I opened the files one by one as Thomas had done, until I found the long list of JPEGs. I scrolled down to the three pictures that were named VICTORIA, whose real name was Margaret Keyes. I deleted them.

I still had Margaret's cell phone number. I called her, even though it was two in the morning. I did not expect her to answer, but she answered on the fifth ring. From the background, she was at a club or restaurant with other people. Or maybe it was just the TV.

"Hello?"

"This is Elvis Cole. You don't have to say anything. Just listen."

She hesitated, and I wondered if she, too, was awake at this hour because of the anger and pictures in her head. She answered guardedly. Because of the other voices.

"Yes. Oh, sure. I understand."

She tried to make her voice light and conversational, as if she had gotten a call from a friend.

"You told me Stephen had something on you. Were you talking about the pictures?"

She didn't answer.

"Yes or no, Margaret. You don't have to say anything more than that."

"That's right."

"He had pictures of you having sex that he used in a blackmail scam, and he threatened to implicate you unless you continued to work for him. Yes or no."

"Yes."

"Those pictures no longer exist. You're free."

I hung up without waiting for her to respond. I put down the phone, then went back upstairs to bed.

After a while, the darkness was not so foreboding. I slept.

Starkey

Starkey suffered a miserable night after she woke from the dream; she sucked down a cigarette, then tried to go back to sleep, but every time the shadows took shape, she startled awake. Once, she glimpsed Sugar; another time, Jack Pell; but mostly it was Cole, the same terrible dream again and again. When Pell came to her, he smiled with bright bulging eyes and pointed at something behind her, but Starkey didn't turn fast enough and woke in the darkness before she could see. Finally, Starkey told herself to stop being stupid. She got out of bed.

Starkey glugged down a hit of antacid that tasted like mint-flavored snot, then made a cup of hot chocolate. She hadn't been able to drink coffee since the bomb. She missed it, but coffee fired the scars in her stomach like alcohol poured on a fresh cut. Her stomach was a mess.

Starkey sat at her kitchen table, smoking as she thought about Cole, up there right now with Little Miss Honey-dipped Southern Comfort. Starkey was in love with the goofy doofus, that's all there was to it, and hadn't been able to shake it off. It was so bad she thought up reasons to call him, cruised his house in the middle of the night, and even called Pike, thinking maybe she could get to Cole through Man's Best Friend. The whole damn mess left her feeling like a degenerate.

Starkey made up her mind. She had to sit down with Cole, and lay it out: Look, Cole, I'm in love with you, okay? I want to be with you. What do you think?

Starkey saw the scene in her head, playing it through, then jabbed her cigarette into the chocolate. She didn't have the guts. Here she was, the same woman who used to de-arm bombs, and she knew she wouldn't have the courage to risk his answer. What a frigging mess.

Starkey lit a fresh smoke, pulled the heat deep, and coughed. Thank God she had cigarettes.

Carol Starkey sat at the table, smoking, and did not sleep again that night. Here she was, scared to death by a dream.

The Fencing Master

In Starkey's dream, she hides in darkness beneath the stairs in a great stone tower that belongs to a beautiful princess. Starkey has never described the dream to her shrink because the players are embarrassingly obvious. The first time she woke from the dream, she thought, jesus, you don't have to be Sigmund to understand that. Starkey is ashamed by what she believes the dream reveals.

In her dream, he is the fencing master. He never arrives nor leaves nor has a story to tell, but is forever trapped in the moment of her dream. She has never seen his face, but he has the build and grace of a dancer, clad in leather tunic and tights. He carries himself with the pride of his past as he was once the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor. Now, he visits the tower each day to teach the fencer's art to a beautiful princess. The princess deserves no less than the King's Hero. He deserves no less than a princess.

Starkey hates this fucking princess.

The princess, too, has no face, but Starkey-glumly-knows the fucking bitch is hot. Honey-colored hair cascades over flawless golden shoulders, and a rich velvet gown drapes a body that is strong, athletic, and perfect.

Starkey, meanwhile, wears burlap rags, has dirty feet, and has smudges on her checks. She has somehow made her way into the tower, somehow hidden herself beneath the stair, somehow watched their endless lessons from her secret place, and through it all has fallen hopelessly in love with him.

Every time, the dream begins the same:

Starkey, hidden, watches as:

Great stone walls rise high around them, lit by the copper flickers of torches and candles. Tapestries hang on the walls; a fine rug muffles the stone floor. To one side, a heavy oaken door leads to the princess's chambers; to the other, a similar door leads to the outside. The room is empty, like a ballroom; its details missing, like a dream. The fencing master and the princess thrust and parry in perfect unison, back and forth, eyes locked in total concentration on the other. Their foils gleam with bursts of light, the steel tinkling like chimes. He thrusts, she parries, she counters, he denies, back and forth until sweat runs from their brows and their breath is quick-

Starkey, after she wakes, will roll her eyes and think, "I get it! They're FUCKING!"

But not now-

Now, in the dream, her breath quickens with his. She wants to be the one on the floor with him; she wants his eyes on her, seeing only her. She wants to rush from the shadows to take her rightful place-

– but she does not.

She wears burlap, not velvet.

She is flawed, not a princess.

Then the moment shifts as moments will in a dream:

Darkness presses down on her. Starkey is suddenly aware that all has changed beyond the tower walls. An invading army swarms the city. The cry of cleaved men rides the clang of battle-axes and the scream of dying horses. Demons are coming. Starkey can't see any of this, but, hell, it's a dream-she knows it's happening just out of view.

The fencing master stands alone in the round fortress room. The princess peers from her door, frightened. He tells her to escape down the back stairs. She flees-

Starkey, trapped in her hiding place, silently screams, "CHICKEN-SHIT BITCH!"

Something heavy booms at the far door. The fencing master turns.

Starkey screams silently-

"FUCK THE STUPID BITCH! SAVE YOURSELF! RUN!"

But, like Starkey, he is trapped in the dream, too.

The heavy door shatters. Monstrous warriors spill forward, giants with heavy muscles and broadswords, each bigger than the last.

"RUN, YOU STUPID NOBLE MORON!! RUN!!!!"

Starkey cannot know that he wants to run. She cannot know that he is scared. But he is all that stands between them and the princess, so he calmly raises his foil. Like Starkey, he has no choice. It is his place in the dream, to give his life for the princess.

"RUN!"

He glances in slow motion over his shoulder at the empty doorway where once the princess stood. A tear fills his eye. His lips move. Starkey sees the words.

I love you.

He once more faces the enemy, and his blade flicks like lightning. He dodges, weaves, and darts among them. Their bodies mount before his skill and rage. He is the fencing master, the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor.