Chapter Four

	The man was driving slowly down Main Street. His son, beside him, was
smiling and talking about how he'd won the MVP trophy on the Basketball team.
Then he began to talk about Baseball, his one true love. The man braked lightly
as he approached the Widow Maker, a blind turn only feet away from a busy
intersection.
	From out of nowhere came a large white sedan. It ran a red light and cut
directly in front of the man, halfway through his turn. He slammed on the brakes
and his Mercedes began to fishtail. They skidded across the street causing ten cars
behind them to collide in a bloody domino effect. The son screamed as a huge
green van plowed through the intersection, head on at the Mercedes. It felt like
they were flying as the car was thrown into the air. 
	Then it landed. White hot waves of agony washed over his entire body.
The car rolled three times, then came to rest atop a tiny green sports car. People
were walking along the streets as this happened, but no one was calling the
police, the ambulances. No one was doing much of anything. The man screamed
at them. 
	An eternity later a tall redheaded lady walked carefully through the
carnage to the Mercedes. She sized up the situation then called to her partners. As
they approached she called to those who were watching, captivated. She gave
them a graphic depiction of what was going to happen and they all ran for shelter,
safe from the potential raining metal, glass and fried body parts.
	Two bulky young men tried to pry the doors open while the woman
peeked into the mangled hood. She smiled and motioned for the men to follow
her. They loaded into a big white car. The man peered struggled against his
bindings, he was trapped beneath the steering column, unable to tell if still had
feet on the bloody ruins of his legs. He glanced at his son. The windshield had
shattered, he had hundreds of lacerations, each with a steady flow of blood,
combined into one cloth that covered the young boy. The man was sure his son
was dead, seeing as he was missing his right arm. His pitching arm, the man
thought sadly.
	Less than five seconds later the Mercedes, taking several cars with it,
exploded into a fiery oblivion.

	Something didn't add up.
	The case was closed. There hadn't been much of an investigation, there
hadn't been much of a case. She wasn't satisfied.
	Detective Joan Treece sat at her cheap metal desk in her rat hole of an
apartment. She didn't understand why anything happened. Not the collision, and
not her dreams.
	They came to her often, usually one repeated until she finished it. Lately
her nightly adventures had involved that horrible car accident where three cars
exploded, killing four, maiming several, and otherwise injuring dozens.  Joan knew
that her dream was from the perspective of Mr. Mackenna. He and his son were
dead only a week, their bodies burnt a crispy black when their Mercedes exploded.
	Joan remembered watching her fellow officers picking up the gross remains
of four people, and a Seagull that had had the poor judgment to rest atop one of
the cars.  She recalled the autopsy to determine if any of the dead had been drunk.
Not a drop of alcohol in any of them, however the bird was thought to have been a
little tipsy. Witnesses had for some reason been hard to find. From her dream she
knew that there had been over one hundred people in the vicinity when the
accident occurred, but maybe twenty-five of those came forward. Several recalled
the woman, several other said there had been at least one man with her, but none
remembered what they had arrived in or when they arrived on the scene. 
	Joan had a reputation for solving these cases, where no one could say
exactly what had happened. Cases that were open and closed quickly, like this one.
Dorothy Jones, captain, told her to stop working on the Mackenna/Smith/Reardon
case and concentrate on her other police duties. Joan had told her to shove it. She
was incapable of giving up, it simply wasn't in her nature.
	The doorman buzzed to tell her Dorothy was on her way up. Joan thanked
him and unlocked the door. Okay, so it wasn't a complete rat hole, it was actually
in a rather nice building, but she rented the smallest, and kept it the messiest, in the
lot.
	Dorothy, as usual, burst into the apartment, threw herself onto the couch,
put her feet on the piles of papers and books on the coffee table and asked
sarcastically,"So? What have you got on that wretched case?"
	"Well,"Joan began as usual,"I-"
	"Did you know Mackenna's wife is dead? Suicide."
	"Dead?"
	"Yes."
	"I have all the facts, but no theory. Two male victims, two female victims,
three exploded cars, ten other damaged cars, forty-two injured people, and four
unidentified people."
	"Four?"
	"Two big guys, an older looking redhead and the driver of the green van."
	"That van is a dead end. The serial number had been filed off, there were
no license plates, and the driver and any passengers left the scene before anyone
noticed them being there."
	"I know. But the two guys and-"
	"You're not going to find them on the vague descriptions you've got.
They're big, like football players. Brown or dark blond hair. Ages? Anything from
teenage to middle-age. Hon, face it, you're getting nowhere with your 'conspiracy'.
You aren't going to get anywhere. The only person who cares is you, and perhaps
Kate Mackenna. But she's dead now. So Joan-"
	"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."
	"Last time I trusted you I almost lost my job."
	"Dor, can this be strictly off the record? I know you record these talks, but
if the Commish ever hears this I'll be off the force before I can blink an eye."
	The tape in her pocket stopped. But Dorothy was a cautious person and
she didn't trust anyone, not even her best friend, further than she could throw
them. Dorothy had trouble lifting her loaded brief case. 
	"Good enough. I've been having dreams again."
	"Jesus!" Dorothy buried her face in her hands.
	"I know. About Mackenna and his son. Those two big guys try to pry the
door open, and the lady is playing under the hood."
	"God. Joan, you've got holes. No one reported the woman touching the car
and what do you think she was doing anyway? Plant a bomb?" She laughed.
	"Maybe."
	 Dorothy stopped laughing.
	"I can't believe I'm hearing this."
	"Just trust me, believe that I know what I'm doing."
	"I always do. That's why I'll never be Commish. I'll never be anything more
than what I am and if I don't leave now and pretend this conversation never took
place, I won't be here anymore. Joanie, give it up. Please."
	"No."
	"You have no proof."
	"Give me the chance to find it!"
	Dorothy stood and walked to the kitchenette. She poured herself a shot of
Vodka and drained it. She remembered what had happened the last time Joan was
plagued with dreams. Dorothy's soon to be ex-husband had been shot by his
drug-supplier. Joan dreamt that he was hiding in an abandoned store outside town.
Gary, Joan's husband at the time, a fellow cop, was injured trying to get the guy to
come out. Dorothy had ended up happy, her relationship with Hal had been
rekindled. Unfortunately for Joan, the case managed to extinguish her marriage.
Dorothy shut the cupboard and wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
	"Go for it. Hell, I'm getting tired of this pencil pushing crap anyway."
	
	Joan was exhausted. The case was exhausted. No one remembered
anything, it had been just over a week and they'd forgotten all of it. She'd been out
for two days talking to everybody who lived on around the area. She was getting
depressed.
	She'd had four days of hard luck, fighting with her Father, unable to get
any leads, and now the elevator was out of order. Joan hated climbing stairs, and
didn't understand why people bought machines that let them do it anytime when
most of them complained if the elevator was out of order.
	Six flights of stairs later, Joan approached her door, wondering why there
was a teenage couple sitting in front of the door.
	"Hey."
	She looked up, tears stained her cheeks and her eyes were red and puffy.
He had his arm around her shoulder protectively.
	"I'm Jade Mackenna. I heard you're trying to find out more about my dad
and brother's deaths."
	"Kind of,"Joan unlocked the door,"Wanna come in?"
	They followed her in and sat on the sofa.
	"I want you to find my mother's killer."
	"She committed suicide."
	"No."
	"Look Miss Mackenna, I'm sorry but I've studied murders since I was
seven years old. No one would bother to murder someone by slitting their wrists.
Even if they were trying to make it look like a suicide-"
	"If its so cut and dry, why do you think there's more to that car accident.
Why don't you just think that the road was icy and the brakes were bad? What
makes one different from the other?"
	Joan paused. It just was, that's all. It's just different.
	"It's just different, suicide and a car accident, they're different."
	"Have you seen the autopsy reports?"
	"No."
	The guy handed Joan a packet of papers. She skimmed them.
	"So?"
	"You tell me. My mother didn't kill herself and I am prepared to use any
means in my power to find out who killed her."
	"Maybe I am not in your means."
	The boy with Jade stood and Jade glared at Joan.
	"Everyone is in my means. Keep the file, maybe you'll find something
interesting."
	They left. Joan realized her friend hadn't said a word the entire time. She
shrugged, anyone who looked like that was probably screwed up in the head. She
returned to her desk and threw the file on top a pile of things she'd been meaning
to do. It slid across the other papers and knocked several photos off of the desk.
Joan bent to pick them up. One of her family. Her mother, Daphne, the original
rich bitch, had been a good mother. Richard Treece, her father, a good man with
strong Christian ties, was ruthless when it came to his business. Joan like to think
she'd inherited his vigor and passion for work. James and Jessamyn, the older kids.
They'd spent their childhood harassing Joan and Julia. Julia, the youngest, was the
baby of their family. She was on a road to self-destruction, but there was nothing
anyone could do about it.

Chapter Five

	Julia Treece sat, staring out the window. A filthy rat scurried across the
moldy floors. There was a dark stain on the boards near the window. Julia
wondered if it was what it looked like. Blood.
	She was waiting for her friend. Her friend would make it all okay. Her
friend gave her things that made her feel better and-
	A scuffle was occurring in the street below. Julia watch in horror as a man
with a knife stabbed a woman and ran off with her purse. The sight didn't effect
Julia as much as it had the first time she witnessed a violent act.  Had she thought
about it, she might have wondered why she was always in the position to witness
violence. Like that time when her friend took her for a drive. That had been the
first. It shocked her incredibly.
	There was a knock on the rickety door. Her friend had finally arrived. 
	"Hello."
	"Hey Jules."
	Julia only allowed her sister and her friend to call her Jules, normally she
hated the nickname.
	Julia shut the door after her friend and sat expectantly at the table with a
short leg that caused it to rock.
	"How are you today Jules? Feeling good?"
	"I never feel good on the days I have to come here."
	"But you always feel good after, right?"
	Julia nodded, but that was a lie. Lately she began to feel worse afterwards,
maybe it was her brain starting to work again. 
	"Know what I have for you today Jules?"
	"No."
	"Aren't you going to ask?"
	"No."
	Her friend looked concerned,"Are you all right?"
	"Yes."
	"Are you lying to me?"
	"No."
	Her friend looked pained,"Is this good-bye?"
	Julia looked, suddenly deciding that she didn't want to continue this.
	"Yes it is. After today I don't want to do this anymore."
	"It's not that easy."
	"Yes it is. I don't owe you any money."
	Her friend nodded,"True, you're always flush." Taking the package out of
her purse the friend stood up. "I am going to make your last batch a blast then.
Give me a minute."
	Retreating to the squalid bathroom, her friend pulled a tiny bottle out of
her bag> She chuckled and mumbled something under breath. 
	Moments later she re-emerged and gave the package to Julia.
	"Isn't your eighteenth birthday coming up, Jules?"
	"Yeah, two weeks."
	"Since I won't be seeing you anymore, Happy Birthday."
	Julia handed over her money and her friend left. She slowly prepared her
purchase and sucked in a deep breath. She inserted the needled and felt nearly
immediate relief. Then, having concealed her equipment, she set out for home. 
	She spoke to no one and ran straight up to her room. She opened the vault
hidden in the floor boards of her closet and placed everything inside. Then she
selected a bottle of alcohol and opened it. She took a long drink and licked her
lips, thoughtfully. Doesn't taste like what I've been drinking. It was going to be
hard to give up drinking and drugs, but if she gave up her friend, that's what she'd
be doing. Her friend had actually lured her into the scene and Julia was surprised
she let her go so easily.
	She felt fuzzy, no, it was heavy. She stood, but it was an effort. She took
the two steps to her bed and collapsed, exhausted. 

Chapter Six

	Joan got the news from Dorothy around ten that night. She didn't have time
to grieve, or to be distraught, like her parents.
	Jessamyn Treece-du Marier picked up the phone in her office in Paris.
	"Yes?" she asked, holding the phone with her shoulder as she filed her
nails.
	"Hello, Jess?"
	"Jo?"
	"Jess, something's happened."
	Jessamyn dropped her file. She bent to retrieve it,"What?"
	"Julia is dead."
	She jerked her head up, hitting it on the desk.
	"What do you mean, dead? As in, a corpse in a cold morgue somewhere?"
	"Yeah, I guess. They think she OD'd on something. They aren't exactly
sure what happened, they haven't done the autopsy yet."
	"Autopsy?"her voice squeaked. 
	"Yeah. Mom and Dad are going out of their minds. You've got to come."
	"Rich would never allow it. We're about to start a major shoot and-"
	"I don't give a damn about your husband, let me talk to him!"
	"Jo please. He isn't that bad."
	"Ramsey going to meet you at the airport in two hours. The Learjet is
waiting for you."
	"But-"
	"I have to call James. Good-bye Jess."
	
	James Treece ran his hand up Sandra's long, tanned leg. She giggled. It
amazed him that after five years of marriage and four children she had retained her
flawless teenage figure. She was phenomenal.
	"James, sir?" Langston called from the sliding glass door.
	"What is it Langston?"
	"A call for you,"he walked stiffly out to the poll and handed the phone to
James. One of the bratty little ankle-biters splashed him as he walked away. One
day he would jest leave. He was far too old to put up with being called Langston,
far too old to deal with four screaming rug rats, and seventeen smelly animals.
Yes, de decided shutting the door. I am too damn old and too damn rich.  
	Langston was a smart old Negro. He had been putting away every
paycheck since he was hired at the ripe old age of twelve. Old Edgar Treece had
chosen him over his older brother because his brother had been a studly man of
nineteen. Edgar feared his wife would have an affair with a black teenager so he
hired the boy to do the man's work. Edgar had been old then, sixty-six to his lovely
wife Gladys' thirty-one years. Langston and Gladys had carried on a long affair
from the time Edgar died at age sixty-eight until a car accident claimed Gladys at
age thirty-nine.
	Then came Theodore Treece, the only son of Gladys and Edgar, he'd been
born about nine months after Theodore's death and never got to meet his father.
Eventually he married young, sixteen, to a sixteen year old girl, Daphne
Mauspassant. They'd had four children together. Langston had had an affair with
Daphne too. She was only four years younger, but the Treece men seemed to have
trouble keeping up with sex hungry wives. Langston supposed that was where he
came in. The four children, James, Jessamyn, Julia and Joan, were all rich and
stubborn, but he'd managed to like the two younger girls immensely because they
were always so sweet to him.
	James had taken Langston with him when he left the nest to start his own.
Now James and his wife Sandra had four kids of their own and they were not only
bratty, they were spoiled as well.
	Langston knew everything about the Treece family, he knew things about
the Treeces that even the Treeces didn't know. He laughed as he straightened a
lampshade. Many things not even the Treeces knew.
	"Langston!" James called, running in from the pool."
	"Yes sir?"
	"Get the car! Call Emilio! We need to be in Weston within the hour!"
	Langston had them ready in twenty minutes.
	"Bye old man. Family crisis. We'll be back soon,"James ushered his family
out the door,"And take care of Alice. Even stuffy old cooks need a run around the
bedroom every so often." He winked slyly and slammed the door.
	Langston smiled. He never serviced other hired help, but James carried on
the tradition of Treece men and Langston "ran around the bedroom" with Sandra
many times.
	
	Her life in an uproar, Joan looked around at her family gathered in the
house they'd grown up in. Jessamyn and Rich were sitting on the love seat, holding
hands. Rich was definitely impatient, and upset over having to postpone his lately
shoot. James and Sandra, with their four fighting little kids at their feet, sat on the
couch. Her father had his arms around his wife as she sobbed into his chest. Joan
stood stiffly erect in the center of the room.
	"Let's get right to the point. Julia is dead and-" Her family groaned and
James interrupted her rudely.
	"Jo, I know how close you and Jules were, but she's dead. Let's leave it at
that."
	"They found her with heroine and hard liquor. Joan, don't dispute the fact
time time,"Jess said.
	"But-"
	"No. Look how distraught mother is.  Don't even think about making this
worse for her,"James said standing up,"Joan, you always do this. Try to drag it out
until you get your way. Not this time. She's dead for God's Sake! Get over it and
get on with your life!"
	Joan stormed from the room, fuming. The Treeces were one of the richest,
most prominent families in Weston and yet Joan didn't think Julia's death was being
thoroughly investigated.
	Or is it? Am I just so caught up in this whole thing? Is the fact the Julia
was my sister and that we were close what is driving me to this conclusion?