Detective Frehley watched me for a long time as I stood there, frozen, holding my phone and transfixed by the photographs. Not sure if he could hear the laughter in my ears from where he was standing, Paul soon grew restless and asked, "Who is it, Dack? He any relation to you?"

With the voice of the laughing man buzzing from my cell-phone, I couldn't take my eyes from the pictures. Aside from the person on the line saying he was me, I discovered the real shocking element here was that my fingertips weren't burning holes in the photos of the albino man. "Who is this?" I asked the phone with my voice as steady as I could maintain it.

The laughter stopped. That was something, anyway. Clearly, and politely, the deep voice replied, "I am Dack Shannon, agent of MAJESTIC SERVICES for this sector of Illinois."

Since this person possessed my cell-number, it was obvious he was resourceful. Assuming he copped it from Brittany somehow, I didn't bother to ask him about his stealth. "Tell me, Mr. Shannon," I dead panned, making Paul wear an expression like a monkey doing a math problem, "Is your mission in this sector to batter young ladies?"

Not missing a beat nor showing any emotion the voice responded with the words, "No. I replace dysfunctional agents." With that, the line clicked off.

Putting my phone back in my pocket, I looked at the pictures of the man again. One of them he was with Brittany leaving the police station. Her face was bored, as if she were perturbed, but not disturbed. I glanced up at her swollen face and bandaged body. I found myself saying aloud, "She let her guard down with him."

"What?" Paul asked, feeling left out. This wasn't an uncommon emotion for the detective when dealing with me, for sure.

"Brittany turned her back to him in this picture. She wasn't afraid of him. Why is that?"

Paul looked uncomfortable as he asked him again, "Is he a relative of yours?"

I snapped, "Because he is albino? Is every curly headed jackass detective your cousin? You know I don't have any family."

The detective's face flushed as regret flooded his features. He was trying to comprehend but treaded on a minefield. He's a big boy. Let him tap dance. Paul said, "Sorry man. I just…" then his voice trailed off.

"You weren't thinking," I explained to him as my eyes traced every feature on the man's face in the pictures. I kept trying to recall the words of my training about burying anger and channeling it to logic, but that seemed a difficult lesson right now. I tapped the wounded woman's calf with the pictures and stated, "Just as Brittany wasn't thinking."

Paul looked at me from glaring at Brittany and said, "What?"

I waved the pictures at him. "Too bad the little mole isn't awake. I'd ask her why on Earth she didn't head out of Dodge when she saw this fellow wasn't me. Look at them! Brittany isn't afraid."

Paul inspected the pictures and offered, "Maybe she found out he was CIA and helped him get out of the building?"

I rubbed my chin and returned to the side of her bed. Again, the aura of her injured condition slapped me in the face. What was I missing? "Possibly. Brittany isn't very charitable when it comes to other agents of the intelligence community. If she discovered he was CIA, then her guard would've been up. She never would've put her back to him. She's a dancer, Paul. She likes to lead, but not from the front like this."

Paul exhaled, "I'm confused."

"So am I," I confessed as her right eye fluttered opened. Her tiny body moved to the right and returned to a wooden state. "Brittany?" I said in a loud voice, attempting to call her out of the void.

Her eye focused on me and her entire body contorted with a whiplash move. Immediately, her face was wrecked with pain from this move. The white of her eye was filled with blood. Brittany's voice was barely audible as she struggled to speak around the tube in her mouth, but she uttered the word, "Dack…"

I leaned down and touched her hair. Though mangled and twisted to one side, the silkiness of her hair reminded me she remained the same person inside her wounded body. I'd never admit my stupid lack of tact in forgetting this. Since left right eye was swelled shut, her right eye went solo in displaying a host of emotions. Shock, sadness, fear, and then anger. Again, she whispered, "Dack. Sunglasses at my place."

Flustered, but trying to keep up with her, I said, "Yes, what about them?" Good night, I remember thinking, is she that self-conscious of her appearance?

Her breathing continued at a shallow pace, but better than I figured on due to her horrid condition. With breath that smelled of bile, blood, and Ranch dressing, she told me, "Protégé, Dack. The sunglasses…" she blinked and breathed deeply before saying, "You'll never get the stack. Protégé."

From behind me, I heard Paul mutter, "Sunglasses? Protégé? What the--?"

I cut him off rough, chopping at the air between us, "Shut up, detective. Brittany, who is he?"

Brittany tilted her head to the right and made a feeble attempt to raise her right hand. I picked up her right wrist and felt the texture of the soft cast on it. With my aid, Brittany pointed an index finger and stabbed into my chest…at my heart. "Protégé. He isn't playing games, Dack."

Pressing her on, I demanded, "Who isn't?"

With a gasp, she groaned the word, "Hank," and her eye closed.

I straightened out my back and looked down on her, then at the monitors. Her vitals were strong, but she was unconscious again. The view of the bed reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock movies because it was as if reality stretched away from me for a moment. Hank? Protégé? Not playing games?

Paul shuffled his feet to let me know he was still a resident of the Earth and then walked in a semi circle.

I adjusted my hat, took out my leather gloves, and told him, "You can speak Paul. I won't keep you in from recess."

"Who is this Hank? Is that the guy in the pictures?"

As I was about to speak the door opened. The young doctor stood there, smiling, flanked by two security officers. He said, "Time to go, whoever you are."

I glanced at the security men, rent-a cops by their overly macho manner and cheap badges, and faced Paul. "Good thing we are in the hospital."

* * *

When we walked out the front doors of St. Francis hospital and into the dark night of Peoria, Illinois, Detective Frehley said, "So am I still running your pale ass into the station?"

I shot him a disturbed glance and replied, "Promises to low paid security individuals break easier than a fifteen year old's heart."

"Can I tag along?" Paul put forward when I walked toward my black Monte Carlo SS.

"I thought you were tired."

The detective checked his watch and replied, "Screw it. I'm up now."

Retrieving the keys from my pants pocket I said, "You don't even know where I am going."

The husky detective jogged to the other side of my car and told me, "I like her, too, Dack. Besides, this is a criminal investigation. The rules don't stop just because you folks operate outside the law."

I pressed the key chain and the 1987 car that should never possess such a security system unlocked. "How are you on computers?"

Paul winked. "I ain't bad. What do ya need?"

"Brittany handles all of my complicated research online or hacking abilities."

Paul nodded, "Yeah, I know."

I frowned, but let go the fact that he cut me short. Paul was dying to ride with me and play secret agent. He was a good egg, trustworthy, even if he was a con-committal, somewhat immature fellow. "I must go to her apartment and follow the leads she gave me."

Paul's brow furrowed as he asked, "Dang, is that what she meant by Protégé? Is that a computer program?"

I opened the car door and motioned him to get in with me. As I sat down and confessed, "Paul, I don't know what it means. She reads all of the MAJESTIC manuals and information releases and tells me what I need to know."

Paul chuckled, surveying the leather interior of my car. "I hate paperwork too."

I started the Monte Carlo and it roared under us. "I don't think you quite get it. You don't understand the reason for my banishment here, I know."

Paul shrugged and I could see that he winked at me in the dim, green light of the dashboard.

"Well," I said as we disembarked from the curb, "Let us say that I trusted a previous acolyte too close and it turned out bad for many people. One of the reasons I screwed up was my lack of computer knowledge."

Paul gave a vigorous nod and asked, "Oh, so they put you with a computer whiz? How did you luck out and get a sexy gal like Brittany?"

Now I shrugged and changed lanes, driving through the streets illuminated by orange light. Good thing it was after midnight and not a weekend. The city was quiet. "As far as the latter goes, I lucked out. Yes, that was part of Hank's program that Brittany was supposed to instruct me on this computer nonsense."

Paul reached forward and unsnapped what should've been the door of an exaggerated glove box. When he did this a white light bathed his face and a computer screen blinked awake. "I knew ya had this in here, Dack. Since ya had this screen I wagered ya were a natural."

I drove downtown toward the Lafayette Hotel where Brittany held a permanent residence. Located next to ALICE'S WONDERLAND, the most exclusive, biggest men's Club in all of the Mid-west, she possessed a short walk to work. "Brittany did what she was told and I learned. I can turn them on and perform basic functions."

Paul closed the screen and asked, "But you're no genius, huh?"

"Nope," I affirmed, driving into the clean, well-kept alleyway behind the line of tall buildings. This was a stop off point for limos and other exclusive clients of the hotel and the strip club. The bouncers knew me well and would never call to have my car removed.

While we exited the car Paul asked the question I knew ate at his brains, "Who is Hank?"

I stopped in my tracks, assessing the buildings around us and said, "The Head of MAJESTIC SERVICES, Paul. A name you should forget and one she knew better to utter out of turn. Either she didn't see you or was so desperate she didn't care."

Paul rubbed his forehead we walked to a glassed in entrance to the hotel. I produced a keycard and swiped it through a security lock on the Lafayette doorway. "But didn't she say he isn't playing a game?"

I held the door open for him and replied, "That's what makes me wonder. Hank field tests his agents at times, but not in this way." It was at this time I relayed what the man on the phone said to me.

Paul stopped at the foot of the stairs and put forth the idea, "What if this guy is replacing you? Would Hank do that?"

I hesitated as well, looking at the auburn carpet on the steps. "I can't see it happening in such a way. Besides, if Hank wanted me dead, I'd never see it coming."

The Lafayette Hotel stretched high into the murky night laying claim to the title of the tallest building in Peoria. Though not facing much competition in that battle, The Lafayette couldn't be matched with class. A majority of the building was at the disposal of high paying patrons or visiting business individuals. Near the apex of the white building, several posh permanent residences housed Peoria's movers and shakers. Brittany's apartment was on the seventh story in the rear.

Climbing the stairway in my wake, Paul called out, "Funny they put these little apartments in the back of this swank place."

I rounded a corner and held onto the steel handrail, painted white and responded, "Most of them are for folks who work here." When we stopped on the seventh floor and stepped out in the empty hallway I said, "I always thought it was the mega-rich still insisting on making room for slave quarters."

I glanced at Paul, observed him surveying the clean beige carpet in the hall and the flawless tan walls. In a few moments he quipped, "Wish my quarters were this nice."

Halting in front of room 723, I used the key card again and the door opened to her apartment. The scent of vanilla candles hit my nose as soon as I ventured onto the lush carpet. Switching on a light and taking a few steps in the living room, I barely heard the door close behind me. I think Paul asked me what is was, but I never answered him. I could smell the distant remains of her Mellon shower jell…and the perfume that still eluded me. Swallowing hard to steel up my courage, I convinced myself that she wasn't going to walk out at any moment.

Paul strolled through her living room and said, "Pretty basic set up she has here, man. Couch, television and a bookcase? Damn, shocked she has an end table!"

I peered at the huge tapestry of Jimmy Page on the wall. Looming over her television's left edge, the guitarist's eyes were shut and uncaring in his multi-colored majesty. "She is a basic sort of girl."

Paul turned around a few times and wondered aloud, "Where is her computer? The other room?"

Before he could walk into the far rooms that housed her bed, bath and kitchen, I took hold of the sides of her large bookcase and yanked it to the right. The detective gasped as the bookcase swung out on heavy hinges, revealing a huge screen and a couple stacks of computer drives. The screen started and the computers whirred to life, causing the detective to back up. I pulled the small chair on wheels from the corner and sat in front of the screen as it booted up.

"Damn," Paul mumbled, in awe of the screen.

It bore the stylish M-S logo of MAJESTIC SERVICES and even the credo underneath. The font was different than before. Some twerp in design must be bored, I thought. "Impressive, but too flashy for me," I remarked as I looked at the hallowed out back of the bookcase. Hidden in empty books were many peripheral devices such as microphones, cameras, and such. Several disks and tiny books slumbered there as well. A few personal items like a lipstick tube, compact and a coaster sat in arms reach.

When the LOG IN prompt beaconed me, I pulled the keyboard out and typed in her code. I swore when I was denied entry but realized I forgot to advance the code. "Ok, ok, Luke wrote the book of ACTS," I muttered low.

Paul asked, "Huh?"

I instructed, "Never mind," not caring to explain the "who wrote the books of the Bible code" to Paul. The computer allowed me access and I tried to follow her final activities. "Damn, not a thing." I commented then went to a hidden function for SEARCHES. Brittany put this function in for a case where a computer challenged person like me ever was forced to get in her things…mostly in the case of her death. I searched for PROTÉGÉ and found nothing. I even used SUNGLASSES at last…and got a file I thought was useless.

"Dead end, Dack?" Paul asked, peeking into the hallway leading to the bedroom.

I looked to my right and reached into the back of the bookcase. Standing up and facing Paul, I held up a large pair of wraparound sunglasses. "I wonder," I said quietly.

Paul heard me and noticed what I held. "Dack? Hey, sunglasses! You're a genius after all!"

I pinched the arms of the sunglasses accidentally and an image appeared on the inner shell of the right lense. The aqua blue glow was tiny, but held a geometric shape. "No, but the guy who invented this was."

Paul gave me a confused look as I slipped the sunglasses on. "What's up, man?"

I gestured at the big screen and adjusted the right arm of the sunglasses. "Read it."

The detective read from Brittany's screen, "New MAJESTIC technologies have made a computer with Internet link implanted in a pair of glasses."

I read the tiny screen in front of me and said, "Yes, she told me about this weeks ago. Brittany was working with this new gadget…AH!"

Out of the corner of my eye Paul looked up at me, his face astonished. "Sonofa…. what a thing to have!"

I agreed, "Yes."

"Damn, that could benefit…"

Swiftly, I cut him short. "Our scientists developed these to aid the agents in the field. Hmm, knew I should've paid more attention to her lecture."

Paul imparted a quizzical look as he questioned, "What?"

I fiddled with the arms and the edges of the lense that housed miniscule dials. "I'm not sure how this works."

Just as Paul laughed, the small white phone on the end table rang. The detective reached for his gun, jumping. I remained steady and removed the sunglasses. Paul sighed, "Sorry I'm so jumpy."

I picked up the receiver and said, "Speak."

"667," the deep voice said on the other end of the line. It wasn't me this time.

"327," I replied. "Hello, Hank."

"Visiting your acolyte?" his voice, rather sarcastic for sure, implied in a few words the moderate displeasure he toted for my relationship with Brittany Brennan.

"Not exactly," I stated, peering back into the sunglasses.

"What is it?" Hank ordered.

While I started to relay the basic events of the night, I must've hit the right dial and the screen on the lense changed. I placed the glasses closer to my face as I saw a document screen with the header PROTÉGÉ appear. Immediately, I stopped speaking to Hank and looked up at Paul.

The words Hank said were lost in the confusion of what happened before me. Paul leaned into the bedroom again, taking a long look, and suddenly flew backwards. The detective six-foot tall and a brawny man, found himself airborne. I dropped the phone and went for my gun as Paul smashed into the couch. Paul flopped onto the floor, but my silver Smith & Wesson Auto-Magnum leveled at the short hallway between Brittany's bathroom and bedroom. In the opening loomed a target too big to miss. Even in the overpowering darkness, I could perceive a small gun barrel amongst the folds of this intruder's coat.

To be continued...

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