"Soon, Sam, I promise you. Very soon."

What she promised was unspeakable union.

She stood in front of the mirror, checking her appearance carefully. Hair combed, makeup perfect, skirt straight, stockings whole, shoes matched to clothing...nothing showing. Good. She was ready. If she had ever been ready for a date, she was today.

She paused at her front door, took a last look at her man.

"It won’t be long, Sam."

She took a cab to the Federal Building in the Loop but did not go in. She did not want to be discovered, there would be no stopping her. Instead she circled around to the outflow drive which led down to the underground parking ramp and, sticking close to the wall, she followed it down to the fourth level. Sam’s assigned parking spot was there, and there she would find his personal vehicle.

She walked straight to the truck. She had long since memorized his license plate number, even the VIN number. She did not touch the truck. She knew that the alarm system was armed and that guards would come running if she was foolish enough to set it off, and she would be thwarted again. She had learned this by bitter experience, just as she had learned that she dare not enter the ramp in the conventional fashion. The guards knew her, would deny her access to Sam.

She had been caught here more than once, and more than once had felt the overwhelming need to touch something that Sam touched. It would be her downfall if she gave in to this need, so she resisted the urge to stretch out her hand to the glossy black paint. Instead she stood for a moment, looking carefully at the truck, and then she stepped away, across the center aisle. As she had done before, she concealed herself amidst the ranks of parked vehicles and, with a clear line of sight to the truck, she sat down to wait.

Obviously, she knew where he worked. She spent an average of three afternoons a week crouched in this place, butt stiffening against the concrete divider, waiting for Sam to emerge. But she only did this when she knew Sam was in the office, and she always knew when Sam was in the office.

She knew where Sam lived. As a matter of fact, she lived directly across the street from Sam’s condo, in a condo of her own most specifically chosen because it gave her unrestricted sightlines into Sam’s living room and bedroom.

By trade, she was a photographer, and a rather good one. By avocation, she was Samuel P. Gerard’s personal photographer. By desire, she was Mrs. Samuel P. Gerard and under certain circumstances, namely those which Sam was never likely to discover, she represented herself as such. Had there been anyone to allow into her solitary condo, they would have been alarmed at what they saw, because they would have seen only one thing - Sam Gerard.

The walls of the condominium were papered with photographs of Sam. There were even two or three enlarged to life size - 6’1". She had learned his height by calling the DMV and paying a small sum for the particulars of Sam’s Illinois driver’s license.

On the back of her front door was Sam in his blue topcoat and red muffler. She had snapped it as he entered his own condo, using her largest telephoto lens. The photograph blocked her own peephole, but she considered that a small matter. When she looked at the back of her closed door it seemed to her that her man was coming home to her after a long day.

On the back of her bathroom door was a stunning near-nude of Sam, taken with that same telephoto lens as he emerged from his own bathroom after a shower. The towel barely covered his private parts and the long line of his naked body from shoulder to foot was clearly visible.

The final life sized shot was of Sam sitting up in bed, hair disordered by the fingers of one of his whores, stretching like a big cat. She had an entire series of photos of that encounter and looking at them enraged her - she should have been the woman lying open to him! - but she was unable to stay away from the album in which she had hidden them away. She would pore over these photos, fighting down the urge to destroy them while soaking up the images of Sam in the throes of passion, Sam’s back arched and his face tense and his hands clenched. And then she would look to her own special photo, the one she had pushed her solitary bed against the wall to be close to, and she would imagine that she had been the one to give him that ride, that she was the only woman capable of giving Sam such a ride.

She knew where his ‘kids’ lived, Cosmo Renfro and Bobby Biggs and Savannah Cooper and whichever one of the little bitches trying to insinuate herself into Sam’s life. Those fools never lasted, though, so she was constantly having to find the location of another apartment, another row-house. Sam was apparently a demanding boss as well as demanding lover and the idiot invariably found that she wasn’t woman enough to keep up in both arenas. And for a short time she would breathe more easily, imagining Sam realizing the treasure waiting for him and coming to claim it...until another simpering ass took a desk in the US Marshal’s office and tried to take a permanent place in Sam’s king-sized bed.

She knew the restaurants that Sam regularly called for his takeout meals. She had, over time, worked in them all. More than once she had answered the phone to hear the deep voice ordering Chicken and Almonds or a cheeseburger pizza. She had taken his address down with shaky fingers - how else had she known to tell her realtor so specifically where she wanted to live - and on more than one occasion she had even delivered the food. Once she had knocked on the door to find that one of the asses was to share his pizza and it had been all she could do not to lunge inside the condo with fingers curved into claws and attack.

She knew which gym Sam had joined for his workouts. She had, in fact, joined it herself, though in three years she had never once managed to work up the courage to go there when he was present. She went at other times and paddled around in the pool, happy in the idea that they shared the use of the place.

She knew precisely where his season ticket seats were located in Soldier Field. She had a seat three rows behind him, and had not missed a Bears home game in five years, though the Bears sucked and she hated and despised football.

She knew which dealership Sam leased his truck from. She had leased a truck from there herself, and she knew where he took his truck to be repaired. She patronized that mechanic as well.

She knew which men’s shop he bought his clothes from, what his waist and inseam was, what brand and style and size underwear he preferred and what size collar his shirts had to be. She knew his shoe size, the brand of dress shoe he favored and the sort of athlectic shoe he required. She knew what kind of sock he bought and how often he bought them.

She knew what television shows he watched and watched them herself. Often she watched them ‘with’ him. She knew what radio station he listened to and listened as well, though she had no great love for country music. She was aware of the books he read and had read them all. She subscribed to his newspaper and to the magazines he took, though she had yet to actually read an issue of Outdoor Life. She’d had the identical cable service until Sam bought a satellite dish, and then she bought one of those. When he went from a 25" console to a 52" projection television, she had done the same, and she had discovered the advantages of a DVD machine recently when Sam brought one home and she had to get one.

There was nothing she didn’t know about Sam Gerard or couldn’t find out in a hurry, quite literally nothing. But her vast fund of knowledge had done nothing to bring her closer to her ideal and she was growing tired of waiting, of living her life in silent agony. She could have given Sam the world, but he had given her no reason to believe he wanted what she had to offer. She had decided enough was enough.

Footsteps, familiar sounding ones. And voices raised in farewell, among them Sam’s. For the last time, she checked the loads in the Glock 40, the handgun identical to the service pistol Sam carried in the cheater holster under his coat. Naturally she knew the brand and model of gun Sam used. She had made certain to learn this particular tidbit before purchasing her own Glock 40 and government surplus shoulder holster.

A highpitched beep indicated Sam had deactivated the alarm...there he was, blue topcoat and dark grey loafers, red wool scarf...so tall and strong, dark and gorgeous...so soon to be hers for all time. She rose slowly, hoping the targetshooting lessons she had taken would help her do the job before he had time to react.

She waited until Sam had got into the truck and closed the door. She didn’t want him falling out onto the concrete. It was liable to be messy and he was too big for her to move.

Time telescoped once she heard the door latch catch. She planted her feet as she had been taught, drew what felt like an endless breath to steady herself. She heard the first click of Sam’s starter as she raised the Glock and aimed it at the back of his dark head.

Her first shot shattered the rear window and harmlessly landed in the seat, its force spent. But Sam had no time to duck, to save himself. Her second shot did what the first had not and shattered the back of his head. An obscene spray of blood and bone and brain matter splattered across the dashboard and the inside of the windshield. She had loosed a third, fourth and fifth shot instinctively and watched him jerk as one of them plowed into the back of his neck. She was already running forward...to him...to her future, as the last two shots went wild.

She had counted on surprise working in her favor, and she was to the truck with the door open before anyone could think of responding. He slumped toward her and she instinctively pushed him back into the truck. It was harder than she had thought it might be, he was a big boy and was nothing but dead weight. And she was slipping in the blood that splashed to the concrete. She turned her head strictly away. She did not want to look at his face. She had not counted on the mess she would make of his face, and the sight of one fine brown eye dangling limply on its stalk against his cheek had been enough to convince her she did not want to see more.

Once she was sure he would not slither out of his seat, she crouched alongside the truck and took his hand, his bloody hand, and held it in hers. It was still warm, like that of a living man. She curved the big fingers around hers, ignored the blood dripping from the tip of his middle finger and staining her skirt. She laid her cheek against the black sleeve of his topcoat, black and sticky and flecked with grey and white bits of tissue...and she sighed contentedly.

Cosmo Renfro was the first to reach Gerard’s truck and he screamed like a woman. "What the holy fuck did you do, you stupid bitch...Sam!...SAM!!!!" Renfro leveled his service pistol at her and thumbed his radio, howled for the world, an officer was down, a Marshal was down, Jesus Tapdancing Christ it looked like Sam Gerard was dead...

Bobby Biggs, Savannah Cooper and Sam’s latest witch joined him in a circle around her, guns drawn, eyes horrified. It was the little fool that she watched most closely, and she was gratified to see the moron begin to tremble, to see her chin begin to quiver and her finger start to tighten on the trigger of her Glock. She was not the only one to see this tiny movement, Savannah Cooper caught it and slapped the barrel to the side before the idiot could finish her job for her.

"What the hell did you do?" Biggs whispered, eyes darting from her to Sam and back again. "What the hell did you wanna do this for...?"

She did not answer, only held his hand more tightly, pressed against his sleeve more possessively.

"Drop the gun," Cooper said. The woman spoke quietly, evenly. Cooper did not want to scare her. Her grip on her own Glock tightened, but she kept it between her knees for the moment. If she moved it suddenly, she knew they would blow her full of holes and this she did not want.

"Put it down," Cooper said. "Now."

She drew another deep breath, turned her attention to the dimwit.

"He’s mine now...mine. All mine."

She raised the Glock from its place between her knees. The three Marshals in front of her stiffened, the one wannabe tried to bring her weapon to bear and could not.

"Put the gun down now!" Renfro ordered.

"Oh, I’ll put it down, alright," she responded.

There were ten rounds in the clip. She had used five. She only needed one more.

She slipped the barrel of the Glock beneath the shelf of her chin and leaned against it as though she were leaning against her hand, lost in thought.

"Better not keep him waiting," she confided, and pulled the trigger.

End