Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Dee STP 22 by Peregrinf

   Looking at my reflection in the locker room's full-length mirror, I
tried to detect any lingering traces of the scrawny kid who had faced down
the knuckle-dragging Tweedles at the high school's front door.  God, how
incredibly arrogant of me!  Greg's sarcasm had been thick as syrup when he
commented I'd gotten the year off to a great start.

   Well he'd been right.  Before I'd even gotten in the door I'd broken the
first rule for high school freshmen and especially freshwomen.

   Don't stand out.

   Not that I had a lot of choice on that score, given that I stuck up like
a dandelion on a putting green, even among upperclassmen.  Maybe I should
have bottled the attitude, or at least tried to control The Stick's
take-no-prisoners approach.

   Sure, go ahead and blame me!  The Stick retorted.

   Hey, now that we're about to graduate maybe we could add humble to our
attributes?

   It's hard to be humble when you're as great as we are.

   Speak for yourself!  I'd like to think that I'm humbler and wiser now.

   Humbler?  You say that while you're looking at yourself in the mirror?

   I tried to ignore her, but she had a point.  I thought I looked pretty
good.  I had hips now and a waist of sorts, and if I ever did bother with a
bra my breasts would just about fill a B cup.  Meanwhile my swimmer's pecs
provided all the lift they needed.

   As for wiser -- God, I hope I learned something from the shit I went
through that year.

   As for the dress, which was the reason I was analyzing myself so
closely, nope.  No way would the dress I wore to that first homecoming
dance work now.  Back then, after Heather McKenzie had done a little
nipping and tucking, it had fit me like a second skin, but her tailoring
still hadn't left enough to let out now.  I'd put on a good thirty pounds,
some as a result of hormonal changes, but four years of swimming, archery
and weight training accounted for a good bit of it, too.

   Ten pounds of mud in a five-pound sack came to mind.  No more am I the
truffula tree Heather had dubbed me the first time I walked into the
lunchroom, and more than a little of that improvement I owe to her.

   From my boobs my gaze slipped down to what would have been six-pack abs
but for my swimmer's adipose layer.  From there I moved on to the
sensuously waxed curves of my labes.  As in most things in my life it is
all or nothing at all, so I am bare-naked bald down there.  Not even a
landing strip.  After my first shave, with Heather's guidance I went for
the Brazilian wax.  Take it off, take it all off has always been my motto.

   I've never been able to decide -- is a pussy still a pussy without the
fur?

   No matter.  I like the way my puffy lips unabashedly invite -- what? 
Inspection?  Investigation?  Exploration?  Penetration?

   All of the above?  The Stick contributed.

   Indeed.  Lovers of both sexes have enjoyed my bald playpen, appreciated
it in the most intimately and sensuously delightful ways.  Some of those
who like to -- dine out, shall we say -- have told me they prefer the beach
to the bushes.  I guess they don't like pubic flossing.  My personal tastes
are more catholic.  While I enjoy smooth licking I'm just as much at home
on safari through a lush forest, seeking that sweet hidden grotto with its
delicious nectar and the delicate pearl that rewards me with my partners'
orgasmic cries.

   As I turned to inspect my firmly contoured buttocks I had to admit I'm
equally appreciative of penetration, no matter the orifice.  Someone once
remarked that they believed people were equipped with "in" holes and "out"
holes and it was unseemly to put anything into an out hole, but I find that
attitude limiting.  Besides, the cunt is both in and out, when you stop to
think about it.

   I studied my long legs -- muscular, but smooth and sleek thanks to the
regular attention of the same cosmetologist responsible for the hairless
state of my twat for the last four years.  Lalita -- no, not Lolita,
Lalita, a Hindi name meaning playful -- has a deliciously stimulating
approach to her profession, including finishing me off with delectably
intimate post-tonsorial -- if that's the word I want -- care.

   Needless to say I'm going to miss my front-window exhibitionism, but to
the relief of Alphonse I'm leaving his Minute Spa's living-product
placement display in the capable -- hands?  -- of a certain little oriental
gymnast become diver.  She appreciates the very personal services of his
staff as much as I have.

   But getting back to my study of me, unfortunately the grace of my legs
is spoiled by my feet.  They are definitely too big, as are my hands.  On
the other hand, my oversized appendages combined with my long limbs have
more than compensated by moving me through the water fast enough to earn
county and state golds in the 'fly and IM, along with the attention of
college athletic offices.  Big feet aside, I'm tall enough to make high
heels superfluous, though I've been known to wear modest ones to improve
the line of my calves.

   My arms are as buff as my legs but I avoid rings or bracelets rather
than draw attention to my similarly expansive hands.  The only exception is
a Mexican silver cuff encircling my right wrist, a symbol of a very special
relationship with the woman who wears its mate on her left wrist.

   I can't look at it without remembering the bond it symbolizes, and that
takes my mind back to the rescue of Mary and her siblings.  I'd felt guilty
that I hadn't warned Maria what I was going to do, breaking the first rule
of a partnership, which she'd drilled into me only weeks before:

   "If you're gonna be working my side of the street, Chiquita, we gotta
learn to trust each other completely.  We gotta be confident that you got
my back and I got yours.  No goin' off Lone Rangering it.  I gotta know
what you're doin' 'fore you do it.  You gotta know what I'm goin' t'do
'fore I do it.  We gotta get so close together we're wearing the same skin
-- so close we think alike.  Comprende?"

   As she'd said it she'd been linking my right wrist to her left one with
her handcuffs for the duration of a very educational weekend.

   And what had I done the night I'd rescued the kids?  I'd gone off "Lone
Rangering it."

   And afterwards, while I'd been dreading Maria's reaction I'd of course
been grounded by Mom for betraying her trust as well by sneaking out to
pull off the stunt.

   I had what I thought was a good excuse.  If I'd told either of them
they'd have stopped me and God knows what might have happened to those kids
in that case.

   As to the aftermath, I don't know why I thought foiling the white
slavers would make any difference on the kill-the-program battlefront.  But
as a result of that KTP call at least Mom paroled me for long enough to
call Maria to pass along the news and the caller's number that was captured
by my cell phone.

   And don't ask me how the caller got my cell number.  I never have
figured that out.

   Then I'd plugged my cell into the charger and waited hopefully for Maria
to call back while I tried to concentrate on some badly neglected studying.


   What followed was what's meant by a ringing silence, never mind that my
ringtone for Maria was a burst of some really spicy Mariachi music.  As the
silence dragged on through the afternoon the taste of my success began to
turn to ashes in my mouth.  The thought had been lurking in the back of my
mind -- maybe it was a whisper from The Stick that had been drowned out by
the miraculous success of the kids' rescue.  I began to realize how badly I
had fucked up.

   As the silence stretched over the weekend the gravity of my sin really
sank in.  I bludgeoned myself over the head with the dismal revelation I'd
wrecked everything I'd had with Maria.  I don't know that I'd ever felt so
alone in my entire life.  I couldn't even go to Mom for comfort because
what I'd done to Maria I'd also done to her -- correction -- to both Mom
and Elaine, my Mom2.

   And if my brother found out about it -- which he certainly would -- I'd
be on his shit list, too.

   How could I possibly have been so stupid!  so selfish!  By Sunday night
I felt so low I wouldn't have blamed Maria if she had simply wiped me off
the bottom of her shoe like I was some stinky dog poop she'd stepped in.

   Grounded or not I still had to go to school the next day, and God only
knew what my classmates would do if they found out what I'd done.  But I
was so focused on Maria I wandered through my morning classes like a
zombie, hoping my cell would vibrate and I could beg forgiveness.

   Lunch was as tasteless as ever, and I barely heard the Lunch Bunch
chatter whirling around me.  I'd avoided the morning newspaper rather than
even glance at the article about the raid, afraid of what it would say.

   At least there'd been no mention of me in the story or I'd have been
pecked to death the moment I'd come through the school the door, though I
did get some whispers and sideways looks that had me wondering if maybe I
was missing something.

   All afternoon my cell phone remained resolutely silent.

   No voice mail.

   No texts.

   Nothing.

   And of course it was Monday.  I had to chair another fucking SACNISP
meeting, bringing with me the joyous news that I'd gotten yet another KTP
message, and what should we do about that?  At some point I lost track of
the agenda, lost control of the meeting, and in the end Mrs.  Devers took
my gavel and handed it to Heather, who called for a motion to adjourn,
which brought the whole train wreck to a screeching halt.  As I was
ignominiously shoveling my SACNISP stuff into my backpack Mrs.  Devers
rested her hand on my arm.

   "My office," was all she said.

   I was painfully aware of the committee shooting concerned looks in my
direction as they got dressed.

   I tried to weasel out of the command.  "I have to go straight home."

   I should have known that ploy wouldn't work.  She had Mom on speed dial,
then waited patiently while I dressed as slowly as I dared, as if she
expected me to bolt.

   But I'm not the bolting type.  I'd fucked up again by letting the
committee down, and I knew it.  I'd take my well-deserved medicine.

   Bracing myself for an interrogation I wondered what I could say.  My
participation in the raid Friday night -- or should that be Saturday
morning?  -- couldn't be shared even with Mrs.  Devers.  I'd told Mom as
little as possible, glossing over little details like sending a guy flying
downstairs with a kick in his gut.

   If the chains in his face or my kick hadn't killed him the fall might
have.  Leaving me wondering if I was any better than he was -- had been?  I
felt sick again.  As I followed Mrs.  Devers out of the room I moped.  What
kind of a thug was I turning into?  If, by some remote chance, Maria might
forgive my betrayal she'd probably avoid me just because I was so damn
dangerous to be around.

   Shit!  Somehow I had to quit getting into these situations where I might
kill someone or sooner or later I would succeed -- if I hadn't already.  I
felt another session of Ms.  Andrews's anger management training coming on.


   Not for the first time I thought maybe I should become a nun.

   Not a viable alternative, The Stick pointed out.  Celibacy and you are
mutually incompatible.  Besides, he deserved whatever he got.

   I thought you were supposed to be my ego, not my id, I shot back at her.


   I can always play devil's advocate, she responded.  You did what you had
to do.

   Any further internal dialogue was cut off by -- speak of the devil --
Ms. Andrews waiting for me in Mrs.  Devers's office.  I shouldn't have been
surprised.  Mrs.  Devers probably had my shrink on speed dial right next to
my Mom.

   "She's all yours," was all Devers said, turning me over to what should
have been my former middle school counselor.  I'd heard my Mom use the term
"grandfathered in" about some real estate thing that carried over from the
past and I guess that's why the poor woman still had to put up with me.  In
a way it was a relief, because I knew I could talk to her about anything
and it would go no further.  There'd be no recriminations, but still....

   "Where to now?" I asked gloomily, avoiding the comforting arm she tried
to put around me.  I didn't deserve comforting.  I deserved to suffer. 
"The archery range?"

   "No, the police still have your bow and arrows for evidence.  I was
thinking of a quieter, more private place."

   I tried an excuse to go to some fast food joint to delay things.  "I'm
hungry."

   Then I realized I really was hungry, which surprised me.  But then I'd
spent most of my lunch period turning any smiling macaronis around so they
frowned at me instead of eating them.

   But now, whether I liked it or not -- and I did -- Ms.  Andrews presence
was comforting and my appetite was returning.

   "I've got cookies in my office, and we can snitch some milk out of the
kitchen."

   "What kind of cookies?"

   "Chocolate chip."

   My interest increased.  "Store-bought?"

   "Home-baked."

   Well, if there's anything that can penetrate a mood like I was in it is
the thought of home-baked chocolate chip cookies washed down with milk.

   I was on my fourth cookie, staring at the little carved elephant on her
desk -- the one I'd once been so intimately involved with way back when --
before she broke the silence.  "Interesting article in the newspaper this
morning."

   I gave a grunt as my defenses went up.  I shrugged, trying to convey I
hadn't read the paper.

   Well, my mouth was full of cookie, after all.

   "Seems a combined local, federal and state task force rescued a
half-dozen kids -- orphans -- from child-sex traffickers," she went on.

   I reached for another cookie, trying to look as if I didn't know and
didn't care.

   "Good thing," she observed.  "Terrible thing, trading in kids like that.
Awful stuff happens to 'em.  I know, I've had to treat the results."

   Milk and cookies -- mmmmmm.

   I'm glad you're enjoying 'em, I told The Stick.

   Admit it, you are, too.

   Ms.  Andrews's calm voice penetrated our little internal dialogue.  "The
official spokesman for the operation said the whole thing went very
smoothly, that the kids are safe and being cared for.  They'll need
counseling and medical care, of course.  The four perps are in custody, one
in the hospital.  He was found at the bottom of the stairs.  According to
the doctors he's suffering from facial lacerations, a concussion, a
fractured nose and orbital bone, and contusions.  Through some miracle he
won't lose the eye, and his abdominal injuries aren't life-threatening."

   I took another cookie.

   "An emergency room doctor was quoted as saying that it looked like he
got whacked in the face by something really harsh, then whoever did the
whacking kicked the stuffings out of him for good measure, sending him down
the stairs.  The other three were treated and released into custody. 
Somehow they got trapped in upstairs rooms and smashed their fingers trying
to get out.  No one can quite figure out how that happened."

   A swallow of milk to wash the crumbs down.

   "Smashed fingers.  Imagine that!  Must make it hard to fingerprint 'em,"
she mused.

   I nodded, feeling a little surge of relief that the guy I'd kicked was
okay, sort of, but concentrated on the next cookie, which did taste just a
little bit better than the last one.  Nice and chewy and chocolatey.

   "But the funniest thing in the article was on the inside page, near the
end.  One of the little girls is quoted as saying they were saved by a
giant ninja with blonde hair who got 'em loose and hid in the closet with
them when the police attacked."

   Damn!  I shoulda kept the balaclava on.

   "But you know how reliable kids that age can be, under stress like that.
Can't take a tale like that seriously," Ms.  Andrews went on, looking at me
slyly.

   I masticated another cookie, washing it down with more milk, my
metabolism perking up.

   "The block where the house was located rang a bell with me, too," she
prompted me again.

   She knew.  Oh she knew, all right.

   Fortunately my mouth was full of cookie, and Mom always told me not to
talk with my mouth full, so all I could do was sort of shrug and grunt.

   And shove another cookie in as soon as I could.

   "I have a hard time imagining you as a ninja, but to a little kid you'd
seem like a giant, and you are a blonde.

   "And as I say, the neighborhood is familiar.

   "And it involves kids in trouble.

   "Coincidence?" she asked.

   I hid behind my milk.

   "Is that what's got you so upset?" she went on in her gentle
professional tone, moving the cookies so she could take one, coincidentally
moving them out of my reach.  "Soon as I saw the paper I knew it had to be
you.  God knows I'd be rattled, especially if I thought I might have killed
someone.  I just waited for the call, and sure enough it came."

   When I didn't say anything she moved the cookies back, but I was full by
then anyway, and moved from behind her desk to sit beside me on the couch
so I could lean against her warm, comforting bulk and leak tears.  I
welcomed her arm around me this time, as I told her the whole thing, even
what I'd done to the guy I'd hurt so badly.  She listened the way she
always does, sympathetically, not judging me, just listening.

   When I was done she thought for a while.  "So basically the kid had it
right."

   "Elizabeth," I answered softly, letting Ms.  Andrews know she wasn't
just some kid.  "The kid's name is Elizabeth.  She's six."

   "Elizabeth.  That's your middle name."

   I nodded, tears stinging my eyes, remembering the bruises, on her
wrists, her shoulders, her legs, as if someone had held her down, and on
the insides of her thighs.

   "No one should ever have to go through what she's been through," I
choked out.  "None of them should, and she's only six." I was crying.  I
hadn't even known that was in there.  Ms.  Andrews is like that, she finds
hurts I don't even know are there and releases them.  I guess it's like
lancing a boil -- not that I've ever had one -- so it can heal.

   "It's not fair," I snuffled at last.  "I have two moms, and I have you,
you're almost a third mom to me, and I have Mrs.  Devers, and so many
friends to protect me and care about me, and those poor kids don't have
anyone except each other, and sometimes not even that.  It's not fair."

   I was angry again, and sad.

   "No, it's not," Ms.  Andrews agreed, combing her fingers through my
hair. "But they have a fighting chance now, and you helped."

   "Can you do anything?  They need to be together.  They're family, the
only family they've got.  Mary and Jake, the older ones, they're twelve and
eleven, when they have the chance they try to be mom and dad to the littler
ones, but they're just kids themselves.  They shouldn't have to do that."

   Ms.  Andrews sighed.  "I'll try.  I can talk with Social Services.  I
know Georgia Swain.  She's a good person, overworked and underpaid, of
course."

   "Like you," I observed sympathetically.

   "Like me," she agreed with a wry chuckle.  "Overworked, anyway."

   "And a lot of it is my fault."

   "Sweetie, this is my job, and I love it.  Underpaid?  I don't do it for
the money.  Sure there are some kids I sometimes wonder why I try..."

   "Like Horace," I couldn't help respond.

   She sighed from the depths of her soul.  "Like Horace!  But you more
than make up for the Horaces of the world."

   Then I thought of Maria and my mood plunged again.  I could see she
sensed it.

   "Do you think I'm crazy?  Bi-polar?"

   "What?"

   "You know, like what they used to call it, manic-depressive?"

   She laughed, then sobered up when she saw how serious I was.  Given my
mood swings I'd been doing some reading up and saw a future of mind-numbing
medications ahead of me.

   "One minute I'm on top of the world, ready to take on -- take on
kidnappers single-handed, and the next I'm totally down in the dumps.  I
burst into tears.  I want to dig myself a hole and hide in it, I...."

   She cut me off.  "No, Dee, you are not bi-polar.  You're a teenager.  It
goes with the territory -- especially the territory you've staked out for
yourself at your tender age.  If I'd gone through what you've already gone
through this year I'd be a basket case.  I'd lock myself in a rubber room
and throw away the key.

   "There's nothing wrong with you."

   She eyed me shrewdly.  "Now, why don't you tell me what's really
bothering you."

   So I did a full emotional dump on her, about how I'd messed things up
with my moms, and with Maria, about how Maria and I were -- had been --
partners, until I'd messed it up.

   As usual, Ms.  Andrews sat there and listened patiently while I poured
my heart out to her.

   "Your moms will get over it," she assured me.  "They love you
unconditionally.  It'll just take some time, and continued good behavior on
your part.  But you know that."

   I nodded, and snuffled again.  I actually SNUFFLED, like I was still
some little kid wiping my nose on my sleeve.  I hate to snuffle.  Gross.  I
reached for the tissues.

   "Have you talked to Maria?"

   "Saturday I called her 'cause I got another one of those 'kill the
program' calls.  I left a message on her voice mail, but she hasn't called
back.  She always calls back as soon as she can."

   "After that raid she's probably pretty busy."

   I shook my head woefully.  "She'd call.  I know she'd call.  She hates
me.  I know she hates me."

   "Why don't you call her?"

   I snuffled again.  "I'm afraid to," I confessed.  While I shredded
tissues she thought.

   "Give her some time," she finally urged.  "Give yourself some time, too.
I'm sure she's busy, especially since you told her about that call.  She's
probably chasing that lead down.

   "Meanwhile, I'll see what can be done for those children.  They're going
to need a lot of support.  I know the police counselor, and Georgia Swain.
Maybe I can help.  Wouldn't hurt if you could give 'em some attention
yourself."

   I sniffed, a little cheered by the thought.  Mary was such a lovely
thing, and Jake had been so brave trying to protect his sister.  "It'll
have to wait until I'm ungrounded, though."

   "Just as well.  You could be a reminder to them.  They're probably not
ready for you yet.  Meanwhile, you better get home.  I'll call your mom and
let her know you're on the way."

   "Thanks." I blew my nose again, swept up my tissue shreds and tossed
them as she called.

   "She'll meet you at the front entrance," Ms.  Andrews assured me.

   It was a silent ride home, and I was returned to confinement.  As the
week went by I tried to resign myself to the knowledge that Maria wasn't
ever going to call again.  My days became a gloomy sequence of school and
home.  I didn't even enjoy swimming practice, if you can believe that, and
after I'd turned away from Greg for the third time he abandoned me to my
funk.

   Friday afternoon I was deep in my homework, looking forward to a boring
weekend of the same, mixed with hard labor (chores) when there was a rap at
my door.

   "Maria Sanchez and Mrs.  Swain are here.  Consider this a professional
visit, nothing more.  You're still grounded."

   I was dropped into a whirlpool of hope and dread at the thought of
facing Maria, but Mrs.  Swain of Child Protective Services was a wild card
I didn't know what do with.  "Mrs.  Swain?  What's she doing here?"

   Mom shrugged.  "Don't ask me.  What do you think I am, your secretary?"

   All I could do was sigh.  She was still pissed, and I couldn't blame
her. "Sorry.  Should I get dressed?"

   "I don't see why.  It's your party.  Might as well be come-as-you-are."

   When I followed Mom to the living room neither of my visitors batted an
eye at the sight of me in my altogether.  Besides, both Mom and Elaine were
enjoying our house uniform, and Maria was stripping.  Apparently Mrs. 
Swain was exempted.

   "Refreshments?" I invited, as much to put off the reckoning as out of
courtesy.  I could hardly bear to look at Maria, her lovely copper skin,
her lush curves that I knew so well....

   Stop that!  The Stick snapped.

   "What's she done now?" Mom asked when they all declined and we settled
in the living room, me alone on the sofa, the prisoner in the dock, them in
the chairs facing me, my only protection the coffee table separating us. 
This was looking ominously businesslike, and Mrs.  Swain looked really
tired.

   I tried to break the mood.  "How are the kids doing?"

   Mrs.  Swain nodded but didn't crack a smile.  "Surprisingly well. 
They've taken over the children's ward for now, while the doctors give them
a thorough going over.  There's some physical trauma and malnutrition. 
They're all getting counseling.  Jake came out of the sedative without any
problems, though he complains he missed all the fun."

   "Some fun," I commented wryly.

   "Dee, you've really got a way of stirring things up," Maria broke in.

   Uh oh.  I sighed.  "What'd I do now?"

   As if I didn't know.

   "Well first of all, there's that KTP phone call."

   "That wasn't my fault!  I didn't ask anyone to call me!"

   "I know, Chiquita," she said soothingly and my heart lifted to hear her
use the endearing nickname.  "We've got a lead, the best yet.  Somebody got
careless.  The number you gave me came from a cell that was activated at
the store.  Took a while but this morning we tracked it to a credit card
issued to the Restored Temple of the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One
True Church."

   Hot damn!  I felt a surge of triumph.  "I knew it!"

   Maria held up her hand, looking at Mrs.  Swain.  "There's more."

   The woman from Child Protective look gloomier than ever.  "There's
another connection.  The family -- pardon me -- the adults we placed the
kids with came to us with a recommendation from that church."

   I felt a chill, remembering Missy's experience at Sunday school.

   "What did the so-called foster parents have to say for themselves?" Mom
asked.

   "Before we could really grill them they were released on their own
recognizance and have since vanished," Maria added sourly.  "They had no
prior record and we couldn't even make the kiddie-porn rap stick.  Before
we could charge them with child abandonment they were gone."

   Shit.

   "The church thing could be just coincidence," Elaine suggested
dubiously.

   "At least four of the people we busted on kiddie porn charges are also
members," Maria noted.

   Mom was looking thoughtful.  "Missy Wilson's mother was complaining that
some of the people arrested are big donors to the church."

   "And Missy was complaining about one of the Sunday school teachers
copping a feel.  That's why she stopped going," I put in.

   "Caca!" Maria muttered.

   "But we've got 'em!" I exulted.  "We can bring 'em down!"

   Maria shook her head.  "It's not enough.  Even with what you've told me,
it's still not enough."

   "What?  Why?"

   Mom actually reached to pat my knee, her patented "cool down" gesture.
It was the first time she'd touched me in a week.

   Maria shook her head.  "I went to Martha Graham with what we got.  She
says it's not enough.  She warned us not even to put them under
surveillance."

   "Martha Graham?" Elaine asked.  "I thought she was some dancer or
choreographer or something."

   "Wrong Martha Graham, dear.  Ours is an assistant district attorney,"
Mom explained.  "She was in on the Worthington bust.  Prosecuted him."

   "I don't suppose she's a member of that church, too," Elaine mused
gloomily.

   "Not to my knowledge," Maria answered.  "But I know Judge Fenstermacher
is, and he'd be the one we'd have to get a warrant from."

   "Just wait a minute!" Georgia Swain protested.  "I know him well.  He's
Family Court, and he's a good man!"

   "He sent Horace to boot camp," I pointed out.  "Look how that worked
out."

   "And sent him back on the original charge, and for vandalizing your
bike," Mrs.  Swain reminded me.  "It's more than boot camp this time, and
since he broke parole once he won't be eligible for that again."

   "I didn't mean it like that," Maria cautioned soothingly.  "He's strict,
and he cares.  He's fair.  The point is, we don't have enough evidence. 
I'm just pointing out the situation."

   "Which isn't good, because we've got another problem ...  I mean CPS
does," Swain went on, "which is why I'm here."

   "What?"

   "We've lost more kids," she confessed.  "This thing with the Wellingtons
-- that's the kids you rescued, Dee...."

   "With our help," Maria pointed out defensively.

   I winced and kept my mouth shut.  I'd already figured out another reason
for her to hate me.  The cops, especially the feds, had to be anything but
happy with my handing them the perps all wrapped up in a tidy if slightly
bloodied bundle, but they couldn't take it out on me.  Maria, even though
she'd known nothing about my escapade in advance, had to be in their
sights.

   "The thing with the Wellingtons got me looking into our records,"
Georgia Swain went on.  "I've been doing some digging for the past week,
which explains my dark circles.  Kids get lost in the system all the time,
I admit, but the numbers are up.  There's truancy reports, stuff like that.
So I did some asking around -- I have sources on the street, too.  They
haven't shown up at the churches and shelters.  They're just plain
missing."

   "The foster families...?" Mom asked.

   "I did some phone checks.  Some say they ran away.  Some families say
'what kids?' I've kept this to myself so far, but some foster parents have
been taking support for kids they haven't seen in months, which is
criminal. The whole system is over-stressed.  Paperwork gets lost.  It's a
total mess.  Some of our people...?  I don't know.  Caseworkers have more
than they can handle.  We've got some families haven't been visited in two
years.  Supposed to be done every six months."

   She sighed, looked at her watch.  "Which reminds me, I've got three
visits scheduled for today and I'm not getting them done.  Then maybe
tonight I can get some sleep, though I doubt it.  I'll probably spend the
weekend figuring out who to talk to.  Most of our people are good people,
but some...."

   "So why are you telling us this?" Elaine asked as Swain heaved her bulk
up -- she was not a small person.

   "I'm just telling you," the woman answered as she gathered up a shoulder
bag loaded with file folders.  "But given what Maria tells me, and your
record...,"

   She was looking at me.

   "...  you do seem to have a way of stirring things up so the crap floats
to the top."

   I felt a chill as everyone looked at me.  Oh shit.

   "But you're not suggesting anything," Mom snapped, seeing where this was
going.

   Mrs.  Swain looked at my mom very seriously.  "That's right, I am not,"
she stated flatly.  "My job is to protect the kids, all the kids that I
can, using whatever legal means that I can.  I'm just telling you...."

   And with that she was gone, leaving the four of us studying the coffee
table with its decorative bowl of smoothly polishes stones, cool and hard
and slick.

   There went another quarter into the jar as far as I was concerned. 
Hell! A whole roll of quarters wouldn't compensate for what I was thinking.
I reached for a few stones and let them click against each other in my
hand.

   After a long silence I heard myself say, "I think maybe I need to go to
church Sunday."

   Damn The Stick anyway!  Why can't she keep my fucking mouth shut for a
change?

   But I knew she was right.

   Mom's head came up with a snap.  "You're grounded, remember?"

   "But don't you have the feeling something really evil may be going on in
the Restored Temple of whatever?" I ventured.

   "And what do you expect to find out by going there?" Mom fired back.

   "If I knew that I wouldn't have to go there now, would I?"

   "Don't you take that tone with me, Diane Walker!"

   Uh oh.  She was pulling out the heavy ammunition.

   "Sorry," I apologized.  "But I think we need to know what, if anything,
might be going on in there, do a little snooping."

   "And you expect me to let you just go waltzing in there alone?"

   "I wasn't planning to go alone," I ad libbed quickly, my mind going into
overdrive, wondering fleetingly where that expression came from.

   I felt Maria looking at me, and shook my head at her.  "Your pose as an
undercover cop is...."

   "Is already blown," she admitted.  "But at least I'm not back on the
street, riding one of those silly scooters and writing parking tickets."

   That had to be a reference to her troubles downtown.  I really needed to
make amends.  At least she was talking to me.

   "But you're right," she went on.  "If I walked into that place they'd
run for the exits, at least the guilty ones would."

   "But we know you're not their favorite person, and disguising you is out
of the question," Elaine pointed out to me.  "How many six foot blonde
female ninjas are there in this town?"

   "A disguise is out," Mom mused, "but some company and a good cover story
might not set off alarms."

   This from Mom?  There's hope!

   Elaine shook her head.  "If the three of us walk in together they'll go
on red alert for sure."

   We all nodded, even Mom.

   Missy, The Stick whispered.

   Perfect!

   "I could go with Missy and her mom," I suggested.

   "That woman?!  She's as crazy as that pastor of hers!"

   Mom had been rattling some pebbles in her hand and for a moment I was
afraid for our big front window.  Out of consideration for our more
sensitive neighbors we had gauzy curtains but they'd never stand up to that
barrage.

   And I didn't disagree with her about Mrs.  Wilson, but it still stung a
bit.  After all she is my best friend's mom, but I didn't say anything
about that.

   Instead I explained my choice.  "What better cover could I have than
Missy, my best friend, returning to the flock with her trusted mother, both
of them trying to bring me to salvation?  From what Mrs.  Wilson said
Pastor Paul trusts her -- he put her on the Board of Elders after all. 
Well, I guess Mr.  Wilson bought that for her, but still.  And Missy knows
what -- or who -- to watch out for."

   "Besides, what could happen to her in an open church service?"

   Elaine was coming down on my side, too?

   Ah, and what indeed could happen, I wondered.  And what could I possibly
learn there?

   Well, as you just said, if we knew we wouldn't need to go there would
we? The Stick retorted snidely.

   "But you're being punished," Mom pointed out.  "You're grounded for the
duration for sneaking out without permission."

   Isn't that redundant?  I thought "without permission" is what's meant by
"sneaking out" The Stick observed.  And what's "the duration?"

   Shush!  I'm trying to negotiate here and she's wavering.

   "And now she's asking for your permission to do something relatively
safe, in a good cause," Elaine pointed out.

   Go Elaine!  The Stick exulted.

   Caught off balance Mom subsided, grumbling "But she's being punished."

   I held my breath.

   "You guys ever seen 'The Dirty Dozen?'" Maria asked.

   I perked up, thinking of our sex ed class.

   "It's a World War Two flick about a bunch of misfits and fugitives that
are paroled to undertake a dangerous mission behind German lines," she went
on.

   Darn, someone came up with that alliteration before I did!  Shoot!

   "And most of them wind up dead," Mom pointed out.

   Maybe it's just as well I'd never seen the movie.

   "But the Restored Temple of the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One
True Church isn't a fortified mansion with armed guards and tanks," Maria
pointed out.

   "And you wouldn't be planning on blowing them up, would you, Dee?" she
added as an afterthought.

   "I never touch anything more dangerous than a bow and arrows," I pointed
out, trying to make a joke.

   And chains and feet The Stick added.

   "Speaking of which...."

   "Come down to the station.  You can try to get your archery stuff out of
the property room," Maria answered, not very optimistically.

   Mom sighed.  "Enough!  I'm obviously outnumbered."

   I recognized the symptoms and hoped no one talked while she thought.

   "Here's my offer, Dee.  Assuming Missy and Mrs.  Wilson agree to take
you, I'll parole you into their custody Sunday morning.  You'll accompany
them to church, and stay with them.  You will not go off alone, even to the
bathroom, you hear me?  You will not cause a disturbance.  You will be
polite and respectful.  Whether we like it or not, agree with it or not, it
is a church.  Behave accordingly.  Look and learn, nothing more."

   "Yes'm," I agreed obediently.  This was the take-charge Mom I knew and
loved.

   "Immediately after church you are to return home and continue to serve
out your sentence."

   "Yes'm.  How long...."

   "I haven't decided yet," she responded.

   Poor Maria actually raised her hand as if she were in school.

   "Yes, Maria?"

   "You'll need to learn to take notes without taking notes, if you see
what I mean, Chiquita.  Can't take a notebook, comprende?  I can tell you
some of the things you should watch for without seeming to be watching.  I
need to teach you how not to give yourself away.  That might take most of
the time before your excursion, so I'd like permission to stay here tonight
and tomorrow night."

   Mom nodded.

   Mom nodded.  "Set another place at the supper table, Dee."

   My heart, and various glands leaped at the opportunity.  "Yes'm."

   Part of my house arrest was hard labor -- chief cook and bottle washer,
scullery maid, whatever that is, general slave, and in-house gopher.  So
after calling Missy and talking her into going to church, against her
better wishes but to her mom's -- what's the polar opposite of reluctance?
Joy?  -- I set to work.  Maria tried to help, but I didn't know how to
interact with her.  She didn't seem to hate me for what I'd done, but how
could she not?  I flinched when we bumped skin to skin, intensely aware of
her warmth, her scent, but uncertain of myself.  I wanted her so much, her
forgiveness, her love.

   Her passion.

   Once we had the nuked stroganoff over the noodles the four of us tried
to have something resembling a normal dinner, talking about
inconsequentials, trying to ignore the whole herd of elephants in the room
with us.  When it was done and I started to clear the table Maria, wouldn't
you know it, wanted to help again.

   I felt so clumsy and stupid!  Why was she doing this to me?  It seemed
like no matter which way I turned she was there.  I bent over to put some
things in the dishwasher and her hand was on my butt!  I turned, and she
was THERE, backing me up against the counter, so close to me I could smell
her shampoo, her full, soft breasts brushing my stupid little hills, her
little diamond stud winking suggestively, her eyes dark, and serious.

   "Why are you avoiding me, Chiquita?" she asked.

   "I -- I'm not!"

   "Don' lie to me, Chiquita." She seemed to be looking into my soul, and
suddenly her manner changed from -- frustration, I guess -- to
decisiveness? Even sympathy?

   "I think we need a shower." And she took my hand to draw me close, and
it was like I'd been grabbed by a high-voltage line.

   "An' I need someone to wash my back," she added, her breath hot in my
ear, her lips were so close -- so close, and I was helpless as she drew me
away, out of the kitchen and I saw Elaine and Mom watching from the living
room as she towed me up the stairs as if I were nothing more than a
balloon, floating along behind her, my feet barely brushing the treads.

   Apparently what had begun as a professional visit was becoming a
conjugal one.  In no time at all we were together in the shower, warm water
streaming over us, and Maria gathered me into her arms and I was melting,
melting, melting in her embrace, and I was crying again and I didn't know
if it was from joy or fear or guilt, but she didn't seem to care.

   She held me and it was heaven.  Sharing the soap back and forth we began
washing each other, warm hands slithering over warm flesh, from head to toe
with special attention to those special areas in between.

   Later, together in bed, I held her and she held me.  We still hadn't
said a thing since leaving the kitchen.  We kissed and cuddled, our skins
still moist, her soft and sweet and warm against me, and I wanted to just
eat her up.

   That's all that mattered to me, all I could think of to do, so I started
with her breasts, those wonderful, full, womanly breasts with their satin
copper skin and firm, dusky, swollen nipples.  I suckled.

   When I slipped further down on her she abandoned herself to me and,
after pausing to dip into the hollow of her navel, I snuggled between her
warm thighs and nuzzled into her fragrant curls, still damp from our
shower. Her hands stroked my head while I sought her crevice, my tongue
finding her blossom slick and open and ready, and I immersed myself in her,
wishing I could be totally engulfed in her warmth and her love and her
caring as I brought her to a slow, magnificent climax, drowning myself in
her juices until she pushed me away and we were both left gasping, then
sighing.

   I swear I get as much pleasure out of giving her orgasms as I do out of
the ones she gives me.

   Then she drew me back up into her embrace, nestling my head on one of
her big, soft breasts.

   "I'm sorry," I apologized.

   "For what?"

   "I...." I managed a deep breath.  "For not telling you what I was going
to do the night of the raid, before I did it."

   "You mean to tell me you really didn't think I knew that you were going
to be there?"

   What did she say?

   I've rarely known The Stick to be caught off guard as badly as I was.

   "You knew?"

   "Of course I knew, because I know you.  I know how your mind works.  I
knew from the moment we realized it was your old house, and that inside it
there were kids in danger.  The moment we looked at each other -- before we
even talked with Mike about a stakeout -- I knew you were going to try to
get them out.  No!  Not try.  That you would get them out all by yourself
if you had to."

   "But...."

   "And I thought you knew that I knew, Chiquita.  I didn't know how you'd
do it, but I was counting on you being there, and that you'd come up with
your own unique solution to the problem of protecting the kids from the
cops.  I've heard too many stories of no-knock intrusions going bad."

   "But I should have asked...."

   "No, it's my fault." Now she was in agony, blaming herself.

   "I should have told you, but I couldn't figure out a way without it
sounding like I was telling you to be there.  That would have been terribly
wrong, asking you to be there, I couldn't do that.  But somehow I should
have made sure we were on the same page.

   "By the same token, if you'd asked me I would have had to try to stop
you.  Part of my job is to protect civilians like you from themselves. 
Frankly, I'd rather stand in front of a runaway train than try to stop you
on a mission like that.

   "I did everything I could to make sure you would be there to take care
of those kids before we busted in, and to back you up if things went wrong.


   "Why do you think I got you into all those planning sessions?  Why I
made sure you knew the schedule?  So you could get everyone, including
yourself, under cover.  The biggest risk was you or the kids getting caught
in the middle."

   I felt this huge tightly wound spring inside of me slowly unwinding, all
the tension, the fear, the anxiety going with it.

   She drew back so we could look into each other's eyes, and I saw her
love and concern "I am so sorry!  After everything went down I was in the
hot seat because they were pissed as hell and they couldn't think who to
blame, so they came down on me.  I shoulda returned your call, but between
the extra duty they dumped on me -- guess who got the job of doing the
paperwork!  -- and tracking down what you wanted and helping Mrs.  Swain it
just got lost in the shuffle."

   She chuckled.  "I gotta say, the guy running the show -- some damn
special agent thought he walked on water -- after you pinned him to the
wall his report was a work of art.  'Everything went smoothly' like it was
all 'cause of him.  Like hell!"

   She got a sly look.  "You done good.  Better than good, but did you have
to lock the bad guys up before we even got the doors down!  Couldn't you
have left us a little something to do?  We were all dressed up, only to
find the party was over before we got there!"

   I giggled with relief.  "Well, I did let you break down the doors at
least.  I coulda gone down and unlocked 'em, only I didn't think of it
until it was too late."

   "You!!!"

   And with that she was on me and we were rolling around on the bed like a
couple of minks in heat.  It wasn't long before we were in a 69, trying to
see who could eat who -- or should that be whom -- into the biggest,
juiciest orgasm, and oh it was so good.  In the end it was a dead heat, you
might say.

   For a long time after we just lay there, our heads on the insides of
each other's thighs.  I plucked teasingly at her hair, which was totally
soaked with a mixture of my saliva and her juices, while she planted soft,
tender affectionate kisses all over my sloppy mons, fingers tickling the
crack of my ass.

   When we got our strength back it was another shower, and back to bed
where we snuggled in each other's arms.

   "Now Sunday, you do just as your mama told you," she murmured.  "Just
what your mama told you.  We clear on that?"

   I squirmed against her.  "Yes'm," I assured her, and I really, really
meant it.