The road passes through the heart of the sunbaked vineyards of California. It twists and turns until it crosses paths with a meandering pair of rails. A large, black car sits leisurely atop the crossing, enjoying the early afternoon sun. The driver has gone for a little walk, leaving the car and its passengers behind. In the distance, a double stack of smoke announces the incoming train, and all is peaceful except for the angry bellows of its horns. I watch it approach with tempered enthusiasm. Inside, with the near-perfect insulation of the Lincoln, the horns are barely audible, but their message is still clear: we're in its way.

Morgan hands me her phone and says, "It is for you."

I eye the train through the thick bulletproof glass of the Lincoln as I accept Morgan's phone. I know who is on the other side of the line. "Mom?"

"Yes, dear?" she says. It is her.

"Red eyes, golden eyes, true or not?"

"True," she replies without any hesitation. Which means she knew and told me nothing. What's new?

"Family issues?"

"Too many to mention."

"Magic powder?"

"As real as chicken scratches."

I swallow. "Mom, this might get a little messy. I don't like it."

"Can you elaborate?"

"Missus Morgan has invited me to a hostile lunch with some of her informants."

"I have no reason to expect any issues," Morgan interjects.

"Did you hear that?" I ask Mom. "I think she's lying. She also doesn't want to talk relatives." I nearly add 'just like you' but manage to hold my tongue.

Mom's silent for a moment. "Yes... Of course she will be when it involves family. I--Well, I don't like it either, but I think it's worth it. We are exchanging favors, so do your best, within limits. Did she give you any further instructions?"

Morgan studiously looks away. I'm pretty sure she's paying attention to every single word Mom and I exchange.

"Only to sit pretty and be prepared," I say.

"Good enough. Wait…" Something in my voice gave me away, and back in Hellhole Mom begins to laugh. "Pretty? Did she put you in a dress? You're joking."

Morgan is trying to keep the smile from her face. All parents are the same.

"Not funny!" And neither is the train which is approaching rapidly.

Mom hiccups, then laughs again. "I have to see this. Tell her to send me a picture."

I keep my voice as cold as possible. "Any other parental advice before we're being overrun by a freight train?"

"No, not really. Just stay close to her and act at your own discretion, be careful, and make sure to clean up when you're done. I love you. Oh, and Ellen?"

"Yes?"

"What train?"

"I'll tell you later."

"That's fine. Just bring that dress, I have to see this..." She mutters bla bla dress something bla bla, then she laughs out loud again, before hanging up. She called me Ellen.

"What did your mother say?" Morgan asks, seemingly unaware of our incoming doom. I look for Russel but he's no longer in sight.

"That I should help you, not trust you, and avoid unnecessary risks. That includes speeding locomotives. Shouldn't we, like, get out or do something?"

"Be my guest," Morgan says, checking her makeup. "You have a driver's license, don't you?"

"You're serious."

"Very much so. Especially if we don't start moving soon."

There's little else for me to do but hurry. I get out, walk to the front and slide back in, settling behind the wheel. Russel isn't much longer than me, so at least I can see the road over the immense hood. If I stretch my neck a little. "Where's the key? How do I start this thing?"

A slender hand points at the correct button. I start the engine, put the lever in 'drive', then step on the gas. Three tons of armor plating surges forward. The back of the Lincoln has barely cleared the track when the train thunders by, blowing its horns.

"You're crazy!" I yell at Morgan as we pull away, faster and faster, until I manage to control myself.

She's laughing in her back seat, the crazy woman. Magic and chicken scratches, mysteries and the odd appointment. Well, Mom's old friend must be the genuine article because she's just as nuts as Mom herself. I cuss and curse and slow down to a crawl, and halt right next to a 'Santa Esmeralda Airport' road sign. A bit of a waste, that sign, as the tower in the distance can be seen clearly. A small business jet takes off as I watch. Then I turn in my seat to face Morgan.

"So tell me, what do you expect from me for real? Why now? Why me and why... this?" I gesture at my dress.

"Opportunity, careful planning, and chance. I needed another favor, one that I could not afford. When your mother found out about the origin of that plane she called me because we might have some mutual interests. An acquaintance retrieved usable information from the phones she sent me. I contacted the right people and set up a meeting. That is all."

She's deliberately vague. I know Mom leaves out things, but only those she considers not essential. We still argue over what is, and what is not, but that's… different. Morgan's leaving out important things, I'm sure of it.

"So, who are we going to meet?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I hope to meet the people responsible for distributing Dust in our region, to find out about their source. We may find the man behind the cover at our table, or not. We may need to convince him, or not. We may have to shoot him, or not. That is where you come in, although I do not expect to need it."

"To shoot him?"

The disapproving glare Morgan Tillson-Sweetvale gives me says it all. She knows I'm simply being troublesome. But it's hard to get a straight answer from her and I would have given up if not for the concept of food.

"Who picked the location?" I ask.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because they serve a good lunch."

Now it's my turn to give her a disapproving look. The corners of her mouth move up a fraction.

"It is neutral territory, and they really do have a great foie gras 'éthique' on the menu," she tells me.

"Sounds dirty and expensive. So, the location of the restaurant near the airport is just a coincidence?"

"Not really. Some of those phones have been used in Santa Esmeralda, or were used to call numbers in Santa Esmeralda. One of those numbers belonged to the restaurant. Though that might be a coincidence."

We both know it isn't.

"How did mom send you the phones? Let me guess, a courier?" I ask.

"Sort of. A courier would take too much time, so I sent Russel. It was quite the drive, but he is used to it."

I sit up straight. "Wait. He was in Hellhole?" Russel was in Hellhole?

"In the car we are sitting in, yes. I was surprised when Russel returned alone, but your mother told him she sent you away the day before, and she told me not to worry."

I stare at Morgan, fuming. I could have had my own personal chauffeur, driving me all the way. Me, resting comfortably in the back of a limo... Instead, I've been cooped up in a tin can, sorry ass and broken back, all-inclusive. Retrieving my dinner from whatever vending machine that wasn't broken. Thanks, Mom.

Morgan doesn't seem to notice my anger. "You arrived just in time. So the idea is to go in, have a nice lunch, find out what we can, then leave." She picks up the papers which I dropped when I took the wheel, and taps on the picture of the eyeball. "There seems to be a link between the drugs, the prisoners, and the plane accident. On that, your mother and I agree."

"What's in it for her? We're in trouble enough with the Witch as is."

Morgan looks down at her hands and folds and unfolds them twice before replying. "I cannot speak on behalf of your mother. We have exchanged favors before, a decade ago. You were a lot smaller then. Your mother suggested that your talents might prove helpful if things would become… complicated. Your 'Witch' is likely involved, and she seems to be dangerous."

I sniff. "I'm supposed to be your bodyguard."

"Company, bodyguard, distraction. You know you can be quite distracting."

My smile must be wafer-thin as I lift a fold of my dress. "So this..."

"... is more distraction, yes, though I did not lie about normalcy and civilization. We all need a bit of that. You are a pretty girl in a pretty dress, that is all. And though you are not Eleanore you do look enough like her."

My brain has to go through different gears and jump a few hoops before I'm on track again. Morgan did mention my namesake when I asked about the painting at the Tillson-Sweetvale's home. But she must be at least ten, maybe even twenty years older.

"You are referring to the other Eleanore. Is she involved?"

"No. And nobody will notice the age difference. In fact, if someone recognizes her in you--and they will--then just smile. If they ask, then tell them you are her younger sister. If they tell you that you are too young for that, then simply say you are her daughter. And if they keep insisting you are the original Eleanore, then simply nod and say 'yes'. It does not matter what you say, they will not believe you anyway. Eleanore had a well-deserved reputation by the way, and that will provide yet another distraction."

Morgan tilts her head, studying me. "It is amazing how different the two of you are, even when you look so much the same. Do you trust me?"

"No."

Morgan laughs. "Good. You see, I am not even sure they will remember. Now you better drive, or we will be late. There is a lunch waiting for us. It might be just the two of us if nobody shows up. That has happened before. That is perhaps the main reason why I brought you along, having lunch by oneself is no fun."

I check both my guns, safeties, then chamber a bullet in both weapons. Morgan made me wear them, so I should be ready, no matter what nonsense she feeds me. "I take it Eleanore would never go unarmed? What did she do for a living?"

Morgan hesitates. "She… she smiled a lot. She had an unnerving smile."

I wonder if this Eleanore is still alive. Morgan appears to be a little inconsistent in her use of past and present tense. "What does she do for a living?" I ask again.

"Eleanore? Well, that is one of the things that the two of you have in common. You both solve problems. However, we are here for answers, not to kill."

She said 'does for a living' and didn't bat an eye. I bet her Eleanore's a killer and that killer's still alive… "What was she to your son?"

Morgan's face goes still, she closes her eyes and her mouth becomes a thin stripe. She breathes deeply before answering. "They were… involved. When she and Arthur were younger they had a budding romance, or so he thought. Nothing serious, but it could not be, and we--I send her away. Arthur was never quite the same after she left. When Eleanore returned, years later, we found out he was still smitten with her. The scene that followed was even more unpleasant. It ended with him leaving the house. He is gone now."

"But not dead."

"That he is not."

So it did involve family, and that's always bad. I chew on that thought for a while, but that only leaves me with a bad taste. I could use a burger and a soda to wash it away. Even if they don't serve burgers at Delany, there must be something worth eating.

"Do I get double pay, now I'm your bodyguard, and your driver, and impersonating some killer? The other Eleanore might take offense."

"You will have to ask your mother," Morgan says.

"I'll take that for a no."

"Yes." Morgan reaches over to adjust the Nestles, then frowns. "I am not sure they will protect you."

"Then, what's the purpose?"

Her frown turns into a shrug. "It is what Elenore would wear. And I doubt you need the protection--she never did. What you do need though is lipstick." She digs into her bag, then comes up with a shrink-wrapped tube in a bright red color.

"You're not a very demanding employer, now are you?" I ask.

Morgan just smiles.

I'm not good with girly things, so it takes a few tries and lots of paper tissue to get it right. After that ordeal, I point the nose of the car in the right direction and drive, whilst Morgan gives me directions. The lipstick feels strange.

The driveway to the restaurant is long, wide, and flanked by small orange trees. It leads up a hill, then ends in front of a two-story building. The ground floor works its way into the hill, the upper floor rises above the crest, promising a splendid view of the surroundings. I slow down and imagine the gravel crunching under our tires. There's a small parking lot filled with expensive-looking voitures and automobiles, and one or two of those omnipresent big black SUVs. When we come to a full stop in front of the restaurant a man in a fantasy uniform hurries down the stairs.

"Only kill when we have answers," Morgan says, then bends forward and places a kiss on my cheek just before the doorman arrives to open her door. As she gets out she adds sotto voce, "And smile, Eleanore. Smile."