WARNING: The beliefs, comments, and 'writings' of six of the fictional characters presented in this story are protected under copyright guidelines. However, they do not represent the personal beliefs of the author of THE RETREAT (you know, me). Several of the characters introduced in Part 5 hold values which are contrary to the US Constitution and the basic roots of American ideals. My purpose in included these characters is to explore the terror of intellectual evil. It is not meant in anyway to advance narrow views of humanity and freedom. If reading about ignorant and biased minds bothers you then please read something else.

FEEDBACK: Is most welcome. p.phair@comcast.net or you can visit my web site at http://www.phair1.com

The warm breeze that accompanied the gentle sunrise the following morning did nothing to improve Taylor's dark mood. She was still brooding over her stupidity for trusting Bailey. The thought of Bailey using drugs had never occurred to her. It didn't even seem to be a remote possibility until Taylor saw the proof of the deception with her own two eyes.

"Of course, she's into drugs and God knows what else. She's barely an adult and already has done time for gun possession," Taylor reprimanded herself. "Guns, drugs, prostitution; don't they all go together like coffee, cream, and sugar?"

A booming voice from behind the house broke Taylor's train of thought. A passionate pleading filled the words echoing in the distance. It drove Taylor forward, toward the source. Puanani Wanaka Moananani Berulo, the writer of inspirational self help books, stood in the back field overlooking the lake. Her ceremonial robes whispered in the soft, summer wind. Her voice rose as she raised her hands high above her head. Startled birds abandoned their nests and took to the air in search of safety.

"Forgive us, all knowing one, for we can not forgive ourselves well enough. Nor can we ever know the true nature of things well enough. Not until the sun sets and a new moon wakes to take flight across the darkened skies. Until then we are left to wait, panting, under the flicker of your distant, jubilant stars."

Taylor's foot snapped a dry twig and Puanani abruptly stopped her heartfelt oration.

"I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt...," Taylor began to offer an apology.

"Don't even think about using what you heard here as your own work." Puanani held up the tiny tape recorder in her hand, "I have absolute proof it's my intellectual property. Exclusively, mine! I have a squad of New York, bastard lawyers sitting around waiting for file lawsuits on my behalf. I'll drag you into court faster than ink dries, you snoopy, little shit!"

"No, really, I'm not a wri..., but even if, I wouldn't, never steal,...," Taylor tried to explain.

Puanani was hustling past the intern when she stopped to level one last threat, "If you ever sneak up on me again, I'll kick your ass from here to the Pacific Ocean!"

Taylor stood red faced and breathless watching the writer race toward the house. Taylor's whole body was shaking but not from fear. She was very angry, furious, in fact.

"You fucking pretentious faker! Who in their right mind would steal those sappy, ridiculous lines, anyway? Why would people 'wait panting' under the stars? Dogs pant, stupid, not people. And the 'true nature of things' is meaningless. What things? Afghans? Lug nuts? Razors? Huh? What things are you talking about? And stars can not be jubilant. Emotions belong to humans not planets. Like Catholics, celestial bodies have mass and not much else, you imbecile!"

"Sounds like your new career as a critic is off to a brilliant start this morning."

Taylor spun around to find a barefoot Bailey walking up from the lake. Her pant legs were rolled up and wet along the edges.

"Oh, great, you! I certainly don't need you this morning either," Taylor turned her back on Bailey and headed to her room under the stairs.

The stench coming from the kitchen made Taylor gag. It was a sour smell somewhere between filthy old sweat socks and New Orleans' gutters at 4 am on Ash Wednesday morning.

"What are you cooking?" Taylor ran to open a window while burying her nose in her shirt sleeve.

"Sauerkraut, corned beef, cabbage, Brussels sprouts," Bailey paused as she lifted one of the lids to check on the contents, "and hard boiled eggs. Oh my God, Taylor keep stirring!"

Bailey dropped her spoon and made a mad dash out of the kitchen door. Reluctantly, Taylor went over to mind the steaming pots. She could hear Bailey retching outside. The young woman was losing what little dinner she had eaten the night before.

"You okay?" Taylor asked a gray looking Bailey upon her return to the kitchen.

She received only a short nod before Bailey resumed her post at the stove. Taylor went to the table and found her daily chore list. Tracing her finger down the scrawl that passed for Madame's penmanship, she found her jobs for the day. Her singular service during breakfast involved the bar. Taylor was once again on liquor duty.

"Sangria, mulled cider, and whiskey sours? Whatever happened to orange juice for breakfast? What the fuck kind of workshop is this anyway? Addiction 101! Is everybody in this friggin' Hell hole addicted to something?"

The slamming of a pan shut Taylor up. She turned quickly toward the stove. Taylor was greeted by one very angry chef waving a very slimy spatula at her.

"GET OUT! Get out of my kitchen this instant! I might have to put up with stinking food and spitting pans and a stove that won't stay hot enough but I don't gotta put up with the likes you!" Bailey stepped menacingly closer to Taylor.

"Guess that's a sensitive topic for somebody like you, huh," Taylor was smug as she grabbed her list and left Bailey alone to finish preparing the odorous breakfast.

As soon as Taylor finished blending the whiskey sours, the guests began to gather around the dining room table. They looked like a clan of bears awakened early from hibernation. Each of them in some state of haphazard dress. From a bathrobe to yesterday's dirty clothes, the writers presented themselves for the morning meal. None of them had washed yet.

"Boy, are they in for a treat," Taylor thought about these pompous writers and the so very cold outside shower.

Madame made a grand entrance. Her floor length ball gown and perfectly coiffured hair was in direct contrast to the writers. Madame seemed to sparkle in the dim morning light.

"Bon jour, my sweets! I trust you slept well," Madame nodded to all her guests before settling in her chair at the head of the table.

"Aspirin," groaned Guiseppe, the Bloody Mary slurping poet. "Please, just an aspirin and room temperature water."

"Ya, I'll have that too," Driscoll McGee muttered.

"Haven't you ever heard of 'hair of the doggie,' my friends. Taylor pour the cider for everybody." Madame commanded over the half hearted protests of several writers. "BAILEY, where is breakfast?"

Bailey raced into the room. All the color had drained from her cheeks. She slammed a bowl of sauerkraut and a plate of corned beef on the table before hurrying back to the kitchen. Before anybody dared to comment, Bailey rushed back in with the Brussels sprouts, eggs, and cabbage. Taylor notices Bailey's features were turning a strange shade of green.

"Now, that's my kind of breakfast," Eliyahu Shukhman rubbed his hands together.

"Reeks like my granddaddy's farts!" Added Redman and both men went into fits of laughter.

Bailey fled the room in a full run. Taylor was sure she heard the back door bang open.

Puanani began to pile her plate high with the vegetables, "I don't eat meat."

"Of course, you wouldn't," Ashton scoffed as he took two pieces of meat and three eggs. "Girl, get me whiskey!"

Taylor inwardly grimaced at the command. However, she went to the bar quickly to fetch the drink. She remembered how much trouble Ashton had caused Bailey the night before. Taylor wanted to avoid anymore problems today.

"We start this morning by breaking bread together. Immediately after the meal is finished, you will all return to your rooms and write twenty pages on the experience. You may not come out of your rooms until assignment is complete. To ensure compliance, the doors shall be locked from the outside," Madame took a big bite of cabbage.

A general uproar broke loose around the table. Whining, pounding fists, and cursing continued for several minutes until Madame had enough. She stood and hurled her plate against the far wall, silencing the room.

"Thirty pages!"

Not one sound. Taylor was sure each of the writers had stopped breathing entirely.

"Finish your breakfast." Madame spoke softly and resumed her seat, "Taylor, be a dear, and get me a Sangria."

With the writers locked in their rooms, Madame told Taylor and Bailey they had the rest of the day free. Taylor wanted nothing more than to take a shower and wash the stink of breakfast off her. However, a knock on her door interrupted the plan. Taylor was not surprised. She figured Bailey would try to plead her case at some point. Part of her wanted the woman to come to her room and explain but another, larger part of Taylor's heart wanted nothing more to do her. The convict presented the potential for too much trouble. As irrational as the thought was, Taylor could not keep from feeling Bailey had betrayed them both.

"Go away," Taylor muttered as she sulked on her bed. "Leave me alone, for God's sake."

"No."

The steady knocking persisted. Taylor began to wonder if anybody had ever gone mad listening to such a noxious sound. Didn't the CIA use certain sounds to get barricaded suspects to surrender? Was she sacrificing what was left of her mental health just to ignore Bailey? Taylor gave in with a curse. She flung open the door.

"WHAT?" Taylor all but screamed.

Bailey simply removed her blouse in reply. Her creamy skin and firm breasts were plainly visible under the bare cellar light bulb. Taylor tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. Next came Bailey's jeans. The echo of the button's pop and the zipper's sigh rang in Taylor's ears. Bailey stepped out of the pants at her feet; two steps closer to Taylor.

"Check me out. Look anywhere you want for track marks. There aren't any. I don't use drug, never have, never will. Don't know where the one's in the shed came from but they weren't mine. They're gone now. You can search the shed or me anytime you want. I guarantee you won't find nothing illegal in there or in me," Bailey held her arms out straight to expose pristine, unscarred skin.

"What are you doing?" Taylor's head was spinning from the scene before her. "Put your clothes on. I'm not gonna search you? I'm not gonna search your room. I'm your friend, not your parole officer."

The shear irony of the statement stung Taylor deeply. It certainly seemed like she was acting the part of a parole officer the night before. She never gave Bailey a chance to explain the contraband. She didn't, for one minute, give Bailey the benefit of a doubt. Taylor suddenly felt like the world's biggest hypocrite.

"I'm sorry. You didn't deserve the way I treated you last night," Taylor said and Bailey nodded agreement.

A chuckle broke the silence of the moment before either woman could respond. Igor stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs. He paused, staring, at the sight of a naked Bailey, fully exposed under the harsh, glaring light bulb. A sick leer spread across his dirty face as his pants seemed to grow tighter in the crotch.

"Move it, now," Taylor grabbed Bailey by the arm and pulled her into the room. "Igor, get lost!"

Once they were both in the small room, Taylor slammed the door shut. She twisted the fragile, chrome lock before wedging her backpack between the door jamb and the wall. The only piece of furniture, other than the bed, was a rickety wooden chair. Taylor grabbed it and secured it under the door knob at an angle.

"That should keep him out," Taylor ran her hand through her grimy hair. "And keep me from the showers for a while."

"Sorry."

"No, it's my fault you felt you had to do this," Taylor blushed as she stared at Bailey. "Why don't you get under the blankets? We'll wait a little while to make sure Igor took the hint."

"Any suggestions on how to kill some time?" Bailey giggled as she climbed into the bed.

"Huh?" Was all Taylor could get out.

"Well, last night we were doing pretty well until...," Bailey didn't finish that sentence. "We could pick up where we left off."

"Wanna? Still?" Taylor's command of English was escaping her with the prospect waiting in her bed.

"Taylor, take off your clothes and get over here," Bailey was out of patience.

"Yes, ma'am," Taylor almost fell in her haste to strip and get in bed next to Bailey. She cuddled for a few minutes before asking, "Are we just snuggling or more than that?"

"After what I've been through this morning, it is definitely 'more than' snuggling. Besides, we haven't quite finished your bottom bitch lessons, now have we?"

Their initial burst of laughter faded quickly to chuckles which ended with kisses and soft moans. Neither woman could hear the mechanical whirling of the surveillance camera hidden in the wall over the beating of their own hearts. Neither woman knew a couple at the far end of Sagamore Place was watching them on close circuit television and enjoying every moment.