Tommy G. appeared next to me. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt but no tie. He was twisting a wool scully cap with his fingers. Dead center of his forehead was a bright red dot.

The entire scene was pitch black and yet for some inexplicable reason Tommy was bright as day. He was pleading with me, "Picker, I'm terribly sorry, really, I am. Please, Picker, help my brother, don't let anything happen to him…" and on and on he groveled.

In the distance I heard what may have been a large animal snoring.

I rolled over and lifted one eye. There she was, lying next to me; naked as the day she was born. Red hair down to her shoulders and a spatter of freckles across her nose. Sounding like a longshore man.

I roll out of bed. In the kitchen I start the coffee machine. Head for the bathroom, shave and take a hot shower.

The property that I occupy is a carriage house to a twenty acre estate. It has three bedrooms, a nice living room with hardwood floors, an updated kitchen and two working fireplaces. Down the driveway approximately seventy-five yards are the old stables. The owner of the estate, a very old friend that owes me, provides use of the stables as a workshop for Picker Antiques, which is me.

I grab two coffees from the kitchen, one black and the other with cream. Head back to the bedroom. As I'm putting on my jeans Kelly begins to stir.

I sit on the edge of the bed and hand Kelly her coffee. Still a little groggy, she gives me a peck on the cheek and wants to know what's going on.

Penelope Kelly Anne Lane, I shit you not, has been my relatively constant companion for the past half dozen years. We're not married, engaged or even living together. She has a loft in town and I have my place in the suburbs. Still, we manage to spend most of our free time together.

She sits up in bed, wraps the sheet around her and has a couple sips of coffee. When the cobwebs begin to clear I fill her in on everything that has occurred since Wednesday.