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Have you ever felt uncomfortable in your own skin?

Maybe there's a reason...

Let me explain something about surveillance for you: It's dull. I was going to use an obscene gerund in that description, but even that overused "F-bomb" doesn't emphasize sufficiently just how dull it is. It's not like you_can't_do something else while keeping an eye on a place; the trouble is that what you're doing can't be more interesting than the surveillance, or you might miss something. If you've got one of those real page-turner novels in your hands, you just might forget to keep that one eye out the window, and what you miss (in some instances) could get you or a client killed.

Fortunately, it wasn't quite that intense for this go-round, and the company was amiable. Manny Breakbill was always a good conversationalist, quick to volunteer for a run to the store or the local burger joint for some refreshments. Bucket, whose real name was supposedly so girly that he would rather be known for a tired old Injun joke, was quiet, pleasant, and reliable to a fault. Both were about my age, which meant that we didn't have too many arguments about music, magazines, food, or how to split up shifts. Usually, there were two of us there in overlapping shifts, so that no one of us had to be alone for any particularly long periods of time. The post was in a three-story office building across from the warehouse. About a third of the offices were empty, and we had no trouble renting one on the top floor for a limited amount of time. The company had some furnishings available for use, so there were chairs, a table, a couple of filing cabinets (had to make it look good); Bucket had one of those Aerobeds that he brought in, inflated, and made very comfortable for cat naps when needed. The mini-kitchen was enough to keep us going for food, and the bathroom was down the hall. All in all, snug for an assignment like this.

Moon Bear felt bored enough with his own investigations to spell us for a shift or two over those first four days, and he supplied a few other guys to give me, Manny, and Bucket a real-live whole day off. I was reluctant, since it was my case, but my mentor had other ideas. I've described him to you, right? You can see why I wasn't particularly interested in crossing him. So I got to go home and sleep in my own bed on the fourth night. I almost wished I hadn't.

* * * * *

The dream was back, and it was somehow more vivid. There was snow in the air now, not sticking in many places, but definitely getting colder. I continued to have the sense of being tracked, patiently, carefully, and with great malice. I knew that I had to navigate deeper into the woods, and I had no idea where I was going.Shelter, something said to me. _You need to find shelter, and a place where you can't be found, or if found, a fortress from which you can defend yourself._It wasn't like a voice, or at least I didn't think so... dreams can be so weird.

I saw the fox again. I locked eyes with it.

What can you remember about him? Or was it a vixen?

I locked eyes with_him._ The fox was male. I was sure, although I don't know how. The fox turned, walked a few steps, looked back at me, continued.

Follow.

I almost heard the word. I moved in the direction that the fox had taken, moving as if along a trail that I wasn't sure I was following correctly. A path? A direction for me to take? I didn't know. Like before, I wasn't sure of myself, my body, how I felt - only that I was, I existed, and I needed to find shelter.

In an outcropping of rock, the fox reappeared to look at me, to make sure that I was following. I rounded the edge of the space, moved toward its forward face, found an opening, small, cave-like, very cozy by all appearances. The fox stood next to it, waiting. I approached. The fox didn't move. I could reach out to touch him... if I had a body that had arms. I still couldn't feel myself. I waited, catching my breath. The fox was patient. After a few moments, he looked over my shoulder, then looked back at me. I clearly heard the words, "Cover your eyes."

I felt rather than truly saw a blinding blue-white flash of light before I bolted upright in bed, sweating, crying out something that I couldn't recognize as name or word. It took a good five minutes for my heart to slow down to a reasonable pace.

* * * * *

Moon Bear had told me that he didn't want me back at the surveillance until later that evening, so I spent the day at the office, working on whatever paperwork seemed to make sense. I entered notes from the various reports on the Sobieslaw case into the computer, documentation for both the client and myself. Entering the data was about as boring as the time spent compiling it; the only difference was that I didn't have to keep that good weather eye out the window. I could let my mind wander from time to time. I probably shouldn't do that too often; the way things were going, my mind might wander off to some other world and not find its way back.

I swung by Really Good to pick up three dinners to go. Betty Lou ensured that everything was packed well and sent me off with a package which, I was certain, contained more food than I'd ordered. I get the feeling she thinks that I'm too skinny. For a woman of Asian ancestry, she might as well have been my Jewish mother. I toyed with that combination as I drove to the office building for an evening shift, but gave up when I couldn't decide if there could be such a thing as war matzo ball soup, kosher or otherwise.

At the surveillance room, Billie Snoots was very happy to see me. "Tell me that package has more than just your dinner in it."

"I know my manners," I replied, setting the bag on the table. "I've got dibs on the kung pao chicken; after that, there's at least two more dinners in there. Should be plenty."

Billie dug in with the gusto of a southern hound dog, which wasn't too far off. He was, as Moon Bear once described to me, a good kid in search of himself, spending the remaining hours (outside of the searching) learning to follow instructions and be reliable. He came to the Big Northern City by way of a Georgia high school education (or more accurately a diploma, as he acquired his education on his own) and a two-year degree in sociology, preparatory for no one knew what, including himself. He could be a decent gumshoe, if he wanted to be; had a good nose for whatever was off-kilter in a situation, and a good feel for the social interactions of crowds and small groups. We'd used him on surveillance before; he was one of the few kids these days who didn't have to be plugged into a video game or texting people every ten seconds.

Between bites of spicy orange beef, Billie filled me in on what had been happening over the past day or so, some of it from his own shifts, some of it from the others. It was no more interesting than the stuff I'd typed into the computer earlier. Strangely, he was still enthusiastic. "It's like a zombie hunt," he said, enjoying the extra lo mein noodles that Betty Lou had included. "Keep watching that alleyway, coach, somethin'll pop up any minute wantin' to eat your head."

"BRAAAAAAAINS!" I exaggerated. That, by the way, is the limit of my knowledge regarding zombies, whether in games, books, or what passes for real life in the movies. I'm not even entirely certain if zombies eat only brains anymore; for all I know they're worried that brain matter has gluten, a substance which seems to terrify a great many more people these days than would the zombies themselves.

It was full dark by the time Bucket came by to relieve Billie and make a claim to the third dinner. He and I talked for a while, trying to decide if there was much point in continuing to take the client's money. "Between us," he said, "this feels like charity. Not really working."

"I'm with you," I said. "After tonight, we'll have been here five full days; I'll call the client to see if he wants to keep this going." I smiled at him. "You don't have to be here, you know. As dull as it's been, you might as well take the night off."

"You want Moon Bear to turn me into a soprano?" Bucket shook his head. "I'll see it through. Price of tobacco these days, I need all the cash I can get." After a moment, he yawned grandly and eyed the Aeromatress in the next room. "Why do I get so sleepy after a meal?"

"Postprandial narcosis," I said.

"I'll take Medical Gibberish for four hundred, Alex."

"Blood goes to the stomach to get the nutrients. That, and it's just plain more comfortable. Knock out for an hour or two; I'll call you when I need the rest."

"You make it too easy, kid."

"Gonna make me invoke your real name?"

"Nothin' real about it, and don't you dare." He smiled at me. "Don't do anything stupid, shamus; the big guy will kill me."

* * * * *

Bucket is always reliable. Despite the low snore I heard from him once in a while, all I'd have to do is call his name, and he'd be up on his feet in less than ten seconds. Knowing this is what let me relax into my quiet shift, not bothering to wake him, until things got just a little too interesting.

At 10:21pm, a large white panel van pulled up to the front loading dock of the warehouse and backed itself into place. A quick glance at the computer monitor told me that nothing was going on around the back. Our office was dark, any lights kept away from the windows at this hour; I kept myself close to the window frame, low down, and took out some binoculars. The close-up picture was more detailed, but not one bit prettier. The guys getting out to unload would only be attractive enough to make the cover of_Prison Bitch_ magazine, and I'd let my subscription lapse. Their clothing was casually disgusting, no overalls or work clothes, probably just whatever was on the floor and didn't run away from them when they reached for it. One guy actually adjusted the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt as if he were getting ready for his date.

I started making notes about boxes and miscellaneous stuff being carried into the warehouse from the back of the truck. Weather-stripping and cold-weather panels attached to the sides of the building would have concealed things, but the winter was nowhere near - I had a clear view through a gap of perhaps five feet between the back of the truck and the interior of the warehouse. Which was why I could see and tally the boxes, the bags, the crates, and the young woman wearing a light-blue dress, whose wrists were bound, mouth obstructed by a gag, and eyes covered by a thick bandana.

"Bucket!" I called.

Seven seconds later, he stood beside me, appearing no worse for the wear. There was nothing more for him to see. I explained quickly what I'd witnessed.

"Call the cops."

"Not on your life," I said, getting away from the window. "No corroboration."

"Anonymous call."

"Could be too late." I made for the door. "Call Moon Bear. Stay here and keep an eye on everything. You'll see me - I'll go in by the back, watch the cameras. When I can confirm what I saw, I'll signal you with the cell phone, you call the cops, and send Moon Bear to cover the front with whoever might be left."

I was out the door before I could hear any more protests from Bucket. He was reliable and fast. I never said I wasn't faster.

* * * * *

I flew down the back stairs and came out into a side parking lot. The warehouse space was a good half block or more down the road; I crossed the empty street and headed around the back of the building under cover of comparative darkness. No cars on the office side of Sobieslaw's property. Strangely, no one was at the truck or the entrance to the warehouse space from the front. Color me suspicious - unfortunately, I wasn't certain who to be suspicious of, so I can't suggest a proper color palette.

The back side of the warehouse building was far too well lit, and the security cameras were fully active, as we knew from our computer feed. My original idea was that Bucket could keep an eye on me, at least enough to know I'd made it this far. It then occurred to me that if the folks inside the warehouse also had a web feed - according to Sobieslaw, they didn't, but what did he know - I'd be spotted in a heartbeat. A set of fire stairs led to the roof, mostly away from the steady pan of the cameras, but not necessarily enough for me to get up there entirely unseen. It would be extremely convenient for me if the cameras were to cut out for twenty or thirty seconds.

I waited for the cameras to sweep away from me, snapped my fingers, and jumped up to catch the first rung of the fire stairs. Luckily, the hinges must have been kept up to exceptional standards - not a screech or groan of metal accompanied their descent. Barely waiting for the braces to touch the ground, I scampered up the steps to the first landing, whipped about, dashed up two steps at a time, repeat, repeat, and eventually I was on the roof. I'm not sure exactly how many seconds it took; if my pulse rate was about 120 per minute, what with all the adrenaline, I'd guess 67 heartbeats.

The moonless sky was blazing with stars, providing more light than I would have thought possible. Looking around the rooftop, I took quick stock of my situation. I didn't figure that a dead run was a very good idea; unless the warehouse space had its own interior floor of rooms between the open interior and the roof, my running feet would sound like pounding hoof-beats. I moved as quickly as I could, trying to run/prance on the balls and toes of my feet. I know I still made some noise, but it couldn't be helped; I was out sick on those few days when they had Ninja training at my P.I. school. All I could do was hope for the best. I made it to a section of roof containing large angled windows that seemed to look down into the warehouse space. I ducked down and tried to find a suitable place to peep in from.

An open window. Up here. Okay, I know a set-up when I see one. Even if the game is rigged, you get no points at all unless you toss some chips on the table.

The scene below wasn't too terribly exciting, from a James Bond sort of view. Boxes, crates, stuff all around the warehouse floor, covering as much as half of it all told, gathered into groups and piles, a small forklift idle near one wall. A table of the sort that used to decorate old high school libraries contained a shaded lamp, various papers and file folders, and something that from this distance looked like a feather boa. Near the table stood three chairs, two vacant, the third bearing a young woman. I recognized the light blue dress; she was still gagged, but the bandana blindfold had been removed. She looked scared enough to convince me that this wasn't being staged - she was in trouble.

The cool guys in the movies probably figure out some way to dive in and rescue the damsel in distress. I found my cell phone, which had been programmed for absolute silence in all features and functions - particularly texting - and tapped out a message to Bucket. CONFIRMED. IN VIEW. GET MB NOW.

I waited a short time, watching the two prison studs talking with a third guy who tried to look just like them and failed miserably. Stud One and Stud Two had worn and tired clothing; Third Guy had jeans, t-shirt, unbuttoned and un-tucked kitchen tablecloth shirt, and a ball cap on his head, but everything was far too new and well-kept. Perhaps the boss of the gang could afford a better costumer.

My hand vibrated. I pressed a button and read the text: ROLLING. 4 MINUTES. WEAPON STATUS.

Bucket knew full well that I wasn't armed; he was asking about what I could see regarding the objects of our interest. My thumb, better trained these days than when I first started, danced: NONE SEEN. 3 MEN. WOMAN HOSTAGE, BOUND, 40 FT FROM DOCK.

A noise from below almost distracted me enough to forget the message. I hit SEND and pocketed the phone. What I'd heard had been the sharp sound of an open hand striking a vulnerable cheek, and the muffled cry of a woman who'd been struck. That sort of thing doesn't sit well with me. It's one more thing that makes my hackles rise.

The voices from below me were audible but not clear; the warehouse space made sound louder somehow, but no clearer. Third Guy sat on the table near the girl; from the inflection of the voice, I could tell that he was asking questions, but that's as far I got. Stud One and Stud Two, the miniature goon squad, seemed content to lean against a stack of crates and watch. I looked again, just to be sure - no guns. My brain began smoking with the effort to figure out what the hell was going on. Whatever Third Guy wanted, the woman couldn't have answered if she wanted to; his pair of back-up monkeys had no heat, and although they looked like they could throw good punches, they wouldn't stand up for ten seconds against Moon Bear and his crew, even if my mentor didn't show up properly armed for the occasion.

Third Guy fetched another slap to the girl, causing me to jerk in sympathetic response. That guy was really starting to get me angry. I stared down at him, wishing I had heat vision like Superman, wanting to bore holes in his body, make him pay for that kind of senseless--

Cover your eyes.

The two goons never moved. Third Guy started turning, toward his right, then raising his head toward the roof, one hand going into a pocket for something, bringing it out, my eyes widening first then starting to close, something in his hand--

The world went red.

I rolled away from the window, my eyes filled with that red even though they were closed, rolling away from the window, rolling, where am I, rolling, something missing, something gone, air--

Too surprised to yell, falling, arms moving, can't see, what--

Nothing.