Desert Rose By Karisma Prologue Rated: R (For adult subject content, language, and allusions to sexual matters) Genre: General Fiction; Romance, Alt Karisma456@hotmail.com Standard Disclaimers Apply June 2001 AN: I revised the prologue to suit the times i had changed. thank you! December 2001 She was going back to Southfield. Serena Jenkins sank back into the less than comfortable seating of the commercial plane. She was oblivious to the discomfort as she stared out the small window next to her, her index finger idly rubbing against on her chin. Her mind soared through the clouds and past the spectacular aerial view of New Mexico. What she was thinking of was far more paramount than the geometrical shapes of dusky colored land peeking through the wisps of cotton candy-like clouds. She allowed her mind to go back to the sleepy town in Maine where her life was forever changed twelve years ago. She sat motionless while the flight attendant politely asked her which beverage she would prefer; she was impervious to the curious look she received when she remained silent to the inquiry. Because she was not here on the plane to Maine, she was far away in that cramped, dark space where her life took the one turn that was irrevocable. Serena jarred herself out of the trance when warm fingers brushed her hand to capture her attention. She smiled politely at the passenger next to her, answering his question which curt formality. She adjusted her attention to the small television screen some yards away from her. Julia Roberts was reiterating her non-negotiable terms for one night of passion with her to Richard Gere. Soon enough she drifted from the steamy sex scene to far more pressing matters. She was going back to Southfield. And when she got there, all hell would break loose. Desert Rose By Karisma Section One Rated: R (For adult subject content, language, and allusions to sexual matters) Genre: General Fiction; Romance, Alt Karisma456@hotmail.com Standard Disclaimers Apply October 2001 Chapter One Southfield, Maine 1989 The thing bugged people later was that no one screamed; not one sound was heard from the small, dingy apartment on Caper Street. When the shadow slipped through the door, none of the room's occupants noticed. When the shadow took on a human form, not even a glance was offered from the smiling women inside. A child saw her mother laughing as their game of hide and seek continued. She could not resist peeking through the small crack of the closet door and jamb. Only a diminutive lamplight was available, and the child took a few seconds to adjust her vision. She saw the silhouette of her giggling mother as she crept closer to her hiding spot. But the smile was eradicated and replaced with a contorted look of pain as the women's back arched. She fell onto the threadbare carpet with a muffled thump and made no move to get up. The child saw the shadow of a sharp knife rise and then come down with vague indifference. Again. Again. Again. The amount of blows ran together through the child's hazy vision. She caught sight of the shadow's face. It was pallid white with calm green eyes. Under normal conditions, it would have been considered a beautiful face with its sharp features and aristocratic nose and cheekbones. It was not the face of a killer; it did not have any distinguishable scars, nor did it offer any show of anger or passion that was close to hatred. In fact, there was no emotion, period. The man seemed detached from the heinous crime he had committed, he was deaf to the silent cries the woman was pleading, impervious to the life he was draining from the beautiful, young woman beneath him. The child's big blue eyes widened as she opened her mouth to scream. And nothing came out. She stood there, her mouth frozen in one long, still cry for help or mercy. Neither of which the man heard. The blond man turned away from the motionless woman and shook out a handkerchief from the pocket of his impeccable slacks. With careful deliberation, he cleaned the steel of the blade, slowly rubbing the soiled blood out of his prized treasure. When he was done, he tossed the handkerchief next to the woman's form and pocketed the expensive knife. He offered one last look at the woman, disgusted with the trouble and time she had caused him. "Some desert rose," he sneered in frank mockery. And then he turned on his hand-made Italian shoes and left. Chapter Two "Are you sure this is what the man looked like?" The detective asked the child for umpteenth time. She simply stared at him with the same blue intensity she had the past week. Peter Reeds shifted his gaze back at the picture the artist had produced according to the reticent child's witnessing. He had already memorized the cultured man's features, but anything was better than glancing up into those knowing eyes again. He didn't like this kid, she was a spooky bastard. Serena Jenkins was entirely too smart, her eyes much too perceptive for their short nine years. She made him feel more uncomfortable than all the drug smugglers and rapists he had been in company with. Peter Reeds was forty and, in his opinion, the only man qualified to deal with a murder in this whole damn state. Southfield's travesty of a police department was filled with sissies who wouldn't know how to shoot a semi-automatic if the trigger landed in their hands. For God's sake, the head of the department was a woman! Soon enough, Augusta's PD had stepped in and Reeds had been assigned to the case. Personally, he didn't see what the big fuss was. A whore had been murdered, so what? That made his life a whole lot easier. Sure the broad was a good-looking one, and probably a good lay, but she was still a whore. And a dead one at that. She had probably fucked the wrong man, teased him about his performance or called him impotent, and then wham! got what she had deserved from day one. But PR had realized that the hooker had a daughter and that made it a public outcry for a woman to be stabbed in cold blood in front of her darling daughter. So now justice was to be done for a woman who screwed for a living. When he had first started off, justice was done for those who deserved it, for law-abiding citizens. Not for cunts who happened to piss off the wrong men. Now His wimp of a boss was breathing down his neck for an arrest and this damn mute of a kid wouldn't talk even if he could shake it out of her without being charged with police brutality. Sighing with disgust, he threw down the pad of paper with the invaluable picture on it. He shoved back his chair and sauntered over to grab a cup of less than delectable coffee. Actually, the stuff tasted like shit. But it made him feel like a hard ass cop, a detective who knew what he was doing and didn't take crap from anyone. Draining the cup and then crushing it in one meaty hand, he hitched up his one of two pairs of slacks and sat down. Breathing in deeply, he stared at the mutilated Styrofoam on the table and shook his head. What the hell was he waiting for? He knew his orders. Cursing loudly for more show than out of anger, he snatched up the drawing and went into the small copy room. Within seconds, he had done his part of his work. Then, as he reached for the phone to call another sketch artist, his job was complete. Chapter Three "Damn it all to hell!" Nikolai slammed the phone down with enough intensity to send it bouncing up again. Even in his state of agitation, he looked impeccable. Not one strand of angelically blonde hair was out of place, not one wayward thread was found on his pinstripe suit. He prided himself on being immaculate; it was his way of thumbing his nose on the times where bathing was a luxury and being groomed was something too far gone to even dream about. But he had worked hard to achieve those dreams. Nine long years he worked his ass off to procure what he now had. Those years were still nothing to the work that lay ahead of him. At twenty four he had the wealth and notoriety that most men only dreamed of. But he had not come this far to have it obliterated by a dumbass who couldn't follow precise, easy as pie orders if his life depended on it. Which it very well did. A kid. Christ! Where had she come from? He stared down at the smooth newspaper ironed out in front of him. A nine year old who had seen her mommy slaughtered like a pig. Tsk tsk. He had regained his calm now, tempers were things that intimated weakness. And weaknesses were something that could simply not be tolerated. It was a relief to know that the orphaned witness had been rendered mute. She could not speak. Therefore, she could not spill the beans on what, or whom, she had seen. Well, there was that pesky matter of a sketch artist, but as he understood it, that was already taken care of. However, if there was on thing Nikolai hated, it was loose ends. Loose ends always came back to wrap around your neck and strangle you. Giving a curt nod, as if affirm his actions to himself, he pressed a single button and waited. A tall, fair-haired man came in, his black attire a sharp contrast to the soft ambiance of the private room. "Simon, I'm sure you heard of this." He waved the newspaper in the air as if it was a pesky bug that needed to be terminated immediately. In a way, it was. "Yes, Nikolai." "Right now, she's apparently mute; she can't speak." "Yes, Nikolai." "She's silent." There was a pause. "Simon?" "Yes, Nikolai?" "Keep her that way." Chapter Four The spook was a ward of the state. Reeds was so happy he could have chugged three bottles of beer. His restraint wasn't due to his being on duty, however, it was the fact that the brew would go straight to his already ample gut. But it was no matter, either way he celebrated, Serena Jenkins was now officially out of his rapidly thinning hair. He watched as the representative from social services entered the room and scanned its less than enthralling contents. Reeds was all too willing to point out the tiny waif to the petite woman. He waited with bated breath as the mousy woman flipped through the forms attached to her clipboard and peered at him over her glasses. "Everything seems to be in order, Detective. Do you mind if we leave now, or do you have some business to conclude?" "No, no," Reeds said hastily, praying he did not sound half as anxious as he felt. "You can take Serena now." He smiled widely and lifting his hand to pat her head. She angled away from him quickly, silently going to the small frame of the stiff woman. Reeds mentally cursed the little brat, but kept his grin in check. What the hell did he care if the bastard didn't take a shine to him? He was not particularly fond of her either. He stared as both the child and woman left the building. Watching the older female walk away, he mentally assessed her as was his custom for every other piece of ass he came across. He tried to determine whether her austere demeanor was a guise to hide a wildcat in bed. The failed attempts of his imagination left him laughing until he coughed up phlegm. ~~~~~ Serena Jenkins watched with fascination as the compact car ate the miles with a neat precision. Today was the day. Excitement was something that had been rare to her for the past year, but now, as unspoken hope surged through her, the old feeling was erupting again. She had voiced her request to Molly through a pad and pencil; she still had not uttered one word since the night she had tried to scream and could not. Molly had smiled at her serenely and ruffled Serena's blond hair with affection. The appeal had been granted and today she would see if justice had been served. Molly's warm hand found Serena's limp one and squeezed gently. Serena turned her head away from the passenger window and faced the woman's kind face. She had formed a sort of attachment to Molly from the day she had picked her up in that hateful station. Molly had taken her away from there. She was her savior. Most thought Molly Perkins was a skinny spinster with a dry face and even drier personality. Few knew how deeply she felt for her life's work. Her need to help children came from her own childhood experiences. Or lack thereof. She was sent to a horror story of an orphanage after her parents died in a car crash. After she graduated high school, she searched for such a place where she could give love to the children that had been absent in her own life. She found Augusta City Orphanage and stayed there, dismissing all thoughts of marriage. Her job was her spouse; its residents her children. And when she saw a child like Serena Jenkins, she fought to keep the tears from spilling over her gaunt cheeks. This little girl was special, and not just because of the cruelty she had witnessed. No, there was something much more deeper to Serena. Molly did not know what it was, nor was she certain she would ever find out, but one could tell by looking into those placid, discerning eyes that Serena was not an average ten year-old girl. That was the sole reason she had agreed to this fruitless excursion. There would be nothing to gain by seeking out that toad, Peter Reeds. He would have nothing new to share, he probably even forgot who Serena and Kathleen Jenkins were. To him, lives were a file, locked away after they had lost their novelty. It would break any child's heart to learn of his parent's demise being forgotten as if it were insignificant. But perhaps Serena needed this jolt to move on and maybe even speak. It would hurt initially, but then the healing process would start. Sighing, Molly took the turns that lead them to APD headquarters. Chapter Five "She wants to know about her mother." Reeds licked his lips nervously and bought himself a few seconds of time. "She's dead." "How utterly clairvoyant of you, Detective." He narrowed his eyes, he wasn't sure what that word meant, but he'd look it up later and determine if her words held as much disdain as her face did. It sure wasn't a pretty, warm face by any means, but it was down right frigid when she looked at him like that. He would have guessed she was around his age, maybe a bit older, though her bun was so tight, it probably pulled back a whole lot more wrinkles than were apparent. Reeds' eyes skimmed down her stick figure encased in a brown suit. He wondered if she was still a virgin. Probably. Her legs were no doubt clamped together at the knee. "Detective, that child is going to come in here with more hope and faith than the Vatican Council. I know it will be hard, but do try to keep your disgusting habits hidden for the next ten minutes. "This little girl wants so much to hear that something new has risen and that you have made some marvelous kind of breakthrough. You and I know that is not true, nor will it ever be. You never liked this case from the start, it was a pimple on your ass that you couldn't wait to pop. But that pimple was her mother." She paused, her brown eyes glittering with warning. "And if you upset her or make any derogatory comments about her mother's brief choice of an occupation-" Reeds snorted. "Like tell the brat her mama was hired cunt?" Molly straightened her back even more severely. "Precisely. Any remarks like that one and I'll-" "You'll what?" He sneered. He stood up, thoroughly sick of the way this bitch was putting on airs. "Listen, scarecrow, you're talking to a man of the law." "Man? We're using the term rather loosely, aren't we?" Molly smiled icily, her five foot frame militantly rigid. Reeds face grew red with anger and Molly thought blood vessels would begin popping. It was fairly obvious she had hit a nerve. He pointed to the rectangular window that would have overlooked the office had not the blinds been down. "None of them will ever be half the man I am." "I beg to differ, sir." She aimed her glacial stare at his protruding gut and smiled pointedly. "They are half the man you are." She turned to open the door for the half-pint. The adults watched as the ten year old girl walked in with as much regality as the Pope and sat in the wooden chair in front of Reeds. Her eyes stared at him expectantly. Those damn eyes. Reeds gritted his teeth and caught Molly's hostile glare. A shrill beeping broke the silence. Molly bent her head to detach her pager from the hem of her brown skirt. "Excuse me," she said and, after one more glower at Reeds, she left. Reeds sighed heavily and got right to the point, knowing he wouldn't have much time to finish this once and for all. He looked at the scrawny kid once more. In faded jeans and a flowered top, she looked like an innocent. Everything about her was naïve, except for those eyes. They were far more intelligent than most men twice her age. Even three times. Like Reeds. And that pissed him off. He smiled widely, nearly cracking his chapped lips. "All right, sport. Here's the deal. When your mommy was killed, we tried very hard to the find the bad person that did that to her. But we couldn't. And as more time passed, it became less and less important for us to find who did it. "Eventually, because of the law, we had to stop. After a certain time, we can't focus on old cases any more. We have to catch the new bad guys that killed more important people. In this world, there are people that matter. Whose deaths really matter. Those deaths have other people missing them. Your mother wasn't too high on that list." Satisfied with himself for being a perfect blend of sympathy and firmness, Reeds leaned back on his chair and watched the brat's reaction. There were no tears, which he was slightly disappointed in. It would have been cool to see those freaky eyes spill over with tears that he himself had caused. He would have enjoyed that power. Molly reentered and Serena hopped off the chair and slowly opened the door. Molly saw the proud tilt of her head, but did not miss the trembling of her chin. She sent Reeds a curt nod and closed the door behind her. On the way back to the orphanage, Molly got the surprise of her life that nearly sent the car off the road and into a ditch. Because in that car, Serena Jenkins opened her mouth and said quietly, "What's for lunch?" Even with the simplicity of that statement, her eyes remained somber. Molly did not think she had ever seen such an old, little girl. Chapter Six Reeds did not breath easy until he watched their car drive out of the parking lot and out of his life. Hallelujah. He was not a spiritual man by any means, but even he allowed whatever divine being was above him a thank you. He finished his rather short prayer and moved to the telephone. This was one call he was all too happy to make. By the end of it, he would be rid of a burden. No more questions, no more unexpected visits, no more pressure. Hallelujah. Of course, the purpose of this call was not to serve him, but a greater authority. *He* would benefit greater than anyone, and people like Reeds had jobs out of keeping *him* happy. In fact, he was lucky to be on this particular side of the law. Being a subordinate of *him* made it an everyday realization that Reeds could, and should, be behind bars instead of putting others there. All because of one, stupid mistake. Damn. The recollection of that sobering thought ruined Reeds' mood. It even doused his confidence in working up the courage to ask out that college intern who (it was rumored) would do just about anything for her thesis paper on criminal activity. Yanking up the telephone with an angry growl, he punched the numbers as if wishing it was somebody's eyes. "Reeds," he barked. "He's currently unavailable. May I take a message?" The calm voice only heightened Reed's agitation at being forced to leave this crucial piece of information with an inferior. "Tell him its Augusta City Orphanage. Room 25, Bed A." ~~~~~ When Nikolai got his messages, he was quite pleased to find the three pieces of information that awaited him. He immediately sent for Simon and barely had time to blink before he appeared before him. Nikolai wordlessly handed the muscular man the sheet of paper his secretary had noted on. "Remember what I said, Simon?" "Yes, Nikolai." "Let's keep her silent, shall we?" When Simon left to fulfill his duty, Nikolai thought about giving a thank you present to Reeds for the information he had acquired. Of course, it would have not been impossible for him to find the location, but tedious tasks like these were exactly what he had kept Reeds for. It was really quite ironic: Reeds working for the Special Victim's Unit. Nikolai chuckled lightly before deciding on a present he knew Reed would love. That college intern. ~~~~~ Molly Perkins ran from her room through the hallways a little after midnight. Her untied robe fluttered behind her, showing a negligence that was unusual for her. This was proof enough that something was terribly wrong. Her red hair was a curling mass around her face. A far cry from the sleek bun she teased it into every morning. But it did not matter right now. Nothing did, expect getting into Room 25. She burst through the door, mildly relieved to note that she had not woken up the occupants of Beds B and C. However, Bed A was wide-awake. She had trouble falling asleep in the first place, and even then, she was an incredibly light sleeper. She never cried however, which baffled even their most acuminous professionals. None of them could determine why there was a lack of nightmares invading her sleep. Molly thought there probably were, Serena just never voiced them. Although she now answered questions with short, quiet replies, she was far from a normal ten year old. Molly suspected the one thing she would never be was normal. Serena had not told her what Reeds had said to her, but there had been no emotional outburst to convey that Reeds had acted the utter bastard that he was in front of her. On the other hand, Serena was not the type to cry about boo-boos and point to whodunit. She would most likely keep it inside, guarded from everyone and anyone. Right now, her huge blue eyes seemed luminous in the dark room. Molly leaned over her bed and she could tell it took a while for the child to recognize the strange being as Molly Perkins. When Serena fully understood, she sat straight up in her small bed. No words were exchanged, none needed to be. Serena scrambled out of bed and packed her minimal belongings into a tiny bag, her gray nightgown swishing silently in the dark. How the child sensed the urgency, Molly would never know. Molly looked at the drab surroundings, silently praying for a better life for each of the inhabitants. The beige walls were once white, outlines of previous pictures could still be traced when the room flooding with the light from the small window near the ceiling. Itchy blankets and cramped spaces were all the state could provide for those unfortunate enough to have lost both guardians. Molly took Serena's tiny hand and led her out into the dark hallway, looking around cautiously for any signs of activity. Then, satisfied with the stillness, she half walked half jogged to the front doors where safety lay. When she shut the doors softly behind her, Molly was relieved to discover the car was already waiting for them, the dull purr of the engine seemed to roar in Molly's ears. She hustled the shivering child into the backseat, giving up her own robe to bundle Serena in. She turned to the driver's window and whispered, "Orange County Orphanage. They're expecting her." She stepped back to allow the car to pull away, and chafed her hands together for warmth. She did not dare go back inside until the car was clear out of sight. And on its way to safety. Molly would figure out a way to explain the sudden disappearance later. Not that it would matter much; it only meant one less mouth to feed and clothe for the time being. When the chill of the wind seeped straight through the flannel nightgown and Molly gasped aloud at the icy pricks all over her body. She turned and slowly walked back, her slippers soaked through by the snow. There was no question that she had done the right thing. She just hoped it would be enough. Chapter Seven Sacramento, California 1990 Darien Matthews came home only long enough to shower and grab his previously packed duffel bag. Kissing his mother's forever smooth cheek as she prepared dinner in the kitchen, he raced out the back door only to have her call him back. "Darien Logan Matthews!" His mother's stern voice was still soft, Darien had never heard her raise her voice at anyone. Even him. He backtracked into the room and turned to smile down at her much smaller form. She waved the spatula up at him, her sleek black hair brushing her chin as she curved her mouth into a smile. "So the big high school graduate can't spare a few words for his own mother?" Darien groaned. "Aw, Mom, the guys-" "Yes, yes. I know all about 'the guys'. They can wait for a few more minutes. Let me look at you." Debra Jing-Mei Matthews crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back to eye him critically. Darien had shot up his freshman year, leaving him with a height that took after his father. At six foot two and still growing, he was an asset to his basketball team. She was proud to say that his thick head of dark hair was her contribution to his appearance; his father had brown hair. Of course, Clark Matthews had given their son the same blue-gray eyes that had her agreeing to his marriage proposal three months after they had first met. She was proud of her son. He had graduated head of his class and gotten a scholarship to UCLA that went a long way since they now were a single income family. Oh, Clark... Darien saw his mother's smile turn down a bit and he instantly knew where her thoughts had drifted. Folding her into his arms, he gave her a tight hug, marveling on how tiny and frail she now seemed against him. When she pulled away, she brushed her eyes quickly and narrowed her eyes up at him. "Now, listen, Mr. BMOC. I know you're practically a college boy now, but don't forget to visit once in a while, okay?" "Mo-om," he whined, rolling his eyes. "I'm not leaving until tomorrow!" "Do you know what you want to major in?" "Uh, not yet." His face was impassive and blithe, something he had learned to do at a very early age. But a mother still knew. Debra realized her son's dream of becoming a lawyer from the start, what else did one figure when one's child flipped the channels for Perry Mason reruns? But Darien never voiced his ambition, just incase he failed. "Hmmm." "What?" Darien said, the blue dominating the gray in his eyes as it did when he was angry or equally passionate about something. He bit into his green apple angrily, chewing at a fast pace. Debra sighed. "Darien, you know I know." "I know you know what?" "Don't lie to your mother, young man." She waved the spatula in his general direction. "It's a mortal sin. Although, I suppose you may be doing a lot of that since you are going to be an attorney." He nearly chocked on his half chewed piece of apple. "How..." "Do I look stupid to you, Darien?" Debra had put down the spatula on her immaculate Formica counter and slapped her hands on her still slim hips. Her warm brown eyes and narrowed into slits as she formed a standoff with her only son. Darien knew no matter how many verbal battles he started, his mother was one opponent he could only dream of beating. "Now why didn't you see it fit to inform the woman that carried you around for nine months and then spent the greater portion of a day pushing you out?" She went back to her stir-fry, her small back facing Darien. He heaved a sigh. "I don't even know if I can do it, I mean-" "Darien, you take after your father. Lord knows you have his height, nose, and body, might as well take his perseverance, too!" "And stubbornness?" She flashed him a saucy smile. " Now *that* you get from me." Concentrating on the meal in front of her, she didn't bother turning around to give him her next directions. "And sort through the mail in the living room, will you?" Darien flicked a glance at his watch and decided he had time to throw a few junk mail catalogues out. A few long strides had him in the cozy room, filled with over stuffed furniture and a television set. It took him but a moment to pick out the two envelopes addressed to him. The ones labeled for his mother he tossed back onto the cherry oak table. He quickly jogged to his room and set the while envelopes down, prepared to open them later. When he turned to exit his room, a small bulletin board pinned up on one side of his room caught his eye. Although he had memorized the clippings on the corkboard, he still walked toward it, entranced by the candid pictures of the small child. It had been a year since nine year old Serena Jenkins had been forced to witness her mother's grisly murder. California, with the rest of the states, had shaken its head and tsk tsked at the tragedy, but perversely welcomed the small amount of excitement it brought to conversations at dinner parties and small gatherings. Respected newspapers had printed the story factually and compassionately. Tabloids had blazed through the sordid deal, repeatedly stressing the victim's brief vocation as a prostitute and proving that they were not above exploiting just about everyone involved. Including a nine year old child. Darien had saved most of the articles he could find, not sure of his reasons for doing so, but nonetheless tacking them up on the board day after day. The year old clippings overlapped each other, covering the titles and photos of most of the columns. He read the first article printed again, surprised it was not yet committed to memory, given how many times he had pored over the words. Kathryn Jenkins had left her home in Ohio to head for the big city to become an actress. Poignantly typical, her ideal dream had not panned out and instead she became a prostitute at fifteen, roaming the streets of New York to earn her daily bread. When she learned of her pregnancy a year later, she left her pimp and moved to a small town in Maine, managing to scrounge up a job as a waitress and an apartment. She raised her daughter alone for nine years until *it* happened. It seemed as if Darien was the only one who still remembered *it*, who still thought about *it*. When the next gruesome event happened, the country was all too willing to drop the old news of the whore and move onto more exciting broadcasts. No longer was the mute child who had witnessed more than most men saw in their entire lives an issue of paramount importance. Now that there were drug busts and foreign conflicts to worry over, the death of one woman had faded out like the worn photograph in front of him. Suddenly angry by the irrational sympathy that awoke in him every time he thought about Serena Jenkins, Darien reached out to take down the board. With jerky movements, he managed to carelessly rip out the clippings, bits of gray paper stuck to the tacks they once were a part of. The bits of carefully cut paper fluttered to the wastebasket near his desk as he turned to exit the bare room. Sidestepping a tower of cardboard boxes, Darien shut off the disturbing curl of guilt he felt flair through him. Everyone else had forgotten the senseless crime, it was high time he follow suit.