SENTIMENTAL VALUE
by C. J. Burke

The smoke was thick in Louie's place. I stood at the far end of the bar. The man I wanted huddled with his buddies near the door, but shifting my weight to one hip and hiking my mini a teensy bit got his attention. Within milliseconds, my man was easing himself in my direction.

"Hey, Doll." His breath could knock over a horse. "Howzabout you and me havin' a good time tonight?" He snapped his fingers at Louie, who slid two drink down the bar. "Then again, why wait til tonight?"

His cohorts snorted, chuckled and elbowed each other as they watched their leader make his moves. I played hard to get for a moment, before innocently looking into his eyes.

"Aren't you Spike Eagen? I've heard a lot of things about you."

He appeared taken back but played it cool and laughed. "Oh, you have? Gimme a f'r instance." He closed in and reached behind me, putting his hand where it didn't belong. When he got a pawful of foam rubber, he became visibly alarmed.

"What the--?"

Before he could react, my left hand had him by the short hairs, and my right hand pulled a snub-nosed from my purse and stuffed it in his face.

"For instance, there are a lot of people looking for you, and they'll be awfully happy when I turn you over to them."

Stools crashed to the floor, and a rifle cocked. Down at the other end of the bar, five guys stood ready to block my exit. Behind the bar, Louie, who had a standard "No one carries a piece in my joint, 'cept me" rule, had an elephant gun pointed my way.

Spike's sweat could have flood the Sahara, but he masked his fear with a forced grin. "Havin' me and keepin' me are two diff'rent things. You aint gettin' outta here."

"Louie," I called to the bartender. "There's five grand in my purse that says he's wrong." A large chunk of change to be sure, but Spike was worth five times that.

The barkeep's eyebrow arched at the amount. Slowly, keeping a bead of me, he inched toward the spot on the bar where my bag lay. He grabbed it, flipped it over, and examined the contents before he swung the barrel at Spike's buddies. "Keep the doorway clear, gentleman. People have to come and go around here."

He smiled at me. "Have a nice day, Miss. Come again."

Spike's smile was sucked into his throat. I yanked his hair tighter, ripping a few out, and made a deep barrel impression in his right nostril. "Listen carefully. My skirt itches, my shoes are too tight, and I've got a gun in my stockings. Don't give me any guff!"

Once outside, I threw Spike into the back seat of my Trapper and slammed the door shut behind him. The luxury car was a special design: the windows were fused shut, the rear doors only opened from the outside, and a partiton separated the passenger from the driver. What made it special was the sealing was airtight, and unless the vent was opened, my guest would be sucking up his own exhaust very shortly.

As we pulled away from Louie's and headed downtown, Spike hollered and pounded on the glass, exhausting his air supply in less than a minute. As soon as he was out, I opened the air duct and shucked off my wig and heels.

My feet were killing me. It's definitely not easy being a girl. Especially for someone who isn't one.

After collecting the bounty on Spike, I set about the task of cleaning out my car. Guess who got sick before he passed out. The stench was almost enough to turn my stomach. At that moment, I didn't think there could be anything more nauseating. That quickly changed.

I had just about finished when a familiar Caddy that I hadn't seen in years pulled up, and a middle-aged business man stepped out, Carlson Cutter, the last person that I expected to see for a very long time.

"Hello, Kent," he said.

Nausea definitely set in, and I gave him an icy response. "Good day, Mr. Cutter."

"I understand your tone, Kent. But if we can put past differences aside, I have a job for you that I know will interest you. I need you."

I laughed. "A job? The man who has always hated my job, my life, and me personally wants me to take on a job for him?" The irony of it all sang a hundred tunes.

He continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "I can make you a good deal. I can meet any fair price you set."

Seething anger replaced my mirth. "You want a fair price? Tell me where Carolyn is. You whisked her away from me because you hated me so much. Give her back to me. That's my price. Fair enough? Tell me where she is."

A single word passed his lips. "Silvercrest."

"Silvercrest? Where in hell is ..." My voice trailed off when reality struck like a boot to the head.

"I prefer to think," he muttered, "that it is situated nearer to Heaven. She's not there right now, though. There was a problem activating her clone--it didn't 'take'. Gold Cross had to exhume the body to get another cell culture to grow a new clone. The delay has reduced her chances, but they're still somewhat optimistic."

I dropped my cleaning rag and walked away. Turning back, I slammed the Trapper's door, hammered my fist against the hood, and paced a few times to let things settle into my brain.

"When did it happen? How did it happen?"

"You've probably never heard of Bill Forrest, but he's a rival of mine. He's a good man and for a businessman, he's about as honest as you can get. I've got no quarrels with him. His jackass son, however, is a lazy, good-for-nothing, money-grubbing sloth, who has never put in an honest day's work in his sorry life. He doesn't have to, either. He gets a cut of the family business and since Old Man Forrest has enough clones to keep himself as CEO for the next couple hundred years, Junior has no incentive to get off his butt.

"One night, a month ago, he bumped into Carolyn while she was out with her girlfriends. He didn't pay her any mind at first; in fact, he was quite rude to her. Then he found out she was my daughter and worth a nice sum of money, and next thing you know, the flowers and chocolates began arriving.

"Last week, my daughter was shot in the back running away from his house. One of the security guards pled guilty to a manslaughter charge, claiming mistaken identity. He'll be paid off nicely when he gets out in ten years."

He paused a moment to collect his thoughts. His hands, which had been folded together in front of him since he began, clenched together so tightly that his body began to shake. I expected a finger or two to snap off from the pressure.

I dropped the sarcasm and put a little respect back into my tone. "Sir," I wasn't sure what to say. "I'm sorry about your loss. But as much as I loved Carolyn, there's nothing I can do here. If all is as you say, then legally the matter is settled."

He spoke calmly, "It's not settled. Not after what that... that..."

I saw where this was heading. "Mr. Cutter, I'm a bounty hunter, not a hit man."

He walked back to the Caddy and retrieved a newspaper, one of the local Long Island tabloids, and passed it to me. There, on page three under a banner headline and above a sensationalized caption, lay the only woman I ever loved. I stared at her for a few seconds before yanking it away from my view.

"No," he said, pointing to the paper. "Take a good, close look. Notice anything peculiar?"

I didn't Q1wantQ0 to look again but forced myself to do so. Carolyn had gained some weight in the last few years since I had last seen her. Her sweet tooth had finally gotten the best of her. But I knew that her being a little chunkier than I remembered wasn't what her father was driving at.

Mr. Cutter waited patiently, then announced, "Her brooch. She's not wearing it. That lowlife took her jewelry. He actually had the nerve to steal the jewelry from a woman dying on his front lawn." Froth formed at the corner of his mouth.

The newspaper photo showed that nothing adorned Carolyn's sweater. Experience told me that she must have been wearing that brooch. She had always worn it ever since her sixteenth birthday when she received it as a present from her great-grandmother. The diamond-sapphire pin was a family heirloom, probably worth a modest fortune in cash, and a million-fold more in sentimental value.

"What did the cops say?" I asked.

"That Forrest says she wasn't wearing it. He's lying. He's got it, and I want it. It's the only momento I have left of my grandmother and it may be the only thing I have left of my daughter."

"Are you sure he still has it? I'd think he'd want to dump it quickly."

Cutter's eyes closed to slits, and his lips curled. "He hasn't ditched it yet. I've put too much heat on the underground. Nobody's going to touch it for awhile. But I can't keep it up for long."

I looked at Carolyn for a few minutes, remembered the time we had spent together and the day she had been taken away from me. Gone for good, it seemed now. And, in my eyes, Cutter was the only man responsible.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't help you. I'm not a burglar either."

His face turned red from a blood-boiling overload. "You're worthless!" he screamed, snatching the newspaper back. "I knew it was a waste of time coming here. You never cared about my daughter. You were just there to hurt her. Even when I sent her to Paris to finish school and meet a real man with real potential, she lived a miserable life because of you. No matter what anyone tried to tell her, she refused to throw away that stupid, flawed diamond chip you gave her."

"It wasn't a chip," I cut in. "That ring was a quarter-carat. And it amounted to my life savings at the time."

"It was a piece of trash worthy of as much sentiment and admiration as a large, unsightly wart on her left hand." He he threw the paper on the garage floor out of frustration and then threw his business card next to it. "In case you change your mind. Good day, Mr. Richards."

He slammed the door of the Caddy and backed down the driveway. Leaning out the window, he hurled his final insult. "I never knew what my daughter saw in you or how she could possibly agree to marry you. I just thank God that I was in time to prevent her from making the biggest mistake of her life."

With that, he drove away. I picked up the snub-nosed and vented my frustration by putting a half a dozen holes in as many empty cans scattered about the garage. It wasn't until I picked the paper up from the floor and looked at Carolyn's picture once more that I had pieced together everything Carolyn's father had told me. She had held onto my ring, and Forrest had stolen her jewelry.

That ring I gave her would appraise for a small sum, but the sentimental value...

I jumped into the Trapper and peeled out. I needed to drive and clear my head.

An hour or so later, I wound up at the park--I knew I'd find my way there eventually--sitting under a familiar oak tree, staring at the lake. This was... had been... our place; we came here often. After Carolyn left, I still came whenever I needed to think or just be alone. I wouldn't be alone today, however.

"Got a lot on your mind?" asked a sweet, melodious voice. Carolyn stood not ten feet away, looking just like I remembered her--long auburn hair pulled back to one side, large green eyes, and, of course, the brooch on the left side of her sweater. I wasn't surprised to see her.

"Mind if I sit down?" she asked, as she floated to the grass in a seated position.

Sure. You know I've thought about you ever since you left.

"Uh-hmmm." She stared out at the lake like she always did. "If that's true, why didn't you try to find me? Even in college you specialized in finding people."

I couldn't afford the trip to France. I could barely afford to stay in college.

"Forget Europe. You knew I was in Long Island before Dad told you. I've been there for a couple of years. There's more to this than just money."

If you came back so long ago, why didn't you call me?

"Maybe I thought you didn't care any more."

That's not true. I still cared. I never stopped caring.

"Well, how could I know that? You didn't try to contact me. Why not? The truth now. The real reason."

I was afraid.

She looked right at me. "There's nothing to be afraid of anymore. Maybe it's not too late to start looking. There must have been a reason for me to hold onto that ring for so long. It would be a shame to lose it now."

Carolyn was right. I reached out to take her hand but was too late. She had already faded back into my memories. But at least now I knew what I had to do.

From my vantage point in a treetop across the street, I surveyed the Forrest estate. There wasn't much to it: a two-story mansion, sitting to the back of the lot, with a circular driveway leading to the main gate. The entire estate was surrounded by a ten-foot-high concrete wall with security cameras posted about every dozen yards or so. The front gate was monitored by two cameras on either side of it and had a camera and speaker stationed in front of it for arriving drivers to identify themselves. Guards weren't posted in any visible location and probably operated the gate from a point within the house.

Getting in would be easy. Hanging around was another matter.

I had been in the tree for less than ten minutes when a limo drove up the street and pulled into the driveway. The driver stuck a card into a slot by the speaker, and the gates opened for him. When the limo pulled up to the house, the chauffeur ran about the car and opened the door for his passenger, a young, curvacious woman with long blonde hair that rustled gently in the light breeze and a pair of legs that might have gone on for miles had the ground not cut them off. A definite looker.

"Excuse me. Don't forget why you're here." Carolyn was back with me, sitting on a nearby branch. "No distractions. You have a job to do."

If you weren't a hallucination, I'd swear you were jealous.

"This isn't jealousy talking; it's your subconscious. You can tell she's just some cheap bimbo, and she's not your type. Now get to work." With that, she faded away, and I turned my attention back to the house.

If my guess was correct, the time for action had arrived, and I could literally catch Forrest with his pants down. Quickly, I dropped out of the tree and ran back to the car to pack my gear and set up a diversion. Five minutes later, I was behind the back wall of the estate, checking my watch.

On schedule, the Trapper roared down the street, solo, and swerved up the drive toward the gate. Unlike the limo, it didn't stop at the speaker, but instead continued on and crashed through the gates, leaving them as pieces of twisted metal. My only fear had been that the Trapper might not have succeeded in pentrating their defenses if the gates had been reinforced, but that didn't appear to be the case from the alarms that sounded.

The Trapper's autopilot and navigator brought it fifteen feet behind enemy lines and stopped. It just sat there as security trikes cautiously approached it and served as the decoy I needed to enter. The timer would tick off three minutes and then the Trapper would pull out in reverse and speed off through the neighborhood.

Without wasting a second, I scaled over the wall with the help of a nearby tree and a good acrobatic leap. A twenty-yard dash to the house and a quick climb up brought me to a window on the second floor. The alarms muffled the sound of glass breaking and my awkward and somewhat noisy entrance into an empty bedroom.

Figuring William Forrest, Jr., to be the kind of guy that would spend most of his time indulging himself, I took a guess that he would keep his valuables in the master bedroom. As I eased my way down the hall and passed the main stairs, the alarm stopped, and voices echoed up from the foyer.

"Murphy! What the hell is going on?" Forrest yelled loud enough that he'd have drowned the alarms. "Who was that guy, and what was he doing here?"

Finding those answers would keep him occupied for a few minutes. Hopefully, by that time, I'd have what I came for and be gone.

The door to the master bedroom was ajar. As I opened it, a voice greeted me. "Anything wrong, honey?"

Forrest's guest was leaning over the vanity, checking her teeth for lipstick, and was so engrossed in this that it took her a moment to realize that the man in the mirror wasn't the master of the house. She straightened up and turned around.

"Who are you?" She wrinkled her brow and crossed her arms, waiting more for an explanation than an introduction.

I stepped into the room and took a good look at her. She wore a slinky one-piece outfit that struggled to cover what it needed to on an overly generous figure. A heavy dose of eyeliner had transformed her eyes into those of a racoon. Her rouge belonged on a clown's cheeks. And her perfume was cheap and much too strong. In general, she was an overdone exaggeration of anything a man might like on a woman. I played a hunch.

"Didn't Bill tell you I'd be joining you?"

"No, he didn't," she said with a grimace. "Whatever. But this costs extra."

Bingo.

She turned back to the mirror. "Well, you might as well make yourself comfortable. Put your bag down. Is Bill coming back soon?"

"Yeah, in a minute or two." Unfortuantely, I knew that was quite accurrate. Looking quickly about the room, my eyes settled on open bottle and a couple of glasses. I headed for them and reached into my bag for the knockout capsules I had left over from the Eagen job. "How about a drink?"

The capsule I dropped into her glass added little more fizz than the champagne already had. A minute later, I was dragging her into the bathroom. I had just closed the door behind me when I heard Forrest coming down the hall.

"I'm ba-a-a-ack," he sung out from the other room.

Not wanting to caught in Forrest's bathroom with an unconscious prostitute, I started for the window. Carolyn sat on the sill.

"You're not giving up now, are you?"

Carolyn, I don't have time to argue. This isn't going according to plan.

"You never work according to a plan. That's your problem. Besides, if you give up now, you'll never see the brooch or the ring again. Forrest'll know something's up, and he'll ditch the stuff."

There isn't much I can do right now.

"Are you kidding? He hasn't got any guards or cameras in there. And a guy's holster is the first thing that comes off."

Good point. I reached into my bag of tricks, pulled out my dart gun, and flung the door open. Forrest stood by the bed only half-undressed and still wearing his holster along with a lascivious grin, which quickly faded. He never had a chance to go for his pistol, though, as a tranquilizer dart dug into his exposed neck like a wasp sting and his limp body fell back upon the bed.

The rest of the job would have been a cakewalk, except that I was racing against the clock. The safe operated like a cash machine, requiring a card key and a secret code to open. Forrest wore the key on a chain around his neck, his wallet provided me with possible combinations. I struck pay dirt on the first attempt with '1110', Forrest's birthday. His stupidity saved me the trouble of breaking through the lock.

As the safe door swung out, light sparkled off a little trinket of sapphire, diamonds, and... bloodstone? Blood caked several of the brooch's fine gems, infuriating me to the point that I nearly soaked Forest's satin sheets with Q1hisQ0 blood.

Holding my temper, I searched furiously for the ring behind stacks of bills and bonds, but to no avail. A quick check of my watch told me that I couldn't search any longer, that I'd have to come back another time. To console myself, I stuffed most of Forrest's petty cash into my backpack. As I did, alarms sounded and the ruckus downstairs began anew.

"He's back!" someone called out. "Nail him this time."

Stepping on and over Forrest, I dashed through the door toward the main staircase. The Trapper had driven though the gates again, but this time it came all the way to the front steps and stopped.

A guard at the bottom of the steps collapsed from my weight on his shoulders, which I had launched for half a flight up. For good measure, I pounded his head into the floor with the help of a grenade in my fist.

As I stood, another appeared from the front door, and rushed me, trying to wrest the grenade from my hand. We struggled for a moment as the three security trikes closed in on the idling Trapper. Being several inches taller, my opponent held a definite advantage, but shorter doesn't necessarily mean weaker. The confrontation ended when my foot connected with his kneecap and my fists and knee sandwhiched his chin.

Not having time to savor victory, I ran out the front door, leaped from the front stoop and landed with a resounding thud on top of the Trapper as it pulled away for the front gates. Despite lying as flat as possible, bullets shot past with near-perfect accuracy. Luckily, the trikes didn't continue past the gate.

When the Trapper came to rest a few miles away, I first caught my breath, then rolled off the hood. A quick survey revealed minor collision damage on the front, compounded by slug impressions--Vulcan's were my guess--all around. The Trapper had fired two rockets in retaliation along with loads of mines, spikes, and oil during our hasty retreat. The backpack had taken a bullet as well, blowing one of the corners off, but not harming the contents.

I had the brooch and roughly forty thousand dollars of Forrest's money. It wasn't enough.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to the speaker in front of the Forrest estate. The men checking the damaged gates fled to safety behind the trikes. I leaned out the window and pressed the speaker button.

"I want to see Bill Forrest," I said.

The trikes made no adverse motions toward me as I drove in and even backed away as I passed them. Instead of proceeding to the front door, I parked beneath a window through which I caught a glimpse of Forrest pacing the floor. The dash clock read ten to four; I set the panic alarm for 4 pm.

Security men growled but kept their distance from me as I entered the house. Inside, the guy I had clubbed with the grenade motioned me with a snarl into the study, just off the foyer, and closed the door behind me.

Copies of famous masters hung about the room. Bookcases lined the walls, filled with numerous tomes, their spines uncreased. An expensive, hand-carved grandfather clock occupied the far corner, and a large mahogany desk filled the area near the far wall. Behind the desk, Forrest sat composed and dressed fully in body armor from neck to toe. A machine pistol lay on the blotter in front of him.

"Why did you come back?" he asked. His was still woozy, apparently the effects of the drugs hadn't yet worn off fully.

I shrugged. "I didn't get everything I came for."

"You took my cash and--" He hesitated. "--and roughed up two of my men and a guest. What more did you want?"

"Give me the ring, and I'll leave quietly."

Forrest glanced momentarily at his heavily-adorned fingers. He wore a half-dozen rings, though I hadn't expected him to be wearing the diamond I gave Carolyn. Then he started laughing and picked up the pistol before I could draw mine.

"As this is my house, you will deal on my terms. And don't bother with the grenade defense. If I decide to kill you, this desk will provide sufficient cover should you manage to activate any explosives."

Forrest pushed the chair and stood up, remaining in his safety zone. "Where are my belongings?"

I motioned to my backpack. "Right here."

"Fine," he said, extending his left hand. "Toss the bag over here. Carefully, now."

With a drop of my shoulder, the bag slowly slipped down into my right hand. An underhand toss, off to the right, put it near the window and a couple of feet from Forrest.

"Move back to the wall," Forrest growled; I obliged him. Stepping cautiously, he made his way from behind his desk and toward the window, never once taking his eyes off me. "Make one move--twitch--and I'll drop you."

Forrest squatted down but hesitated in touching the bag as if he feared an electric shock or a napalm mine. For a full minute he contemplated the simple act of lifting a backpack off the carpet. The scene amused me as the bag contained nothing to be afraid of. When he had satisfied himself of this fact, he started to rise.

At that moment, the grandfather clock chimed four o'clock.

I ducked down and covered my face with my arms. Forrest jumped to his feet and was ready to shoot when two violent explosions rocked the building, blowing out a section of wall and shattering the window. The concussion threw Forrest to the floor, and his machine pistol flew halfway across the room.

I scrambled for the gun and then for Forrest. By the time Murphy and his pals kicked in the door, I had left the room via the new exit with Forrest draped around my shoulders. They didn't dare shoot.

Had I the luxury of time, I'd have lashed Bill Forrest to the hood of my car to prevent his security detail, who closed in quickly, from firing at me. Instead I put the Trapper between us and climbed in from the right side.

Thankfully, the groundsmen had already started cleaning up my earlier gifts, leaving a somewhat clear escape route. Instead of dropping a fresh batch, I let the rockets fly. Two of the trikes turned toward the front gate to block my exit. The remaining trike concentrated his shots on my tires.

The prospects for successfully crashing through their roadblock were bleak, at best, but I had another plan. It required speed, so I continued around the circular drive with my foot on the accelerator. My lone pursuer kept after me, taking potshots at my rear armor now that my wheels no longer presented themselves as an easy target. Security men house kept me covered, but none were armed with sufficient firepower to make a difference.

Keeping a tight grip on the wheel and compensating for centripetal acceleration prevented me from returning fire. That and the fact that my rear armament consisted of weapons of the dropped variety--if I let any loose I'd be seeing them again real soon. It made the pinging off bullets bouncing off my butt even more aggravating.

After three revolutions, I broke for the exit, leaving the trike more than half a lap behind. Forrest took that moment to revive himself. Noting the roadblock before us, he snarled, "Having me and keeping me are two different things, pal. You're not getting out of here."

A smile cracked my lips from ear to ear. Frightened people were all alike.

Swerving hard to the left, I took off across the lawn toward the corner of the security wall. Forrest screamed as emiment disaster loomed ahead. "Are you nuts? We're gonna crash!" He shook his head frantically from side to side, watching the walls close in.

The time to stop or turn safely had already fled by; we had passed the point of no return. I had left myself no direction to turn, no way to go. Except up.

With a flick of a switch, the jump jets ignited, and the Trapper sailed over the wall and halfway down the street. Forrest, whom I hadn't buckled in, flopped about the car and passed out again.

The trikes gunned their engines and tried to follow, but their attempts were quite hopeless and pitiful.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of Happague's Sheriff's Office. I left Forrest tied in a bundle on the doorstep, the brooch and its dried blood pinned to his chest. Carlson Cutter would eventually get his family heirloom back, but first William Forrest, Jr., would have some explaining to do.

* * *

Most of the following week found me back at the lake under the same tree. No ring. No Carolyn. Just the same hurt and confusion from five years ago. Did I look hard enough? Did I give up too soon? Did I want to give up?

I had risked my life many times bringing people in, but usually in the end, I had come out ahead, had something to show for it. Nothing good had come out of this one; I wound up donating Forrest's money to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. That's all I had left: wishes.

Mr. Cutter had promised to call with the results of the cloning, but I hadn't been around to answer the phone. Given the prognosis, I didn't feel the need for more pain.

Then Carolyn's voice called out to me, "I thought I'd find you here."

She stood beside me for the first time in a week, but this time was different. She wore a smaller pin on her sweater. Blades of grass bent beneath her feet, and a shadow darkened the ground behind her. No illusion.

"Dad told me what you did," she said. Her voice no longer echoed within my head.

I approached here slowly and cautiously, reaching out to touch her, to see if she were real. She stared at me curiously and laughed when I touched her arm. Filled with elation, we embraced under that oak tree where we had spent much of our college years. If this Carolyn were a delusion, then I had gone over the edge. And I hoped to stay there.

Holding her unadorned hands, I said, "I wish I'd found your ring."

Her eyes widened, and she blushed. "Dad didn't tell you? I gained some weight over the last few years, and my fingers had swollen. I couldn't wear it any more."

Carlson Cutter had always been a great manipulator; you don't succeed in business like he has unless you are. "He told me you always wore it, and that you were wearing it that night."

"I was," she replied. She reached up to her collar and carefully tugged at a chain hidden beneath her blouse. At the end of the chain, dangled the engagement ring I had given her so long ago.

She took the ring off the chain. "I guess with this new, slimmer body, I can put it back on my finger."

"No," I said, reaching out for the ring. "Allow me." This time I wasn't going to let her get away.

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