Detroit Deathwatch

way possible.

Do you love me?

Of course, he loved her. He'd loved all of them, each of them being unique in her own special way, yet all of them one and the same in that larger identity: essential woman. The story of Adam and Eve could be pure fable, but the guy who thought it up must have lived the story first.

It is not good that the man should be alone.

I will make him a helpmeet for him.

'Helpmeet.' That meant partner. Sure, the guy had known what it was to be alone. And he'd known, surely, that very special quality of woman that truly was a helpmeet for all those challenged devils on whom had been placed the onus of life and survival on a hostile planet.

Bolan knew — survival meant more than a quick gun and fast reflexes. Every man alive faced the same challenge that was Bolan's — faced it according to the dictates and the needs of each of life's situations.

Life was no accident, hell. Much bigger than that, life was some sort of special cosmic magic that gave meaning to that infinity of non-life filling the blackness of space.

Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief…

Sure, all of them, each of them, every man had his challenge, his own unique road to survival, his own special … what? Special what?

Cosmic magic, maybe. What were we surviving? Every man died sooner or later. So ... surviving what?

Surviving the onus, maybe — those special conditions that fell into a man's bag of life to bedevil him, goad him, stir him up, move him out onto the road to somewhere.

That was it. The guy had to survive the challenge. Which simply meant that he had to meet it. Yeah, with every damn thing he had. No ducking allowed, no dodging. Head on, eye to eye and toe toe, fight like hell and end up there if that's what it takes — but beat the damn challenge.

And, yeah, for that, a man needed a partner.

But Bolan had learned that women had need of 'helpmeets' also. Not just the Toby Rangers, but all of the desperately challenged creatures everywhere. Women had special challenges.

A man needs a woman, and a woman needs her man.

Sure. Guys wrote songs about it. Other guys had written entire psychiatric journals on the subject. What it all boiled down to was person to person — and beyond, man to woman.

No man could stand truly alone. Once in a while there had to be another human being to whom he could turn, and with whom hopefully he could merge for a while, to recharge the belief that survival was worthwhile, to see beyond himself into that cosmic sprawl of uncommon magic. Nowhere else had Bolan observed the magic of the cosmos in such clear and striking reference as in the eyes of a good woman in honest passion. All of it was there, all of the magic, and Bolan knew that it was good. In that glimpse he knew that life was worthwhile, that the challenge was necessary, and that survival was the whole goal.

A message, maybe, through a helpmeet, from the guy who started it all?

Well, maybe. All Bolan knew for sure was that he felt better for the experience. And it wasn't just that moment of bliss that made human sex such an ennobling exercise. It went a hell of a lot deeper than that.

He pulled his woman over atop him and playfully slapped that delightful highrise bottom. 'Hey, cop,' he growled.

'How profane,' she groaned. 'And after all we've been through together.'

'Time to rise and shine.'

She giggled sleepily. 'That's your department.'

He slapped her again, more briskly.

She yowled and rolled away, coming to rest slumped upon the edge of the bed, feet on the floor 'Give me a push,' she requested in a small voice. 'Maybe I can make it.'

'Make it where?'

'To the bathroom, Captain Ignorant Don't you know anything about girls? We puke every morning after. That's a reaction to male exploitation.'

Bolan chuckled.

She declared, small-voiced, 'If I try very hard, I'll bet I can make it. But then I'll probably never walk again.'

He told her, 'Nothing visibly wrong from here. You look all systems go.' 'Went, Captain Ecstasy. Went.'

He pushed her with his foot. She slid to the floor and sat there, cross-legged, scowling back at him.

He said, 'If it's all that bad, hell ... give it back.'

She turned away, head drooping toward the floor. Mack ... ?'

'Yeah.'

'Thanks.'

'You're welcome.'

'I mean, pardon the cliche, I needed that.'

He told her, 'We both did.'

'So what now?' she asked, still drooping. 'Will you marry me?'

'Marry a cop? Me?'

She laughed quietly. 'That would be far out, wouldn't it? Well ... I guess I've got to marry somebody.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. For the first time in my life, I feel like an ex-virgin.'

'Is it that bad?'

'It's that good,' she said.

'Well... Toby... Maybe we'll cross again ... somewhere.'

'Let's quit. Both of us quit. The business, I mean.'

'What would that solve?'

She swiveled that lovely head about to gaze at him over a rose petal shoulder. 'For you, I guess, nothing.'

'And for you?'

She shrugged daintily. 'I don't know. I get confused, Mack. I don't know what the hell it's all about, even. You ever get that way?'

He told her, 'Yeah. Occupational hazard. But it passes.'

She sighed. 'Mack...'

'Yeah?'

'I'm not on an assignment. Not officially.'

'What are you on, then?'

'I'm looking for Georgette.'

'For who?'

'You remember Georgette Chableu. The Canadian — '

Sure he remembered. The body shop, tall, dark, and juicy, the Canuck member of the Ranger Girls. 'What's happened to her?'