Findings(Douglas Richards) Amy Phelps spotted the monster walking out the door of a little diner named Katrina's.
Impossible, couldn't be him, she mentally argued. Despite misgivings, she hollered, “Stop!” to the taxi driver.
Breathing quick, chest tight, nausea rolling in her gut, Amy tried to focus. “Take deep, even breaths,” her therapist would tell her.
The driver gave her a disgusted look in his rear view mirror.
“Stop now!” She fished her badge from inside her jacket pocket and held it up. "Now!"
The driver's foot slammed the brake. Tires squealed.
“My sister’s waiting for me,” Amy hollered, as she flung open the rear door. “Drop off my luggage... Tell her I’ll explain.”
Flinging a twenty over the seat, she sprinted from the cab.
Claire would be worried when Amy didn't show, but she just couldn't think about that right now. Must find Ross Vie, the monster...

Rushing back to the front of the diner - right where she was sure she'd seen him, it was him, had to be - Amy scanned the sidewalk, the throng of hurried Tuesday morning pedestrians pushing past her.
Where was he? she wondered. Ross Vie, murderous letch!
Was she wrong?
Vie was dead, of course. Wasn't he? Of course, he was. So, why jump from a cab to find him? Maybe she was losing her mind. After all she'd been through in the last year, it might be possible that her imagination was playing tricks, right? But she'd been coping so well... And with therapy...
There!
She saw him – Vie? - walking on the opposite side of the street.
Amy's target crossed a congested intersection, strolling casually between people.
From her side of the street, she paced him.

Halfway down the block, Vie - for that's who it was, yes was, must be, dead, but alive - stopped abruptly and glanced around. Maybe felt he was being watched. Now, he looked right at her.
Amy, being a cop and possessing cop instinct, had been one step ahead. She'd taken up position on the other side of a parked Ford Bronco. Tinted windows. Their eyes met, but he didn't see her. She studied his face.
She swallowed, heart slamming against ribs. Definitely Ross Vie.
No doubt now.
Her killer was alive.
Caucasian male, late fifties, 7'1, 187 pounds, thinning gray hair. Sharp nose reminding Amy of a rat's snout.

Vie moved on.
Following again, Amy watched as minutes later Vie jogged up a couple steps to a ritzy looking building. The young doorman nodded at him before he disappeared inside.
Sweat beaded Amy's forehead as she cautiously approached the building, climbed the few stairs, faced the doorman.
Amy flashed her NYPD badge, said, “The man who just went in, who is he?”
Up and down his eyes went, taking her body in. Though Amy was used to men ogling her, she couldn't help wondering if the one puckered scar on her chest would be a turn off.
He said, “You mean Devon Hart?”
Amy had a sick inkling of what the name change meant. She seethed.
“Keeps to himself,” he continued. “Nice fella.”
“This is police business,” she snapped. “We never spoke.”

She strode away, flagged a taxi and was again en route to her sister’s condo. Fumbling her cell from her jacket, hands shaking, Amy punched in Chief Garrity's direct line back in New York.
He answered on the first ring. “Amy?”
Call display. “Vie’s alive, Garrity. You knew, didn't you?”
“Calm down. What are you talking about? You're suppose to be on leave.”

She was on leave, and it was this leave that had brought her in contact with her past. Her psychiatrist, despite Amy's protests to the contrary, had reported to her superiors that while Amy was indeed making progress, she wasn't near ready to return to active duty. Time away might do her some good.
“Three minutes I flat lined," she yelled. “Because of that monster!”
“Amy, listen -”
“No, you listen. I fly to LA to see my sister, and I spot Vie on the street.” Knuckles white, Amy felt she could easily crush the plastic exterior of the phone. “The Feds did this! Witness relocation, am I right, Chief? New life, new name, new beginning...”
Voice strained, Garrity said, “Vie had mob connections -”
“I know that!”
Vie had been one of the Motisi crime families hired guns.
“Vie named names, put away dangerous people, Amy,” he said.
Refusing to listen, she said, “All those months... rehabilitation, night terrors, panic attacks,” she spat. “Endless therapy sessions...” She gritted her teeth. “Vie was alive, free...”
“Amy...”
"No one ever thought to tell me..."
"Amy, look..."
She ended the call. Bastards!

Ten minutes later, Claire met her at the door of her condo. Amy embraced her younger sister. Couldn’t smell alcohol on Claire's breath. Good news on such a twisted day.
“I’ve been so worried,” Claire said. “I knew I should have picked you up at the airport! The taxi driver said you flipped out. What happened?”
“I’m fine.”
“Clearly, Ames. Spill it.”
While they sipped coffee at the kitchen table, Amy relayed what had transpired. She fought to keep her voice from trembling.
The dark past rushed back.

Over a year ago, Amy and her partner, while on midnight patrol, had spotted a man matching the description of someone who'd reportedly been selling hard drugs to high school kids. Amy was just about to throw on the siren, when she witnessed another man step from behind a nearby tree, step right behind Amy's suspect. Clearly, he'd been waiting there. She watched him lift a handgun and fire two shots into the unsuspecting man.

She knew the Motisi family played rough with any young punk who cut in on their business. But for a cop to witness such an act of violence...
The shooter, later identified as Vie, quickly drew his hood up and started walking quickly away.
Amy flew from the vehicle, Glock 22 drawn.
She ordered the man to stop.
In one seemingly fluid motion, Vie dropped to one knee, pivoted toward her, weapon gripped in both hands.

She fired, once, twice. She saw his body jerk with each bullet.

Vie's fingers yanked the trigger on his gun. Three muzzle flashes burned the night.

One armor piercing round punched through Amy's Kevlar, sending her sprawling onto the road. She heard her partner calling for backup, remembered feeling the blood pumping from her, smelling the coppery scent of her life pooling around her.

Rushing down on the first available flight, Claire had wept at Amy's bedside. Claire had told her months later how she bargained for Amy's life. “I swore to God, I'd stop drinking if God let you live,” she said.
Amy's attempts to help her sister deal with her alcoholism had failed in the past. Having Claire sober was the only positive side of the shooting.

“So, he's alive,” Claire said. “What now?”
“Nothing. Now, I know.”
Claire’s weak smile showed clear worry.
Changing the subject, Amy said, “Let's order take-out."

For the next three days, Amy plotted, watching Vie return again and again for meals at Katrina's. People were creatures of habit. If Vie had been there for breakfast or coffee on Tuesday morning when she first saw him, he probably went there again and again. Plus, he lived close.
On the Friday, she slid into a booth, one close to Vie's stool at the counter.
Wasn't enough to just kill Vie, she'd decided. No, he needed to see her.
There was an alley just before Vie usually crossed to his building's side of the street.
Saturday night, before ducking in the alley and taking her place, she ensured that Vie was strolling her way. Checking her watch, Amy smiled. Almost always the same time every night. Less than five minutes ago, he'd left Katrina's. Last meal.
She took out the huge kitchen knife she'd borrowed from Claire's kitchen. So sharp. Would do the trick nicely.
As Vie crossed in front of the alley, Amy didn't hesitate. She stepped from the shadows, pressed the knife against his throat, felt Vie tense and gently – wouldn't do to kill him before he knew who'd murdered him – guided him back into semi darkness.
“Easy,” she whispered in his ear.
She maneuvered him toward the back. No witnesses. Good. Smooth.
She spun him around, shoved him hard against the brick wall. Shadows and an overloaded dumpster concealed them both from passersby. Place smelled of putrid garbage and urine. A sodium light sputtered high in the corner, offering sporadic illumination.
He said, “I have no money on me...” His brow furrowed. “Officer Phelps?”
He knows me, she thought. Good. “I'm here to kill you,” she said, calmly.
His eyes widened, then squinted, studying her. “I'm different than I was.”
“I'm different, too, Vie.” Thick venom coated her words. “Because of you.”
“I read the paper,” Vie stammered. “I died, too, Amy. You shot me... and there was this light, such peace...”
Her hand clutched the knife so tight. “You were lost and now you're found, that it, Vie?”
“Please.” Gently, he undid the first two buttons of his shirt. The silver cross dangled there, two nasty scars visible on either side of the crucifix. “I've accepted Him into my life.”
“Nice try.” Three minutes on the table, she'd been. Dead. Nothing. No light. No out of body experience.
“I’m making restitution for past sins.” Vie gave a sad smile. “I help others. Like Claire.”
“Claire?” She felt a thin sheen of sweat pepper her forehead. “What are you talking about, Vie?”
He said, “I requested LA for relocation. The feds didn't care why. The paper's mentioned your sister and it didn't take much to figure out where she lived...”
This monster had been near Claire. Thinking of that caused angry tears to spill down Amy's cheeks.
“For what I did to you, I wanted to keep an eye on her. I attend Claire's AA meetings. She doesn't know who I am, Amy, I swear.” He cleared his throat. “Last night Claire went into a bar, Amy. I followed her, and made sure she never touched a drop. She's worried about you, that you might do something awful and she almost slipped up...”

Was this true? Had Vie saved her sister from taking a drink again? “You knew I was in town.”
He said, “She told me. I've changed, Officer..”
Had he truly seen a light, felt peace? She'd seen nothing. Had God been there for him, and not her? Vie's eyes, while masked in partial shadow, were sincere. Cop instinct told her he spoke the truth.

“I've changed,” he repeated, voice filled with conviction. He gave a sympathetic smile, held out his hand. "No more violence."

She jammed the knife in Vie's throat.

Hiding the knife in her coat as she hurried from the alley, Amy heard Vie's final wheeze.

For the first time since he'd shot her, Amy felt real peace. Her therapist would note that. Claire would relish it. She'd become her old, confident self again. Be reinstated.

God worked in mysterious ways, Amy kept thinking as she passed Katrina's, and then as she hailed a cab.
Yes, He did indeed.

The End

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