Constant in All Other Things - Chapter 01

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Synopsis:

David Sanders saw something he shouldn’t have and Agent K will do everything she can to keep him alive–-but who can he trust, as he sinks deeper into a disguise he never chose, and will he ever find himself again?

Story:

Constant in All Other Things
Chapter One
by
Fakeminsk ([email protected])

“Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent.”
Much Ado About Nothing

I stand with the gun pointed at Tom’s head.

The weight of the pistol feels comfortable in my grip. A few weeks ago I would’ve sworn to having never seen a handgun before outside of a movie or the TV. The thought of holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified hysterics. Now the ugly thing nestles easily in my grip. I’ve once again grown used to the feel of the cold metal, the weight and the heft of the weapon.

I’ve grown used to a lot of new things in the last two year: the flash of colour on my painted nails curled around the pistol’s grip, the sweep of long blonde hair at the edge of my vision, and the taste of lipstick on my lips. The precarious balance and high arch of the 4-inch stilettos is comfortable now. I’ve even gotten used to my breasts, their feel and weight and heft--to the way they move and the pretty bra that cups them.

But that empty feeling between my legs? Not that . . . that I will never get used to. The bastard responsible now sits tied to a chair, face bloodied and back bowed. I stand here with a gun pointed at his head. There is a simple beauty to the image we present. My slender bared shoulder and dainty outstretched arm, with its delicate silver bracelet that flashes in the flickering half-light of the dirty little room, trembles only slightly with indecision. There are a few feet of empty space, and then Tom’s battered face, eyes squeezed shut in terror. Not for the first time I admire the elegance that reveals itself in the ugliness of violence. After all I’ve endured: revenge.

The moment he opens his eyes I’ll shoot. I want to see the look in my friend’s eyes one last time.

“Oh, God. Please . . . don’t do this.” His voice pleads. The bastard keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m so--it doesn’t--I didn’t--it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t answer. The gun feels heavy. I’m a lot weaker than I used to be.

“Cindy,” he says. “Please.”

“My name’s not Cindy,” I hiss.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “David,” he says.

“Say it again.” I want to shout but my voice comes out hardly louder than a whisper. “Open your eyes.”

“David,” he repeats, louder.

“Look at me!”

He opens his eyes. He looks straight into me. His eyes are blue but so clear they seem nearly transparent. They are the most attractive feature of a very attractive man. A woman could easily lose herself in those gentle depths. I did.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

But I am not a woman. I squeeze the trigger.

***
***

“You did the right thing,” Agent K said. Her grip on my shoulder was strong and she looked straight into me. “Trust me.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one heading out in front of a courtroom full of people, in front of Jeremiah fucking Steele, and accusing him of murder. This guy wasn’t some backstreet thug who’d knocked over a liquor store. He was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, a pharmaceutical magnate and all-around nasty guy. Rumours had him involved in all kinds of stuff. Shady stuff, you know?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t scare easily. Growing up I got involved in some pretty heavy shit, the kind of stuff you don’t tell nobody about. I’m not particularly proud of my past. I’m not ashamed of it either. But if people knew some of the things I’ve done? Yeah, I wouldn’t even have the one or two friends I do.

But for all the harrowing shit I’ve been through over the years, even I know better than to mess with a mean sonuvabitch like Jeremiah Steele. Squealing on him was asking for a whole world of pain and retribution. So Agent K didn’t need to tell me I was doing the right thing. I knew full well what I getting myself into, and I had my own goddamn reasons for doing it.

See, I’m a mean sonuvabitch myself. I really am. I’m not a nice guy. Now, being an asshole has done me really well in the corporate world. It’s where I’ve found myself working over the last few years. It’s a whole different world than when I was a kid, running with gangs and all that shit. But for all that, it’s not all that friendly, this corporate existence of mine. Oh sure, there’s swanky suits and air-conditioned hallways and some mighty fine ass walking through the office, often ready for a quick tumble if you drop ‘em the right line . . . but there’s also a lot of self-serving pricks and political shit going on. I haven’t figured out if I love or hate this new existence yet. I mean, seriously, I thought I was a jerk, but then I started working at NeoPharm and . . . . wow. Some of these guys? They make even me feel good about myself. And yeah, I said NeoPharm. You buy their products. It’s a subsidiary of this-and-that and part of Jeremiah fucking Steele’s corporate empire.

I didn’t know who I was really working for when I got the job, of course. I wouldn’t have taken it if I’d known that scumbag was in charge. Like I said, I’m an asshole . . . but even I’ve got my limits. Some things I just won’t do. I’d like to think I’ve got a, you know, moral code or something, although that makes it sound far grander than what it is. It’s probably more trouble than it’s worth. Truth be told, it’s also a bit shaky, this moral code of mine. It’s not like I’ve ever sat down and thought it through or made a book of it. Trust me, I’m not that clever. It’s not the bloody Hagakure or anything like that. I’m no damned samurai. But I know what I think is right, and what I think is wrong, and always do what I think is right, and avoid what I think is wrong. Always. Well, almost always.

So for instance, I’ll never backstab a friend. Ever. Way I see it, that’s the worst thing a man can do. When you get down to it, there ain’t much I wouldn’t do for a friend. A real friend, that is. It’s not like I’ve got that many friends, you know? You’ve got to watch out for the ones you’ve got.

And so, yeah, I didn’t need this Agent K telling me I was doing the right thing. I mean, I saw Jeremiah fucking Steels blow some guy’s head off, right there on the top floor of where I work.

Did I same ‘some guy’? Ha! Georgio Antazzi wasn’t just some guy, any more than Katherine was that girl I ‘liked’. Fuck. And yeah, I said Antazzi--that guy, the son of the mob boss. The apple of his eye, the High Street golden boy, the one who’d done good. All kinds of implications there, you know? Mob connections, murder, some of the scintillating dialogue overheard between the two before Georgio became a red smear across the floor, and of course, what they were up to before Tom and I stumbled into the room. . . .

Tom? He’s my best friend. I’ve known him for a couple of years now, ever since I started at NeoPharm and dedicated myself to living all, you know, normal-like and shit.

Yeah, Tom was there as well when Steele offed Georgio. He shouldn’t have been, of course. It was my fault. More or less. That’s not true. It was entirely my fault. I hoped I wouldn’t have to explain that as well. It’s not like Tom and I were supposed to be hanging around the top floor, yeah? That’s why he’s also a witness. Between our two testimonies, Agent K figures there’ll be enough on Steele to take him down, and hard, especially with all the extra inquiries that’ll be launched into his shady dealings. If that doesn’t get him, well, the backlash he’ll suffer from his power-mongering allies and enemies should do him in, she figures. K seems to have some kind of personal grudge against that bastard Steele.

So, yeah, chance to take down the bad guy? Of course I’m going to do it. Even if only half the rumours are true, the guy had it coming. It’s the right thing to do. Not heroic, not brave--just the right thing.

Problem is, doing the right thing gets you killed. Pissing off a guy like Jeremiah Steele gets you worse than killed. I’m lucky that way, I guess. I don’t have any family to worry about. The few really good friends I have I haven’t seen in years, and they can take care of themselves. I’ll even pity the dumbass that goes after them. Like I said, I wouldn’t backstab my friends, not even for something this important. I definitely wouldn’t let some stupid moral code--as shaky as it is--put them in danger if I didn’t think they could handle themselves.

As for myself--well, normally I wouldn’t be too worried. I haven’t had to in years but I can make myself disappear if necessary. It’s one of the few benefits of a messed up childhood: you learn to take care of yourself. This is different, though. This is . . . you know, Steele. I’ve rubbed shoulders with the powerful before, but nobody in this guy’s league. The dude’s seriously dangerous. Vengeful. Even if only half the rumours are true, you don’t get away from this guy. Unfortunately, rumours are usually only half the real story. In my experience, it’s the really scary stuff that people don’t know about.

But hell. I’m a man, dammit, and a man’s gotta do–well, you know. This Agent K woman’s promised me some witness protection-style help. I’ve got my doubts, but who knows? Maybe they can hide me somehow really good. Otherwise, I’m a dead man.

“You ready?” K asked.

I took a deep breath and checked myself over in the mirror. “Yeah.”

***

It went well. Of course it went well. I’m a good-looking guy. No, seriously, I am--and I don’t mean that in a conceited way. But hey, good-looking people get treated better, everyone knows that. Ask that sexy chick flaunting it when she steps into a store. Who d’ya think gets better service, her or the little mousy one scurrying along behind her?

It’s not as extreme for guys, but yeah, I get listened to and treated well, and it’s not fucking fair but there you have it. The only thing that works against me is my height. I’m only five-foot-five-and-a-half, though I drop the half because it’s pathetic to hang on to that extra bit of height. So what if I’m a bit short for a guy? I couldn’t care less. Seriously. I don’t. Listen, if some girl thinks I’m too short to date then fuck her. Bitch. It’s her loss.

Otherwise I do well. Better than well, to be honest. I’m not too big into the fashion thing but keep myself looking good, know where to shop and wear nice clothes and I’ve got just a touch of that long-haired bad-boy thing going on, left-over from my teen years, I guess. I keep my face smooth, though truth is the best I can manage is some rough stubble after a week or so--I call that my ‘artistic’ look. Swap the clothes and it’s also my rugged look. I’ve got green eyes girls seem to love, flecked with grey. I look younger than I am, and that boyish-charm thing can manage wonders, sometimes. Even in the corporate boardroom, especially if it’s some chick CEO I’m trying to impress.

Another thing the girls love is the body. I keep myself in shape. Now there’s an understatement! I keep myself in really good shape. Some might call it obsessive. I guess some habits just die hard. Chicks love the abs of steel. Couple that with money and, yeah, I do pretty damn well at the clubs on a Friday night. I’m no millionaire, but I’m better than just well-off. Chicks, they also love everything that a man with cash represents.

It helps that I’m a smooth talker when I’ve got to be. I don’t like doing it too often, because it feels very phoney to me, but it’s a necessary skill when clinching a marketing deal or convincing some girl to come back for the night. So working that court over was easy. I didn’t lie, of course, but there are ways of persuading people of your point of view, especially once you’ve figured out who you’re dealing with. I’m pretty good at that, sussing out what people want and then giving them the details they expect. I had the courtroom hanging on every detail as I explained the how and the why of Tom and my race to the top of the office tower, and what we saw while hiding in that executive secretary’s office.

Perhaps I overdid it. I got carried away by my own eloquence. It wasn’t the conversation I overheard, or even the fight or the whole gun-to-head thing that set Jeremiah off. The man in question took that very well. He sat behind his table, towering head-and-shoulders over his team of lawyers, and seemed highly amused by the proceedings. The man should’ve been nervous as hell but hid it well behind this fucking smirk the whole time. I think that’s what got me. That goddamn smirk. I hate arrogance. I really do. It pissed me off so much I added in some details that, strictly speaking, were true but very much unnecessary.

Steele kind of lost it when I got to those sketchy bits. Hard to make out exactly what he said, what with all the ranting and flying spittle, but I’m pretty sure I heard: “You’re a fucking dead man, Sanders!” and “I’ll have your goddamn balls on a plate!” and more threats of that sort. Shouting in front of everybody, rushing the witness stand . . . it took half-a-dozen men to hold him back from throttling me. Well, from trying, that is. I don’t throttle easily. Saying that--the man’s not small. Over six feet tall and all muscle, the guy reached the witness stand, bowling his way through the security and swearing the whole way, before they managed to pull him back.

They rushed me out of the courtroom into a small side room. Agent K was waiting for me.

“We should get you out of here,” she said. K’s damn sexy--in that severe, short-haired, lesbian kind of way--but not big on small talk.

“Hey, I’m feeling okay,” I said. “Thanks. Nice crowd, good security. So yeah, I’m feeling pretty good about myself.”

“Please try to focus, Mr Sanders,” K said. “You know what kind of man you are dealing with. If he has threatened to kill you, you can be sure he intends to follow through. Mr Steele is a very vengeful man. More importantly, he can not afford to look weak in front of neither his allies nor his enemies. Especially considering the nature of your accusations.” She hesitated for a moment. “Were they true?”

“Yup,” I said. “Every word.”

“Why did you include them?”

“Dunno. The bastard was just pissing me off.”

K sighed. “You embarrassed a very powerful man in front of many very powerful people, Mr. Sanders. Simply testifying was enough to put you in a very precarious position, but now . . . I fear Mr. Steele will stop at nothing to make an example of you. Even if made in the heat of the moment, he has no choice but to stick by his words. That was not just a threat; it was a death warrant.”

She’s not so good at inspiring confidence, this woman. I nodded. “So what do we do?”

“First? We get you out of here. Then we relocate you, give you a new identity, and make you disappear. And quickly, before Mr. Steels has time to declare open season on you.”

“Then let’s get started.”

Without another word she walked over to a corner of the room and bent down for a large duffel bag. I enjoyed the view as K’s tight skirt strained against the rounded firmness of her ass. Hey, like I said, she was a real looker, even if she went in for that real severe look, what with the past-the-knees skirt and mannish jacket and clunky heels. Tall and slender, she gave an impression of tightly-coiled strength, somehow, and at a glance you knew better than to fuck with her. She was pale, with a long face and thin lips that seemed perpetually set in an expression of mild disdain. Her hair barely reached her shoulders but somehow softened her look, an unexpectedly feminine touch on a woman who seemed eager to shed the outward trappings of her gender.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked dryly. Sharp eyes, this woman. We’d only met a few times, in arranging for my court appearance and in keeping me safe and hidden before the trial. There’s something very off-putting about her, to be honest. Like she knows more than she’s letting on. The fact that she didn’t respond to my charms didn’t help either. That’s her name, by the way, as far as I know. K. It has to stand for something but I’ll be damned if I know. I had this feeling that she didn’t particularly like me. At the same time I honestly felt like I could trust her, which is saying something. I’m not a very trusting person. You could say I’ve got commitment issues.

“So how do I get outta here alive?”

“With this.” She dropped the bag on the table. It looked heavy but she moved it without much effort. She zipped it open, reached in, and pulled out. . . .

“A dress?” It was a sexy little number, red and tight. “What the fuck, you’re gonna disguise me as a chick?”

She looked at me oddly. “That would be idiotic.” She reached deeper into her bag and hauled out a heavy vest, the kind with Kevlar in it. “I think this would prove more helpful, would you not agree?” she said, handing it to me. “Unless you had your mind set on the dress, of course. I have some darling heels in here that match.”

“Very funny,” I said. I slipped on the vest, its weight reassuring.

“There is a car waiting nearby. When I give the signal they will come around the side of the courthouse. We leave by a side entrance. You should be exposed for no longer than thirty seconds. Other agents, dressed similar to you, will leave by alternate exits simultaneously, hopefully confusing anyone keeping watch. Once we reach the car it will carry us to a safe location where we can begin to process your relocation and new identity.”

I nodded.

She handed me a heavy green sweater from her bag. I pulled it on over the vest. It was a bulky Gap thing--nondescript, and it hid the vest. I wondered if Tom went through something similar. He was a tough guy, but he didn’t have my . . . background. I’m sure that I would have been shitting myself if I hadn’t been through some rough times as a kid. I wondered where Tom was right now. He was due to appear in court after me. I had no idea how the case against Steele was doing–it’s not easy to get news while in hiding, especially when the trial is behind closed doors. Hopefully fucking Steele wouldn’t be as pissed off with Tom as he was with me. No reason why he should be; Tom didn’t see as much as I did.

Standing there just before K hauled me out of that room, with a higher-than-normal chance that I was about to get gunned down like some clay pigeon, I think what bothered me the most was that I’d probably never see Tom again. K was going on about procedures and I only listened with half an ear. I was thinking about my friend. Somehow I knew the guy was okay. He was a good guy. But with this relocation thing, chances are we’d never meet each other again. Man, I hate losing friends. It wasn’t the first time, you know? But it still sucks every time.

“Are you ready?”

K was looking at me expectantly. Even in civilian clothes she looked like a fucking federal agent, if you ask me. What’s the point of me putting on this shitty sweater if I’m hanging around with someone who just screams “secret agent”? I took a deep breath. Calmed the jitters in my stomach. Focused. Nodded.

She made the call. Pulled me forward. We walked quickly through the back corridors of the courthouse, our footsteps echoing through the narrow halls. Bland white walls and flickering fluorescent lighting. Nondescript faces flowing past. The sudden pungent smell of gasoline. A solid metal door, red and pitted and cool to the touch. Another deep breath and I felt coiled like a spring. Instincts long forgotten and forcefully buried awake began to awaken.

God, I was loving this. I hadn’t felt this alive in years.

We pushed through the door. The first bullet hit before I managed a single step.

***

“Mr. Sanders?”

The voice reached me through layers of pain. The darkness slowly receded. I took a shaky breath. Those vests are great at stopping bullets, but not so great at stopping the bruising. I wasn’t dead, but the way I felt nearly left me wishing I was. I knew when I looked down my chest would be a Rorschach test of black and blue.

I opened my eyes. K was watching me closely. She didn’t look all that sympathetic, but the moment she saw I was awake she reached out of my line of sight and brought back a glass of water.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

Yeah, wonderful bedside manner, a real Nightingale, that K. Pain flared across my chest as I struggled to sit. Just like I expected: one massive bruise. My whole chest and upper abdomen was a purple and yellowed mess. The bastard who shot me must’ve been close. K placed some pillows behind my back to prop me up. My vision swam momentarily and my head throbbed with the effort. I reached up and found a sticky spot near my temple.

“These will help with the pain,” she said and for a moment, as she handed me the glass of water and two white tablets, she actually looked worried. Who knew the frosty secret agent could actually show concern for my well-being? I popped back the pills and the glass of water.

“You’re tougher than I imagined, Mr. Sanders,” she continued, that moment of sympathy apparently gone. “The assassin was standing right outside the door when you stepped through. He fired two shots that both caught you right over your heart. The impact sent you back into the doorway. Your head connected with the edge of the doorframe. A third bullet caught you in the side and the last one in the back, before the assassin was dealt with.”

It was hard to focus on what K was saying. My vision swam for a bit. I must’ve hit that doorframe pretty damn hard to mess me up like this. Like I said, I’m in good shape and I’m pretty tough. I’ve taken some harsh beatings in the past. Then again, four bullets at point-blank range? I was lucky to be alive. Vests aren’t the best thing in the world from the side. After hitting the door I must’ve spun as I tumbled to the ground, spreading the second double-tap between my side and back. No wonder each breath was like sucking on a hot coal.

K handed me another glass of water that I eagerly drained. Shaking my head and breathing deeply helped clear my head a bit, and finally my vision stopped swimming and the buzzing in my ears eased somewhat. There was still a faint worrying hum in the back of my mind, similar to a mild concussion but a bit different somehow. Mostly I just felt really tired. Funny how four bullets to the midriff can knock the wind out a person.

K pulled up a chair and sat next to me. She looked the same as before: same clothes, minimal makeup, angular features pinched into an expression of severity. Too bad, really: she’d be damn fine if she tried a little harder. I looked around and saw that I was propped up in a dirty single bed in a small, plain room with peeling and yellowed wallpaper. Probably some kind of safe house or something. Still, the question had to be asked. “Where the hell am I?”

“I pulled you into the car and we managed to escape before any more of Mr Steele’s agents could open fire. We took a very indirect route; it is unlikely that we were followed to this location. However, it would be unwise to stay here for any length of time.”

“Yeah, great.” Sunlight beamed in through the open door leading into the room. I must’ve been out for awhile. I gently probed my chest--it felt a bit like tenderized beef. I should’ve hurt more, but those pills of K’s worked fast and seemed to be keeping the pain at bay. The cloudiness in my head wasn’t retreating, though, and that had me a little worried. “K? I’m not feeling so hot.”

This one time at work I got really sick. It was some kind of crazy flu that landed all kinds of people from the office in the hospital. Like, over 40 Celcius temperature kind of sick, with swimming vision and that floating, detached kind of feeling. But I didn’t tell nobody. There was work to do and an important presentation to make to a client, and I got through it. Afterwards I passed out for something like 48 hours straight. When I got back to work I’d earned my first promotion and suddenly had a secretary and all that jazz. She was a real hottie, too. I think that’s when I met Tom, and the whole friendly rivalry thing started.

K nodded. “I see.” She stared me straight in the eyes. It was a bit eerie, really. When you think about it, people almost never stare you straight in the eyes. It’s a challenge, in a way. Or a sign of intimacy. I’d be damned if I’d look away, but it actually made me a bit nervous, the way she looked at me. She looked a little hungry. Or angry. “Mr. Sanders, I want you to understand that I will do everything I can do to keep you alive.”

I nodded. I already knew that. Like I said, I’m a good judge of character. Usually. I know who my friends are, as few as they are. I know who’s a proper asshole and who’s likely to screw me over and when someone’s a phoney and a liar, usually within a few minutes of meeting someone. And I know who I can trust.

“And Mr. Sanders? I need you to trust me.”

I’m not a trusting person. Tough childhood. I’ve been screwed over far too often in the past. But staring K straight in the eyes as I lay battered and bruised in that bed, my head all foggy and buzzing--somehow, it renewed my belief that I could trust her.

“This is just a temporary safe house,” she said. “To call the medical facilities here ‘limited’ would be generous. Those shots you took were at very close range. Even with the vest, I’m concerned for your well-being. Especially with the bullet to your side.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You may need professional medical assistance. But I fear that to bring you to a nearby hospital would place your life at greater risk.”

“Yeah, and?”

K gave me a long look. I stared back at her blearily. “I have a proposition for you,” she said.

She’d done a pretty good job of getting me to the hearing alive and out of the courthouse--even considering I’d been shot four times. I mean, this was fucking Jeremiah Steele; I couldn’t help but wonder how many other agents turned down the assignment because they were afraid of the guy. But not K. I wouldn’t say I trusted her implicitly, but even with the whole dyke thing going on she seemed to actually have a clue, compared to most other authority figures I’d met. Besides, who said shit like “I have a proposition for you,” anymore? People just don’t talk that way. But K did. I think I liked her.

“Yeah? What is it?” I tried to sound tough but could hardly stay awake.

“I fear you won’t like it, David.” That’s when I really started to worry--when she called me David. I certainly woke me up a bit. Every communication we’d had, every meeting, she’d called me Mr Sanders. Just like she called that bastard Mr Steele and Tom, Mr. Smith. So if she was suddenly calling me David, then this had to be bad.

She gave a sigh. She pulled out a thick folder, one of those plain beige ones. “This is you,” she said. I looked at the folder and focused and eventually could read my name. David Sanders, age 25. Yeah, that’s me. She flipped it open and the top sheet of paper had a picture and a small summary of who I was and where I’d come from. The picture was from my ID photo at NeoPharm, looking just a bit goofy. I had to strain to read the summary of me, and it looked at lot like a basic CV, just with some extra details. I had to choke down a laugh when I looked through my educational and childhood history. Nothing about the gangs and the other stuff. Which is what I’d been promised, of course. Just a nice, ordinary high school past, complete with passing grades and a smooth ticket into university and a slick degree.

“And this is who I suggest you become.” K hesitated a moment and slid a second folder in front of me. It was much newer and thinner. I flipped it open.

There wasn’t much to read on the cover sheet. Only a name and an age:

Cindy Long. Age 20.

To be continued...

Notes:

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Comments

Ok It's Mickey S and agent K

Ok It's Mickey S and agent K then.
Kind of smoky in here ain't it.

But don't you worry, it's 106 miles to Chicago.
We got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes.
It's dark and we're wearing sunglasses ...

I'm game :)
Ray-bans anyone?

Cheers
Yoron.

Great Story

Hi, good to see you're posting this story here as well. You said in your notes FM that you were going to revise the story. Is this the revised version or the same version?

Updated posting

Hi. Yup, I wanted to wait until I had revised the story before posting here. Most of the edits are minor (typos and such) and a few are larger (especially in later chapters). I've revised the first five chapters and as I clean them up I'll post them here. Revised though they are, I'm still more than happy to receive feedback!

Also... how do I set the story in the 'serialized chapter' format?

-F.

"serialized chapter"

erin's picture

I usually do that but if you want to do it, use the "+story tree" link in the top menu to create a title page, then you can use the outline tab in the edit story screen to attach each chapter to the title page.

Or just leave it for me to do which I probably will when the current chapters are rotating off the front page or you post a third chapter. :)

- Erin

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

Hi there F

kristina l s's picture
Nice to you here. Do I have to re-read or are changes minor enough as you say? Still unsure about #10 (at FM)it seems a little schizoid. But perhaps #11 will sort my head out, or DavCin's? For anyone that hasn't seen this, despite some minor quibbles it's great, so read on... Kristina