After forcing down some breakfast, I made my way to the library. Corinne greeted me with a smile and gestured me over to my customary seat, where a pile of newspapers, some yellowed with age, awaited my perusal. At my questioning glance, she came to my table, tea mug in hand, and nodded toward the stack. "Heard about what happened yesterday," she began, setting the fragrant tea down on the table. "I wondered a bit about this Josephina myself since Ice never mentioned her to me. I did a little digging and came up with some interesting items. Have a look."

Sitting down, I sipped my tea, which was a definite step up from the sewer sludge they called coffee in the Bog. As I blinked the steam from my eyes, I picked up the top paper, which, by the date, was only a few days old, and shook it out. Halfway down the front page was a picture of a very familiar woman surrounded by dark clad lawyers and holding her hand up in front of her face to avoid the snapping cameras. The caption read: "Wife of Mafia Don to be Transferred to Rainwater".

Scanning the columns of text, I learned that Josephina was also known as Mrs. Josephina Briacci, the wife of Salvatore Briacci, a noted underworld figure in Pittsburgh. It appeared that Mr. Briacci had gotten himself into a bit of trouble over some extortion, failure to pay back taxes, and conspiracy to commit murder charges and was indicted by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

Reading further, I discovered that Josephina had refused to testify against her husband. While it's illegal to force a wife to testify against her husband, refusing to do so gets the prosecutors upset. The newspaper speculated, in an editorial in the same edition, that Josephina's charges, of accessory to conspiracy after the fact, were the State's little payback for her refusal to play ball with them.

Usually people bound over for trial spent their time like I did, in the county jail. That she was sent, under cover of darkness, to the State Prison to await trial was a definite mystery and one which I was determined to solve.

The other papers contained more information on Salvatore Briacci and his crime syndicate, but very little else on his wife. My tea was cold by the time I put down the last paper, now knowing more about the so-called Mafioso than I'd ever wanted to learn. Stretching, I looked back over at Corinne, who had gone back to her desk and was leafing through some book or other, her half-glasses settled low on her nose. "Well, that tells me a little, anyway."

Looking up, she smiled at me, eyes warm over the tops of her glasses. "Not nearly enough though."

"Not even close. What is her connection with Ice? You didn't see her out there, Corinne. She was absolutely devastated when Josephina died. It was almost like a member of her family had died or something." I couldn't help shivering as I remembered the mournful howl and Ice's murderous attack on Cassandra.

"Well, she certainly never talked to me about her, that's for sure," Corinne replied, sounding just the smallest bit put-out. "I do have some ideas, though. For what they're worth."

I folded my hands over the stack of papers in front of me. "And they are?"

"Well, one of the things that I do know, as I've told you before, is that Ice was tied up in Organized Crime when she was released from the Bog last time. I've never heard her name mentioned in connection with this Salvatore Briacci, but her whole trial was very hush-hush, so we can't rule out that connection. Perhaps that's how they met?"

"Possibly, but you said that the Mafia backed off when she was indicted for murder. It doesn't make sense that they would treat each other so warmly if Ice was betrayed by her husband, does it?"

Corinne lifted her hand in an equivalent of a shrug. "Who knows with Ice? That woman's more close-lipped than a virgin wearing a chastity belt."

I choked for the second time on my cold tea. That was one thing about Corinne; the woman had more off-the-wall sayings than anyone I ever knew. You never knew what was going to come out of that prim and proper mouth next. Swallowing back the dregs, I set the mug down on the table and worried the newsprint off the side of my hand with my thumb. "I wonder how she's doing."

"Ice? I imagine just fine. She managed to find herself in a bit of hot water from time to time when starting up the Amazons. The hole is almost like a second home to her." Corinne sat back in her chair, took off her glasses and smiled. "She always did prefer her own company to that of other humans anyway. Don't worry about her, little Angel. She'll do alright."

Nodding, I turned my attention to my hand, managing to pretty much smear newsprint everywhere in the process of trying to wipe it off.

"What about you?" my friend asked.

"What about me?"

"Well, I heard about what happened yesterday, obviously. It must have been difficult for you to witness that."

"Which part?" I snapped. "Where Cassandra murdered Josephina in cold blood or where Ice almost strangled Cassandra to death with her bare hands?"

Obviously startled, Corinne stared at me, open-mouthed and blinking.

I let out a long sigh, dropping my hands back down onto the table from where they had been enunciating my point. "I'm sorry, Corinne. You didn't deserve that."

My friend smiled once again. "That's alright, child. I was just startled because I've never heard you speak out quite so emphatically before."

"Well, you've never seen me witness a murder and an attempted murder within the space of a half hour before either. It was . . .tough." I rubbed at my forehead, trying to ward off an impending headache. "I didn't sleep well last night and I have a feeling those particular nightmares are gonna stick around for a long time to come."

"I imagine they might," she commiserated. "On a more pleasant subject, how are things going with Ice? Obviously they're on hold for the moment, but I managed to get a peek at the two of you out in the yard yesterday." Her smile was a sly one as she looked penetratingly at me, obviously in search of an answer. To her credit, she never did ask me about the truth to the rumors of what I termed, in my mind, the 'Shower Incident'. "The two of you looked rather . . .cozy."

Managing to keep the blush from showing on my face, I nodded, continuing to meet her direct gaze. "They're going. She's a tough nut to crack, but crack her I will. One way or another."

Corinne nodded, crossing her arms over her ample bosom. "If anyone on God's green earth can, my sweet little Angel, you'll be the one to do it."

I stared back at her, wishing I could be so confident and praying to that same God, as well as any others who would listen, to be given the chance to find out.

The next two months passed slowly and quickly at the same time. Winter had finally come, sinking its icy talons into us all, raising tempers and lowering spirits. During a time when the outside world was roasting chestnuts over an open fire, trimming trees and making snowmen, the residents of the Bog were trying to keep warm and stay alive. Since Ice's detention in isolation, tensions had risen in the prison. Montana had finally been given parole two weeks after the incident, leaving the Amazons effectively leaderless.

Critter was a good administrator, but she didn't have the overbearing sense of machismo that characterized both Montana and Ice. Pony and Sonny didn't want the job, preferring instead to remain in their roles as enforcers and the other Amazons, quite frankly, had neither the tenure nor the drive to lead such a diverse group of women in a common purpose.

Derby's gang, especially, began to test the waters, moving in like a shark among a school of weaker fish. So far my friends had been able to hold their own but it appeared that it would be a race to see if they could hold off Derby's advance long enough for Ice to be released from isolation.

The other gangs, emboldened by Derby's seeming successes, began to make their own voices heard, managing to set off several small riots which the guards and the Amazons were hard-pressed to quell. All in all, it was a difficult time for us all.

For my part, I continued to live my life as best I could, staying, for the most part, in the background of prison life. My side job as purveyor of things great and small picked up some during the holiday season, managing to keep me busy enough that my mind didn't constantly dwell on a certain woman spending two months of her life in darkness and solitude. My only saving grace was Corinne's repeated assurances that Ice felt quite at home in the hole and would be fine.

I, however, was not fine. I found that I missed her terribly. Even on days when we didn't speak, just knowing she was there made me feel safe and content in a way I hadn't at any time before, even when I was free. This seeming connection that we had was something that I'd come to rely on as a lifeline and while in a way that feeling of dependence was frightening in the extreme, when thought about in the right way it helped to keep me grounded and centered. It was like waking up to find something you never knew you'd lost and so was all the more precious for the having.

To keep myself busy when the days wanted to drag, I made it my duty to keep up Ice's cell. Though I wasn't an expert by any means, my reading up on Bonsai gave me the basic skills needed to at least keep the trees alive if nothing else.

The first few times I made the trek to her cell, I was careful to keep my hands and eyes to myself, tending only to the trees and nothing else. I was very loathe to intrude on her personal space, so fiercely protected and cherished by this very private woman.

One of the first things I noticed was that the bonsai rake, its acquisition starting things between the two of us, was looking ragged and worn. I hefted it, surprised at its small weight, rubbing my thumb along the smooth wood handle as I imagined Ice quietly tending her garden. The thought brought a smile to my face and I quietly began to hum as I worked with the trees, trying to keep them as healthy as I could. I promised myself I'd replace the worn rake with a new one as soon as I could.

My resolve to let sleeping dogs lie started to waver, however, the more I visited the cell. The temptation to look around was just too great and I found both my mind and eyes wandering as I tended to the Bonsai. My gaze strayed from the trees to the maps, which hadn't changed since I'd last visited Ice there, to the neat stack of books by the short bunk. One day, finally giving up all pretense of remaining uninterested, I walked over to the books as if drawn on a lure.

Tilting my head to look at the spines, I saw the complete works of Solzhenitsyn, which didn't surprise me. Beneath that was a book on Ancient Mythology which was laying atop hard cover texts for Chemical Engineering and Aeronautics, respectively. I shook my head in wonderment as my eyes continued to travel down the titles. "Egg-head books," I whispered, disbelieving. "She reads egg-head books."

Unlike the collections of other inmates' I'd viewed, and knowing the library's check-out pattern by heart, I was slightly surprised to note that there were no torrid romance novels in the stack. 'Bodice-rippers', my mother liked to call them, her passion for the genre well known. My father often joked that she alone managed to keep the Harlequin people in business with her avid reading.

The biggest surprise, by far, was a copy of the entire Tao Te Ching, written in its original language. To me it was a masterful feat of intellect that she could even manage to read the thing, let alone understand and ponder it. But by the faint crease in its spine, the Tao appeared to be a book she went to often.

Squatting down carefully so as not to disturb the meticulous stack, I pulled the book from its resting place, glancing at the cryptography on the covers and running my finger over the spine. After a long moment, I opened the book, surprised when a small white square of paper slipped from beneath the cover and fluttered to the floor to land face down. Placing the book on the bed, I reached down and picked the square up, flipping it over but determined not to pry if it appeared to be something important.

My resolve lasted all of about two seconds.

What I had in my hand was a black and white photograph of three people and a dog. The man, tall and well built, was incredibly handsome. His dark hair slicked back, his chiseled face sported a pencil-thin "Clark Gable" type moustache. He wore a conservative dark suit, a bright shirt and narrow tie. Standing next to him, arm clasped under his, was an absolutely gorgeous woman. Tall and exotic, she wore her hair in a "Jackie Kennedy" flip with a small pill-box had set carefully atop it. She wore a light colored skirt-suit, white gloves and a matching purse clutched in one hand. Her free hand rested atop the shoulder of a young girl I recognized instantly as Ice. Dressed in what looked to be a plaid jumper, knee socks and patent leather shoes, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders, I could easily see the first blush of what was to become a great beauty in her fine features.

But what struck me the most, and in fact caused my heart to squeeze up in my chest, was the radiant smile on her face and the look of innocent, trusting happiness in those light-colored eyes. At that moment, I wished for nothing more in the world than for the ability to just step through that photograph, kneel down, and stare into the open and honest face of the young girl Ice had once been.

I didn't realize I was crying until a tear landed on the picture, causing the features of a huge, black shepherd to become magnified under the salty liquid. Ice had the dog's thick ruff caught in a fierce embrace and the camera had frozen the large pink tongue forever just inches from the young girl's face.

Sniffing back my tears and carefully wiping the precious photo on the sleeve of my jumpsuit, I stared it once again for a long, intense moment. Reaching out a trembling finger, I gently brushed the frozen bangs on Ice's head, smiling a little in reflex at the broad grin directed my way. "This part of you is in there, Ice. Somewhere. And I'll help you find it again. I promise."

That evening, as I lay on my bunk, my mind was continually drawn back to the photograph and the sense of wistful happiness it invoked within me. Not only was the expression on Ice's young face something to ponder, so too was the obvious love her family had for her. It got me to thinking about my own family and my place in it.

As I read these latest lines, I realize that I haven't told you, the reader, very much about my own family, aside from some random sayings of my mother and the like. I suppose now is as good a time as any to rectify that situation.

I was what is known as a 'change-of-life' baby. My parents were very spiritual and so had been trying very hard to have and raise a large family in keeping with the tenets of their church teachings. Every month they plotted and planned, keeping strictly to the laughable 'rhythm method', and every month they failed.

When my mother's reproductive system finally decided to start giving up the ghost, what she thought to be menopause turned out, nine months later, to be me.

My father, who had always wanted a boy to carry on both his name and his legacy, was sorely disappointed when a howling daughter was presented to him instead. I've heard it said that in other families, fathers of this sort just pushed the tiny matter of gender aside and raised their daughter like a son.

Such was not the case with me.

Born to a family replete with old-world traditions, I was raised as primly as a proper girl could be. Frilly dresses cut carefully below the knee so as not to tempt the other toddlers milling about, white hose and patent leather shoes, ribbons and bows in my hair were my daily uniforms. Sewing and cooking and learning to be a proper woman were my lessons; my mother and her cronies, my teachers.

I hated every moment of it.

While the other children of the neighborhood were riding bikes, building tree-forts, having mock wars and playing kick-the-can, I was inside learning the finer points of baking muffins that would turn out airy and light every time. After time. After time.

Books were my only refuge from the world of boredom. I read voraciously, getting swept up in the fantasy worlds of Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins, solving the mysteries of Encyclopedia Brown before he did, the list went on and on. Books were my island; my safe harbor in a world of confusion.

My father and I never bonded. When I wanted love and approval, I received remote coldness. I loved him desperately, and I know he loved me in his own way in return, but we were never close.

I know I broke their hearts when I eloped, and shattered them beyond repair when I took Peter's life. Since his death, I've only seen my parents twice. Once was on the day of my conviction. I remember being shocked speechless over how old they'd gotten in such a short time. Or maybe they'd always been old and I was seeing them for the first time through the eyes of an adult. The last time was two years ago as of this writing, and it was just my mother I saw. She came to tell me that my father had passed away the previous month and that she was moving to Phoenix to live with her younger sister.

Though we met in the visitor's room with nothing between us but time and cool reserve, she never once touched me, nor truly looked me in the eye. When I told her I loved her, she didn't respond. I knew then that I was as dead to her as her husband was.

It should have broken my heart, but it didn't. I'd finally grown up enough to realize that sometimes the families you made were as important as the families you were born into. And that was enough for me.

PART 6.

THREE WEEKS LATER, I once again found myself in the library, though this time I was surrounded by Amazons. Bruised and battered Amazons, to be precise. The prison had exploded in a flurry of violent outbursts, each one larger and more destructive than the last. Pony had one arm in a sling, her fingers massively swollen and Sonny was sporting a truly spectacular shiner to go with her broken nose. Only Critter seemed to have gotten off relatively unscathed.

"Someone needs to talk to her," Pony said, wincing as she stretched. "We can't hold the line anymore and the guards can't either. The warden seems to be getting off on it, the idiot."

Several sets of eyes turned to Corinne, who held her hands up. "Don't look at me, ladies."

The eyes then turned to me, pleading. I shook my head slowly. "I don't think so, guys. She hasn't been out of her cell once since she got released. You all saw what she looked like, half dead and three-quarters insane. I've tried twice already and almost gotten my head bitten off both times. Maybe someone else should try."

"C'mon, Angel. You talked her down after that fight with Cassandra. You're our only hope here. If Ice doesn't snap out of it soon, we're all gonna be in a world of hurt." Critter's dark eyes drilled into mine. "You know it's true, don't you? We need her. And we need you to get to her."

Breaking down under the weight of their gazes, I sighed, then nodded my assent. "Alright, but if I don't come back down in a few hours, remember that I don't want a viewing, will you?"

The sense of relief in the room was palpable and Critter gripped my hand as I rose to my feet. "You can do it, Angel. You're the best."

"Keep on saying that, Critter. Maybe one day I'll actually start believing it."

Turning on my heel, the weight of their hopes resting heavily on my shoulders, I left the safety of the library, once again a woman on a mission.

I eased my way up the stairs and down the catwalk, dreading what I would find. The day of Ice's release from isolation had been a horrendous one for me. Like a teenager awaiting her first date, I spent the day in nervous anticipation, fixing my hair and pressing the wrinkles out of my jumpsuit so many times that I earned regular teasing cracks about my habits from Corinne and some of the others.

When I finally saw her, late that afternoon, she was practically being held up in the steady grips of Sandra and another guard I didn't recognize. She was bone thin. Her uniform hung off her like a sack. Her skin was almost snow-white and her hair, once a luxurious mane, was brittle, snarled and lifeless. Her beautiful face sported a multitude of draining sores around her mouth and her eyes were totally bereft of any spark, any sign of the life within. They sat in deep hollows surrounded by circles of the darkest brown.

Almost moaning, I walked up to the trio, reaching out to touch this apparition that appeared in the guise of my friend. She actually flinched away and I cried out. Sandra sadly shook her head, gently pushing me away as they passed, heading for the stairs.

Horror-filled, I turned and rushed back to the library, laying into Corinne as soon as I saw her.

I'd been to Ice's cell twice since then, both times to be chased out by the snarling, half crazed animal my friend had become.

Since then, I'd made regular trips to both the guards' station and the infirmary demanding answers. None were provided me except the fact that Ice's time in isolation had not gone as expected. When I asked why she wasn't in the hospital where she surely belonged, I was ignored.

And here I was, trying yet again.

As I moved further down the catwalk, I was drawn on by the sound of soft humming. The tune was mournful but melodic and brought the sting of tears to my eyes. As I stepped up to the open cell door, I noticed Sandra sitting on the bed next to Ice, holding her hand and stroking her hair. On the floor beside the bed was a tray of half-eaten food and by the quality of the meal, I guessed that it hadn't come from the prison's kitchen.

Ice sat on the bed, her back against the wall, her head bowed and her free hand in her lap, repeatedly clenching it into a fist, then relaxing, only to clench again. Sandra's soft melody filled the air. Warm tears spilled out of my eyes and I brought my hand up to my mouth to mask the sounds of my crying.

The humming trailed off as Sandra's head lifted. When she saw me standing there, she smiled. "Angel! C'mon in! Ice, look. Angel's here." When Ice didn't respond, Sandra beckoned me closer. "Come, sit on the bed next to her. Take her other hand. Her nails are chewing the hell out of her palm."

Doing what she requested, I gingerly entered the rest of the way into the cell, then lowered myself onto the bunk. Reaching out, I grasped Ice's free hand and, as gently as I possibly could, uncurled the tight fist, threading my fingers through her much longer ones.

God, her hand was cold as the grave! Where the heat of her had always burned a path right through to my soul, this coldness was frightening. I could feel small dots of blood where our hands met, the only points of warmth on our joined flesh. I looked as well as I could into her eyes, but there was no one looking back at me. Shuddering, I looked past my friend and into the compassionate eyes of the head guard. "How's she doing?"

"A little better. At least I got her to eat something this time. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the world's greatest cook, but anything's better than the slop they feed us here."

Looking down at the tray, I could only nod in agreement. At least the items on the plate were readily identifiable, which was more than I could say about the prison's version of food.