her shirt, smoothing the buttons. I find myself constantly fascinated with her buttons, I suppose it’s because I know what’s under there, but I try not to bite them off anymore. Unless I simply can’t help myself.