Date: Thursday, 22 January, 2004
From: "Lightfoot" <>

DISCLAIMER: RS is currently owned by Warner Brothers,
yadda yadda yadda...and they're PUTTING THEM ON DVD
SOON! (I know this has nothing to do with the
disclaimer, but I thought I'd mention it). Anyway,
not making a profit, so don't sue! Also, don't
plagiarize. It's not nice and God don't like ugly!

Okay...<drum roll please>...well, Kelly is delving
deeper in. And now, she goes to hunt out the man
known as Remington Steele...OH! For the person who
asked, no, it's not a dream or an alt universe. This
story takes place in 2020, and Laura IS dead. As
anyone can tell you, I'm the angst queen...but have
faith. That's all I ask...put the pitchfork down Pat!



copyright 2004 by Conner MacBride


The man known as Remington Steele shuffled to the
door, grumbling to himself. His arthritis was acting
up and his joints were getting stiffer by the day.
Who the bloody hell was bothering him? Usually his
neighbors were good enough to leave him the hell
Those who had known the dashing, smooth-talking con
man from thirty years ago would have been hard pressed
to recognize the stooping, scowling old man with the
shabby old sweater and miserly grumpiness. The door
bell rang on insistently.
Damned able people! Didn't he just pay the gardener?
What was the point of having a maid if she didn't
bloody well answer the door?
"It's alright Eleanor! I'll get it-even if it is
what I pay you for." This last part was mumbled under
his breath. He was sixty-nine and felt every bit of
it. He couldn't ever remember feeling so old. Bloody
January weather. Hateful month, January. He yanked
open the door. "What the bloody hell-"
The words caught in his throat and cut off his air.
Her smoky eyes stared at him as her head titled up.
Her battered fedora sat pushed back on her head and
that funny crinkle was in her brow, her pretty mouth
in a serious frown.
The haze in Steele's mind lifted and the old vision
was gone. Laura was dead, had been dead for thirty
years. And with her death, she had damned his soul
into this gray ordinary life, the hateful slut.
Standing in front of him was a small, skinny young
woman, apparently one of those "Ragers" Eleanor said
were the bane and downfall of mankind. Steele eyes
with distaste her mousy brown hair with its shocks of
purple, blue, and white dyed into it. Her eyes were
heavily shadowed and glittered. He sneered at the
pierced eyebrow, lip, and nose. And wasn't one hole
in each ear enough? The black lipstick did nothing to
enhance her youthful features. Her clothes looked
like they had been hand-picked from the dumpster. And
she had a frank, open curiosity on her face which
reminded him of-someone whom he didn't care to be
reminded of. He hated this-creature-instantly.
"Mr. Steele?" Kelly couldn't believe this was the
same man from that newspaper clipping. He had been,
well, kinda hot. The man in front of her was /old/.
Grandfather old.
/I mean, I know it was thirty years ago, but still.../
"What?" His accented voice was gravelly ice. Okay,
maybe this wasn't such a great idea, because Remington
Steele was obviously so not thrilled to see her on his
"Umm-" /How did you tactfully ask, "Can I interview
you about your dead wife who cheated on you?/
"Well? I don't have all day." Those cold blue eyes
glittered like Alaskan glaciers. Kelly Landry took a
deep breath. "Look, my name is Kelly Landry and I'm
doing a paper for a college class and I'd like to ask
you about thirty years ago."
The old man who was once one of Los Angeles's most
eligible bachelors stared at her, his eyes as hooded
as a hunted animal's. She could see the rage building.
/This was a bad idea./
The wrinkled face and stooped posture showed thirty
years of hate, betrayal, and rage. Kelly
unconsciously stepped back slightly, suddenly aware of
the pain she had just ripped open. Suddenly, a
thirty-year-old case became very real and all the soap
opera headlines vanished as the truth of this murder
came crashing down on Kelly's young, know-it-all mind.
She barely heard the clipped, controlled words,
sharpened like knives.
"Well then, perhaps you should find another topic.
My stupidity and an idiotic mistake needn't be aired
for the world again. And," Remington Steele looked
her up and down, a deep-rooted hate evident on his
face. "I don't need any walking memories. Go home
little girl."
Kelly found herself looking at a lead crystal door.
/He-all I did was ask. I didn't think he'd be
thrilled, but he HATED me. All I did was ask./ She
stood there for a long while, staring at the closed
door. All of sudden, she turned and ran back to her
car. Kelly didn't see the sharp old face watching her
in the window.


Remington Steele stared at the empty spot on the door
step for what must have been a half an hour. He was
enraged-at whom or what he did not know. Yes, he did.
For thirty years, he had sat, waiting to die, but too
cowardly to actually make it happen. If there was a
Hell on Earth, this was it; living with betrayal and
lies. If there was a Hell in the next life, he hoped
beyond reason his faithless whore of a wife was
burning in it. That would be justice for her lies and
her betrayal of his devotion.
For thirty years he had asked to be left alone and
forget Laura and his entire existence with her. And
yet, he wouldn't give up the name of Remington Steele,
for it was now a permanent chain around his neck, and
a safe prison her pretty little hand had locked him
in. For thirty years, he had been left alone in his
misery and his memories, and for the most part, he had
been allowed. Every now and then, though, fools such
as that idiot girl felt the need to come out of the
woodwork. His mind drifted back to her. He didn't
know who she was, but she looked so much like Laura,
sounded so much like her-damn her. Damn them both.
He went to his office and pulled a black lacquered
box off the bookshelf. Opening it, he picked up a
photo he hadn't looked at in thirty years. It had
survived his rage after Laura's death only because he
had forgotten about this box while burning and
throwing out every memory of her. It had been his
revenge, his own infidelity. If Laura had hated going
through life as "unidentified woman," surely his
revenge was to make her "forgotten woman." This
picture, though, had escaped the rampage. He told
himself he kept it because it was an exquisite
photograph. He was good at lying to himself; always
had been.
Remington looked at the photo. He had taken it the
day before they had left Ireland in 1987. Laura
didn't know he had taken it and he had never shown it
to her. Once, it had been his favorite picture.
Laura had been sitting on the marble floor of the
great hall in Ashford Castle, playing with a child of
one of the servants. Remington remembered she hadn't
been able to pronounce the child's Gaelic name, Osien
(Oh-sheen), so she had taken to calling him Ocean; and
the toddler couldn't say "Your Ladyship" or even
"Laura" and had only come out with "Lala." The
servants had been horrified over Laura's lack of
dignity and propriety, but "Lala" she had happily
remained to Osien. He had loved that memory and this
photo at one time.
There had been a gentleness to her face in it, the
gentleness and laughter of a young woman who loved and
was loved. She had been so-Remington shook off the
Damn her! Damn her and her whorish ways to Hell!
Remington Steele laughed bitterly. Everything in his
life with Laura had been a lie, right down to his
name. Damn him and damn her for making him believe
she loved him.

tbc . . .