Sunday, June 26^th

Alexis was relieved promptly at six o’clock by the guy who had drawn the Sunday night shift. She liked him. He was a funny looking little guy around 30, a bald spot already beginning to show through his short hair. He always seemed nervous around her, but he was polite and he made her laugh.

Monday and Tuesday were her days off. She was looking forward to sleeping late both mornings. It was a short ten minute walk to the Montgomery Street BART station. From there it was just over half an hour and another ten minute walk to the house in Richmond, just north of Berkeley, her home for now. After all she had been through, it was an idyllic place.

She walked briskly, watching the myriad of people crowding the streets of the city. She was amazed, happily so, at how her life had turned around. She had been born Alexis Brandt near Sacramento to a dysfunctional family. In her desperation to escape she made bad choices. Heavily into drugs by 15, she was turning tricks on her own at 16.

Then she met John Neal. He rolled up beside her on his Low Rider. He had an evil smile that turned her on and an endless supply of drugs. He convinced her to go with him to New Orleans. They’d have some fun, he said. There would be easy money, he said. She was stoned. She didn’t care. She climbed on the bike behind him and held on.

In the Crescent City, John took her to meet an older man. The man gave John some money and that was the last she saw of him. The next ten years were a maze of strip clubs and motel rooms with strangers who had the price. Every day was a desperate search for another day’s supply of whatever drug would let her escape the misery of her reality. They called her Piper. She didn’t know who Piper was. It was someone she pretended to be.

Her life took a turn when she was arrested the last time. It happened by accident. The lieutenant wasn’t vice. He wasn’t looking for hookers. She propositioned him in front of the casino. With a crowd of tourists looking on, he had no choice. He arrested her more out of pity than sense of duty.

As he guided a stumbling Piper into the precinct, Bev Prentiss was coming out.

“Where y’at, Jordan?” she said, greeting him with the uniquely New Orleans phrase.

“Awright, Bev. Awright.”

“Who you got there?”

”Don’t know her. She calls herself Piper.”

“Mind if I talk to her?”

Jordan stepped away to give them privacy, making sure to stay between his prisoner and the door.

Bev ran a rehabilitation program for addicts. She had a special feeling for young women on the street. Girls like Piper. Bev had been one of them. But that was a long time ago. She was over 60 now and had put on several pounds since her time on the street. Today she was dressed in her usual jeans and men’s blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

She had helped several women recover from the addictions and move on to happier lives. She had some failures. Some were heartbreaking. But she never gave up on the girls as long as they didn’t give up on themselves.

She talked quietly to the young woman for a few minutes. Jordan saw Piper nod her head. He saw Bev speak again. From the look on her face she was speaking sternly. Piper chewed on her lip. She nodded her head again.

Bev seemed satisfied. She left Piper sitting on the bench looking dazed.

“Think you might talk to a judge and get her assigned to me?” she asked. “I think I can help her. At least I’d like to try.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The next six months were hell for Piper. By the seventh month, Piper no longer existed. Alexis Brandt had come back to life.

Bev and Alexis decided it was best if she got out of New Orleans. She needed to be in a place where no one knew Piper. Where no one would try to convince Piper to come back to life to walk the streets again. Bev had a friend, a retired nurse who worked with her at the rehab facility, who had inherited a small house in California’s Bay area.

When Bev asked, Abby said she would be happy to rent Alexis a room. She was a good choice. She knew exactly what she was getting into. She could help Alexis in her continuing recovery. If problems developed, Abby knew how to handle those, too.

Alexis was almost skipping up the short sidewalk to the small house. Her light brown hair bounced on her shoulders. Her birthday was coming up in August. Abby had promised to take her to Napa Valley to commemorate the occasion. She didn’t remember anyone ever acknowledging her birthday. Her first birthday celebration would come when she turned twenty-seven. But the past didn’t matter. She was excited for the present. For the future.

Stepping lightly up the two concrete steps to the porch, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. She froze where she stood. All the light seemed to have suddenly been sucked out of the house, leaving her in darkness. Darkness that threatened to close in on her. To crush her.

“Hello, Piper,” the overweight slob sitting in Abby’s favorite chair greeted her. The small semiautomatic pistol in his hand was pointed directly at her. The Smith & Wesson .40 caliber was popular with people like Steve Burgess. It sported a lightweight plastic frame with stainless steel barrel and slide. It held a fourteen round magazine. As far as semiautomatic handguns go, it was relatively cheap.

Alexis was barely able to speak.

“Burgess,” she finally managed to utter. “What are you doing here? How did you find me? How did you get in here?”

“The how isn’t important,” he said, with a sneer. “I found you and I’m here. That’s all that matters. And you’re going to help me.”

Alexis summoned her courage.

“No, I won’t help you,” she said. “I’m not going back to being Piper. She’s dead and she’s going to stay dead. You can shoot me if you want. I won’t help you.”

Burgess laughed.

“I wouldn’t dream of shooting you, Piper,” he said. “I’ll let you watch me shoot the old woman you live with here. I’ll let you stand close to her so you are covered with her brains when I blow them out of her skull.”

“No, don’t hurt Abby,” she pleaded.

“She’s safe, Piper,” Burgess said, “as long as you do what you’re told.”