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Renascence (7-10/10)

Chapter 7, (1-3, 4-6, 7-10/10)

TITLE: Renascence
AUTHOR: Susy Strom and Shaz
FANDOM: Pitch Black
PAIRING: Riddick/ofc
RATING: R for sexual depictions and some violence
DISCLAIMER: The Characters of Pitch Black are copyright to USA Films. There is no infringment intended by the use of them in this story. I claim none of those characters.
SUMMARY: A Sequel to Interim by Susy Strom. Set after Pitch Black

Chapter 7: No Hesitation, No Doubt 


Bet stood on the lawn, her hand shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun as she watched Riddick scramble up the steep and slippery roof. With all their breaking and entering, code-cracking, plot-hatching and sexual marathons, only now, the day before Jeremy's return, was Riddick getting around to fixing the skylight. Bet's heart skipped a beat when his foot slipped, but he regained his footing easily enough. The sound of the telephone ringing inside provided an almost welcome distraction. 

"Good afternoon, Villiers residence," Bet said in her best lady of the manor voice. 

"What took you so damned long?" 

Jeremy. Bet's stomach clenched at the sound of his voice. He rarely called home when he was away on business. Something must have happened. 

"I'm sorry Jeremy, I was in the garden." Bet swallowed. "Is the conference going well?" 

"There's been a change of plans," he said, ignoring her question. "That blasted fool Dietrich slipped playing tennis this morning. Nasty bruise on his cheek and a sprained elbow, poor bastard. Won't be fit to represent the Company at that damned environmental symposium tomorrow. So they've called upon their most telegenic, most eloquent spokesman to take his place." 

"You?" 

"Of course, me! " Jeremy sounded aggrieved. "This means I'll be coming home tomorrow morning instead of tomorrow evening, sometime around 10. I want you to pick up my favorite navy suit at the cleaners and be sure to polish my shoes. I mean a real spit shine. Have to look good for the cameras. I need to be at the conference center no later than 11:30, so I'll barely have time to shower and change. I'll want everything waiting for me, do you understand?" 

"Yes Jeremy, I understand." 

"Very well then. I'll see you tomorrow morning." The phone clicked in her ear as Jeremy hung up. 

Bet held the receiver for a long moment, staring blankly at the floor. Shit! What would this mean for their plans? What would Riddick want to do? Bet took a step toward the door, then froze, as a chilling idea struck her. 

Riddick had arranged to meet with the arsonist tomorrow morning, at the very time Jeremy planned to return home. Riddick possessed an absolute conviction that he could extract the necessary confession from the man, and from the look in his eye when he said this, Bet believed him. That meant that within twenty-four hours they would hold in their hands irrefutable proof of Jeremy's guilt, evidence that branded him a multiple murderer. Evidence, moreover, that in no way implicated the Company in any wrongdoing. 

How far would the Company go to protect Jeremy under those circumstances? Bet had argued that the recorded confession, coupled with the threat of negative publicity, was enough to force the Company to abandon Jeremy, but nagging doubts persisted. Jeremy was their golden boy, a clever, conscienceless manipulator of men and events. Covering up his transgressions would be difficult and messy, but not impossible. Without some additional pressure brought to bear, Jeremy might yet walk away unscathed. 

Bet had an ace up her sleeve, an untapped resource she could bring into play. Clare. Her friend Clare, who suspected that all was not well between Bet and Jeremy, who scarcely managed to conceal her dislike of the man. They already hoped to persuade Clare to carry the disc to her husband. Could she do more? If the beloved wife of the CEO demanded that her husband get rid of Jeremy, he might be inclined to listen. What would it take to persuade Clare to intervene? 

With a trembling hand, Bet set down the receiver. She knew. She knew what it would take. A high-risk proposition, but one with an equally high potential benefit. Bet sucked in a deep breath and squeezed shut her eyes, steeling her resolve. Riddick couldn't know, of course. Not until later, not until it was too late to stop her. 

Her legs carried her to the kitchen. In a daze, she pulled a bottle of beer and a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. She paused, bracing her hands against the counter, concocting her story. She came inside to get Riddick a drink, not to answer the phone. Nothing is wrong; everything is fine. Bet shook her head, willing her features to relax. Deception is easy. She's good at this, remember? After marriage to Jeremy, how could she not be? Only --- only this time she was lying to Riddick, a thought that made her sick inside. 

Riddick walked into the kitchen, wiping his sweaty brow on his arm. Bet lifted her eyes to him, smiling broadly. '"Hot work, big guy." She gestured toward the drinks. "What's your pleasure sir, beer or pink lemonade?" 

The question stopped Riddick in his tracks. 

"Pink lemonade in an antique crystal goblet," Bet said, wiggling her brows enticingly. 

Riddick growled, then seized his pleasure. And it wasn't the lemonade. Or the beer. 

* * * * * * * 

A long, hot soak always relaxed Bet, gave her time to think. She stepped dripping from the tub, possessed of a curious peace of mind. Forces had been set into play that would either set her free or destroy her and she faced the future with a calm fatalism. She took comfort from the knowledge that when things got truly ugly, Riddick would be elsewhere. 

One thing at a time. That motto had seen her through some horrible moments. Break the fear and the pain down into manageable increments and deal with them one at a time, but that was for tomorrow. Tonight was still hers. 

She dried off and lightly blew her hair dry, leaving it just damp enough to slick back behind her ears. Bet smiled to herself as she pulled the stopper from her favorite bottle of perfume, touching the wand to the back of her knees, her elbows, the small of her back and her navel. From a hanger in the closet she removed her favorite nightgown, a simple ivory silk sheath with a deep V back. No black lace, no plunging décolleté, nothing unsubtle or heavy-handed for this girl, thank you very much. 

Bet slipped into the gown, ran her hands through her hair and stepped into the bedroom, pausing at the door to admire Riddick. He was leaning against a pile of pillows, reading, not the files or documents they'd been sorting through for days, but a real book. 

"What you reading, big guy?" 

Riddick held up the book. "An old novel, Master and Commander, 'bout a British sea captain during the Napoleonic wars." 

"That was my grandfather's favorite book!" Bet exclaimed. 

"I know. He left a note on the inside of the cover saying just that." 

"That's Grandpa for you," Bet said, smiling fondly. "Wanted everybody to know his opinion on everything." 

Riddick set the book down on the nightstand and pointed to her nightgown, his twirling forefinger requesting that she spin around to model it. 

He gave a low whistle when she complied. "Beautiful, but I'm curious. Whadda ya got on under that?" 

Bet smiled. "Perfume. I daubed my favorite French perfume on in the most unlikely places. What I propose is a variation on that old game of hide and seek." 

"Never played many games," Riddick said, swinging his legs out of the bed and walking toward her. 

"Perhaps not, but just look how quickly you figured out that tricky mango business." 

Riddick shook his head, marveling at her nerve. From the gleam in his eye, Bet suspected that he'd pay her back for that little quip in his own good time. He strolled around Bet, looking her over from top to bottom. Finally, he halted scant centimeters in front of her. 

"Not the throat," he said, nuzzling her neck to confirm his verdict. 

"What fun would it be if I made it too easy?" 

"Not the wrist." He raised her palm to his mouth for a kiss. 

"Again," Bet murmured. "Too obvious. Too predictable." 

To Bet's absolute amazement, Riddick dropped to his knees, surely the first time he'd willingly assumed that position for anyone. Slipping his thumbs behind the gown's narrow straps, he tugged it down her body until it pooled at her feet. "Believe I'll have better luck with this outta the way." Riddick closed his eyes, his brow wrinkling in concentration as he brought his hyper-sharp senses to bear on the task. "Here," he breathed. Grazing her belly with his cheek, he paused to taste the perfume at her navel. Riddick raised his eyes to Bet's, smiling triumphantly. 

She nodded, acknowledging his success. "Very good, but you're not going to stop there, are you?" 

No. Nothing but an absolute victory would satisfy Riddick. Slipping his hands over Bet's hips, his touch gentle yet insistent, Riddick turned Bet around. "And here," he whispered, kissing the incurved small of her back. His lips lingered on the spot, his tongue tickling her skin. Bet gasped and wavered unsteadily on her feet. Laughing softly, Riddick twisted her around again, his grip now firm and reassuring. Bet seized his shoulders, clinging to him for support. 

"Now you're makin' it too easy," he chided. "Here -- and here." Pivoting his head from right to left, Riddick brushed his lips first over one inner elbow and then the other. "And finally here." His fingertips tickled the back of each knee, then an arm slipped beneath them as he scooped her up and carried her to the bed. 

"You look sad," he observed, lying on his side next to her. 

"Jeremy is coming home tomorrow." 

"Jeremy is taking a fall tomorrow," Riddick said firmly. 

Bet closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer. Please, God, let it be so. 

"Hey," Riddick touched her face. "Rule number four: no hesitation and no doubts." 

"Okay," Bet agreed. "No hesitation. Riddick's rule number four. I guess that means that I shouldn't stop myself if I really want to do this." She rolled on top of him and sat up, straddling his hips. 

Riddick smiled up at his pupil. Never had Bet seen his face so open, so unguarded. He'd removed his goggles and the haunting beauty of his artificially enhanced eyes struck her anew, an unnatural beauty born of cruel necessity. She ran her fingers along the persistent furrows the goggles had pressed around his eye sockets and across his temples. The near constant pressure of goggles against his skin must be unpleasant, no matter how accustomed he'd grown to it. Bet gently massaged both temples, then bent forward to kiss his eyes. 

This might be her last night with Riddick. If things went badly, if he survived and she didn't, Bet wanted him to remember what it was like to be touched with love. Not in anger, or hate, or fear, or simple lust, or any of the countless reasons that led others to lay hands on Riddick. She, Bet, touched him with love. 

"Would you be willing to lie back and let me do whatever I want, for just a little while?" 

Apparently Riddick believed that her mastery of his lessons and her initiative should be rewarded. He nodded, folded his arms beneath his head, and awaited her pleasure. 

* * * * * * * 

'Same place. Same time. Tomorrow.' That was all the message said, but it was enough. Jeremy had saved all of his correspondence with Mr. Black, as the hired hit man called himself, including the one setting up their initial meeting. 10 AM at the Mandarin House, a fairly expensive restaurant on the far side of town. Since it wasn't a critically acclaimed five star restaurant, Jeremy probably thought of it as slumming, and no doubt he expected the distance of fifty klicks to be enough to get away from any prying eyes. An illusion of adventure, a spoiled boy's game of intrigue, that's all this meant to Jeremy. And three people had died because of it. 
Riddick's death count was higher, a lot higher, but all of his murders had been committed for better reasons, at least in his mind. Survival in a life-or-death fight, preventing a bounty hunter from capturing him, escaping from prison, even trying to save Bet from Johns. Half of the people he had killed had died in combat, either when he was a Company Ranger or when he had hired on as a mercenary. He didn't make a distinction between those kills and the others, even though everyone else seemed to. Funny, how it was okay to kill for the Company, but not for himself. For the Company endorsed murders, he'd received medals, promotions, and commendations. For the others, he'd received beatings, prison sentences, and condemnation. Either way, people had died. But at least all of them were adults who knew what the fuck they were getting into. Riddick acknowledged that his sense of honor was buried deep, but he did have one. He'd drawn the line at Johns' plan to kill Jack, for example. The fact that Jeremy had not only brought about the death of a kid, but had been too chicken shit to do it himself, was disgusting. Something else to add to the long, long tally sheet of crimes Jeremy Villiers had committed. 

These were the thoughts running through his head as he prepared to confront the arsonist. Bet watched as he oiled and checked his knives and other equipment, piece by piece, leaving nothing to chance. Although he never would have thought of it this way, this ritual was done for much the same reasons as Jeremy's bedtime ritual - a way of establishing order, of maintaining control over his life. He ensured everything was done to his satisfaction, and thus everything was right in his world. For now, at any rate. 

"You're going to be careful, right?" 

"What?" Riddick turned around in startled amusement. 

"I'm, I'm just worried about you. I don't want anything to happen to you." 

"Ain't got nothing to worry about." This was another new situation for him. He walked over to her and kissed her, deeply. "Bet, look at me. I can handle myself. Faced worse than this, a hell of a lot worse. 'Sides, it's not like I'm planning on getting in a gun fight or anything. I'm gonna catch him off guard." She wrapped her arms around him and just held on for a while. "I ever lied to you yet?" At her mute shake of the head, he continued. "Then don't accuse me of it now. I'll be back here in a few hours." He kissed her on top of the head, then left. 

* * * * * * * 

He didn't plan on actually making the meeting - there was no way anyone would mistake him for Jeremy. Riddick would wait to see who showed, then surprise him as he went back to his vehicle. He had taken a table that gave him a good view of the booth that Jeremy had previously used. Not for the first time, he mouthed a curse at his shined eyes. They had absolutely saved his ass in the Pit, but out here they were an almost permanent liability. Turns out a lot of people knew a shine job when they saw one, and they knew that it was something only convicts got. Shit, even Bet had known what it was, the first time she saw his eyes! The interior was dark enough for him to take the goggles off, but his eyes would stand out and alert the other customers and the wait staff. Their nervousness would send signals to any experienced con man. Riddick would just have to hope the goggles wouldn't alert him, as well. 

Meeting his expectations, an average sized man slipped into the booth twenty minutes before 10. Arriving early gave him the chance to make certain things were set up according to his preferences; in addition, it would keep the client from being able to take the same precaution. Riddick studied him, to know his face, his shape, his mannerisms. Brown hair in a short, nondescript cut. He had muscles, looked like he worked out some, but not enough to gain the sheer size Riddick had. Nor did he seem to be carrying any weapons other than a gun in a shoulder holster. The bulge was slight and hard to detect, but Riddick knew just where to look. He didn't move with the grace or precision of a martial artist, or the braggadocio of a street fighter. Probably one of those types that thought a gun could solve all of his problems. Well, he was about to meet a big fucking problem that knew how to avoid bullets. 

It was too early for the lunch rush, so they were the only two people in the restaurant. Riddick got up and walked out, leaving cash on the table. Most places didn't like to deal with it anymore, so he just didn't give them the option of refusing. Once he got outside, he settled onto one of the benches near the door, and waited for Mr. Black to get impatient. It took forty five minutes. Riddick waited for the mark to put on the sunglasses he took out of a front pocket, a moment of distraction, then struck. 

FUCK! The hit man must have seen or sensed the attack coming - he turned away, throwing the glasses at his assailant as he reached for his gun, spinning and taking two steps to gain the time and distance he needed to draw. Time seemed to slow down, everything happening in dreamtime as Riddick followed the hit man through the two steps. His right hand moved up to deflect the muzzle of the gun past his head, as he pivoted his body to get out of the way of the bullet that exploded past him, missing his face by only a few decimeters. Riddick's left hand grabbed the man around the throat as his right closed over the barrel of the gun, twisting it out of the man's hands. He slammed the arsonist against the wall, holding him there with a hand around the front of the man's throat as his right hand, still holding the heavy gun, drove into the man's solar plexus in a vicious uppercut. The arsonist slumped down, unconscious, as Riddick caught him under the arms and carried him around to the side of the building, out of sight of anyone who came out to investigate the gunshot. 

Time returned in an avalanche, rushing to catch up with him. He dragged his quarry into the vehicle he had driven, then strapped him into the passenger's seat and cuffed his hands behind his back. A quick search, to make sure the man didn't carry a handcuff key in his back pocket, like Riddick did himself, then he started the car and pulled out. Less than sixty seconds had elapsed from the time Mr. Black had exited the building until Riddick pulled out into traffic. 

The seatbelt kept the man fairly well immobilized, when combined with the handcuffs, and the tinted windows obscured the view and lessened the chance that anyone would see them inside the vehicle. Once he regained consciousness, the mark yelled threats the whole time they drove, but loud music covered any noises that might be audible from outside of the car and Riddick just ignored him. 

Within ten minutes they arrived at an abandoned warehouse. Riddick had found it the day before, doing research to plan this out. It was located in an area of town where the inhabitants didn't get involved in each other's affairs, and it would give him an isolated area in which to do his 'convincing'. He had cut the lock holding a thick chain around the gate, and replaced it with one of his own. Now he opened the gates, drove the car through, and entered the warehouse through a cargo door. He parked the car inside, closing the door and concealing them from prying eyes. Only then did he turn off the radio. 

"…so help me GOD!" the man yelled into the sudden calm. Still silent, Riddick pulled the arsonist out of the car. With one hand on his shoulder and the other hand holding his cuffed wrists high up on his back, Riddick half walked, half dragged his still protesting captive over to where a folding chair and a heavy metal desk were set up in front of a pipe running up the wall. A battery powered camping light sat on the desk, the only source of light in the cavernous room. He pushed Mr. Black down into the chair roughly, then took a second pair of cuffs out and chained the man's right wrist to the pipe. Undoing the first pair, he brought the hit man's left hand around and placed it on the desk, then in one quick motion he drew his knife and cut off the pinky. 

He held on to the man's wrist during his reflexive jerk, and let him scream for a few moments, then he sprayed a liquid bandage onto the wound, to stop the bleeding. The handcuff dangling from the arsonist's wrist was secured to a hole in the desktop meant for computer cables, restraining his hand on top of the desk. 

"Think I'm here to play games?" These were the first words he had spoken to the man since his abduction. 

"No," the man sobbed. 

"Got nine other fingers. Piss me off, and I'll *start* with them. Clear on that?" 

"Crystal." 

"Good," Riddick rumbled. He picked up his knife, cleaned it up and sheathed it, then walked over to the car and took out a digital video camera and a tripod. He set them up, focusing on the arsonist's face, and started it recording, sitting in another chair just out of the camera shot. 

"Now that I have your attention, why the fuck did Jeremy Villiers hire you?" 

"Which time?" 

He had been hired more than once? Interesting. Jeremy had only kept records of one transaction. "Start with the first. Work our way from there." 

"He needed to get rid of a problem. His wife decided she wanted a divorce. Mr. Villiers had me kill her lawyer." 

"Just the lawyer?" 

"Well, him and his family. I set their house on fire." 

"How much did he pay you for that?" 

"Ten thou." 

"Where's it now?" 

"What?" 

"Where's the money?" 

"In an account." 

"Give me the number." 

"I don't know it." 

Without a word, Riddick walked over, grabbed the man's hand, and cut off two more fingers. Another fifteen minutes elapsed until their conversation started up again. 

"What is the account number?" 

"76930 26208. With Poplar Bank." 

"Long as we're on details, what's your name?" He handled his shiv, pulling it out of the sheath and testing the edge as he said this. Just to remind the man what he stood to lose if he decided not to answer. 

"Seth Hayes." 

"How did you do it?" 

"I used gasoline. Waited until they were asleep, then poured it around the front and back doors. Lit it and got out of Dodge." 

"How 'bout the next time he hired you?" 

"Two guys he needed done away with. Company types. I rigged their cryo-tubes to fail." 

"What were their names?" Riddick had a suspicion. It was confirmed with the guy's next words. 

"Pym and Jasper." 

"And after that?" 

"That was a job I contracted out. I didn't actually do anything that time - just got him in touch with some people who could do what he needed." 

"Which was?" 

"He wanted a ship destroyed. Some big cargo/passenger ship, the Hunter something." 

For the second time that day, time stopped. People always said they wanted there to be a reason for things, that they didn't like the thought of random accidents. But to find out that forty people had died so that no one would find out Jeremy Villiers' wife had tried to leave him was worse than the thought of sheer blind bad luck. Riddick's focus narrowed until the world held only himself and the man who had helped Jeremy to condemn forty people, including Carolyn Fry. " The Hunter-Gratzner?" 

"Yeah, that was it". He shrugged. "Insurance fraud, some shit like that." 

"What are their names?" 

"The people that did it? Some guys, that's…" 

"Freeze! Right where you are! Put your hands in the air!" 

Riddick dove to his left, drawing the gun he'd taken from the arsonist and shooting the light as he fell, plunging the room into darkness. The cop fired several rounds at the sound of his shots. Riddick heard the unmistakable impact of bullets hitting flesh, but didn't have time to stop. He hit on his shoulder and turned the fall into a roll, coming up on his knees several feet from where he had hit the ground. He ripped the goggles off as he rose into a crouch. The cop was just turning on his night vision as Riddick took aim and fired off three shots in quick succession. The first two impacted body armor, so he rapidly switched his target for the last one. The officer fell screaming to the floor, holding his shattered leg. A bullet into the knee was a great distraction. Riddick stalked over, pulling his knife as he moved to prevent the cop from calling for help. He almost made it. 

"Officer down! Officer down! This is…" 

Riddick sliced the man's throat before he could finish the transmission. It took him almost a full minute to die after that, but he wasn't capable of speech. Riddick shook his head as the overzealous officer bled his life out onto the cold concrete floor. Shoulda waited for back up. From his crouch over the cop's body, Riddick looked over to where his captive was slumped over, dead. This was rapidly going from bad to worse. He needed to take stock of the situation, and he didn't have a lot of time. 

He checked himself to make certain he hadn't been injured and left any blood that could be traced back to him. He sure as hell didn't leave any hair - an advantage of his shaven head. He grabbed the video camera, and put in into the car, then changed clothes quickly. Nothing drew unwanted attention faster than blood-stained clothing. Besides, he didn't really want Bet to see him covered in someone else's blood. She didn't seem like the sorta chick that would handle violence well. Tossing the old clothes into a plastic bag to prevent the blood from soaking through, he got into the car and left. 

The eyewitness was dead, but no one knew that except for himself, and the video would be enough to get the Company to investigate further. It just might be enough to assure Jeremy's downfall. That would have to be good enough.

Chapter 8: Sacrifices 
 

Bet closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around Riddick's waist, holding him one last time before the end game began. She felt everything begin to slip away, to fragment, and she clung to him, as if she could freeze time and hold everything together by burrowing into his arms. Impossible. His voice rumbled in her ear, a promise that he would return safely, but already he sounded distant, muffled. If Bet could choose when this process of detachment began, she would have waited until Riddick were gone. But her mind had co-opted her will, determining that now was the time to unravel the fibers that bound her together body and soul, the complicated warp and weave of intellect, emotion, perception, and resolve that held her together and made her Bet. A veil fell, a protective swathe that rendered Bet a dispassionate observer to her own life. 

Riddick kissed the top of her head and her hands relinquished him, letting go of his warmth, his scent, and the comforting strength of his arms. He glanced back at her from the door and flashed a confident, reassuring grin. Bet's lips curved up in an answering smile and she fixed his image in her memory again. That was the picture she'd carry with her if it ended badly and the world grew dark. 

He vanished from sight. Bet shivered for an instant, then lifted her chin and gazed around the room. "Riddick's rule number four: no hesitation, no doubt," she said aloud. Jeremy should be home within the hour. A lot of work lay ahead to set the stage for their reunion. The final scene would play out in the bedroom, but first things first. 

Riddick must not be caught off guard. Bet stood in the hall, waiting for the sound of the front door closing behind him. She raced downstairs, flipping on the hall lights as she ran. She threw open all the curtains in the front rooms, flooding the library and dining room with sunlight. At the push of a button, the glass in the foyer's large Palladian window changed from room darkening opaque to crystal clear, bathing the foyer and stairs with light. As she dashed back upstairs, Bet switched on the huge chandelier hanging from the two-story foyer. She paused, nodding with satisfaction. Certainly Riddick could read the warning inherent in such an inhospitable environment and would be wary. 

Back in the bedroom, Bet pulled a dirty pair of shorts, underpants and a tee shirt from the laundry and draped them over the end of the bed. She threw her running shoes and some foul smelling socks on the floor. The bottom drawer of her nightstand held an emergency box of chocolate cookies. Bet crumbled a cookie across the sheets, then wiped her fingers on Jeremy's pillow. Clothes strewn about, bed befouled by crumbs and smudges. The fastidious Jeremy would be appalled by how Bet had allowed her housekeeping standards to slip during his absence. What else? A half-glass of Merlot, conveniently forgotten by Bet, sat on the nightstand. She picked it up and carried it over to the club chair, the same chair Jeremy had occupied the night of the party. 

"Oops," Bet said, dribbling the dregs across the seat cushion. She pulled a stack of magazines from the nearby rack and scattered them around the chair. 

"I went jogging this morning," Bet said aloud, establishing the story in her mind. "Stripped. Left my dirty clothes on the bed. Took a shower and got dressed because I'm meeting a friend at the club for lunch." 

Time to set the stage in the bathroom. Turning on all four shower- heads, Bet allowed herself a brief smile at the memory of the last time she did that. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirrors. She pulled all the clean towels from the bar, dampened them in the spray, and tossed them into a corner. After turning off the water, she headed toward her closet. 

"A casual lunch with a friend," Bet mused, scanning the rows of garments. She selected a simple sundress and a pair of sandals. Costume donned, she stood in front of the mirror and rubbed dry a spot. Studying her face in the mirror gave Bet pause. Only a few nights ago she'd stared with disgust at her reflection, consumed by despair. Everything had changed. Bet gazed at her image now with a composure that defied reason. She could do what was necessary. If it all worked out, Jeremy would be trapped, brought down by his own worst impulses. 

"One thing at a time," Bet repeated her comforting mantra. Despite her fine resolve, her anxiety manifested itself in her complexion's unnatural pallor and the pale purple smudges beneath her eyes. She'd scarcely slept the night before. Long after Riddick dozed off, Bet lay awake, her cheek pressed against his shoulder and her fingers splayed across his chest. The minutes slipped by as she listened to him breath, felt his chest rise and fall with each respiration and his heart beating steadily beneath her fingertips. Each time sleep overcame her Bet eventually startled awake. Was it morning yet? Was it time to let him go? 

The sleepless night told on her face. Bet repaired the damage with a light application of concealer and blush. Eye drops restored clarity to her bloodshot eyes. A little mascara. Bet stood still and admired the effect. Ladylike. An appropriate public face for the wife of Jeremy Villiers. He'd believe she was on her way out. The final step, the coup de grace, Bet twisted her hair into a loose knot and fixed it in place with a pair of ebony sticks. On a hot day it made sense to pin her hair up off her shoulders and neck. 

An untidy jumble of bottles, tubes and brushes spread across the countertop. Bet sprinkled face powder in the sink and added a daub of toothpaste for good measure. 

She looked around the bathroom. The stage was set and she was dressed for her part. The only thing missing was Jeremy. She perched on the edge of the tub, her ears straining for the sounds that would signal his arrival, a banging door, footsteps, his voice calling out to her. He was running late. A glance at her watch confirmed it. 10:25. He'd be frantic, rushed to complete his rituals of shaving, showering, trimming and buffing his nails, all the little steps that held his anxieties at bay. Jeremy would be furious when he discovered what awaited him at home. Good. Bet needed him to be angry. 

No room in her mind for panic. No room for fear. One thing at a time and now was the time for waiting. Swaying slightly back and forth, in rhythm with her pulse, Bet ticked off the passage of time. 
Finally. A slamming door. Heavy footsteps. 10:34. 

"Elisabeth!" Jeremy burst into the bathroom to find Bet leaning over the sink, carefully applying her lipstick. He frowned, his gaze sweeping over the messy room. 

Bet met his eyes in the mirror. "Oh shit, Jeremy. I totally forgot that you were coming home early." Ignoring the stunned expression on his face, Bet walked past him into the bedroom. "Did you see my purse when you came in? I swore I left it on the bed, but now I can't find it anywhere." 

Jeremy followed her into the bedroom. "Elisabeth," he spoke with some effort. "Did you pick up my suit at the cleaners and polish my shoes?" 

"Shit," Bet said again, her back to him as she pretended to search for her purse. "I *knew* there was something I was forgetting." She dropped to her knees and looked behind the nightstand. "Listen," she said, her voice as soothing as if she were speaking to a difficult child. "You have dozens of suits hanging in your closet. Pick out a different one." 

"I told you that I wanted to wear that particular suit. I told you to bring it home from the cleaners and to have it ready for me." 

"Oh, grow up, Jeremy!" Exasperation colored Bet's voice. "There's no such thing as a lucky suit." 

"What did you say to me?" 

Bet wheeled around to face him and for an instant her resolve faltered. The hectic color staining his cheeks, the fury dancing in his eyes, these were danger signs she knew all too well. She'd rather be anywhere else in the universe than within his reach when his anger boiled over. She swallowed the lump in her throat. His anger was a good thing, a necessary thing. Remember? 

Bet arched her brows and assumed a baffled air. "Didn't you tell me that you're getting bored with my compliant, mealy-mouthed act? I'm just giving you what you asked for, darling." As she brushed past Jeremy, his left hand snaked out and gripped her upper arm. 

"Shall I give you what you're asking for, darling?" He smiled unpleasantly, the calm before the storm. 

Bet narrowed her eyes. "Fuck you, Jeremy," she said, sealing her fate. 

His face went slack with shock. Never before had Bet goaded him, met his spite headlong. As if from a distance, Bet watched his face suffuse with blood, his features contort with rage. Time slowed to a crawl. Bet swore she could see each cell of his skin blossom with color, one after the other as the flush crept across his countenance. His expression shifted, line by line, until his visage became a malevolent mask. 

God, he was pathetic! Predictable. Malleable. Doing precisely what she wanted, although he'd never guess it. The sheer irony of it brought a smile to Bet's lips, even as she watched his balled fist hurl toward her face. 

One thing at a time, she thought, as her head snapped back from the force of the blow. She'd buried the memory of how much it hurt to be hit and she gasped with shock. Bet sagged and would have fallen if Jeremy hadn't maintained his grip on her arm. When he struck again, her knees buckled and Jeremy released her arm before her weight could drag him to the floor. 

That's two. Bet rested her forehead on the carpet, gagging on the blood from her split lip. 

"What the hell is that?" Jeremy's voice shrilled. "Is that --- is that a bite mark on your neck? Are you screwing around again? Did that criminal give you a taste for rough stuff? Why didn't you tell me that that's what you like, darling?" he asked, drawing his foot back and kicking her ribs. 

Okay, Bet thought. That should be enough to prove the point. He can stop now. Please God make him stop now. Through a fog of pain Bet glimpsed something whirl past her and heard Jeremy's howl of rage. She blinked and focused her eyes on the source of her husband's distress. 

Buckingham -- placid, lethargic Buckingham -- had wrapped himself around Jeremy's ankle and was gouging his claws into Jeremy's calf. Horrified, Bet watched Jeremy rip Buckingham from his shredded leg. Jeremy held the cat by the scruff of his neck while Buckingham twisted and scrabbled for a foothold. Bet held her breath, afraid that anything she said would make matters worse. 

Jeremy met her eyes. "Do you want your kitty?" 

Bet nodded, trembling. There was nothing left of her protective shell. No comfort from one thing at a time. Buckingham was the only thing that mattered and he dangled helplessly from her husband's hands. 

Jeremy smiled and broke the cat's neck. "Here's your kitty," he said, flinging the corpse at her feet. 

Darkness swallowed Bet whole, consuming her so quickly that she slipped away comfortless, with no image of Riddick to ease the transition. 

* * * * * * * 

Riddick knew something was wrong as soon as he turned into the driveway. The curtains in the front windows, which Bet had closed to reduce the amount of light entering the house, were wide open. He hadn't told her the extent of his sensitivity to light, but she knew that he liked it dark. 
It was too late to come in a different way; if anyone were to be watching, turning around to leave would alert them. He continued on, parking the car in the garage as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He was in what he called killer mode - senses on hyper alert, emotions and everything else not needed for his immediate survival turned off. He took his jacket off - the leather would provide some protection, but it would also increase the time needed to access his knife. Drawing the gun he'd taken from the arsonist, he crouched down in the doorway as he opened the door with his left hand, preparing to fire on anyone who wasn't Bet. There were no sounds, no movement, but all of the lights were on; something was definitely wrong. He entered into the kitchen and saw two suitcases on the floor next to the doorway leading into the dining room. Jeremy was home. 

Riddick stalked through the house, making his way from room to room. He covered all of the rooms on the first floor quickly, making a cursory search, then made his way upstairs, heading to the master bedroom first. Bet hadn't been outside, and he hadn't found her yet. If Jeremy were holding her hostage, it would complicate things immensely. All of his senses were straining, trying to catch that one small clue that would alert him to the bastard's presence. But as he approached the room, he couldn't hear a thing. 

Again, he entered the doorway in a crouch, gun ready. The only person in the room was Bet. Coldly, he immediately noted all of the details. Clothes across the bed. A wine stain on the chair. Crumbs on the pillow. Bet holding Buckingham. The cat was dead. Bet had bruises on her face. She was staring stonefaced at the wall. The bathroom was empty. Jeremy must be gone. 

Bet had bruises on her face. 

He lowered the gun. That fuckhead had hit her. At least twice. The rage built in his heart, an inferno blazing in his soul. His first thoughts were "Find Jeremy. Kill the bastard. Hurt anyone who hurts you." But Bet was here and now, and hurt, and needed him. He took a moment to swallow the rage, to bank the fires until they were needed. For once in his life, he was less than successful. He walked into the room, placing the gun down on the bed and calling out softly, "Bet." 

She didn't answer him, didn't look up. He crouched down next to her. "Bet. What happened?" 

Without looking up, she said, "He was under the bed." Riddick glanced over his shoulder at the bed. Tight fit for someone Jeremy's size; it should have taken him a long time to squirm his way out. How the hell had he surprised her? Riddick was sure Bet would have fought back if Jeremy had come upon her unawares. A suspicion flared in his mind. 

"He was under the bed the whole time and I didn't know it." 

Riddick replied to her, as gently as he could. "It's okay now…" 

For the first time since he had entered the room, Bet looked at Riddick. "Jeremy killed him, and it was my fault." 

The cat. She was talking about the cat. Fuck the damn cat. "Bet, what the hell happened? How did Jeremy manage to sneak up on you?" 

She lowered her eyes, then looked up him, setting her jaw into a stubborn look. "He didn't." Riddick raised his eyebrows at that. "I knew he was coming back early - he called while you were outside yesterday. I was afraid that the evidence we had wouldn't be enough, that he would still be able to use his charm and come out of it without a scratch, like he's come out of everything. So I amended the plan without telling you. I did all the things I knew would push his buttons. I deliberately provoked him, until he hit me." 

Behind the goggles, away from her sight, his eyes closed briefly. Her promise to him flashed into the front of his mind. 'I'd never hurt you.' She'd insisted on making that vow, despite his warning that nobody could guarantee something like that. Two days ago. He shook his head, remembering her certainty. Think he'd be used to broken promises by now. He opened his eyes. 

"So you lied to me." 

"Yes. I did." 

"Didn't trust that I could handle things myself. Hedged your bet, 'cause you didn't think I could pull this off, didn't know what the fuck I was doin'." She couldn't see it, but his hands were balling into fists. 


"That's not what I meant." 

"Deliberately set yourself up, in a dangerous situation, knowin' damn well I wouldn't be around to pull your ass out of the fire when things got bad." The anger he had suppressed was back, burning in his core. 

"Yes." 

Something had to happen. He rose from his crouch and walked over to the doorway. Pausing there for a moment, he looked back over his shoulder at her. "Two days, huh? Couldn't keep your promise for even two days." 

Riddick left, heading for the kitchen. He got a couple of beers from the fridge and opened them both; took a long draft from one and just stood there, letting his mind empty, taking the occasional swig of alcohol. 

Breathe in; hold it. Focus your eyes and concentration on a point, on an object, somewhere, anywhere. Let that thing become the most important thing in the universe for this moment in time. Nothing else matters. Focus until nothing else exists. No thoughts, no worries, no plans; just that one thing. 

He stayed there for several long moments. When he had reached a semblance of the calm he had been searching for, he took a last deep breath, grabbed both beers, and headed back to the bedroom. 

Bet was still there, was still holding the cat. She was quietly crying now. He resumed his place next to her and tried again. "You okay? You hurt anywhere?" 

She ignored his question. "I mess up everything I try to do." 

With his patience restored, he replied "No, you don't. You accusin' me of choosin' a fuck-up as a partner?" 

"I am so, so sorry. I was so certain that I would never hurt you." 

"S'okay. Don't mean nothing. I'm used to it." 

"That's what makes it so horrible. I don't want you to be used to me hurting you," she said, looking intently into his eyes, as if she could see them behind the goggles. "I hurt everyone I care about." 

When Riddick had been in the Rangers, there had been exactly one officer he had respected, much less given a rat's ass about. That officer had a way of dealing with guys who were having trouble. He'd get them alone, give them a beer, and quietly ask "You wanna talk about it?" That was the only thing Riddick could think of to do, the only guidance he had. So he handed her the other beer and asked, "You wanna tell me 'bout it?" 

Bet gently laid the cat down in her lap, took the bottle and drank three quick swallows. She took a few shaky breaths, looked down, and then quickly looked away, anywhere but at the corpse. 

"I was afraid Jeremy would walk away from this, too. I didn't want Clare to just deliver the disc; I needed to do something to ensure that she would pressure her husband to cut Jeremy completely loose from the Company. I knew I could make Jeremy hit me, and I thought I could show Clare the bruise, to show her how unstable he is. But I pushed him further than I thought, evidently. He hit me, twice, then he," she stopped and took two ragged breaths. Another gulp of beer, then she continued. "He kicked me. In the ribs. I was so scared. Then Buckingham came out from under the bed and attacked him. Jeremy grabbed him," she stopped. Riddick could see the grief welling up in her again, but she pushed her next words out before it could overwhelm her. "Grabbed him and killed him. I think I passed out. I don't know what else happened." 

Riddick spoke, looking deep in her eyes. "Took a lot of guts. Damn cat probably saved your life." He picked up his beer again. It was just about empty, what with his head start in the kitchen, so he finished it, then took her in his arms. Tried to, at any rate - when he touched her ribs, she yelped in pain. 

"Ow! Oh, that really hurts." 

"Said he kicked you?" At her nod, Riddick spoke some words that described Jeremy's illegitimate heritage in detail. "Gotta check your ribs - might be broke." He reached for the strap of her sundress, to pull it over her head. She started to raise her arms, then blanched. 

"Ow! Oh shit!" She clutched at her side, wincing. The shock was wearing off, and so was the pain-killing ability of her endorphins. 

He took out his knife, the same one that had caused the arsonist so much pain not an hour ago. Now he used it to keep Bet from feeling any more pain. The irony of it wasn't lost on him. Laying the shiv ever so gently against her skin, the blade facing out, he sliced off the dress with surgical precision. A bruise the size of his hand showed on her side as the cloth fell away, already turning yellow and purple. He touched it, very gently, but she cried out all the same. 

"Bet. Look at me. You've got a fractured rib, at least. I've got to see if it's broken through - could puncture a lung if it is. This is gonna hurt, but I'll be quick. Okay?" 

She nodded at him, tears of pain already in her eyes. As quickly as he could, he felt along the length of her floating ribs, from spine to where they connected to her other ribs. When he touched the crack, she grimaced and tensed, but he held her with his other arm wrapped around her. True to his word, he was quick, and released his touch as soon as he could. She was discovering that breathing too deeply or too quickly hurt, he could see. People said the pain felt like a knife stabbing into your chest. It wasn't quite like that, but it was close enough. She'd be feeling it for the next several weeks. 

"Bet, it's broken, but I think it's just a hairline crack. The ends of the bone are still together. I'll have to bandage it, but you'll be okay. And that'll make it feel better. Kinda." She nodded without speaking, still concentrating on her pain, apparently. "Do you have any bandages?" 

"I think so." She paused to take a shallow, cautious breath. "I sprained my ankle last year, and we got some then. They'll be under the sink." 

"Got any painkillers? Somethin' stronger than an aspirin or two?" 

"Jeremy keeps some medicine for his migraines in his nightstand, next to the sleeping pills." 

Riddick got the bottle from its location near the bed and read the label. He'd shared cells with enough junkies to know the names of a hell of a lot of drugs, and he recognized the name of this stuff. It wasn't the strongest shit out there, but it would definitely do. He brought it over to Bet. 

"How much of that beer've you had?" 

"Um, about half, I think." 

"Don't drink any more. One of these will cut the pain without makin' you too spacey, but don't mix it with more alcohol. We need you coherent later on." He went into the bathroom and filled a little cup with water, then got the bandages from under the sink. Coming back to Bet, he gave her the water, then one of the pills, and watched her swallow it. 

"I’m gonna bandage you up now." 

"Okay. Is it going to hurt?" 

"Yeah, but not as much as when I was feelin' for the break." 

"Alright." 

He could see her tensing up a bit, but luckily the beer and the exhaustion of what she had gone through kept her more relaxed than she would have been otherwise. He tried to be as gentle as he could, while still being quick about it. Five minutes later, it was done, and he was helping her into the bed. 

"I want to bury Buckingham." A pause, then she said "But not here. Clare's children have a cemetery where they bury their pets. That was Buckingham's first home, and I want him to have a nice place." 

Riddick shrugged. "I've got some stuff to do with the video I got, then we need to decide exactly what we're gonna tell her, what kinda deal we think we can make with the Company. When that's straightened out, then you can call her. I want you to lie down and try to sleep until then." 

"Riddick." She sounded a little sleepy. Good - the drug was kickin' in. "Get me Grandma's quilt, please." She pointed in the direction of the deep bay window. 

There was an old quilt there, hung over the back of the rocking chair. He grabbed it and covered her with it. As he did so, he said, "Soon as this is over, I'm teaching you how to duck a punch. And I'm getting' you a decent knife, and we're finishin' that first lesson. I ain't plannin' on playin' nurse to you after this." He grinned suddenly. "Playin' doctor, maybe, but not nurse." 

Riddick leaned closer and kissed her on the forehead. 

She looked down. "I'm so sorry I lied to you." 

"Me too." 

"But you wouldn't have let me do it if you knew." 

"Damn straight." 

"I had to do it." 

He pushed her head up with one finger under her chin. "I know. " She started to speak, but he beat her to it. "I told you, don't promise not to hurt me. I ain't gonna make you that promise." She wasn't going to like what he had to tell her, but she needed to hear the truth, to know the extent of the havoc and murder Jeremy had caused. 

"You remember the first time we met, in that alley, when you thought I worked for your husband? You warned me that he'd send somebody bigger and badder to kill me, to make sure that nobody was left alive who knew how you tried to run away from him." Bet nodded, frowning. "You know Jeremy better'n anybody else. That's exactly what he did. First he killed Jasper and Pym, then he went after Johns and me." 

Bet's face grew paler, as the understanding dawned in her eyes. "So Jeremy…" 

Riddick nodded. "Jeremy caused the crash. He arranged for the Hunter-Gratzner to go down in some uninhabited place, some place where help wouldn’t be available. He cost the Company a coupl'a billion dollars, plus racked up a higher murder count than I actually have." 

"Those people, Captain Fry, they all died because of me." A look of horror crossed her face, and she began to truly sob. 

Riddick stayed next to her, lending her the comfort of his presence for few minutes, then decided she'd cried enough. He took her face in between his large hands. "Bet, can't take responsibility for someone else. It ain't your fault. It's his. He didn't have to do that, but he chose to. Don't carry his weight around." For the second time that afternoon, she looked deeply into his eyes. After a few seconds, she stopped crying and just held him. 

They spent a few moments in silence. 

"Jeremy is going to go to jail for this, right?" 

"Babe, after this morning, I won't be surprised if they send him to Slam City. Trust me - he'll get what he deserves there." 

He kissed her on top of the head, then got ready to leave her for a while. 

"I will promise you that."

Chapter 9: Incriminating Evidence 


"Damn it!" One second after the fact, Bet realized that she'd punched in the wrong numbers. She flexed her fingers, trying to shake out the nerves that made her so careless. 

"Okay. One more time." Slowly, deliberately, Bet pressed the buttons to access Clare's private line. Only a handful of people knew the number and Clare always picked up. Ever the good mother, she wanted to be immediately available for any emergency involving her children or her friends. 

Sure enough, on the second ring, Clare's cheerful voice sounded in Bet's ear. "Clare Hannigan." 

Bet's throat closed and unexpected tears flooded her eyes. She swallowed and managed to choke out Clare's name. 

"Elisabeth? Is that you?" 

Bet cleared her throat, but to her dismay, the quiver in her voice remained. "I need to see you." 

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" 

More tears. Good lord. Blubbering in Clare's ear was not part of the plan, but the warmhearted concern in Clare's voice undid Bet's intentions. Bet squeezed shut her eyes, trying to remember the script she and Riddick had worked out. Tell Clare enough to ensure that she rush over, but not enough to lessen the impact of what she'd find when she arrived. 

"Jeremy hit me." Bet's voice trembled, but at least she got the line right. The tremble added a convincing touch of pathos, Bet realized with a guilty pang. "He hit me and then - and then -" Her voice trailed off as if she couldn't bear to continue, which was close to the truth. She gulped. "Please come over." 

"Where is Jeremy now?" 

"He's gone, to that symposium at the conference center." 

"That's right. Tom mentioned that. At least he's out of the house. Where are you?" 

"I'm upstairs, in the bedroom." 

"You stay put. I'll be there in a few minutes." 

Bet hung up the phone and collapsed back in the rocking chair. An antique mahogany armoire stood against the opposite wall, its open door revealing a thoroughly modern vid-system. Riddick crouched before the armoire, readying the disc for Clare's viewing. 

He looked up at Bet. "You ready?" 

"I feel like such a shit," she said. "Clare's my friend and I'm using her." 

Riddick nodded. "Yeah. You are, but it's too late in the game to worry about that. Unless you got a better plan." 

"No," Bet admitted reluctantly. "Nobody else can get the disc to Hannigan or persuade him to cut Jeremy loose." She met his eyes, frowning. "No hesitation. No doubt. Easier said than done." 

"Somebody promise you easy, princess?" 

She shook her head mutely. He was right, of course. It was far too late to indulge in any moral qualms; moreover Riddick wasn't the man to sooth her guilty conscience with a reassuring lie. Exploiting Clare's friendship was a necessary evil and whining for sympathy wouldn't do a damn bit of good. 

Bet glanced around the bedroom. Costume, lighting, props; she'd set the stage for Clare's arrival as purposefully as she had for Jeremy's. Everything calculated to deliver an emotional wallop, to produce a desired effect. Bet wore her fluffy, white robe, the one that always made her feel like a little girl fresh from the bath, scrubbed clean, rubbed dry and ready for a cup of cocoa. A pink ribbon tied back her hair, a childish touch that cast into prominence the bruises on her face and her split, swollen lip. From the black-and-blue contusions to the hair ribbon, everything about Bet's appearance was designed to engage Clare's maternal instincts. 

Bright afternoon sunshine streamed through the bay windows, illuminating the chair where Bet sat; otherwise the room lay in semi-darkness. Speaking to Bet would require Clare to face into the light. When Riddick emerged from the shadows to talk to Clare, her sun-dazzled eyes would see only a vague shape, not his features, nothing that would later allow her to identify him. 

Riddick stood, tucking the remote control into a pocket. "Ready?" he asked again. 

Bet nodded and watched in silence as he picked up a bundle from the foot of the bed. Buckingham's body, swaddled in her grandmother's quilt. The final prop. Riddick folded a corner of the blanket over the cat's face and carried him to Bet. Bet froze, wide-eyed, unable to force herself to take her dead pet. 

"Come on," she urged, and sucked in a deep breath, trying to rally her resolve. Pain shot through her side as the cracked rib protested its rapid expansion. Clutching at her injured side, Bet clenched her teeth and swallowed hard. 

Riddick hunkered down next to the rocking chair, eye level with Bet. "Cat did what he had to do to keep you safe. Now you gotta do your part or his dyin' won't mean shit." 

His words cut through the haze of guilt and pain that immobilized Bet. Before she could change her mind, Bet held out her arms for Buckingham. Riddick stood and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before retreating to his position in the shadowy recesses of the bathroom door. 

"That's my big, brave boy," Bet whispered, tucking the bundle into the crook of her arm and settling back into the chair. The size and shape of Buckingham's blanket-wrapped body reminded her a baby. Bet shuddered. She'd always called him her baby. And now he was dead. As devoid of vitality as this beautiful and terrible house that had imprisoned her, a house now unnaturally silent, as still as a tomb. The silence was too painful to bear. Bet began to rock back and forth, humming softly, the same tune that her mother and grandmother had sung to her in this very chair. 



Minutes slipped by until Bet heard a gentle rapping at the bedroom door. Clare stepped into the room. "Elisabeth?" 

"I'm over here." 

Clare followed Bet's voice to the sun-drenched alcove. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she cautiously approached the rocking chair. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she took in the details of Bet's appearance. 

"Oh my God!" Clare gasped. With a trembling hand she gingerly touched Bet's face, as if seeking tactile confirmation of the spectacle her eyes beheld. Her fingers skimmed the bruised cheekbone and the distended lip. "Sweetheart!" Clare murmured, leaning over to hug Bet. 

Bet winced, but returned the embrace as best she could. 

Clare pulled back. "What is it?" 

"A broken rib. Jeremy kicked me." 

"He kicked you!" Clare sputtered. "I suspected that things were bad, but I had no idea they were this bad." She stood up, brisk and efficient, her protective impulses fully engaged. "Let me pack some of your things. I'm going to take you to the doctor's and then home with me." 

Bet seized Clare's hand. "It isn't that simple. Running away won't fix it; I tried that already. Jeremy is a very dangerous man." 

"I can tell that he's a dangerous man. But don't worry, you'll be safe with me." 

"Clare, you don't understand. I have to tell you what happened." 

"It's perfectly clear what happened. The bastard hit you!" 

Bet sighed, closing her eyes for a moment while she chose her next words. "Please. I need you to listen to me," she said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. "There's a lot more to it than that." 

Clare glanced around the alcove, her eyes settling on the writing table on the far wall. She pulled its chair across the carpet and sat down in front of Bet. Leaning forward, she took both of Bet's hands in hers. 
"I'll listen to anything you want to tell me." 

Bet nodded. "I've been unhappy with Jeremy for a long time," she began awkwardly. "About a year after we married, I decided to divorce him and I talked to an attorney. Within a few days, the attorney and his family were killed in a house fire." 

"I remember reading about the fire," Clare said, frowning. "Do you mean to tell me that Jeremy had something to do with that?" 

"I had no proof, but I suspected that he did. The coincidence was too great and Jeremy made a point of mentioning the fire to me. It scared me, so I tried to keep the peace, to be the perfect wife while I figured out what to do. But nothing I did was good enough. Do you remember a few months ago, when I asked you to keep Buckingham because I was going to a spa?" 

"Of course." 

"I wanted Buckingham to be someplace safe, with somebody who'd take good care of him. I didn't want him anywhere near Jeremy when Jeremy discovered that I'd left him." 

Bet stopped. Despite her best efforts to repress them, images of Buckingham's death filtered up from her memory. The proof of Jeremy's vengeful spite lay bundled in her lap, but it wasn't yet time to show Buckingham's body to Clare. Ignoring the pain in her side, Bet drew in a deep, calming breath and tried to compose herself, still the next words came out in a rush. "Jeremy sent a merc to track me down before anybody could find out that I'd left him. After I was caught, Jeremy ordered two Company men, Pym and Jasper, to bring me back to New Gates. And the merc who found me went on his way, on the Hunter-Gratzner." 

"That ship that was destroyed?" 

"Yes." Bet allowed the potential significance of that thought to sink in before she continued. "Since Jeremy brought me back, I've tried to avoid making him angry, but his behavior keeps getting more and more erratic, more unpredictable. Running away doesn't work. I had to find another way to get free of him." 

"You should have come to me for help," Clare said. "If Tom and I can't protect you, nobody can." 

"I know that you'd try, but I think you're underestimating what Jeremy's capable of," Bet said gently. "I decided that the only way I'd ever be safe, is if Jeremy is gone. He hired a merc to track me down. That gave me the idea. I hired a merc to help me find evidence that Jeremy ordered the fire that killed my lawyer and his family. If Jeremy is in prison, I'll be safe." 

"And did he find the evidence?" 

"Yes, he did," a voice rumbled from the shadows. 

Clare startled as Riddick took a few steps forward, allowing her to see the dark outline of his form. 

"It's all right, Clare," Bet assured her. "This is the man I hired. He tracked down the arsonist and recorded his confession. The plan was for him to bring the videodisc to me this afternoon, before Jeremy came home from his trip. But Jeremy came home early and apparently he heard rumors that somebody is looking into the fire. I don't think he knew for sure that it was me, but he said that he wanted to *remind* me to mind my own business. It's a good thing we already have the confession on disc, because I suspect that Jeremy has started tidying up loose ends." 

Clare turned to Riddick, squinting as she peered into the shadows. "What shall I call you?" 

Riddick laughed. "Call me anything you damn well please. Don't use names much in my line of work." 

"Very well." Clare yielded the point. "You have evidence that incriminates Jeremy in the arson deaths?" 

"That and a whole shit-load of other crimes." 

Clare sounded doubtful. "If Jeremy is so dangerous, why would you agree to work against him? Why should Elisabeth trust you?" 

"Got the two purest motives in the universe. Money and revenge. Mrs. Villiers promised me a big payday. And a man like Jeremy Villiers makes enemies. Been screwed over by him in the past and been lookin' for some payback." 

"Clare," Bet touched her arm. "Will you watch the disc? Then we can talk about what to do with it." 

"Of course." 

"Would you mind closing the curtains? And if you turn your chair to face the armoire, the disc 's loaded and ready to go." 

Clare complied. As soon as she took her position, Riddick pressed the play button on the remote. Bet recoiled as the arsonist's face filled the screen. Disconcerting to watch a dead man speak, a man who had no idea that within minutes his life would be over. Riddick had locked himself away in the study for more than an hour while editing the disc. If he hadn't told her, Bet never would have guessed that Riddick altered the background, making it impossible for anyone to tell where the interrogation took place. Bet never saw the original, but noticed that the final version yielded no clue about what Riddick did to make the arsonist talk. She didn't ask and Riddick didn't volunteer the information, but Bet's stomach tightened as over time the arsonist's face grew paler and more and more beaded with sweat. The arsonist was a heartless bastard. Impossible to summon much sympathy for him, nonetheless Bet found his distress difficult to watch. 

Clare gasped and squeezed Bet's hand as the tale of Jeremy's crimes unfolded. She sat in stunned silence for several minutes when the disc ended, then stood and opened the curtains. Finally, Clare spoke, her voice tinged with wonder. "Do you mean to tell me that almost fifty people died in order to spare Jeremy Villiers some embarrassment? Everyone who knew that Elisabeth left him? Innocent people who were unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Company men who were just following orders?" She lapsed into momentary silence again, before turning to Bet. 

"You're right, sweetheart. Jeremy is a very dangerous man." 

Riddick spoke up. "Way I see it, this could play out one of two ways. Could take the disc to the press. Media would have a field day. Mad dog Company executive uses his power and position to commit a string of murders. Look real bad for the Company, that would. Truthfully, that's the outcome I favor, but Mrs. Villiers got another idea." 

"I have a better solution," Bet said. "I don't want to make trouble for Tom or anybody at the Company. I just want Jeremy out of my life. If you take the video-disc to Tom -" 

"A copy of the disc," Riddick interrupted, warning Clare that he had a back-up plan. 

"If you take the video-disc to Tom," Bet continued, "and show him how dangerous and out of control Jeremy is, Tom could order Company security to arrest Jeremy. Pretend that some in-house investigation uncovered Jeremy's crimes." 

"Let the Company take credit for bringing Villiers to justice." Riddick continued. "Hell of a lot better PR than word getting out that the Director of Human Resources waged a personal war on his enemies, and nobody at the Company caught on or stopped him." 

"I don't want to make trouble," Bet repeated. "I don't even want Jeremy's money, or stocks, or the house, or anything. I'll walk away from it all. Tom can decide what to do with it. All I want is access to my own money again, and to be free of Jeremy." 

"There's no need to be rash, Elisabeth. Can you get by without Jeremy's money?" 

Bet smiled. "Easily." 

"That's a relief. Of course I'll help you," Clare said. "I'll take the disc to Tom right now. And I'll make him understand what a liability Jeremy's become. You'll be safe, Elisabeth. I promise you that." 

"One more thing Mrs. Hannigan." Riddick said. 

"Yes?" 

"Got a personal score to settle with Villiers. He's due home around six. Would you ask your husband to send security to the house to arrest Villiers at eight? Promise not to leave a scratch on him, but I would like to play with him a while." 

Clare glanced at Bet's battered face and her expression hardened. "Personally, I wouldn't mind if you beat the crap out of him. Tom will do what I ask. You can count on security coming for Jeremy at eight." 

"Appreciate it," Riddick nodded. 

"It won't work," Bet spoke up. "The plan sounds good, but it won't work." She was supposed to say that, but the conviction with which she spoke was entirely genuine. Bet stood at the intersection of reality and artifice, where expedience collided with the truth. No fabrication could produce the trembling that seized her, or the tears that slipped down her cheeks. 

"Elisabeth, what's wrong?" Clare knelt down next to the rocking chair. 

"You don't know Jeremy like I do. He's a master of manipulation. He'll find some way to weasel out of this. It's what he does best, save his own hide at the expense of somebody else. He'll claim that the disc is a fake, or he'll set somebody else up to take the fall. He always comes out on top." Bet covered her face with her hands, her words barely audible. "He'll find some way to get out of it and then he'll get even." 

"No, he won't." Clare soothed her. "Not this time." 

"Just wait and see. When security gets here, I'll bet anything that Jeremy has some persuasive lie to tell. As long as Jeremy has a tongue, he can talk his way out of anything." 

"We won't let him do that. Tell me, does Jeremy still take sleeping pills?" Bet nodded, pleased that Clare remembered and didn't need to be reminded. "And does he still get migraines? Yes? Where does he keep his pills?" 

"In his nightstand drawer." 

Clare twisted around to look toward Riddick. "Will you check the drawer, please?" 

Riddick pawed through the contents of the drawer before fishing out the bottles. "Yeah. They're here." 

"What would happen if Jeremy had a few drinks, confused his migraine medicine with his sleeping pills? Took a few too many?" 

Riddick shrugged. "Bastard would be out cold." 

"If Jeremy were out cold when security arrived, he couldn't tell them anything." Clare observed. 

"But when he woke up he'd have one hell of an story to tell," Bet argued. "Complete with a boogey-man who forced pills down his throat. And it would be true." 

Clare held up a hand. "Let me think for a moment." Bet studiously avoided looking in Riddick's direction, afraid that Clare would detect the collusion between them. 

"Tom is very close to the planetary governor," Clare said slowly. "I'm certain that if Tom asked for it, the governor would issue an executive order declaring Jeremy a threat to public safety. Have him immediately put into cryo-sleep and transported to some maximum security prison to await trial." 

Bet felt, but couldn't see, Riddick's smirk. The civilian government functioned as little more than a branch of the Company. If the CEO requested it, of course the governor would issue such an order. 

"That would keep him quiet, at least for a while. Long enough for me to get well out of his reach." Bet clutched at Clare's hand, guilt battling with triumph in her heart. "Do you think Tom would do it?" 

"If Tom decides to cut Jeremy off, which he will, then he'll want him to go quietly. Tom will do it. I'll make sure of it." Clare spoke with great conviction. 

"I don't know how to thank you," Bet said. 

Clare kissed her on the cheek. "Get away from here. Try to be happy. You deserve it." She stood. "Now I'd better get that disc to Tom." 

"Wait, Clare. There's one more thing. One more favor I need to ask you." 

"What is it, sweetheart?" 

Slowly, reluctantly, Bet folded back the blanket that covered Buckingham's face. She'd hoped that he'd look like he was asleep, but she found his eyes open and sightless. With one finger, Bet stroked the top of his head. "After Jeremy kicked me, Buckingham attacked him. I've never seen that cat move so fast. He dug his claws into Jeremy's leg and held on." Bet's face contorted with grief at the memory. "Jeremy picked him up and broke his neck and threw him at me." 

Clare blanched at the sight of the dead cat, gasping with horror at the story. If Buckingham were Bet's baby, then Clare was his doting grandmother. Here was tangible proof of Jeremy's villainy, perhaps a small proof in the greater scheme of things, but shocking in its cruelty and immediacy. 

"Good God!" Clare whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. "Jeremy has a lot to answer for." 

"Would you take Buckingham home with you, and bury him in your garden, in your pet cemetery? Maybe your kids could paint his name on a rock, like they did for the parakeet and the goldfish." 

Clare's eyes filled with tears. She nodded wordlessly, but hesitated before picking Buckingham up. "Isn't this your grandmother's quilt?" 

"I want Buckingham buried in it, in something that's important to me. Besides, I don't need it to remember my Grandma." 

"All right." Very carefully, Clare picked up the cat. "Don't worry, Elisabeth. I'll take care of everything." She paused at the door on her way out and turned back to look at Bet. "I won't see you again, will I?" 

"No." No pretty lies. She'd learned that from Riddick, even though he hadn't thought to give that particular rule a number. "No you won't, but I'll always remember you." 

"Me too, sweetheart." 

Silence descended upon the house again. Bet held very still, scarcely breathing. After a few minutes, Riddick emerged from the shadows and crouched down in front of her. "You did good," he said simply. 

"You too," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on.

Chapter 10: Promises Kept 


They both heard the front door opening downstairs, opening up the final chapter in the drama that had been unfolding ever Bet and Riddick had first met. Jeremy was back, and the whole thing would soon be over. Riddick looked at Bet, again sitting in the rocking chair she had occupied a few hours ago. He spoke softly. "All gonna be over with soon. Trust me?" She nodded. He kissed her gently, then moved into position, standing against the wall the door was in, with the armoire in between the opening and himself. Villiers wouldn't see him, but Riddick would be between him and the door, blocking off his escape. 

Bet and Riddick had worked out this positioning after Clare left. Riddick had originally wanted to confront Jeremy somewhere else, but Bet had argued for the bedroom. It was one of the few rooms in the house with only one door, one exit. When Riddick shut that door, Jeremy would be trapped. Riddick wanted to make sure the little bastard had nowhere to run to, so he agreed to the ambush in the bedroom. 

His goggles on, and the lights at half dim, the only thing Riddick needed to do was wait. The pause was a short one, as the man Riddick hated more than anyone else in the world quickly came up the stairs and appeared at the door. 

"Hello, darling," Jeremy called out, looking into the softly lit room. He stood silhouetted in the doorway for a few moments, holding a dozen long stemmed red roses in a presentation box. "I was somewhat dismayed at our disagreement this afternoon." 

"Is that what you're calling it? A disagreement?" Bet was holding herself with an air of quiet dignity. 

Jeremy ignored her statement. "Aren't they beautiful? The absolute best money could buy." He approached her, offering the roses as if they were an appeasement gift, never noticing the shadow that detached itself from the wall to silently shut the door behind him. "Come now, let's put all that unpleasantness behind us." 

"You got no fuckin' idea how much 'unpleasantness' we got behind us," said the shadow. 

Jeremy spun around to face the voice. His eyes widened as he took in the intruder standing in his bedroom. He drew himself up to his full height. "Who are you? What are you doing here? How dare you trespass in my home! Do you have any idea who I am?" He started to edge over to where the security alarm, and the panic button, were located. But Bet was in the way. 

"Question is, do YOU have any idea who I am?" Riddick rumbled. "Let's start with the easiest." A step. "I'm the big, bruising felon." Another step. "The one who fucked your wife." He could see the realization dawning in Jeremy's eyes. "The one who was on the Hunter-Gratzner." 

He took a third step closer to Jeremy, who shrank back, holding the flowers out in front as if they could shield him from the menacing figure. Riddick glanced down at the roses being offered up to him, then back to Jeremy's face. "Not my type, asshole." 

He took a fourth step, and slipped his knife out of its sheath. At that sight, Jeremy finally broke and ran, careening into the bathroom, where he slammed and locked the door. As if a mere lock could stop Riddick's rage. 

Several quick strides closed the distance to the door. A quick flip and the shiv reversed in his hand. Point down, it drove through the thin wood of the door. Jeremy's squeal could be heard over the sound of Riddick drawing the knife out. Then there was silence as a dusky fist punched through what remained of the mangled door and opened the lock. 

Riddick entered the room, his predatory eyes scanning for prey but coming up hungry. The shower proved empty, and a quick glance revealed the tub to be so, as well. The only cabinet under the sinks was too small, even for a weasel like Jeremy. That left only the closets. Jeremy's was the nearer of the two, so Riddick approached that one first, his left hand reaching out to open the louvered door. He pulled it open, and checked it over in a cursory manner. Nothing here but suits and ties. 

Riddick stalked over to the only place that remained unsearched. Jeremy had to be hiding in his wife's closet. A muscled arm reached out and pulled the door open, revealing Jeremy trying to cower behind the red dress Bet had worn the night of the party. He met Riddick's eyes, then a pungent aroma filled the air. They both looked down and saw the yellow liquid foaming down onto a pair of Bet's shoes. 'Least it ain't my boots' Riddick thought to himself wryly. A split second passed, then Riddick reached in and grabbed Jeremy's tie, using it as a leash to pull him out. 

With his quarry stumbling after, the big man strode out, back to the bedroom, where he threw the pathetic figure down into the nearest chair. It was the one Jeremy had been in that night, when he had forced Bet to perform oral sex, where he had gloated in his power over her. It wasn't by chance that Riddick had chosen this location. 

"Get out of that chair, and I will break every one of your god-damned fingers. Understand?" 

Jeremy nodded, sweat breaking out on his brow. He stayed in the chair, sprawled ignobly, with his knees knocking together and his feet splayed out. "Look, whatever this is about, I'm sure we can settle it." He licked his lips nervously, then continued. "Whatever you want, jewelry, money…" 

Riddick actually lunged, stopping himself just short of cutting Jeremy's jugular then and there. As it was, the shiv was pressed into his throat, slicing a thin red line in the skin as Riddick drew it slowly along, perpendicular to the major blood vessels. Drops of blood appeared, welling up around the black blade. Jeremy shut his mouth and his eyes, clearly expecting the worst. Bet made a noise, but Riddick ignored her. 

He leaned in close, and in a whisper far more menacing than any shout could have been, spoke. "That's what I always hated about you. You assume everyone around you can be bought off. Two things piss me the *fuck* off, more than anything else. The first is people assuming I'm stupid. The second is being made to take the fall for someone else's stupidity." 

"I assure you, I believe you are an intelligent man. That's why I think we can settle this in a civilized manner. Name your price." 

Riddick laughed harshly and withdrew, standing a meter away. "I'm not fuckin' civilized. You made sure of that. And my price? Well, last I heard, it was a million creds. 'Course, I'm only worth half that, dead." 

"I'll double it. Two million." Riddick shook his head in disgust at Jeremy's misunderstanding. He prowled around to the back of the chair, like a giant cat playing with a rat it had just cornered. He laid the point of the knife just behind Jeremy's ear, the steel caressing the quivering skin. Jeremy sat bolt upright, rigid. 

"Just don't fuckin' get it, do you? There is absolutely nothing you can do to convince me to leave you alone." The shiv traced slowly down the jawline. "I will take you down so low you will wish you were dead. There's a hell you know nothing about. And I'm your one way ticket to it." 

"I assure you…" 

"You have never assured me, Jeremy." The blade turned, edge uppermost for a second, just long enough to draw blood under the angle of Jeremy's jaw. "Screwed me, betrayed me, tried to kill me, gotten me sentenced to Slam, but never assured me." 

Jeremy screwed up his courage, his fear and confusion evident in his voice as he nearly shrieked "What are you talking about? I don't even know who you are!" 

Riddick circled around to the front of the chair again. "That's the worst part. You made sure you were so god-damned well insulated that you didn't even know the people who paid for your crimes. Let me give you a fucking clue. The Wailing Wars. An E-TAC group, 50 strong. You diverted us, sent us downside. On your orders, we attacked an outpost, slaughtered them all. And afterwards, searching through their records, we found out why. Not to save civilians, not to capture a tactically important site, but to cover up your attempted take-over of a competing corporation." Riddick could hear Bet's intake of breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her close her eyes and shake her head, as if to deny what she was hearing. He turned to look at her. 

"Seems the boy here overstepped his boundaries as a junior suit. He'd arranged a deal he had no authority to back up, and had put an upper level exec's name on it. Top guys at this other corp found out, and were going to cause trouble for him. He'd already found a way to forge the senior exec's credentials, so he used them to cut our orders."

Riddick turned back to Jeremy, who was just starting to ease himself out of the chair. At Riddick's glare, he sat back down hurriedly.

"300 people died in that attack. There was no way the local military could let that go. They retaliated with full force. We weren't equipped to take on heavy artillery. Half the unit was wiped out in the first exchange of fire. Only reason I survived was that I was on sentry duty, on the opposite side from where the attack came in. By the time I made it back, the guys were already dead."

He leaned in and placed the point of the knife under Jeremy's chin, lifting his head up until Riddick could see his eyes. "I'd already spent time in prison, already learned the rules of survival. When the chips are down, ain't nothing else matters 'cept savin' your own hide. I left, I ran. Two weeks later, I made it to a drop point and called in a pickup. I was the only one to make it out. 300 innocent people. 49 trained soldiers. All dead, so you could save your career."

Riddick took the goggles off, revealing his whole face for the first time. His eyes were malevolent, ominous. "When I got back to base, the top brass wanted to know what happened. I told them. But they didn't believe me - seems they had already heard a different version." 

The blood had drained out of Jeremy's face, leaving his already pallid face completely white as he spoke, a note of recognition finally appearing in his voice "You were the one…" 

"I was the one you set up to be blamed for the whole thing. Between you having the apparent backing of the Company, and my previous record, it was easy to get me convicted of murdering the 49 men in my unit. Life sentence. No parole. In the worst hell hole the galaxy has ever known - The Pit, in Slam City. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch the light disappearing over your head, knowing you'll never see it again? "

For the first time, his voice rose above a whisper. "That you're doomed to spend the rest of your life in the dark, fighting for your survival every FUCKING day against opponents you can't see?"

He suddenly grinned, an ominous expression that was far from pleasant, as he removed the shiv from the underside of Jeremy's chin. "Don't worry - you will soon. You're goin' down, Jeremy. Down into the Pit. Into utter, pitch blackness." 

Jeremy broke. Blubbering in fear, he appealed to Bet for help. "Elisabeth, you've got to help me! He's, he's, he's going to kill me! Don't let him, oh my god don't let him kill me! Help me!" The tears were running down his face, contorted in terror. 

Riddick could see Bet out of the corner of his eye, growing paler by the moment, hanging onto the bedpost, looking as if she wanted to stop this. But that wasn't going to happen. He had been dreaming of this for far too long; it had too much momentum to stop now. 

"Bet, go get the brandy." He turned his head just enough to see her, while keeping Jeremy firmly in view. She opened her mouth as if to argue with him. "GO! Now! Because I am NOT going to stop. And you don't need to be here for that." Bet looked at him, then at Jeremy, and finally, at the spot on the rocking chair where her grandmother's quilt used to lie. The quilt that was now buried with Buckingham. She fled the room, shutting the door after her. 

Jeremy had slumped even further down into the chair, sobbing. Riddick looked at him in disgust for a time, just long enough for Bet to get out of earshot, then he grabbed Jeremy by the hair and wrenched his head back. 

"Don't even have to cut you - could just tear your throat out. Ever taste human blood? Copperish." The con moved in, whispering in Jeremy's ear like a lover. "Wonder how I know that? Pit brings a new level to brutal. Not even your pretty white ass gonna save you there. Only the strong survive. Are you strong?" 

He switched his position, maneuvering so that his eyes glinted in the faint light. "Course, you don't havta stay blind. Can get a shine job, like I did. No anesthesia. Most times, the doc can't get it. Even if he can, no guarantee you'll wake up from it. So there's your choice. Pain, or blindness. Which will you choose, Jeremy?" The shiv swung into line with one of Jeremy's eyes, and hung there. "Wanna taste of what it's gonna feel like?" Jeremy stared at it, horror written on his features. 

Riddick backed off, and stood up. "Feelin' strong now? Powerful? Master of your world? Didn't think so. Remember this feelin', 'cause it's only gonna get worse."

He laughed again, a sound totally without mirth.

"Best part is, your wife is the one who thought of it. See, I just wanted to kill you. X you out. Bet, now she's the clever one. She realized that sending you to prison would be even worse for you than death. But then again, I'm just a big brute. Short on brains, but long on…what exactly were you hopin' for there, Jeremy? Hmm? Whatever it was, you'll get it in Slam. I'll make sure some of my pals there know you're comin'. And while you're there, in the eternal fuckin' dark, with nothin' to do but think, hour after god-damned hour, occupy yourself with this: I took you out. A thug. A Neanderthal. Think about that. And think about me 'n Bet, in your house. Drivin' your cars. Drinkin' your booze. Fuckin' in your bed. Enjoyin' everything you had. All while you're rotting, in the dark, like the worm you really are." 

The whole time, Jeremy just sat there, tears streaming down his face unchecked. He looked shell shocked, as if he had given up. When Bet opened the door, he didn't react, just sat unmoving. 

Bet walked up to Riddick and handed him the decanter of brandy and a snifter. She had poured some into the glass already, a good stiff drink. "Get the pills." Riddick told her. She walked over to Jeremy's nightstand and opened the drawer, taking out the bottle of sleeping pills. Riddick took them and the brandy to where Jeremy slumped, and placed them on the table next to his chair. "Take 2 of those pills with some brandy." 

Jeremy looked up, a spark of defiance showing briefly on his countenance. But the spark died as Riddick stared him down, growling "Can take 'em, or I can shove them down your mutha-fuckin' throat, don't care which. Or do you wanna be awake when security arrests your ass, and takes you out in cuffs?" 

The only sound that could be heard in the room was the sound of three bodies breathing. One in satisfaction and malignant joy; one in utter dejection. Riddick didn't know what Bet was feeling, and for that brief time, he didn't much care. This was his moment. 

Jeremy's hand reached out and took the pills, swallowed the liquor. Within 5 minutes, he was asleep. 

They had done it. 

* * * * * * * 

Bet barely breathed as Jeremy lapsed into unconsciousness. He went without a struggle, his defiance spent. Whether a result of the soporific combination of brandy and sleeping pills, or a final, desperate flight from Riddick's fury, Jeremy slipped unresisting into a deep slumber. 

Bet backed away from the spectacle, stopping only when her legs bumped against the bed. Neither Riddick nor Bet spoke. This was their moment of triumph, the successful culmination of all their plans, but instead of rejoicing, Bet found a dark and bitter victory. She hated Jeremy. She HATED him, yet Bet took no pleasure in watching him disintegrate before her eyes; his arrogance vanquished, his delusions of invincibility shattered. Months before, a fugitive Bet had defiantly declared that she was finished with her husband. Wishful thinking, as it turned out. Gazing down now at his motionless form, a petty and contemptible man stripped of his power to do harm, Bet realized that she truly was finished with him. Jeremy wasn't worthy of another moment's thought. He meant nothing to her. Nothing. Instead, Bet turned her eyes to the man who meant everything. 

Riddick stood over his defeated enemy, his expression bleak and his eyes distant, seemingly oblivious to Bet's presence. If Riddick savored his victory, gloating over Jeremy's abasement, the pleasure he found was short lived. The ghosts from his past who clamored for vengeance could finally rest, but that knowledge apparently brought him little peace. Exhaustion, rather than satisfaction, marked his features. 

"I always wondered how you knew Jeremy," Bet said slowly. "The first time we met, I could tell that you hated him, but I didn't know why." 

Riddick answered with some effort, reluctantly pulling out of his reverie. "Asshole who fucked up my life? Yeah, not someone I'd be likely to forget." He drew in a ragged breath. "Spent a lot of time thinking about this moment, 'bout gettin' even for the things he did to me and the guys in my squad. Rule number one: life ain't fair. But that don't mean the fuckheads get to win every time. Course it don't really change anything, payback. They're still dead. Mercs still after my ass." He shifted his gaze away from Jeremy and looked at Bet. "Least you're safe now." 

"Because of you." Bet closed the distance between them and touched his arm. "Because you came back for me. Thank you for - " her voice trailed off. How could she distill into a few words all that Riddick had done for her? For what should she thank him? Keeping his promise to help her? Accepting her plan to destroy rather than kill Jeremy? Taking care of her when she was hurt? Being her lover? Giving her hope? Too much to briefly encapsulate, but not nearly enough to credit all that Riddick had done. Bet squeezed his arm, searching his eyes for some sign that he understood what he meant to her. 

For the first time since Bet met Riddick, the invulnerable man looked vulnerable, the pain in his eyes undisguised. The final confrontation with Jeremy had drained him emotionally and physically. Bet dropped her gaze, unwilling to exploit his condition. "Thank you for everything," she said simply. 

After a long pause, Riddick replied. "Can't remember the last time anybody thanked me for anything." He shook his head. Bet could almost see him mentally shifting gears, forcing his thoughts into focus. "Security is gonna be here soon," he said. "Need to clear out." 

What did that mean? Separately? Together? Why did Riddick have to be so cryptic? "Clear out and do what?" she asked. "Clear out and go where?" Bet held her breath as Riddick spun around and headed toward the door. He's leaving, she realized miserably. Just like that. Walking out of her life. After all this time they were right back where they started. When Bet first met Riddick, in that dark alleyway so many months ago, she had swallowed her fear and refused to beg the notorious murderer to spare her life. Once again, she refused to beg. She bit her lower lip and watched Riddick walk past the door toward the corner cabinet. Squatting down, he opened the safe and pulled out the Trump rubies. 

He held the necklace up. "This is a ship. We can go anywhere." He dug through the safe, removing several computer discs and two small bags of gold coins. 

"C'mon," he said, standing up and stuffing the loot in his pocket. "Get your stuff." 

"Get my stuff," Bet repeated weakly, relief coursing through her veins and rooting her to the spot. 

"Move it," Riddick urged, heading toward the bathroom. After a moment's hesitation, Bet followed him. Riddick stood inside her closet, shaking his head as he scanned the rows of clothing. He fingered a lavender linen dress, frowning in bemusement. "You got anything practical in here?" 

Bet paused in the door to her closet, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Shit!" 

"Not quite." Riddick pointed to the yellow pool of urine in the corner. Shaking her head, Bet took her leather satchel from a shelf, and headed to the back of the closet, carefully skirting the puddle. She stuffed an extra pair of pants and a few shirts into the satchel. 

"You know," she said, reaching for a sturdy pair of shoes, "I've got access to my money again. We can get whatever we need once we're off New Gates." Bet paused and looked Riddick in the eyes. "Money can buy a lot of things: a new identity, security, some peace of mind." 

"Not to mention better accommodations," Riddick grinned, reminding her of the dilapidated hotel and lumpy mattress where they'd spent their first night together. "Might be a while before you get a chance to buy anything. Pack what you need, but keep it to the essentials." 

Bet nodded and tucked a few pairs of socks and some underwear into the satchel. Pawing through the rows of garments, Riddick found a light jacket and tossed it into the bag. He pushed aside more clothing, searching for something. Bet watched in surprise as Riddick pulled her ivory silk nightgown from its hanger. In response to her raised brows, Riddick shrugged and shoved it in the satchel. 

"Practical, huh?" Bet murmured, stepping past him on her way to the bathroom vanity. Riddick disappeared into the bedroom while Bet filled a cosmetic bag with toiletries. He returned, carrying the book of poetry she'd kept in her nightstand drawer, her only souvenir of the night they met. 

"Don't mean you got room for that damned loofa," he warned, sliding the slender volume into the satchel. 

"Hands work better anyway. A smart man told me that once." 

Bet followed Riddick into the bedroom, glancing around for any other "essentials." With a small, apologetic smile, she slipped a photograph of her grandparents and another of Buckingham into the satchel. 

"Anything else you want?" 

Bet's eyes traveled over her beautifully decorated bedroom, passing over the expensive furnishings, the antique paintings, the four poster bed, the Chinese porcelains, the Persian rugs, all the trappings of the privileged lifestyle she was leaving behind. Her gaze came to rest upon Jeremy's sprawled figure. Bet shivered. The room held nothing of value for her. Nothing. 

She looked Riddick squarely in the eyes. "I've got everything I want right here," she said. Let him make of that what he would. Bet refused to look away, daring Riddick to ask her what she meant. 

"Then we should get outta here," he said, heading toward the door. 

"Riddick!" Bet called out, refusing to dodge the question any longer. He halted and slowly turned to face her, his face as impassive as ever. Bet swallowed, determined that not even a hint of pleading would creep into her voice. "What are we doing? How long are we going to stay together?" 

"Don't know, princess. Ain't gonna promise you happily ever after." Riddick shook his head. "This shit's all new to me. A lotta things can go wrong." 

"That's true," Bet conceded. "Things go wrong. Life isn't fair. But that's no reason not to try. You can call that Bet's rule number one." 

"Rule number one, huh?" He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "How many more rules you got?" 

Bet lifted her brows ominously. "You'll just have to wait and see, big guy." 

He nodded. "I'm quakin' in my boots. Really. I am." He held out a hand. "You still got a broken rib. Gimme the bag." 

Without a backward glance, Bet followed Riddick into the hall. "I've never had a broken rib before," she said. "Do you have any idea how long I'll be, um, out of commission?" 

"Not as long as you might think." Riddick hesitated at the top step, looking down the long, curving stairway. "Rich folk," he muttered under his breath. He glanced back at Bet. "Long way down. I can carry you." 

She shook her head. "Thanks, but I want to leave this house under my own power." Bet gripped the banister. The first cautious step confirmed her worst suspicions. If walking hurt more than breathing, stepping down the stairs hurt more than both activities combined. Riddick kept only a few paces ahead of her, Bet noted, positioned to catch her if she tumbled. Thoughtful, but she had no intention of falling. One step at a time carried her to the bottom. Bet paused to catch her breath, looking one last time around the foyer, her gaze taking in the console table, the gilded mirror, the wall niches with their hideous, faux marble, imperial statues 

Riddick held open the front door. "Ready?" 

Bet lifted a finger. "One last thing." She crossed the entry and stood in front of the bust of Napoleon, Jeremy's hero. The emperor's face wore a scowl, as if protesting how ridiculous he looked sporting a straw gardening hat. Bet lifted her grandmother's hat from Napoleon's head and slapped it onto her own. Sticking out her tongue, she grabbed the statue and yanked hard, wincing from the effort. She jumped back as the statue shattered on the floor, not marble at all, despite its pretensions, but some cheap and fragile material. 

"How the mighty have fallen," Bet said with satisfaction, kicking the broken-off nose across the foyer. She turned to Riddick. His raised brows offered unspoken commentary on her unlikely ensemble. Bet glanced at the mirror. Black leather pants, a black, sleeveless cashmere sweater, boots, and a big, floppy straw hat. Perhaps it was an incongruous outfit, but no more incongruous than Riddick and Bet themselves, the felon and the heiress, riding off together into the sunset. 

"C'mon, babe. Haul ass." 

Trust Riddick to dispel any romantic images Bet entertained. Smiling to herself, she followed him out the door. 

THE END

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Written by Shaz