

### Swan

A novel by:

Robert Jaxx

Waterstone Press

Copyright © 2019 Robert Edward Levin

ISBN 13: 978-0-578-52072-8

Swan is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are the product of the author's imagination, or used fictiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Swan was previously published by author, Robert Edward Levin, under the title, Dancing in the Void.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission from the author.

Distributed by Smashwords

Ebook formatting by ebooklaunch.com

### From the Readers

" _Fascinating drama... This book is mesmerizing... A must read, and a keeper!_

Bettie Corbin Tucker, Bookreviewers

" _Swan is a must read_ for _a reader's group or a literature class."_

Paige Lovitt, Reader Views

" _Robert Jaxx is a genius."_

Kingwell

" _Swan cannot be compared to anything else. You simply have to read it from_ _beginning to end."_

Armchair Interviews

" _Endearing... witty... a_ great _read."_

Lighthouse Literary Reviews

" _Swan is full of great characters... completely entertaining."_

TCM Reviews

" _A great book."_

Author, G.A. Thomas

" _Wonderful. Robert Jaxx sucked me in and blew me away."_

Lisa Berns

" _Jaxx draws vibrant characters with a wide range of distinctive voices_."

Kirkus

### Other Novels by, Robert Jaxx

### Sunset House

For more information on Robert Jaxx's books,  
please visit robertjaxx.com

For my mother. She's an Ace!

We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.

Stephen King

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part Two

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part Three

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Part One

#

The story I am about to tell, while fascinating, I suppose, to those drawn to tales of murder, suicide, drugs, and yes, even sex, is most difficult, for it is also a story of betrayal, torment, and loss. And all of it mine. Nevertheless, I shall start from the beginning, and do my best to remain objective throughout.

My name is Swan... Harley Swan, although I've been known to answer to Swanny, or, in a smattering of cases, Dr. Bird. This, of course, depends on the mouth calling and the situation beckoning, but for the most part either one will get my attention. Keeping my attention, now that's something entirely different. Perhaps my degree of intellect is the culprit... perhaps my adventurous spirit. Then again, my restive moods might just stem from the monotony of my work. I'm a psychiatrist, you see - oft times referred to by my not-so-esteemed colleagues as a strange, albeit, generously gifted psychiatrist. Gifted, indeed I am. Strange, I suppose I'm that too, though I take no offense to the charge, as peculiarity merely renders me an abstract painting in a watercolor world; an art form, no less.

That aside, the point remains: how many schizophrenics and manic-depressives can one talk to before all reason is silenced, all sense neutralized? How many black holes can one dive into before they all start to look the same... black. Certainly, to condense every one of my patient's problems into the same hermetically sealed jar of psychobabble is wrong, but as I intimated, redundancy brings out a bit of the _latty-dah, latty-dah._

Besides, why spend time trying to decipher the inner workings of, shall we say, the clinically erratic, when some friendly neighborhood insurance company is merely going to respond with a mind numbing, thought provoking, "Hmm," before prescribing a hocus-pocus doctor with a pocketful of cheese-whiz pills?

Yes, well, oddly enough that ghastly approach to treatment has worked wonders for those restless, rambunctious, and recalcitrant souls looking to spend a bit more time on autopilot. Yet, it does little more than alter the toxicity levels of those looking to ascend from the hellish depths of true madness. Be that as it may, why should I be above the _take two of these every four hours for the rest of your life_ approach to medicine, when to do so is to give up afternoon tee-times with drug reps and insurance company execs?

Truth is, since I've never understood the obsession with chasing little white dimpled balls around a sculpted cow patch, the question is hypothetical at best. Nevertheless, I have played golf, once. I made it all the way to the sixth hole, a par three I believe it was, only to discover the game would be far more entertaining if played in the image of polo. So, I saddled up my golf cart, grabbed my putter-shaped-mallet, and away I went. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for implementing such a unique approach to the game was not shared by others and I was promptly asked to remove myself from the premises, forever.

Of course, it's not the first time my conduct has dismayed the self-righteous. On the contrary, over the years my behavior has been probed, prodded, and disemboweled, and I was hardly aware I had engaged in anything precarious _._ But you see? One need only be labeled for such perceived misdeeds before the perception becomes the truth. And, upon that inevitable occurrence, the veracity, though forever contaminated by whimsical storytelling and self-serving exaggeration, is absolute.

Take that particular summer evening when I was invited to speak at a black-tie affair on the deviant element in society. Since I've always been of the learned opinion no educated society can actually exist without deviants (for are they not the very reason we pass laws, without which every last one of us might well fall prey to such behavior?), I found the subject matter rather blasé. Yet, when asked by a well-dressed gentleman in the front row if I believed most deviant behavior was confined to the _have-nots_ of the world, and after responding (ever so politely, I might add), "Only if stupidity is confined to the _haves_ ," I felt quite the opposite, as an inspiring sense of amusement pulled hard at my sleeve, culminating in a sudden and rousing desire to moon the audience, surmising, as my ample derriere smiled at the face of the crowd, that such action would be viewed as deviant behavior confined to a prodigiously stupid, but fairly well-to-do _have_.

Unfortunately, I was not able to discern if the audience found any cracks in the theory of my presentation because I was unceremoniously whisked off the stage.

Still, like most good tales this lovely little adventure did not begin to evolve until such time as it began to degenerate. Specifically, by week's end there were widespread stories that before I was so brusquely escorted away, I doused the audience with the primal rumblings of some well-placed flatulence. False to be sure, but, when coupled with a handful of other purported misdeeds, a good old-fashioned perception was created; one that has since trailed me like a foul odor.

Of course, it all stems from the fact, I get bored easily, an excuse, given its puerile implications, that is often perceived as short on substance. Regardless, it is the truth. How else could I possibly explain the circumstances surrounding the first of my three arrests?

It was a splendid spring day. I, however, was stuck inside the university teaching one of my four weekly classes. I had one eye on a window, where outside I bore witness to the frolic of campus life, and one eye on a student who decided to ask, "If the inalienable rights of man call for self-rule, what is it about man's psyche that compels him to exercise his dominion over all other living creatures?"

In as much as the question was a natural byproduct of IQ deficiency, not to mention a wayward departure from what had been the subject matter, I felt no obligation to articulate an answer, be it a sagaciously crafted, long-winded soliloquy, or a judicious recitation of the obvious. Nevertheless, when I gazed out the window again, and much to my delight saw a campus security guard lumber inside a neighboring building (whilst his trusted horse remained tied to a tree), it was the very obvious I could no longer ignore. As a result, I turned to my intellectually challenged student, and asked, "Mr. Beezer, why do the dean and his merry band of regents employ the use of horses to help overweight security guards patrol a small, peaceful school like ours?"

Rather than wait for what likely would have been an inane response, I let the question linger, while I, in turn, made haste for the outdoors, where I freed the animal and climbed aboard. Before embarking on a ride into the great unknown, however, I directed the glorious creature over to the flowerbeds beneath my second-story classroom, scanned the puzzled faces of the students looking at me through open windows, and proudly declared, "Because they can, Mr. Beezer! Just like I can!"

As for the ride itself? Well, now, let me assure you, it was a most splendid experience, for it took me back to the summers of my youth, which unfortunately ended when I turned sixteen, the age I began my freshman stay at college. Even so, I had the grand fortune of spending many a wonderful summer on my grandfather's farm, just outside of Vernon Springs, Maine.

My mother and father, decent souls though they were, often bemoaned what they called, "Their inability to make contact with me." They found my energy level exacerbating, my interest in discussing politics at the ripe young age of ten mysteriously curious, and my social skills a cross between Blackbeard the Pirate and Cyrano de Bergerac. Interestingly enough, those were some of the very qualities that reaped my grandfather's attention. "The lad just needs some elbow room, that's all," he would tell my mother. "Give him some space to find himself, and find himself he will."

Unfortunately, I don't think my grandfather ever realized, in my case, finding myself was oft times the beginning to losing myself again, for I have been nothing in my life if not the mouth and morsel of my own food chain.

Still, my days on the farm were quite memorable. I would awaken each morning at the crack of dawn, throw myself at whatever hearty chore beckoned, and then spend the rest of the day working or exploring the wilds of the twenty-five hundred acres my grandfather spent a lifetime accumulating. Evenings, on the other hand, were tranquil by comparison, as the sweat of summer fun and toil was replaced by tall tales and wistful moments alongside the crackling flames of majestic bonfires.

Peculiar though it may sound, it was during this time when I began to understand the struggle of life outside of the books I had read - be it an animal fighting to stave off predatory savagery, a crop suffocating via the inclement hands of nature, a farmhand breaking his back to feed a wife and child, or my grandfather growing older, yet constantly finding the strength to endure the tremendous responsibility he felt for the continued survival of them all.

It was also during this time when I first realized my grandfather possessed a fondness for me like no one before. I did not reach this conclusion, however, because I was showered with unnecessary affection, or infused with unworthy praise - measures, that in the seasons of a boy's life, I consider marginally beneficial, at best. My reasoning boils down to the simple premise, my grandfather made every conceivable effort to accept and understand that which my parents so freely dismissed as _my unorthodox composition;_ an undertaking without boundary, an objective, heartfelt, yet arguably futile.

Suffice it to say, it was a very sad day when my grandfather died. Although strangely enough, I experienced a greater sense of loss when my mother and father sold his property, for on that long and dreary afternoon it seemed grandfather's spirit was forever extinguished. From then on, all communication with my parents was necessity driven. I was in the midst of college life, and they, they were in the midst of plowing through my grandfather's hard-earned money. Fortunately, grandfather made it impossible for them to squander it all, as I was left one-half of his estate - money I've since used to repurchase various parcels of his once proud and seductive land.

At this juncture I suppose it also bears mentioning that grandfather possessed a unique fondness for reading _the classics,_ as well as breeding quarter horses. Ergo my extensive library at home, as well as my equestrian savvy, which, when I borrowed the campus security guard's horse, came back to me, as _they_ say... lickety-split.

Fulton University was known, not only of having an exceptional psychology department, but also the longest pedestrian bridge in the northeast. I didn't care all that much about the psychology department, other than, I suppose, using it as a springboard to publish a host of articles and treatises in the various medical books and journals that deemed them worthy - but the bridge? My lord, on a spring day, with the hemlock and fir in glorious bloom, the wind subtle, and the river roaring freedom's rage, it is a fine place to run an animal. Not because of the bridge, mind you. Because once across it, there are rolling green hills that seemingly go on forever. Of course, forever comes to an end rather quickly when the police are waiting for you.

The university, as I anticipated, did not press charges. In fact, my only punishment came in the form of a monotonous discussion with a longwinded, though fairly amused dean. Unfortunately, my wife did not share in the merriment, inclined, instead, to describe the situation as just another revealing episode of my _arrogant eccentricity,_ a concept she favored when she was in an agreeable mood. Similar, I suppose, to those instances when she would depict my behavior as confusing, not embarrassing; improper, not irrational; misunderstood, not delusional; characterizations, quite frankly, I never paid much attention to.

I do not wish to imply that I did not care about and love my wife, however. I did, a couple of years ago. She was a beautiful woman, too, with radiant blue eyes, and dark, finger-tussled hair that barely covered her slender shoulders. Ah, and her shoulders, the apex of a body of skin as soft and smooth as a warm summer day - somehow fitting, I suppose, since we met on a warm summer day.

I was riding my unicycle, which can be mighty interesting when you're casually flipping through the pages of a book, and she was walking toward me eating an ice cream cone. I thought little of the situation, and certainly never contemplated losing my balance, for riding unicycles was just like walking on my hands (another skill I had become quite proficient at over the years). And yet, that is precisely what happened. I fell... rather, I crashed, into her. Neither of us was physically hurt, but I must admit, I felt more than a tad foolish because I ended up wearing the ice cream cone on my chin. That's correct, in the process of bumbling, stumbling, and tumbling over, Suzanna landed on me, I landed on the grass, and her ice cream cone came to rest on my chin, which, I don't mind telling you, turned into quite the sticky situation, what with the way it melted down my throat and neck. Nevertheless, I managed to wink, and with a twisted smile strapped firmly in place, said, "If I don't take a shower for a couple of days, my skin, particularly the area encompassing my chin, becomes extremely oily and these curious growths appear."

Suzanna laughed long and hard, and I, of course, joined her. I also joined her for dinner that night, and, in what would mark the beginning of our love affair, breakfast the following morning. It was during one of those many wonderful mornings, in fact, when, after watching the sun break through the window, only to dance upon her as though an angel of light, I finally admitted to myself what had to be so glaring to the rest of the free world - my face and body was no match for hers. How then, why then, was she attracted to me?

"Because," she had answered, as if long anticipating the question, "in addition to the gentlest touch I've ever experienced, and the softest, saddest pair of eyes I've ever looked into, you have an exquisite mind."

I do not know if I still possess a gentle touch, and I'm uncertain if my eyes remain a soft reflection of sad, but my exquisite mind did not last very long. In other words, a few years after we were married, my escapades stretched far beyond Suzanna's comfort level. I do not believe there was any one event that caused this unfortunate circumstance. I did, however, first notice a change in my wife's behavior the night I spoke at Delaware Institute, the city's only private high school.

The students were fighting the imposition of a dress code, and the school board president, a man I had come to know fairly well over the years, asked me to address all interested parties on what he described as, "The psychology underlying the mandate."

"Why me, Richard?" I queried. "I don't even believe in dress codes."

"I never assumed you did, Swanny. But then, anyone who knows you, knows of your tendency to test the waters... if you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I've heard those rumors," I replied, tongue-in-cheek. "Still, why do you think what I have to say will carry your intended impact?"

"Because, Swanny, those very rumors have made you a local celebrity of sorts."

"So?"

"So, who better to speak on the dangers of fire than a popular fire victim?"

"But I don't consider myself a victim, Richard."

"Nor should you, Swanny. But the kids don't know that. The only thing they'll know is that you, a man who has been known to dance to the beat of his own drum, believe in the importance of structure and organization. So, what do you say, you ready to pack the house?"

"I say rubbish. But if it means getting off the phone with you, then fine, I'll do it. But you owe me one."

It turns out my good friend was correct because every seat in the auditorium was taken, leaving those without to clamor for a spot along the back wall. Thankfully, my speech didn't disappoint anyone. On the contrary, I received a long and thunderous standing ovation, particularly from the school board members, faculty, and parents.

So why, you ask, did my wife's behavior begin to change that night? Simple, because once I finished my lecture and walked out from behind the podium, I took off the overcoat I was wearing and stood before the audience in nothing more than my shoes, socks, shirt, tie, and, _whoop-dee-do,_ my boxer shorts. An ironic display of dress in light of my inspiring lecture on the importance of dress codes... wouldn't you say?

And therein lies the problem, Suzanna didn't say. Not about the lecture, the inflamed article in the local newspaper the following morning, or that I had been asked to remove myself from consideration for the deanship of the psychology department at the university, a post I only mildly entertained because my wife implored me to. Rather, for the next few months Suzanna went about her business as if wearing blinders. At the time I just assumed she was either too preoccupied with motherhood, as we were the joyful parents of a lovely four-year-old girl named, Katy, or, simply found the entire matter too trivial to be bothered with. It never occurred to me she viewed me as a _dangerously_ troubled man. In fact, it was only after I took part in a debate concerning gay rights that I first realized the depths of her newfound opinion.

It began on a harsh winter morning. A young, local boy of fourteen had been found hanging from a tree. He had been beaten and stabbed, and his penis had been severed. A nomadic group of Hitler youths had been charged with the crime. Rather than admit their obvious and senseless guilt, however, they hired _lawyer by day, storm trooper by night,_ Randolph Watkins. Not only did the illustrious Mr. Watkins promptly and proudly declare his clients' innocence, he petitioned, and won, the right to assemble on the courthouse steps to debate any man or woman on, "The Impurity in Today's America."

It was an offer I could not resist - nor, after thrashing this genetically flawed worm of an individual with facts, figures, and, if I do say so myself, stunning brilliance, could I resist taking a swing at him. So I did, to the approving roar of the many people who had gathered in attendance.

Unfortunately, the legal system saw it differently. You see, I was wearing makeup and a dress. I was also carrying a purse, the very object I used to smack Randolph Watkins with. I was not dressed this way to cause a disturbance or diminish the severity of the issues at hand. On the contrary, I simply wanted Mr. Watkins to be publicly humiliated by the very type of individual he was seeking to condemn. Yet, I was the one humiliated as I was arrested for disturbing the peace, and assault and battery - charges that saw me spend a night in jail, only to stand in open court the following day (in full dress regalia, including purse), and have a female judge explain, after so graciously handing me a two year probationary period, that I was making a mockery of women everywhere.

As for my wife, she didn't view my actions as a mockery toward women anymore than she viewed them an effective approach to shedding new light on an old problem. Instead, Suzanna determined my methods to be those of a man whose existence is dependent solely upon the evolving absurdity of the very situations he incites. "Worst of all," she insisted, "you won't stop until you're either dead, locked up in jail, or locked away inside your own childish insanity. And you know why? Because you have a void that cannot be filled. You just don't know it, that's your problem."

Of course, I responded by telling my wife there is no such thing as childish insanity, to which she promptly countered, "Don't pull that psychiatry crap with me. You're a child and you're insane. So as far as I'm concerned, you suffer from childish insanity."

Yes, well, I never thought of myself as a child. And I've certainly never thought of myself as insane. True, I've had occasion to question some of my exploits, but only when the relevant situation turned out differently than what I might have anticipated, not because my efforts were impelled by some misguided silliness, or some maddening disease of the mind. Nevertheless, my troubling behavior was, according to Suzanna, posing a serious threat to our marriage.

I didn't respond right away, languishing instead over the notion those episodic adventures that first attracted my wife to, what she called, my 'exquisite mind,' were now doing just the opposite. What changed, I wondered? And did it matter? Of the former, I can only guess time, space, and the tolerance between. Of the latter, my God, with a beautiful daughter I so dearly loved and cherished - yes, yes, yes, it mattered! Like oxygen, it mattered! Therefore, I had but one choice. Schedule an appointment with Dr. Theodore Wilkes, a twice-divorced marriage counselor.

I know, a twice-divorced marriage counselor sounds utterly ridiculous. And yet, since he was rumored to be a brilliant savior (this according to Suzanna's pretentious group of nosy friends), and since perception is nine/tenths of the law (this according to me), what else could I do, but go? So I did. Actually we, Suzanna and me, both went to see this fine, upstanding doctor, who, with his finely tailored face and perfectly sprayed-on-tan, possessed a flowing crop of black hair (tinted gray at the temples, of course), spoke in soft, eloquent tones, and apparently enjoyed smiling, for both his dark eyes and white teeth sparkled often.

Suffice it to say, I'm not sure what he found so amusing. I suppose he could have been entertained by a few of my escapades, but given that Suzanna never told a story that wasn't laced with a solid dose of the humdrum, my reasoning was a fragile assumption at best. More importantly, as long as I was committed to pacifying, what I sincerely believed to be my wife's well intentioned, but misguided course of action, what difference did his reason for smiling really make?

Absolutely none, although oddly enough, I had a deep-seated desire to know. As such, the moment Suzanna was excused from our session (the good doctor having determined that it would be better if he and I spoke alone), I said, "Dr. Wilkes, I certainly don't mean to interrupt your train of thought, but I'm curious about something?"

"Yes, what is it, Dr. Swan? How can I help you?" he returned, the question basking in the glow of his ever-present smile.

"Well, since I don't wish to envision myself, or my situation, as a basis for your comic relief, I must know... why in God's name are you constantly smiling?"

Dr. Wilkes fidgeted in his seat for a couple of moments before telling me his condition, though not intentional, was the result of a facelift gone astray.

"Interesting," I said, smiling myself at the prospect of getting a little too much nip and tuck with your nip and tuck.

Dr. Wilkes shrugged. "I don't know, I've thought about having them fix it, but..."

"But what?"

Dr. Wilkes grabbed hold of the mirror on his desk, filled it with a lingering starry-eyed gaze, and then said, "I have a really nice smile. I mean a _really, really_ nice smile. I find that it helps brighten people's moods, which is worth its weight in gold because moods can get pretty bleak around here. It's one of the many tools I use. Another happens to be my hands. Look at them, they're beautifully manicured. And boy, are they soft. So soft, I have couples hold them in their own hands, you know, to get a sense of the very warmth they're looking for from each other. And if that doesn't work, though it seldom fails, I hug my patients. First the women, so they get an accurate feel for what it's like to be held by a strong pair of arms. Then the men, so they get an accurate understanding of how it feels to the woman."

"You don't say?"

"Ah, but I do say. And if none of that works, well then, let's just say I've been known to teach the men about stroking their wives. Their hair, their arms... you get the idea, don't you?"

"Wonderful techniques, Doctor, wonderful techniques," I said, the acerbity in my voice humming at full throttle.

"Would you like me to show you? I could..."

"No, no, that's fine. I understand everything perfectly."

"Okay, but that's not all of it, Dr. Swan."

"You're kidding, there's more?" I asked, tossing my hands to my cheeks.

"Yes, when all else fails, I instruct my clients on the importance of helping their partners release pressure. I show them various points on the body - the underside of the foot, the nape of the neck, the lower part of the back. Massaging, squeezing, all of it designed to release pressure, all of it to help them get in touch with one another. You sure you don't want me to demonstrate? I can just..."

"No, no, like I said, I'm perfectly fine. A demonstration, in fact, might just be more than I can bear right now."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way, you can visualize just how extensive the benefits might be, can't you?"

"Oh absolutely, absolutely," I replied, as I got up from my chair and headed for the door. "Not only that, I can also see, I mean _really, really_ see why you have a reputation as a brilliant savior."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Wilkes asked.

"Well, quite frankly, I mean, so long, goodbye, and _toodaloo_."

Convinced my _inappropriate behavior_ was the underlying reason we were no longer welcome at the office of Dr. Theodore Wilkes, marriage counselor extraordinaire, Suzanna returned to her silence. In fact, beyond obligatory discussions concerning our daughter, Katy, she did not speak to me for several days on end. It was a difficult time too, as I suddenly found myself trapped between Suzanna's emotional sterility and my own deeply rooted sense of self. Would I... could I ever live my life with the same carefree wisdom that somehow brought me this far? Or was the possibility of everyday life without the face of my daughter to look at as genuine as Suzanna wanted me to believe? Questions I did not wish to answer, which, of course, was the answer itself. I would delay this confrontation as long as I could by agreeing to see another marriage counselor.

Suzanna did not warm to the idea, however, until I once again acquiesced to her choice of doctor.

#

Collin Hayes, a marriage counselor never before married (a strange concept to fathom, I readily admit), was a sturdy looking fellow. Not necessarily large, but between his square jaw and broad shoulders he filled his chair quite differently than the slightly built Theodore Wilkes. He also sported a small scar just under the creases of his right eye, which, when coupled with his lightly whiskered face, lead me to believe he had no immediate plan to become a poster boy for cosmetic surgery. The combination did, however, give him a ruggedly handsome look, an appearance furthered strengthened by his deliberate, raspy speech.

Dr. Hayes did share one ingredient with Theodore Wilkes, however. They both preferred meeting with Suzanna and I together, as well as the two of us individually. Was it an effective method of practice? Who can say? More importantly, why did Dr. Hayes feel the need to solicit my approval on the matter? Even when I suggested my uncertainty, he pressed on, determined to prove it was the only plausible way to help resuscitate our marital bond.

Yes, well, far be it from me to pose any real objections, particularly since my exceedingly cautious wife was convinced before she even walked into his office. Alas, what's a confused husband to do when the only clarity in his life is the love for a child born to him by the woman sitting to his left?

And so began our weekly sessions with Dr. Collin Hayes. Sessions that belittled my wayward style of dress as just another means to garner attention. Sessions that determined my _reckless behavior_ to be little more than my inability to harness, or, at a minimum, channel my brazen energy. Sessions that sought to explore every intimate detail of the once divine sex life I shared with my wife. Sessions that some three months after they began, Dr. Hayes abruptly announced would end. "Your continued reluctance to embrace personal change has handcuffed us all," he declared. "It's not fair to your marriage, to your wife, or, for that matter, to me. Frankly, Dr. Swan, you and your obstinacy need something besides me. A psychiatrist, quite possibly. One, other than yourself. And should you get help at some point and want to try this again, let me know and we'll see. Until that day, however, I can no longer be of service."

So there I was, out in the proverbial cold once again. In fact, had it not been for my daughter Katy, my lovely Katy, I would have felt like an aimless shadow in my own house, as Suzanna ("Repulsed at the very thought of me. Sickened by the very sight of me."), withdrew into a world of her own. A world defined by the haughty sparkle of a social calendar, the cavalier nurturing of a suddenly inconvenient child, and the cold, calloused walls of a separate bedroom. Yes, I was indeed deeply saddened by the poignant turn of events. I was not, however, so despondent that I failed to recognize the wonderful gifts my little girl bestowed upon me: hope, meaning, and, perhaps for the first time in my life, a lucid perception of myself.

Katy gave me something else as well: a playful companion to stroll the sandy beaches along the Atlantic (where we spent many a Sunday morning chasing seagulls, and building sandcastles), the boutiques along Mill Avenue (where, after frolicking in the dew laden countryside of my late grandfather, we would often stop for ice cream), and the apple orchards north of Hastings (a personal favorite because I found great pleasure watching my daughter fumble around in her efforts to wrestle apples from trees).

Yet, in all our splendid time together, there is perhaps one single moment I shall forever cherish. It was the day I gave Katy a pony for her sixth birthday. Interestingly enough, my plan did not call for the purchase of a pony. However, in light of my marital strife, the catalyst for what had become a continuing effort to take stock of my life, I deemed it necessary to embrace my past - most notably the summers spent on my grandfather's farm just outside Vernon Springs, Maine. So yes, when I first saw the pony, I was instantly reminded of the day my grandfather walked me inside his corral (his leathery palm gently squeezing the back of my neck), to meet a magnificent looking animal. Snowy white mane atop rich black skin, he broke to his right, darted effortlessly to his left, and then broke back the other way, before coming to an abrupt stop not five feet in front of me, where he bounced his head up and down, as though happily greeting my presence.

"What do you want to call him?" my grandfather asked.

"I don't know, what do you?"

"Well," grandfather announced, "since it's your horse, you get to choose."

That may very well have been the first time in my life I was rendered speechless. In fact, beyond hugging my grandfather with all the strength I could possibly muster, I stood in wondrous disbelief, graced by the spirit of both a beautiful animal, and the beautiful man who gave him to me.

For what it's worth, I named my horse, Sequoia, in honor of a great Cherokee scholar I had read about as a child. More importantly, I named my daughter, Katy, in honor of my grandfather, Kaleb, an exquisite man, who, to this day, I still think about. And as I watched my daughter marvel at the splendor of her new pony, I saw the likeness of his face in hers, and my eyes grew moist. Of course, as soon as Katy leapt into my arms and told me how much she loved me, the tears I had been able to contain, broke free.

Yes, well, it was several months before I heard my daughter speak those lovely words again, for less than a week after Katy and I celebrated her birthday, I returned home one night to complete emptiness, save for an old card table, a twin bed from one of the two guest bedrooms, a handful of chinaware, and my books (thankfully). Much to my dismay, my wife, you see, had not spent _all_ her time gallivanting from one trivial happening to the next, as I had so mistakenly believed. On the contrary, according to the letter she left for me on my _new_ dining room table, she had been setting up house... with Dr. Collin Hayes, no less. Suzanna further mentioned that she had filed for divorce (this, the result of my _potentially dangerous transgressions_ ), was planning to seek full custody of our daughter (this, the result of my _potentially dangerous transgressions_ ), and, had removed the vast majority of our joint savings (this, although she didn't actually say, the result of her wanton greed).

Nevertheless, I had the value of my grandfather's estate to depend on, so hiring the finest lawyer I could remained quite painless. Yet, and notwithstanding the simple premise I was truly distraught by the chilling turn of events, I did not desire reconciliation with my wife. Nor was I concerned about the household furniture, the money, or that she was living with Dr. Collin Hayes, circumstances her lawyer said had everything to do with fear, and absolutely nothing to do with a desire to cohabitate. And I, of course, fell out of a tree and landed on my head at an early age.

Frankly, my only desire, like my only concern, was to regain custody of Katy. As a result, I instructed my attorney, Mr. William Stark, to do everything in his power to see the situation through. "No matter the cost, I do not want my daughter exposed to the baseless virtues of her mother anymore than I want her living under the same roof with that unethical bastard of a man."

"I'll do everything I can," Mr. Stark assured me.

Yes, well, assurances aside, my case was unfortunately assigned to Judge Wilma Stevens, the same obtuse judge who put me on probation for assaulting that insidious Nazi lawyer after I battered him, in what turned out to be, an unrewarding debate on the courthouse steps. At any rate, she did not find my transgressions to be _potentially dangerous._ She did, however, find I was not a suitable candidate for custodial parent, reducing my parental stake to visitation rights - once a week and every other weekend, to be exact.

I was incredulous. In fact, I sprang from my seat and demanded an answer. "How is that possible? How?" I fumed. "Is your mindset so predisposed, you're oblivious to the unscrupulous shenanigans of my pitiful wife and her lover? A man, I dare say, who will be brought before the medical ethics committee by the time I'm finished!"

Judge Stevens simply exhaled her pompous attitude, and said, "It's your personal history, Dr. Swan, and nothing more."

Suffice it to say, after appealing the judge's ruling (to no avail, mind you), I was left with little choice but to make the very most of the short time Katy and I were allowed to spend together. Yet, we picked up right where we left off - chasing seagulls, picking apples, and, by all means, visiting with her pony, which, as I explained to my little girl, would soon be moving to a new stall. Shortly after the divorce, you see, I decided to build a country-style home on a beautiful 250-acre parcel of land once belonging to my grandfather (land, you may recall, that I repurchased out of proceeds from his estate). Over the last several years I had actually been able to repurchase close to six hundred acres, though not all of the land was contiguous. Therefore, I chose the parcel most compatible for horses. And while it would be many months before the entire project was finished, upon completion there would be a generous size home, caretaker's quarters, stalls, a corral large enough to accommodate a dozen horses, and, most importantly, enough wide open space to run, as _they_ say, lickety-split.

Sadly enough, a single phone call from Suzanna brought my grand venture to a screeching halt.

"It's all your fault!" she screamed, the moment I put the receiver to my ear. "All your fault! If you hadn't gone after Collin, none of this would have happened!"

"Calm down, calm down," I said. "I don't even know what you're talking about. What's happened?"

"Katy, she's been hurt."

"Hurt, what do you mean, hurt? When? How bad?"

"She's in the hospital," Suzanna replied between sobs. "And it's your fault."

"What happened, damn-it? What happened?" I asked, my body trembling beyond measure.

"The malpractice grievance you filed against Collin. The medical board acted on it. They've suspended his license."

"Suzanna, I'm going to ask you one more time," I said, the words barely able to escape my clenched teeth, "and if you do not answer me, then so help me God I'm going to come over there and ring it out of you. Now, what happened to my daughter?"

Suzanna sighed, before responding, "Collin beat her up. He was mad because of what you did."

"He did what? Where is he? Tell me where he is!"

"He left the house. I don't know where. And I'm still at the hospital so I don't know if he's gone back home."

"What about Katy, how is she?" I asked, my fury all but overwhelming my ability to hold still for an answer.

Suzanna sighed again. "The doctor said she's going to be fine. But..."

"But what?"

"She's suffered a broken arm. And her face..."

"What about her face, Suzanna? What about her face?"

Suzanna did not reply, and I no longer cared if she did. At that moment I only had room for two glaring thoughts - the welfare of my daughter, and the deranged man who jeopardized it.

As it turned out, Collin Hayes did indeed return home that evening, where, upon opening his front door, I unleashed a rage I never knew I possessed. I've often heard it referred to as _father's rage._ Still _,_ having never studied the subject matter, I cannot say with any degree of authority. What I can say is that I pummeled Collin Hayes until his rugged good looks were reduced to an unrecognizable pool of red.

Of course, that is merely the beginning of the story. Collin Hayes, you see, not only lost his medical license for six _long and arduous_ months, he was handed a _whopping_ thirty-day jail term as well. According to the illustrious Judge Wilma Stevens (who, between my divorce and previous probation, unfortunately retained jurisdiction over my person), punishment was minimized because, "Anymore would simply cripple the integrity of Dr. Hayes' livelihood."

I, on the other hand, was not the recipient of such propitious treatment. On the contrary, after I stood in open court and heartily admitted, what the prosecutor referred to as, "My barbaric actions," Judge Stevens said, "Your personal history, Dr. Swan, your strange behavior, it's all such a shame. From everything I've heard, and read, you've shown flashes of absolute brilliance. But brilliance is no excuse for behavior that is so unpredictable, so scurrilous. Quite frankly, I'm afraid you're capable of hurting someone else... perhaps even yourself. Therefore, I'm going to confine you to Valley View Mental Institution until I'm properly convinced you're no longer a danger to anyone."

As one might expect, the venerable and vine-covered Valley View was but a stockade of intellectual ruin. Sure, there were doctors to talk to, although given their tendency to measure each and every syllable that rolled off my tongue, the simplest conversation was oft times a laborious task. There were other patients as well. I, however, was not interested in singing show tunes. No, I quickly deduced that unless I kept to myself, which meant speaking when spoken to, and, upon so doing, furnishing my half-witted colleagues with the very responses that would minimize my stay, I would soon be thumping my lips and drooling all over myself.

Thank goodness in a few months time I was able to persuade the witchdoctors in charge that my recent ordeal was physiologically induced, via an increase in circulating adrenaline, precipitated, no doubt, by my divorce. In other words, at the ripe, young age of forty-four, I had suffered a temporary bout of anxiety overload.

Naturally, in the preposterous scheme of things, my freedom did not come without probationary boundaries. Oh no, Judge Stevens set forth a litany of dos and don'ts, though there were but two items I found appalling: visits with my daughter were to be limited, and supervised.

Still, with the splendor of the outside world pending, what choice did I really have?

#

My name is Sherwood... Sherwood Daybo, though I pretty much just answer to Woody. I was named for my mama's sister, Shirl, and her brother, Woodrow. They died in a car accident some years back, so mama felt obliged to honor 'em by combinin' the two names and givin' it to me. She said it was fittin' too, what with the way I was born with the look of Aunt Shirl's eyes, and the strength of Uncle Woodrow's jaw. I don't know, I've seen some old pictures and never could spot any resemblance. Still, if mama said I possessed a likeness, then I'm sure I did. End of story.

I've never minded the name Sherwood, although unlike John or Mathew, Peter or Paul, names that blend in with just about any kind of scenery, Sherwood just sort of hangs out there like a lonely tree branch, givin' others, in turn, a chance to swing from it. What I mean is, there was once a time when I had to contend with the other kids callin' me, _Shirley_. The thing is, since I had no intentions of spendin' each day of my childhood blockin' my ears, ground rules had to be set. Unfortunately, I wasn't the biggest pup around, so convincin' other kids to accommodate my wishes was easier said than done. Fact is, between the ages of six and twelve I probably had more fistfights than anybody I ever knew. I lost a lot more of 'em than I ever won, but my daddy told me the important thing was to let the other kids know that I would stick up for myself. Funny thing about it, once I turned thirteen I started sproutin' up pretty good, so stickin' up for myself got a whole lot easier. That's also about the time my nickname changed from Shirley to Woody.

Our family lived in a two-story white house in Tecumseh, Tennessee, a small one-horse town that sits just east of the Great Smoky Mountains. It wasn't fancy, but it was on a real fine piece of property (complete with a river stretchin' all the way to the ridge separatin' the Sycamore from the Paw-Paw a half-mile away), and always made playin' outdoors with my best friend, Joe, way better than scroungin' around for somethin' to do in town.

Good ol' Joe, as feisty a Lab as there likely ever was, I enjoyed many an afternoon watchin' him fetch just about everything I let sail through the air. Matter of fact, about the only time he'd stop fetchin' is if he ran across a coon or a fox, usually in the high brush at water's edge. All I could hope for then was Joe makin' it home in one piece. Luckily, and to the delight of us all, he always did too, even though mama would get upset once she saw him caked with blood and whatnot, at which point she'd scold him just like he was one of us, and ol' Joe, he'd stand there thinkin' he was. He'd hang his head low enough to avoid direct eye contact, but high enough to reveal the concern on his dog-brows, all the while waggin' his tail like it was a white flag, and then keep at it until mama would rub him behind his ears.

But that's the way my mama was. For every harsh word spoke, you could expect a kiss on the cheek, a hug, a pat on the head, somethin' to balance out the anger. That's the thing I remember most about her. The other is how hard she worked. Didn't matter if she was cleanin' house, washin' clothes, preparin' supper, or just brushin' her hair, once mama began a task, she focused on nothin' else. If a picture fell off the wall and landed at her feet while she was knittin', there it would stay until she finished her pattern. If she was workin' in her garden and it started to rain, she was gonna get as wet as it took to plant the last flower. Even my daddy, when he'd come stormin' in from work (he was a foreman at Tecumseh Tool and Die), and start bellyachin' about some such thing, mama would just look at him with those big green eyes of hers and tell him his bellyachin' was gonna have to wait until she finished the task at hand. And if daddy protested (which he usually did by raisin' his voice and poundin' on the nearest counter, a true sign that he'd had a bit too much to drink after work), mama would shake her head, and in a soft, but sturdy voice, say, "Rant and rave all you want. Right now, I'm busy." Fortunately, if me and my sister got between mama and her chores, she'd measure whatever it was we needed, and if it was somethin' more important than what she was workin' on - somethin' like schoolwork, or just plain growin' pains - she'd stop what she was doin' and help us out.

My daddy was different that way. He never seemed to get any pleasure in helpin' me or Tess. Nor did he appear to see the necessity in it. Instead, and dependin' on his mood, which often wavered between blue steel and the cold ground, he would just glare at us until we left him alone. It was kind of like gettin' yelled at without a word being said. In fact, the only thing worse in those instances is when he did speak, which I learned when I came walkin' through the door one day with a big black eye. Now seeing as how it wasn't a week earlier when he told me the other kids would respect me for stickin' up for myself, I figured, what with my new black eye, he wouldn't mind another conversation at all. But you know what? He just looked up from his newspaper, pushed the dark hair from his dark eyes, givin' me a full view of his foul expression, and said, "What do you want?"

My answer consisted of a quick retreat into another room, where I remained until such time as my daddy saw fit to soften. And if ever a day came and went and there was no softenin', why I'd just go to bed and wait until the followin' day to start up a fresh conversation.

Still, my daddy and his surly attitude were bearable as long as my mama was around. But then she passed away a month after my fourteenth birthday and everything I knew, and felt, immediately changed. The lights went out, so to speak. It was as if God had pulled a shade over our window. None of us - not me, Tess, or my daddy, knew how to deal with it. Tess often cried in her bedroom, comin' out only for meals and to go to school, and even then not without a screamin' fit. I fought anybody I could on any given day; though never satisfied I'd fought enough. And my daddy, he tried to drink every drop of liquor in Tecumseh, soberin' up just enough to get through work, before startin' the cycle all over again. Hell, even ol' Joe walked around the house with his tail between his legs. Fact is, two years passed until I once again felt color rise in my face and a certain ease settle in my body. Tess, unfortunately, did not share either sense for at least another year, and my daddy, well my daddy, he was lost forever.

To second-guess instinct has always seemed like a big waste of time to me, simply because instinct has a mind of its own. That said, I've been questionin' certain actions of mine ever since I watched my daddy's eyes follow Tess out the door one Saturday afternoon, and then say in a voice as steady as a full night of drinkin' whiskey would allow, "She sure is pretty. She sure is pretty."

My immediate thought, like most big brothers, I would imagine, was to say, "Hey pal, hold your tongue. She's fifteen." But I didn't say a word, wantin' to believe my daddy was only makin' an innocent observation. Besides, would sayin' somethin' like that, somethin' to make it clear to my daddy that I didn't think his words were appropriate, have made a difference? I suspect not, though I don't know. I truly don't. What I do know is, later that night, while I was off shootin' pool with my buddy, Stevie Ray, daddy slipped into Tess' bedroom and touched her in the wrong kind of way.

A couple of days passed before Tess mentioned anything to me. Maybe she didn't know how to approach the subject. Maybe some piece of her didn't want to. Maybe she was plain ol' scared. Maybe, maybe... lots of maybes. Meanwhile, one day after school, while daddy was still at work, she took my hand and led me outside. It was there, under the two red oaks that guarded our picnic table from the hot Tennessee sun, she began to cry. I mean to tell ya, it took a handful of tissue before she was able to look up at me, and say, "Daddy came to my room the other night."

For the most part those aren't real staggerin' words. But when you figure in the tears, quiverin' chin, and shaky voice, they throw off a different light altogether. "What do you mean?" I said, holdin' a fresh tissue in my hand.

"He didn't come in to talk, Woody."

I explored Tess' face, before askin', "He came to what?"

Tess hung her head. "Touch me."

My eyes, already squintin' from the light of the afternoon sun, closed even more as my eyebrows just sort of caved in around them. "Touched you... like a guy touches a girl, touched you?"

Tess looked off to the side, as though watchin' my question sail right on by.

Was my little sister mistaken, I wondered? Could there have somehow been a misunderstandin'? And if not a misunderstandin', could she have been exaggeratin', even if just a little? I suppose anything is possible, although the thing I kept comin' back to is that I never doubted my sister in the past. No reason to. Tess was on the quiet side. She wasn't given to tellin' lies or makin' up stories just to hear the sound of her own voice. Still, the situation was way, _way_ different than anything I had ever experienced, and I had to be certain. So I let fly with a brainy, "You sure, sis?"

Tess nodded her head before carefully pullin' at the neckline of her shirt to reveal a couple of black and blues about the shoulders. I mean real humdingers, they were. "I also have ripped jeans and a torn blouse, if you wanna see. Is that enough?"

Yeah, it was enough, but I didn't say so. Instead, I sat there like a bump on a log, just starin' at my little sister. From her pleadin' eyes (big and green just like mama's), to her freckles (once coverin' her face, now either sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, or lost altogether in the color of her skin), to the way her yellowish tomboy hair had grown long and brown, Tess was turnin' into quite a beauty. Funny thing is, prior to that moment I hadn't taken much notice of her. Sure, I always knew she was cute, but as she sat opposite me, I realized for the first time, the light of day had come to grace my sister, same as it does a flower. I also realized it was my duty to see that Tess be allowed to grow straight and tall, same as a flower.

But what, aside from kissin' Tess on the forehead and huggin' her in a big brotherly way, was I supposed to do to comfort her, to convince her that everything was gonna be okay, that my daddy, our daddy, was never gonna touch her again, that no matter what else, I would protect her?

Naturally, I thought about goin' to see the sheriff, but Tess tossed that notion aside as quick as I offered it up. Said it would be too embarrassin' to her, as well as the memory of our mama. I also thought about takin' her and movin' out of the house, but until I graduated high school and got a job, where was I gonna find the money? Then there was the obvious: marchin' up to my daddy and puttin' a big ol' can of whoop-ass on him. Hell, I was closin' in on eighteen, and my six-foot-two, one-hundred-eighty-pound frame helped earn me a reputation as the toughest kid in my school. So why not? I'll tell you why not. Because despite my daddy walkin' around drunk much of the time, he was still more than capable of puttin' me down - period!

Yeah, well, a few days later, my daddy, in all his stinkin', sloppy, drunken glory, came up with a solution all by himself. It was a late Friday night to be exact, a night I usually spent hangin' out with my buddy, Stevie Ray. The thing is, once me n' Tess had our little talk, I wouldn't let her out of my sight, so Friday night, or not, I was stayin' home with her. I don't know if my daddy realized I was around, or just didn't care (the whiskey pollutin' his brain to the point my whereabouts were of no concern), but I was sittin' at the desk in my room, just sort of starin' into the darkness, wonderin' what to do about my sister, when out of nowhere she screamed my name. Not the kind of scream hopin' to get attention, the kind of scream demandin' it. The kind you'd expect to hear from someone who fell off a cliff - long, loud, and bloodcurdlin', to be sure. It didn't slow my daddy, though, because when I burst into her room, he was still tryin' to have his way with Tess, ignorant to the struggle she was puttin' up.

"Let her go!" I yelled, "Let her go!" I then rushed him with every ounce of energy I had, knockin' him to the floor before he knew what hit him. Unfortunately, my daddy staggered to all fours, drool and saliva hangin' from his mouth like he was some kind of rabid dog, and said, "Get out of my way."

"You don't know what you're doin', daddy," I said. "You need help." And those were the last words spoke because right then he lunged forward. I moved just enough to catch him up high and send him reelin', where he stumbled, plowin' into the corner of Tess' bed-frame, never to move again; blood runnin' the life from the split in his head.

I guess it's easy to say I should've called for an ambulance, or at least dialed up Sheriff Dewey's office, and then prayed for the light of day to make its presence known, but being that my daddy was layin' on the floor - dead - and my little sister was screamin', cryin', and shakin' from head to toe, I didn't do anything of the kind. Instead, I just sort of cupped my daddy's head in my lap and shook and cried myself. It wasn't until god-knows-when-later that Tess tapped me on the shoulder, and said, her voice about as lifeless as the look on her face, "Woody, you need to go get Uncle Eugene," that I pulled myself free of my daddy's body.

Uncle Eugene, my daddy's brother, lived a few miles away in a shabby lookin' place backin' up to a dried-up pond. He was married once to a woman named Lou, but she left him for a tractor salesman when he lost his landscapin' business. Uncle Eugene said he didn't mind, though. Said he still had his dogs and could fish with his buddies anytime the mood struck him, which it evidently had, because when I got to his place there was a note on his door that read: _gone fishing to plum lake. be back monday. p.s. watch the porch steps._

At that point, about all I could think to do was head back home, make certain Tess was alright, and then see to it my daddy's body was properly cared for. By the time I arrived, however, Sheriff Dewey and Bob Morris, his deputy, were already waitin' for me. Said two ambulances were on the way.

"Why two," I managed to ask, my eyes tearin', my body quiverin' noticeably.

Sheriff Dewey dipped his big, round melon, and stared at me just like my daddy used to when he was gettin' ready to whack me upside the head. "Your sister called. Told me I better get out to the house. She didn't say why. Just said I needed to come quick. Real quick."

"Why two?"

"When me and Bob got here," the Sheriff said, usin' his stubby thumb to point at his stubby deputy, "we found her, too. Cut her wrists. Appears to have killed herself."

I remember my body feelin' like it was fillin' with warm water. I remember my legs growin' weak. I remember collapsin'. I remember Sheriff Dewey and Deputy Bob clearin' out of the way so I would hit the ground clean. I remember lookin' up at the black sky and wonderin' why it was spinnin' out of control. I remember hearin' what sounded like a hundred different voices at once - loud, soft, fast, slow - each one barrelin' into me from a different direction. I remember being yanked to my feet and lookin' back at my house one last time before Sheriff Dewey carted me off to jail. I remember my insides doin' somersaults and my heart poundin' like a freight train. I remember Uncle Eugene tellin' me, "Don't worry 'bout a thing, I'll be your steady hand." I remember him findin', "The best damn lawyer around." I remember him spoutin', "You're lucky it was only manslaughter, son. Your confession to the sheriff, your sister not alive to back up your story... I didn't give you much chance at all." I remember deedin' my family's property to him so he could pay my legal fees. I remember him visitin' me in prison a couple of months later - said his brother's death was all my fault, that I deserved my punishment from day one - said my lawyer was really an old friend of his and handled my case for free. He then mentioned sellin' my family's house, takin' the money, and his dogs (includin' ol' Joe), and movin' to a fishin' town somewhere in Maine because he'd always wanted to fish the chilly waters of the Atlantic. Because he was a God-fearin' Christian, however, and wanted to cover the costs of my redemption, five thousand dollars would be waitin' for me at the Tecumseh Bank when I got out of jail.

And I remember him standin' to leave that day, his belly pourin' over his beltline like a mudslide, his wire-like whiskers coverin' his craggy red face, and snickerin', "Have fun."

Yeah, I had fun alright. If festerin' inside a stinkin' Tennessee jail cell for twelve years, holdin' myself together with a tube of glue and a roll of duct tape, qualifies.

#

I didn't have the slightest idea what my hometown was gonna look like. Obviously, I was curious if it ever took off, you know, as in growin' some new arms, new legs, that sort of thing. But as I made my way up the street, figurin' the information I was lookin' for would likely come from inside the pool hall (assumin' it was still there), I realized that whatever progress was made around these parts, was lost to the naked eye. No foolin', the ol' place looked like it had been suckin' on dust and exhaust fumes ever since I left. Matter-of-fact, besides having two stoplights instead of one, Tecumseh didn't appear to have moved one little iota towards city status.

I don't know, maybe it's because I've been gone so long I was expectin' somethin' different. Somethin' that didn't reflect the frailties of an old woman with bowed legs and slouched shoulders - somethin' that didn't stand in the light of day sportin' droopy eyes and a weary face - somethin' with more spunk and color than a rusted pickup truck - somethin' bright and shiny, like a smile... the kind that jumps out at ya, shoutin', "Welcome home, boy. Welcome home."

Fact is, until I walked inside the pool hall and saw Big John tendin' bar, I wasn't sure I was gonna get any kind of greetin', let alone a big ol', "Welcome home, boy. Welcome home."

Johnny Wilson, better known as Big John for one simple reason, he was, looked at me for a second or two, before twistin' his fat head sideways, revealin', in the process, a ponytail about as gray as the rain clouds buildin' up outside, and just about as long as the row of empty barstools I was headin' for. "Woody? Woody Daybo? That you?" He asked.

"Nice to see ya, Johnny," I said, offerin' my hand.

"Jesus, how longs it been? Eight, nine years?"

Johnny shook my hand while I shook my head, and said, "More like twelve."

"No."

"Yeah."

"No."

"Yeah, really."

"No, can't be."

"Johnny, don't ya think I'd know how long I've been away?"

Big John's dull brown eyes jumped out at me like two little turtle heads poppin' out of their oversized shells. "Twelve years? No shit. Been in jail all that time, have ya?"

Since I wasn't interested in havin' a long-winded conversation (stoppin' by this hole in the wall only because Johnny was old time drinkin' buddies with my Uncle Eugene), and figurin' the next question out of his mouth was gonna go somethin' like, "So what was jail like?" I just dipped my head forward a bit, and said, "Hey, you know where my Uncle Eugene moved to? I know it's up in Maine, but I'm wonderin' if you know where, exactly?"

Big John shook his head. "Naw, can't say that I do. Whatcha wanna know for?"

"He's my uncle, the only family I've got. Why shouldn't I want to know?"

"No reason."

"How about Stevie Ray... seen him lately?" I asked, figurin' if my old friend was anything like he used to be (full of piss and vinegar, and nosy enough to be a constant danger to a well kept secret), he might know, and if not, at least know where to find out.

"Stevie Ray? Hell, I ain't seen Stevie Ray since I threw him out on his ass a few years ago. Whatcha wanna know for?"

"Just wanted to say hello. See how he's gettin' along."

"Ya mean you ain't got nothin' better to do than to see how that little worm's doin'?"

I turned away from Big John long enough to revisit the ol' pool room - nicked up tables and chairs, complete with dirty ashtrays and glasses, drab lookin' wood paneled walls that appear to have yellowed some over the years, dust strands hangin' from the overhead lights, some even dancin' to the steady whine of the dyin' bulbs, and last, but not least, the same five pool tables covered with what appeared to be the same chalk- stained carpets. "I guess some things never change," I said.

"Well if I were you, I'd get on with things and forget about your piss-ant friend."

"Just thought, as long as I was in the area, I'd look him up. Not much else to it."

Big John sighed, which pretty much felt like a gust of wind hittin' my face, and said, "Can't help ya, Woody."

"So you don't know where he is then, eh?"

"Don't know, don't care. And ya wanna know why?" Big John then leaned into the counter to make sure I heard every word of the answer he looked so bound and determined to give me. "Because the little son-of-a-bitch tried to rob me. I turn my back on him for one lousy second and he clips me over the head with a beer bottle. But I didn't go down, and he didn't get his hand in the register. Nope, I proceeded to kick the livin' tar out of him. Told him to find some other way to pay off his gamblin' debts. And let me tell ya, he had a pile of 'em. He was runnin' book with some guy out of Frankfurt, only he wasn't doin' so well. So I guess he figured I'd help him out... you know, by stealin' my money. Guess he figured wrong," Big John concluded, the smirk on his face driving deep wrinkles into his puffy cheeks.

"Any ideas who might know where he is?"

"Tell me somethin', Woody, why's it so damn important you find a lousy punk like Stevie Ray, anyway?"

"It's not so important, and I already told ya why," I said, doin' my damnedest to hide my growin' agitation.

"I know what you told me. I'm just wonderin' if there isn't more to it than that."

"Look Johnny, I'm leavin' Tecumseh tomorrow. I only stopped here because I had a few things to clear up first. Figured as long as I was in the area I'd try and find where my uncle went to, and if I couldn't do that, at least say hi to Stevie Ray. That's it. All of it. Understand?"

Big John looked me over like he was searchin' for buried treasure, or somethin', before slammin' his catcher's-mitt-size-hand against the countertop (fillin' the room with the sound of a cannonball explosion), and bellowin', "Damn! I bet he's the one that turned you in for killin' your daddy, ain't he?"

"What? No."

"You wanna settle up with him for helpin' send you to jail, don't ya?"

"Jesus, Johnny."

"Well killin' your daddy was wrong, just flat wrong. But wantin' back at Stevie Ray, shoot, can't blame ya there. In fact, you know what? Head on over to Tom Bingham's place. You remember Tom, don't ya? He bought Smitty's Grocery Store a few years back. Hear Stevie Ray owes him some money, so he might just have an idea or two."

"I didn't kill my daddy," I muttered, despite my facial muscles havin' locked my jaw firmly in place. Then slowly, and without thinkin', I backed away from the bar and headed for the door, turnin' away from Big John only after I realized I was starin' at him and walkin' backwards at the same time.

But that didn't stop Johnny from flappin' his jaws again. Hell no, as soon as I took hold of the doorknob, he called out, "Hey Woody, if you do find Stevie Ray, give him a good pop for me too."

Right then I felt my eyebrows comin' together over the bridge of my nose, but I didn't turn to face Big John, or utter a single word. I just stepped into the gray light of a drizzlin' rain and headed back up the street to find Tom Bingham.

Unfortunately, Tom was of no use. Either was Ralph Perkins, who Tom sent me to, Harv Langston, who Ralph sent me to, and Jake Wiley, who Harv sent me to. Matter-of-fact, it wasn't until I bumped into my old friend, Bob Morris, who, in the time I was away, had climbed from Deputy Bob to Sheriff Bob, that I had any luck at all. It went somethin' like this: I had just walked out of Wiley Drugs when I heard the barkin' of my name. I turned, and there waitin' for me, Sheriff Bob. He hitched up his pants, tapped his trigger-finger against his holster, and said, with a genuine look of disgust, "Heard you were back. Heard you were by the ol' house."

"I went for a look."

"And?"

"They added on to it. It looks different."

"And now?"

"And now, what?

"And now I hear you're lookin' for your Uncle Eugene and your buddy Stevie Ray. That right?"

"That's right, so?"

"So I thought you ought to know, you're not welcome here, Woody. Frankly, we don't take in murderers. Can't stop you from staying, that's true. But you're not welcome. Not by me," he said, shakin' his head, and then, after lookin' up and down the street, "not by anyone."

Yeah, well, by the time I had left the Tecumseh Bank and made my way up the street, just about every recognizable face I passed had let it be known that I was not gonna be received with open arms. From Mrs. Weaver turnin' away after I said, "Hello," to Dale Ellis not extendin' his hand after I extended mine, to Claude Murphy, sayin', "Not long enough," after I stopped dead in my tracks, and said, "Hey Claude, long time, no see." Truth is, it got to the point where I was surprised Big John, Tom Bingham and the rest of those fellas saw fit to talk to me at all, let alone have a conversation about my uncle's whereabouts. Still, I didn't want to give Sheriff Bob the satisfaction, so I said, "Funny, I hadn't noticed."

Sheriff Bob took a step closer. "Well in case you haven't noticed, Tecumseh's also a nice place to live," (a reminder that flew from his mouth with the stench of his lunchtime onions). "Nice and peaceful. And it's gonna stay that way. No troublemakers. You get my drift?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

Silence.

"Yeah?"

More silence.

Sheriff Bob nodded his head like he understood the silence, but it was obvious he was chewin' on his thoughts. Finally, "I hear that Hake is a real good eatin' fish. A regular Maine delicacy. I hear a man with any kind of know-how can catch 'em up around Hastings."

"Yeah?"

"But it's a short season, so if a man wants to catch 'em, he needs to get a move on. Otherwise, he might be askin' for more trouble than it's worth. Get my drift?" A few seconds later, "Get my drift? Do ya get my drift?"

After respondin', "The uniform looks good on you, Bob. A little tight around the collar, but good," I winked, then turned, and walked away.

"Goddamn-it Woody, you get my drift, or not?" Sheriff Bob called out.

I waved my hand and kept walkin', never once turnin' back.

#

The only other time I left Tecumseh was on a bus with the words _Belton Penitentiary_ painted on it, which, by the way, was located about halfway between my hometown and Chattanooga. Point is, I've never even been out of the state, let alone seen the world, which is exactly what it felt like climbin' into that Greyhound and leavin' Tennessee behind. Never mind my company of strangers, who, like me, were lost somewhere between this day and that, or that the sky would be black in a few hours time and the only hint in my changin' scene would be in the moon's shiftin' light. I was sayin' goodbye once and for all, and that was good enough. And though I wasn't leavin' with much, I did manage to pick up a few things - pants, shirts, you know, the essentials, and stuff 'em into a small, but nice new suitcase. Seems as much as the Tecumseh town-folk were bothered by my presence, they weren't bothered by the presence of my money. Interestin' how that works, ain't it?

Somethin' else strikes me as interestin.' If my uncle hadn't conned me out of my house and the money that went with it, if I had no direction to follow, no course of action to pursue, then upon leavin' jail, would I have surrendered to natural instinct and come back home to stay, forever trapped inside the belly of my crime? Put another way, would I have spent the rest of my life hopin' to be embraced, but lucky to be ignored? I can't say one way or the other. I truly can't. I only know that if my little visit to Tecumseh was any indication, it's surely possible; a scenario, as far as I'm concerned, that promises a useless way to live. No, the better way, I figure, is to take whatever fond memories I can scrounge up, and leave the cruel faces and calloused streets behind.

When the bus rolled into Harris, Pennsylvania, it was nearin' dawn. I'd slept some, stared out the window some, and spent a portion of the night listenin' to a handful of passengers whimper their way through their dreams, or nightmares - the difference about as easy to recognize as it was to determine shape from shadow in the darkness outside.

The bus station was fairly crowded, somewhat surprisin' given the time of day. It was also a little too bright for my taste, what with the way the lights slapped my eyes when I first walked through the door. Still, I was glad to be inside, where, after checkin' in for the bus that was gonna take me up to Vernon Springs, Maine, I got a chance to stretch out my legs, drink a soda, and pick up a copy of Popular Mechanics, a magazine I'd grown fond of readin' in jail. Seems I had a knack for fixin' engines and whatnot, a skill I only learned about after being assigned garage detail. Started out washin' vehicles (anything from the warden's car to the prisoner transport buses), but after expressin' a certain curiosity for engines, I was given an opportunity to assist on oil changes, lube jobs, stuff like that. From there, it wasn't but a couple of years before I was runnin' the garage. I'd even managed to become a certified mechanic through one of the prison's educational programs; somethin' I'm real proud of because given a chance, I know I can earn a livin'.

When the bus started boardin' for Vernon Springs I made sure to grab a window seat, figurin' I'd pass the time either readin' my magazine or lookin' at the scenery. The only problem with my plan was the guy sittin' directly in front of me. Fat, loud, and whiskey-smellin', it was all he could do to mind his own business. If he wasn't botherin' the people next to him with magic tricks that didn't possess a lick of hocus-pocus, he was crankin' his head in my direction, hopin' I'd give him some attention.

The thing is, I might've been able to ignore him for a while, but when he said, "Hey fella, hey fella, hey fella," I didn't figure to have any other choice but to look his way.

"Name's Lou Ballard," he announced, half the introduction comin' from his mouth, the other half comin' from his nose. "I'm big, white, and proud of it. What's your name? Huh fella? What's your name?"

"Woody Daybo," I answered back, and then reluctantly shook the hand that was danglin' in front of me.

"Woody? I got a dog named Woody."

"Good for you," I replied, takin' back my hand, forcin' out a neighborly smile in the process.

"Yeah, that is good for me, fella, cuz' he's a helluva dog. A bit on the mangy side, but otherwise a helluva dog."

"Whatever," I mumbled, while suckin' my neighborly smile back in. But then, after he pointed me out to a handful of passengers, each time tellin' 'em I had the same name as his dog, I said, "Mister, now would be a good time to shut the hell up."

Lou Ballard cocked his head to the side, and then rolled his eyeballs to and fro, before sayin', "You aren't a very friendly sort, are ya fella? Are ya?"

"Guess not," I responded, and then turned and focused on the mornin' light sweepin' across the hills, a move evidently seen as a readin' invitation, not a message to leave me alone, because that's when Lou Harvey reached for my magazine. Yeah, well, as soon as his grubby paws landed on the cover, I clutched his wrist, hard, leaned towards him, and said, "Unless you wanna be big, white, proud, and toothless, you'd better keep your hands to yourself."

Lou Ballard yanked himself free and turned around, huffin' and puffin' like each breath was gonna be his last, content from that point on to look for conversations elsewhere.

No matter, I figured it best to change my seat anyhow, locatin' one in the back of the bus, where I spent the rest of my trip lost in the wide-open spaces outside my window. Green valleys, rollin' hills, and meadows of flowers between, I had never seen such a display of wild and grace. And then we crossed into Maine and I saw the ocean's waves crashin' against a shoreline that welcomed, and then soothed the water's rage, before sendin' it back a quiet child, and wild and grace took on a whole new meanin'.

Vernon Springs, a pretty little city lined with brightly colored shops and enough brightly colored people to give 'em life, seemed like a real nice place to get a meal and find a room, which, after gettin' off the bus, I immediately set out to do. Almost from the moment I ventured into town, however, my plans hit a snag. No foolin', one minute I'm walkin' down the street mindin' my own business, the next minute I'm watchin' some guy ridin' a unicycle. And I mean to tell ya, he had that thing glidin' along like he was born with it attached to his feet. Meanwhile, no sooner do I see him, when I see a car run a stoplight and hop the curb. People are scatterin' every which way, but this guy, this fella, he's just movin' along to the beat of his own little world, unaware the car is bearin' down on him. I shout, he doesn't hear. I drop my suitcase and wave my arms, he doesn't see. So I bolt, knockin' him clear off his unicycle only seconds before the car smashes it on its way to crashin' into a streetlamp.

I got up as fast as I could and ran to help, pullin' on the car door until I was able to free the slumpin' body. Despite his own bumps and bruises, this unicycle fella was right behind me, checkin' the driver's pulse, givin' mouth to mouth, and barkin' orders for someone to call an ambulance. It wasn't until the old lady was on her way to the hospital, in fact, that he actually gave himself a quick once over. And after declarin' himself, "Fit as a fiddle," he turned to me, and said, "well now, it appears I owe you a grand measure of thanks."

I shook his hand. "Nah, don't worry about it."

"Nonsense, you saved my life."

"It's okay, really."

"The name's Harley Swan," he proudly announced. "But please, call me, Swanny. And you are?"

"Sherwood Daybo. But I go by, Woody."

"Okay, now that we've got that settled, what do you say to me buying your dinner? It's pot roast night at Georgia's Grill. Not your traditional summer fare, I readily admit, but nobody makes pot roast quite like Georgia. So, what do you say, Woody? Are you game?"

"Thanks, but it's um... you don't have to do that."

"Au Contraire, my friend. It's the very least I can do."

"Really, I don't want to put you out."

Harley Swan stared at me a good few seconds, but his expression was like lookin' at a mixed bag of tricks, so I couldn't get a good read on him. Finally, he said, "Where are you from, Woody Daybo? Your accent says, from the South. But what part, exactly?"

Not quite sure how to answer, I just sorta hunched up my shoulders, and said, "Here and there. Tennessee, most recently."

"Ahh, splendid, a traveling man," Harley Swan replied. He then motioned me to join him along the walkway, before addin', "Traveling men always make for interesting dinner conversations."

#

Cicero once said, "The countenance is the portrait of the soul, and the eyes mark its intentions." Assuming I am correct (and there is no sound reason to believe otherwise), this poetic declaration has since evolved into the English proverb, _The eyes are the windows to the soul._ When my dinner companion peered at me from across the table, however, his brown eyes, fresh, inquisitive, as though happily greeting the world for the first time, and explained, in a perfectly good down-home drawl, that he's got no home, no friends, no job prospects, and simply boarded a bus, with suitcase in hand, because he wanted to leave Tennessee to explore the Maine countryside, the declaration becomes, in all its poetic glory, quite flawed.

In other words, despite his fine appearance and unsullied demeanor, Woody Daybo has a few skeletons in his closet. And who, prêtell, would know more about skeletons than I, a man who has spent his professional life either exploring the abyss of psycho-babble, or filling his own closet? Suffice it to say, I was intrigued. "So where do you intend to stay?" I asked, quite certain Woody had neither bearing nor clue.

Woody pushed his hair away from his eyes, and though it was an unfettered lot and promptly fell back to where it originated, I noticed a tiny scar just beneath his hairline. "Depends. How far are we from Hastings?"

"Hastings is approximately twenty miles northeast. Why, if I may be so bold, are you interested in Hastings? There isn't much there."

"No particular reason. Just heard the fishin' is good, that's all."

I raised an eyebrow. "Actually, there isn't any fishing to be done in Hastings. It's not on the water."

Woody fell back into the embrace of his chair, though his shoulders were too broad and spilled over the sides. He then leaned forward, and grumbled, "For real?"

I studied my companion's troubled expression a few moments, before saying, "I'm afraid you either got some bad advice, or a very poor map." I'd at least hoped to garner a roll of the eyes in return for my wisecrack, so when I didn't, I asked, "Something wrong?"

"How far from the water is it?"

I shrugged. "Frankly, I don't know. I've never made the drive."

The fresh, inquisitive brown eyes I had first noticed were now drawn tight to the bridge of Woody's tapered nose - evening shades deflecting uninvited light. "If you had to guess," he asked, "what would you guess?"

"Hmm... I'd say another twenty miles, or so."

"Twenty miles?"

"Yes, and I don't know of any hotel in the area. That's not to say, however, there isn't one."

Woody pulled the napkin from his lap and set it beside his soiled plate. "Are there any fishin' towns up that way?"

"Along the shore there are several... in both directions, of course."

"Any of 'em sound like Hastings?"

I smiled dismissively. "Woody, may I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You seem awfully interested in Hastings. Is there something, or, perhaps, someone there you're looking for?"

Woody shook his head, though his eyes revealed the answer I had already surmised. (Cicero was not entirely wrong after all).

When we were married, my wife, Suzanna, often accused me of taking in strays, afraid my benevolence would be viewed as weakness, afraid my weakness would render me a target for favor, money, or worse, put our lives at risk. I suppose she had a valid point, though on the handful of occasions when I actually brought in a houseguest, he was either a featured speaker at a University sponsored lecture, and only then if he effectively spoke on a topic I fancied, or was helping me conduct research for an article I was then writing, essentially making me no more a target than my houseguest a stray. Interestingly enough, now that I'm no longer married, now that custody of my lovely daughter remains with my highfalutin ex-wife, now that there is no ear-splitting objection over inviting someone into my home, I can still picture Suzanna, a distorted portrait of twisted logic and greed, telling the court if I can absorb the added expenses of a house guest, then surely I can afford to pay additional alimony. I can only imagine the decibel level if she discovered that upon my release from Valley View I sold some of my property, pocketing enough money for two generations.

' _Details, details, details!'_ the little voice inside my head screamed. ' _The man saved your life for God sakes!'_

"I've got plenty of room, Woody."

"Huh?"

"My house. I've got plenty of room."

"You mean for me to stay?"

"Well obviously you've got to rethink your journey, assuming your mind is set on Hastings. So why not? The house isn't finished yet, not the way I had hoped, but that's a story for another day. Remind me to tell it when I'm strolling down _bad-memory-lane,_ otherwise known as _Ex-Wife Boulevard._ Nevertheless, it's quite nice... the house, that is. More so than any hotel you're likely to find."

"So you were married then?"

"Yes, once."

"Kids?"

"I have a daughter."

"That's nice, that's good," Woody said, his voice suddenly melancholy stained. He then shrugged his shoulders, and added, "I don't know."

"What don't you know?"

"About the house. Maybe I should find a motel."

"Nonsense, it's settled. I'm putting you up until you have all your ducks in a row. If it takes a day, fine. If it takes a month, fine. If it takes longer, that's fine too. And if you think you'd rather stay by yourself, I have a caretaker's residence on the property as well. It's not as nice as the main house, but I assure you, it is quite comfortable."

Woody took a deep breath, and then settled back into his chair with folded arms. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but can I take the night to think on it?"

"Listen, Woody, I've already concluded you're not a madman, and that's really my only concern. Because of my daughter, you understand."

"What?"

"A madman. I've already concluded you're not mad... insane. You see, a madman wouldn't jump into the path of a car, risking his own life to preserve that of another. On the contrary, madmen relish accidents. They thrive on calamity."

"On what?"

"Calamity... disaster, misfortune, catastrophe. Take your pick." Woody remained silent for a few moments, so I said, "Well?"

He snickered. "Well how do I know you're not a madman?"

I winked, and then smiling, replied, "Come now, let's see if I can't get Georgia to give us a ride home."

#

The first thing I noticed about Harley Swan, besides his clothes (which he apparently liked colorful and baggy), and the sound of his voice (equally colorful), was his hair. Past the shoulders and combed with either a rake or a wind travelin' at high speed, his hair consisted of three colors. No kiddin'. There was black (most everywhere), strips of gray sittin' along the edges (sideburns and whatnot), and tiny streaks of yellow, although you really couldn't get a handle on how much yellow unless the light was hittin' his head just right, or he had it tied up in a ponytail, which seemed to be the case about every other minute. And when it was tied back, that's when his eyes would jump out the most. They were silver-like (what mama would've called pearl gray), and shiny, so noticin' 'em wasn't hard to begin with. But here's the thing: shiny as they were, they looked tired, even a bit sad, like they had been searchin' for somethin' for a long time and had given up hope of ever findin' it. Then there was his smile. It either crept out the side of his mouth, like he was conjurin' up a practical joke, or was big and bright, as though he just pulled one off. Either way, one thing was certain... Harley Swan was an interestin' sight to behold.

Harley's house was, as he said, "Quite nice." Yet, it wasn't until morning that I had an opportunity to take in the full extent of my surroundings. I was up early (a pattern drilled into me in prison), and figurin' Harley was still sleepin' the sleep of kings, ventured out to the back porch. But there he stood, the kindly king scannin' the territory of his kingdom, and without lookin' my way, said, "This is the most peaceful time of day. Wouldn't you agree?" Then before I could respond, he added, "Coffee's in the kitchen. Please, help yourself."

"Thanks, I will," though just as I turned, he asked, "sleep well?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now go get some coffee. After which, I'll show you around."

I'm not sure if it was the setting, what with the way the wind danced through the treetops and the sun stretched its body across carpets soft and green, the ease with which Harley spoke of matters both large and small, or simply my need to slip into a place far better than the last twelve years - but one thing was certain - somewhere in our long walk I began to _feel_ the comfort of my surroundings. I think Harley might have sensed it too, although I probably clued him in when I mentioned that explorin' his property seemed like a fine way for a man to get hold of himself. In any case, Harley stopped walkin' just as we reached a spot where the land broke away from our trail, part of it rollin' into a shallow, grassy ravine, part of it risin' into a bluff full of flowers, and said, his voice as smooth as the summer air, "Have you ever heard the story of the bulls?"

"No, 'fraid I haven't."

"It's an old, old story. But it's very short. Maybe you'd like to hear it?"

"Fire away."

"Okay then, it goes something like this: Two bulls were walking along a hilltop when they spotted a herd of cows in the valley below. The young bull said to the older bull, "Let's run down there and get us one." The older bull shook his head, and replied, "No, let's walk down and get them all."

"Sounds more like philosophy than a story. You sure you're not tryin' to tell me somethin'?" Harley shrugged his innocence, and yet, I knew what he was sayin'. I would do well not to rush off before I had my bearings in place. No sense hoppin' on every bus there is just because my Uncle Eugene might be here or there. I first need to get a handle on the area and figure out where some of these fishin' towns are. Otherwise, I'm likely to end up chasin' my tail, and racin' through my money in the process. No, I've waited twelve long years to make my Uncle Eugene pay for what he did to me. I can wait a little longer. "You're right, Harley, and I appreciate what you're doin' for me. I truly do. But I won't take charity. I can't. I'm able-handed and more than capable of earnin' my keep. In fact, I doubt there's a chore around here I can't do better than you." I then folded my arms and nodded.

Harley grinned. "Oh, I don't do chores, so I'm sure you're right."

I laughed.

"Then, it's settled," he declared.

I hemmed and hawed my way to, "I don't want to be in the way."

"Nonsense," Harley said, with a quick wave of his hand. "Company will be nice for a change."

"You sure?"

"Do I sound like a man uncertain? Of course, I'm sure."

"Okay then, thanks. That would be great. Really great."

"No thanks necessary, Woody. Remember, it was you who saved me. I'm just trying to return the favor, which also means I don't expect any work out of you."

"Well it'll make me feel better all the same. So would stayin' in the caretaker's house. Besides," I said, pointin' to the bluff of flowers, "workin' on land like this isn't what I'd call a chore. Sure is pretty up there. Never saw so many flowers cropped so close together before. What kind are they?"

"Various types, though the majority, the ones I'm particularly fond of, are called trilliums. My grandfather's home was always filled with them. They're really quite extraordinary, aren't they?"

Shruggin' my shoulders, I said, "So why don't we grab a handful to bring back to the house?"

"No, that's alright, Woody. It's a tricky climb anyway."

"You've been up there?"

Harley gazed yonder, his face twisted by expression, and said, "You know, this property once belonged to my grandfather, and when I was growing up I spent countless hours roaming every foot of it. My point is, the first time I saw that bluff, the flowers were in full bloom. Beautiful, they were, like a rainbow rising up from the ground. So yes, I ventured up there and picked some trilliums for my mother. When I gave them to her, however, she explained to me they were wild flowers and that by digging them up I likely killed the root system of the entire bed. She was wrong, of course, though I was young at the time and didn't realize it. It's funny though, I've never picked any wild flowers since. Strange, I suppose."

"I don't know, I once had somethin' like that happen to me," I volunteered. "The situation was different, but the result was kind of the same."

Harley raised an eyebrow, sending ripples across his forehead. "Do tell."

"Well, I used to pick flowers for my mama. We had a garden just off the back of the house and she would spend hours tendin' to it. I was eight-years-old before it occurred to me that I was pickin' the very flowers she was plantin'. It was my daddy who put a stop to it, though. He came home drunk one day, and figurin' my mama was gonna be upset, pulled up some flowers and gave 'em to her. I was standin' there when she yelled at him for ruinin' her garden. That's when I realized I had been ruinin' it too. Didn't stop me from pickin' 'em, though. That happened when I came walkin' in the house with a handful of roses for my mama, only she wasn't there. But my daddy was, and he grabbed those flowers from my hand and started smackin' me across the face with 'em... thorns and all. It hurt, in more ways than one." I forced a smile, before addin', "I never picked any flowers after that either, wild or otherwise."

"Hmm, I think I like my story better."

I nodded. "Yeah, considerin' I looked like a walkin' Band-Aid for the next two weeks, I do too."

"Did you have many encounters like that?"

Ever since I left Tecumseh, I thought it best to avoid tellin' my family history anymore than was necessary, figurin' if I wasn't welcomed in my hometown by people who knew, and grew up with me, how was I gonna be welcomed anywhere else? Yet, Harley's question was fair simply because it fell right in line with the rest of the conversation we were havin', a friendly conversation at that. Point is, was I gonna be able to avoid the natural sequence of a little give and take, particularly with a man like Harley, where questions and answers seem to flow like water from a spigot, without diggin' a bigger hole for myself? Or was I gonna be shown the door either way? About the only thing I was clear on is that I wasn't likely to meet many people with Harley's good nature and generosity. That's why I decided it best to get my past out in the open before I got settled in. "What, with my daddy? Oh Hell, once mama died life became one big encounter."

Harley sighed. "I'm sorry. Had I known, I never would have brought the matter up. Perhaps you'd rather we discuss something else. Believe me, I'll understand."

"It's okay," I said, shakin' my head. "It was a long time ago. I was fourteen."

"Were you an only child, Woody?"

"No, I uh... I had a sister. She committed suicide a few years after mama died."

"Jesus, Woody, I'm again terribly sorry. Maybe we should talk about something else?"

"Listen Harley, there's somethin' I oughta tell you," I said, my eyes dancin' between Harley's pained expression and the ground. "And I'm gonna just say it and be done with it once and for all. After that, you can do with the information what you will. Okay?"

"Sure, Woody," Harley replied, his tone hoverin' just above a whisper.

"After mama died, my daddy took the wrong kind of interest in my little sister." Suddenly my eyes filled with water, and when I said, "Her name was Tess," my voice was quiverin'. "Anyway, one night he decided to attack her. He'd already done it once before, but given that I was just shy of eighteen I didn't know what to do about it. So I did nothin'. I didn't face him. I didn't tell the sheriff. Nothin'. But now the second attack, it came without warnin', so when I ran into Tess' room my only reaction was to tackle him. Unfortunately, he was real drunk, and stumbled, crashin' his head into my sister's bed frame. He died. I ran to get help, but by the time I got back my sister had killed herself. I was charged with manslaughter and spent the last twelve years in _Belton Penitentiary._ It's back in Tennessee if you wanna check out my story. Anyway, I just got out a short while back and I came up here lookin' for my uncle." Harley just stared at me in silence, the gray in his eyes lost between the morning's shadow and light, so I continued. "My Uncle Eugene, he was my daddy's brother. I deeded my family's house to him so he could sell it and pay off my legal bill. He sold the house alright. Only he kept the money and moved up here. The lawyer he found me...turns out they were asshole buddies, so he handled my case for free, makin' sure to solidify the outcome in the process. Uncle Eugene came to see me in prison just to tell me what he'd done firsthand. And the worst part? He laughed about it." I then wiped my eyes and gathered up a healthy dose of air, before addin', "That's my story, Harley. Now, would you like me to pack up and leave, or grab a handful of those trilliums?"

#

When I peeked into Woody's room early that first morning to see if he was awake, only to find him curled up on the hardwood floor, I sensed he had a bad back, (a notion, that given his youth and apparent strength, I summarily dismissed), enjoyed sleeping on parquet (tantamount, sardonically speaking, to sleeping on a bed of nails), or suffered from some demonic ill. Of course, upon hearing his story, my sense was quickly fortified. Nevertheless, his criminal fate had not been demonically induced. Rather, it was borne and bread from a most harrowing and unfortunate episode, one that obviously haunts him still.

Naturally, the unveiling of Woody's foul history induced regurgitation of my own. And yet, by the time I made the ironic tie-in between psychiatrist and mental institution, I could not do so without laughing, prompting Woody to joke, "The murderer and the madman. Boy do we make a pair, or what?"

While Woody 's comedic assessment might well have been true, exposure to his past carried unsettling implications. You see, in the five months since my release from Valley View, I've made a concerted effort to avoid any appearance of impropriety, and to put my life, objectively speaking, in respectable order, as _my order_ has often been viewed as chaotic; not very conducive, I'm afraid, to gaining unsupervised visits with my daughter, Katy, much less full custody. From reinstatement at the University, where I was hoping to garner another teaching position, to finishing construction on my home (including the stalls and corral I promised Katy), the sooner I was able to espouse to the court that I could provide comfort and stability more in line with Pa Ingalls than Pa Jobe, the better my chance to live a peaceful, uninterrupted life with my daughter.

And therein lies the problem. Will Woody's past compromise the perception I've been attempting to create? Obviously, the answer, in large part, depends on what is discovered, intentionally or otherwise. Say, for example, my ex-wife goes to court because she believes I've hired a caretaker to look after my property, thereby determined to prove my added luxury should be her added luxury as well (a.k.a. an increase in alimony). Do I run the risk of Woody being deposed, who, in turn, may unwittingly reveal some ugly truth about himself? I don't know the answer to that anymore than I know the possibility of the situation actually occurring. What I do know, however, is that I can ill afford to feel at ease, because Suzanna is, as I've unfortunately discovered, capable of most anything.

How else can one explain a woman who defends the heart and soul of a man after he beats her own daughter senseless? Suffice it to say, Collin Hayes was once again living with my ex-wife, which is fine, and my daughter, which is not. And the courts? They have responded to my petitions by casting a blind eye and turning a deaf ear.

To make matters worse, ever since Collin Hayes was stripped of his medical license (for six long and arduous months), he has been out, as _they_ say, "To get me." Of course, he remains unwilling to come down from his perch and face me like a man, which is probably just as well since any action on my part would likely do me in once and for all. Yet, my retribution seeking nemesis has taken great delight in fueling the actions of my volatile ex-wife. This self-serving practice first reared its ugly head when George Ramsey, the court officer assigned to supervise my visits with Katy, told me that Suzanna and her lover approached him about, "Digging up a little dirt on my goings on." Evidently my ex said she would pay for anything that George Ramsey uncovered, and Collin Hayes, in turn, found useful.

Unfortunately, Suzanna, in all her zest and guile, which can more appropriately be described as infinite stupidity, failed to realize she was using the very money I was supporting her with, to attack me... potentially derailing the money train. More importantly, she had apparently forgotten Ramsey and I knew one another, as I once testified as an expert on behalf of his deceased brother's estate; testimony that not only sealed the fate of the defendant, but obliged the Ramsey family to me as well.

His name was Daniel Ramsey and he once had a lover named Steven Brock. Steven believed Daniel was having an affair with another man and killed him as a result. But he didn't just murder Daniel. He beat him to death with a tire iron, and then cut the body into pieces, before disposing of it in a trash dumpster. The defense hired a psychiatrist who testified that Steven suffered from Asperger Syndrome - a disease which promotes inappropriate behavior in stress related situations, and yet, prevents one from developing the required intent to commit such a heinous crime, without which, a guilty verdict cannot be established. A poor man's insanity defense, if you will.

I smothered the psychiatrist - first, by testifying that he obviously did not have the expertise to wage such an opinion, it being abundantly clear from my examination that Steven Brock did not possess any of the requisite symptoms to begin with - second, by introducing a definitive article on the subject, one I had the distinction to author and see published in virtually every important medical journal in North America - and third, by convincing the jury that Asperger Syndrome is a pervasive disorder characterized by severe impairment in social interactions, inducing one, perhaps, to sit in a corner when stressed out, not commit murder.

Steven Brock was, as I alluded to, found guilty and sent to prison. George Ramsey, on the other hand, expressed his sincerest gratitude, which obviously resurfaced when he approached me with news about my ex-wife and Collin Hayes.

Yet, I would not allow Ramsey to go to the judge because I did not think it was an allegation he could prove. Moreover, I was afraid such an allegation could have a boomerang effect. That is to say, I would be seen as the culprit for putting Ramsey up to it in the first place, a scenario I dared not risk. No, when all was said and done, the best move was to do nothing at all. Digest the facts, learn the opposition, be on your way.

Hayes and Suzanna did not stop there, however. On the contrary, they solicited the help of one, Jake Barron, a private investigator with an apparent wealth of time on his hands because he did little more than follow me around for an entire month. Initially, I noticed him watching me whenever I was in town for a meal or to run a few errands. When I then recognized his face behind the wheel of his car, which just happened to be parked down the road from my property, I surmised I was being followed far more extensively, a presumption Suzanna substantiated when she began inquiring about my daily schedule. "I need to know where you're going to be for Katy's sake," she proffered, with, I might add, all the sincerity of a schoolgirl.

Yes, well, since my time with Katy was both supervised and limited, and because my lovely daughter was only eight-years-old, I had difficulty understanding Suzanna's insistence, particularly since knowledge of my locale did little for my place in the pecking order. In other words, despite my constant objections, I was generally the last to know if my daughter was sick, fell off her bicycle, made a new friend... you get the picture. Nevertheless, I gave Suzanna steady updates of my whereabouts, inaccurate though they were.

These inaccuracies became the basis for a longwinded, nonsensical motion filed with the court. Apparently, Suzanna (with Hayes no doubt barking in her ear), saw fit to suggest my inaccuracies were tantamount to deception, while my deception intimated a deep-seated plan to dislodge myself from any responsibility due my daughter.

Although the court properly dispensed with Suzanna's motion with one heavy-handed crack of the gavel, curiously enough, I was ordered to reimburse her for the costs of hiring Jake Barren, plaid-jacket-wearing Private Eye. And though it was quite difficult to fathom such a misguided ruling, from that moment on I pledged a solemn oath not to assume, or take anything for granted, whenever Suzanna, Hayes, or the judicial system was involved, which brings me back to my original quandary: will the perception I've been attempting to create be compromised by Woody Daybo's past? I'd like to be in a position to offer a resounding _no,_ but can, at this juncture, propose only a profound and scintillating, _we'll see._

So it was when Saturday arrived. I welcomed the morning with a casual stroll under a rising sun, its face glistening like a diamond gutted, and yet, I was nervous, for in a few hours' time my efforts to walk the straight and narrow would likely fall under a microscope once again.

Woody turned from the corral as I neared, and after bidding me a hearty good morning, said, "Ya know, if you can get the rest of the lumber delivered, I could finish this thing off in no time. A few days at the most. And then I was thinkin' I would stain it. Help protect it from the elements. What do you think?"

"I don't know. Sounds like a lot of work for one man."

"Nonsense, Swanny. I've been here almost a week and still haven't spilled a drop of sweat."

"I thought we decided that staying here was not contingent upon doing work."

"No, you decided. Remember I said I'd feel better earnin' my keep?"

I took a deep breath. "You know what today is?"

Woody rubbed his chin, feigning contemplation. "Hmm... might it have somethin' to do with your daughter?"

I smiled.

"Not hard to guess considerin' that's all you've talked about the last three days. You think I'd forget something like that? To be honest with you, I'm lookin' forward to it, too. Wanna finally meet her."

Although I spent much of the week a tad reticent about such an introduction, I spent the remaining portion gleaning symmetry from Woody's company. I was, you see, a man of too many expectations, whereas Woody, a man of too few. But the combination had proved staggering. As such, I decided, the hell with it. If Suzanna approaches the situation with derision, perception will just have to suffer. Besides, after the ordeal Woody's been through, he needs to stand in the company of innocence, absorb the purity of unabashed laughter, see the sparkle and clarity in young, well-rested eyes, and recognize, above all, that unconditional love still exists - all of which he'll find in Katy. What's more, the mere thought of kowtowing to Suzanna's whims is a thought tainted with defeatist qualities, which I'd like to think run contra to my genetic makeup. "Yes," I said, "I'm sure you two will hit it off splendidly. Especially if you tell her you plan to finish the corral. Something I've been promising for too long now."

Woody posted a twisted grin. "So I have to work after all, eh?" Then before I could respond, his expression flattened out, and he said, "I thought you were a little nervous about how your ex might react to findin' me here?"

"I was. I am. But I've also decided I can't live my life worrying about what Suzanna thinks all the time. Besides, I can handle her." What I failed to tell Woody is how I intended to - a plan I had not fully developed until she actually brought Katy to the house for my supervised visit (George Ramsey having arrived only minutes before).

Suzanna was standing on the back porch, statuesque, both in beauty and demeanor, when I asked, "Would you like to go inside and have a cup of coffee?"

"No, I'm fine right here," she said, her dubious gaze watching Woody lead Katy toward the corral (with, of course, Ramsey in tow).

"Some ice tea?"

"No."

"Lemonade, perhaps?"

"I said, no."

"Water, cold beer, glass of wine? I have a nice Chardonnay."

"Damn-it Harley, what part of no don't you understand?" Suzanna asked tersely.

I shrugged my sloping shoulders. "Suit yourself."

"Who is he? I want to know," she demanded.

"It's none of your business, Suzanna."

"Oh really? Well I'm making it my business. Am I clear?"

I looked into my ex-wife's eyes, a pool of soft blue shimmering with all the warmth of a winter storm, and said, "His name is Joseph Kaiser. You remember him, don't you? Anyway, he's my new bodyguard. I've decided since people get a little too close for comfort around here - people like Jake Barren, for instance - I needed someone to shoo them away. So who better than Joey?"

"Well I don't remember him."

"No?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Let me repeat... I don't remember him."

"Okay, I just thought you might."

"Jesus, what do you take me for? They didn't send me to an institution, Harley. They sent you," Suzanna said, her friendly reminder dousing the sweet afternoon air with a shot of piss and vinegar.

"Yes, and that should tell you all you need to know about the gross inequities of our legal system."

"Very funny. Now who is he?"

"You really don't know?"

Suzanna took a slow, deep breath, though her face remained taut, her eyes leery, and when she said, "How many times do I have to say it? I don't know him," her tone rigid.

Flashing the proverbial ear-to-ear grin, I said, "Maybe you don't know him personally, but the name should strike a chord because I've spoken of him before. I'm certain if you think back real hard it'll come to you. But just in case, I'll help you out. Joey Kaiser murdered his wife and was sentenced to life in prison for doing so. The sentence was subsequently overturned, however, because it went against the great weight of psychiatric testimony. Mine, of course. Therefore, instead of a life behind bars, he received a lifetime of straightjacket Sundays. Well, the powers that be evidently concluded he was cured because he was released from the hospital about a month ago. He looked me up, so I put him to work as my bodyguard. He said he would do anything I asked, even _tame -_ his word, not mine - _tame_ my adversaries. I told him I didn't have any adversaries that, at present, required _taming,_ though I did mention how much I detest your darling, Collin, a sentiment that will swell significantly if either of you so much as look at me the wrong way."

The truth is, the Kaiser story was pure, unadulterated muck. Sure, Joey killed his wife. And yes, he spent several years mingling with poor souls and stuttering fools as a result. But frankly, I'd never met the man, let alone testified on his behalf. My only connection with Joseph Kaiser was performing a case study on him while in medical school. Still, I retained enough information to concoct a story Suzanna was never going to remember because, one, it was not true, so there was nothing to recall, and two, when her memory wasn't busy being convenient, it struggled mightily to be poor.

Nevertheless, Suzanna stamped her foot in dramatic fashion, swished her hair back, and hit me with the obligatory, "I don't believe you."

"I don't care if you believe me."

"Well I don't."

"So don't. You asked me a question, and I answered it. Nothing more, and nothing less." Suzanna folded her arms and simmered. "Would you like that cold beer now?" I asked. "Or perhaps you'd like me to open that nice bottle of Chardonnay? It really is rather pleasant."

"I don't have to take this."

"Take what?"

"You're trying to intimidate me."

"How can I intimidate you if you don't believe me?"

Suzanna threw her hands to her hips. "Screw you. I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't believe you," she replied, her eyes darting in every direction but mine.

"I sense uncertainty. Are you sure?"

"I'm certain. I'm certain you're trying to intimidate me."

I moved close enough to smell the mix of sweat and perfume jumping from Suzanna's tanned shoulders. "Tell you what," I said, my tone as stoic as my expression, "if you're so certain I'm lying to you, then I suggest you try me. That way you can find out firsthand. And by all means, have that man-child of yours try me as well. Tell him my bodyguard and I relish the prospect."

Suzanna told me to go to hell (a place, I assured her, that was confined primarily to her company), and stormed away. Unfortunately, she returned two hours later to pick up Katy. She waited at the end of the drive, however, so I prompted Woody to smile and wave as though he'd just seen a long-lost friend, prompting Suzanna, in turn, to peel away as though she'd just seen a ghost.

"What's up with her?"

I put my hand on Woody 's shoulder. "A little too tightly wound, I'd say. Come on, let's go."

"Where to?"

"Dunkin's Bike Shoppe. It's time I picked up another unicycle. After that, to order the lumber you wanted."

#

When I was growin' up in Tecumseh, summer nights fell slowly, real slowly, as if the black part of the sky spilled from an hourglass. Harley's land was different, though. I mean, between all the hills and tree cover, sunset turns to darkness at the drop of a hat. Even the moonlight, if it hasn't been swatted away by the treetops, falls to the ground in a smatterin' of bony white fingers, leavin', when it's all said and done, little more than tall shadows to dance under the twinklin' glow of faraway stars. The point is, some fifty yards separate the main house from the caretaker's, so if Harley didn't call out my name like he did, I would've never known he was headin' in my direction until I heard the familiar sound of his shufflin' feet.

"I thought I saw lights on, faint as they were. I presumed you were either awake, or a disturbing situation is developing with some very large fireflies."

I laughed, and then asked, "What time is it?" barley able to see Harley's shape comin' into view.

"Almost eleven," he replied, although a couple of more seconds passed before I was greeted by his friendly smile.

I slowed my rockin' chair to a crawl. "Jeez, I had no idea."

"Lost in thought, are you?"

"Yeah, I guess... I don't know," I replied, my head bouncin' to the beat of my uncertainty.

"What, may I ask, were you thinking about?"

"Your daughter, Katy, she has green eyes. So did my sister, Tess. They made me think of her," I said. I then sighed.

Harley nodded. "I'm sorry if today proved troubling for you, Woody."

"It's okay."

"Are you sure? Would you rather I left you alone?"

"No, don't worry about it. Company will take my mind off it anyway."

"Good, because I was about to have a glass of wine and thought you might like one as well. I brought the bottle as you can see. I also took the liberty of bringing a couple of finely crafted wine goblets. I hope you don't mind paper-cups."

"Mind? Are you kiddin'? If you ever wanted a drink in prison, it was paper-cups or nothin'."

Harley squirmed his way into the other rocking chair (a creaky mix of wicker and whatever), uncorked the bottle, and after handin' me a cup, said, "Drink, as in liquor?"

I nodded. "That's where I started. I mean, I had a couple of beers in my high school years, sure, but it wasn't until they sent me to prison that I tasted whiskey for the first time. Tried as an adult for manslaughter, sent to jail as a minor, and drank without a distinction ever made between the two. Funny system we got, eh?"

Harley pawed at his chin, and the word, "Pitiful," stumbled from his mouth. He then looked my way, the shine in his eyes dulled by the lateness of the hour, and said, "Forgive me if I sound common, I don't mean to... but what was it like?"

"Jail?"

"Yes."

"I think I'd rather talk about today," I joked.

Harley cracked a smile. "I do have a way of stepping on landmines, don't I?"

"Oh hell, I brought it up myself, Swanny. Much as I'd like to pretend it never happened, it did. I'm just gonna have to learn to deal with it better than I have."

"Yes, but time will undoubtedly let you know when you're feeling comfortable enough to discuss it. So if you'd rather wait, Woody, I'll certainly understand."

I set my cup of wine on the table restin' between us and took a deep breath, hopin' the musty air would prove settling. It didn't, but after makin' my way to the end of the porch, where I peered into the night's dark belly, I filled my lungs again anyway, this time without the hope. "When I first got there," I finally said, my voice hoverin' just above the song of the crickets, "I was scared shitless. I mean downright terrified. Everyone was a stranger, and pretty much all of 'em had already learned to survive on heartless instinct. Worse yet, I was one of the younger guys around so even the inmates who couldn't smell my fear, and there weren't many of those, figured I had to be regardless. Point is, I was no better off than a slab of beef waitin' to feed a bunch of mangy dogs." I glanced over my shoulder at Harley. "And then I got lucky. I met my guardian angel."

J.J. Cotton was _the_ most feared man in Belton Penitentiary. Born in Ashtabula, Ohio, he was three-years-old when his family moved to Pickering, Tennessee, an hour, or so, north of Tecumseh. By the age of ten he'd twice been suspended from school, and by thirteen he'd committed his first felony - assaultin' a sixteen-year-old with a knife. Apparently, the kid tried to have his way with J.J.'s sister, herself sixteen, and J.J. took exception to it. He also took a piece of skin from the kid's arm, leadin' to some twenty stitches for the kid, and juvenile school for J.J., where he was thrown out a few years later. His folks wouldn't take him back, though, and his sister, who was married and pregnant at the time, threw him out after two nights. So J.J. stayed on the road, where he discovered money, drugs, women, and a fist that could crush a man's skull - which it did when a police officer, after pullin' him over for joyridin' in a stolen car, tagged him with his Billyclub one time too many. He was twenty-four-years old when they sentenced him to life in prison, without the possibility of parole.

I'd met J.J. soon after takin' up residency in jail. Fact is, he came lookin' for me. Said he wasn't partial to helpin' out white boys, but after hearin' my story, which, by the way, every inmate seems to know before you sit down to your first mean, he was willin' to make an exception. Said I was a hard luck case. Said I had a chance to walk out of Belton and reclaim life. "An opportunity I wish I had," J.J. confessed at the time. Somewhere down the road he also confessed that he planned to get to heaven one day, and figured that helpin' me out put him another rung up the ladder.

Anyway, I was standin' in a corner of the prison yard one afternoon (my hands buried in my pockets, my chin buried in my chest, and my eyes, blood-red tired from lack of sleep, and, I don't mind sayin', a few tears, buried everywhere but on the face of an- other inmate), when he walked up to me, and said, his voice as thick with strength and purpose as his body was steel and bone, "Pick up your head boy, or they'll have you for lunch."

Not only did I lift my head, but from that point on I followed J.J.'s advice anytime he saw fit to give it. From how to turn my fist if I ever had to throw a punch ("And you will," he assured me), to what books to read ("They'll provide balance," he promised), J.J. Cotton single-handedly taught me the ins and outs of surviving prison life. And then one night, just a few months into my term, he did somethin' to pretty much guarantee it: he brought Jervis White, a foul-smellin' rapist from Arkansas (who'd been advertisin' he planned to make me his own), to within an inch of death, settin' the tone that I was not to be touched, or, for that matter, eyeballed the wrong way; a message cast in the muscle of his gang.

From then on, the fear I'd been carryin' inside dwindled to a manageable state. Don't get me wrong, I still came face to face with situations that naturally flowed from one too many animals in a cage. But none were life alterin', and only one ever put me down, leavin' me with a small scar on my forehead, courtesy of a broken bottle. Still, just knowin' I was being watched over allowed a good chunk of the worry to melt away, and that made a world of difference.

That said, the hardest part of livin' in jail was learnin' to tolerate the night - the quiet hours that open the hearts of men, set fire to their dreams, and then leave 'em burnin' with loneliness, a feeling like no other. I'd think of the wife I didn't have, the kids I didn't get to play with, the house I couldn't go home to, positive each of those things was lost forever. Then I'd feed on the few good memories I had growin' up - helpin' my mama in her garden, playin' ball with my daddy, fishin' the river with my ol' dog, Joe. Every night I'd fall asleep with those kinds of images at my fingertips. And every night I'd wake up, sweat-soaked and groggy, to the son-of-a-bitchin' face of my Uncle Eugene. I turned towards Harley. "And then one day the gates of hell opened and I walked out, ready to reclaim life. I just don't know if it's ready to have me back yet."

Harley sat quietly, though his expression told me he was digestin' my words. Finally, he set his cup of wine down. "Can I ask you something, Woody?"

I nodded.

"I'd like to help you look for your uncle, but I'm afraid I can't if you're going to kill him. Is that your intention?"

"I just want the money he stole from me."

Harley nodded. "I understand. But what if he doesn't have the money? Will you kill him then?"

Makin' my way back to the rockin' chair, I said, "I have no intentions of ever goin' back to jail." Then, after sittin' down, I added, "None whatsoever."

Harley stared at me for what seemed like a long weekend. Yet, if he was troubled by my answer, he didn't show it. Instead, he picked up his cup of wine, and snickered, "I've a fitting toast. Would you like to hear it?"

Holdin' up my own cup, I said, "Sure."

Harley cleared his throat, before launchin' into, _"Observe, when Mother Earth is dry, she drinks the dropping of the sky, and then the dewy cordial gives, to every thirsty plant that lives. The vapors which at evening weep, are beverage to the swelling deep. And when the rosy sun appears, she drinks the ocean's misty tears. The moon too quaffs her paly stream, of luster from the solar beam. Then hence with your sober thinking, since nature's holy law is drinking. I'll make the law of nature mine, and pledge the universe in wine._ Harley then leaned forward, causin' his ponytail to fall over the front of his palm-tree painted shirt. "Here's to you," he said.

I tilted my cup. "Here's to you too, Swanny... although I gotta admit, I have a question."

"Certainly, what is it?"

"The toast, it sounded nice and all, but it was a little too quick for me. What the hell does it mean?"

Harley cleared his throat once more. "It means, as you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point the wrong way."

Part Two

#

Jacob Zoe stood in front of the bathroom mirror trying to get his sleep-rumpled hair to cooperate. If he brushed it to the right, a small rebel patch jumped to the left. If he brushed it to the left, the same rebel patch sprang back to the right. And if he left it alone, big looping blond curls dangled just about everywhere, but at least nothing was sticking out, which is why Jacob finally gave up, heading instead to the kitchen where his mother was preparing, what she promised would be, "The best birthday breakfast any eight-year-old ever had."

"Did you brush your teeth my little sleepy-head?" Eunice Zoe asked, the instant she heard her son scamper into the room, his slippers sliding across the polished linoleum floor.

"Yep."

"I don't have to check 'em now, do I?" She queried, without turning away from the stove.

"Nope."

"And did you wash your face?"

"Yep."

"Hands too?"

"Uh-huh."

"And comb your hair?"

"Yep."

"And make your bed like I asked you?"

"Uh-huh."

"And pick up all your toys from the floor?"

"Yep."

"What about your clothes? I saw one of your shirts hanging over the chair."

"Uh-huh."

"So then you're all ready for that big birthday breakfast I promised you, my little sugar-puss?"

"Yep, uh-huh," Jacob replied, his head bouncing up and down as he pulled out his designated chair and climbed aboard.

"All ready for some blueberry pancakes and bacon? All ready for some toast and jelly? All ready for some orange juice and chocolate milk?"

"Yep. I'm so hungry I could eat the whole house."

"Well then, here it comes," Eunice announced, as she twirled around with a plate of food as large as the smile on her chubby face. But as she stepped to the other side of the kitchen cabinets and saw her son, her smile vanished. "Why Jacob Zoe, you didn't comb your hair at all. Now go to your bathroom and comb it. Breakfast will just have to wait."

"But it keeps stickin' up," Jacob protested.

"That's because you didn't wet it down like I showed you. Now go wet it down," Eunice directed with a dismissive swat toward the doorway.

Jacob hung his head and slowly got up from his chair. "But my breakfast will get cold."

"Then I'll warm it up for you when you get back. Now get going."

"Okay, fine," Jacob muttered, his slouched shoulders leading his dragging feet out of the kitchen and down the hall.

"And while you're at it, get dressed too," Eunice instructed, her resonant tone engulfing Jacob like oppressive heat. "I don't want you sitting at the table in your pajamas. It's a sign of poor manners and I don't want poor manners at my table. Just don't put on the outfit I bought for your birthday party. You can put that one on later." Eunice set Jacob's plate on the counter, wolfing down a piece of overcooked bacon in the process. "I don't want what happened last year to happen this year," she added, grease and bacon bits swimming to the corners of her mouth as she spoke. "You remember last year, don't you sugar-puss?"

Jacob didn't bother to respond, even when his mother journeyed halfway down the hall to offer a stinging reminder that ignoring a question, especially hers, was a sign of poor manners. Instead, he locked the bathroom door behind him, turned on the faucet, and stared in the mirror until the reflection in his sanguine brown eyes was obscured by the very image of the answer he didn't give.

The party was called for two o'clock on the first Saturday in May. Jacob was actually born in December, but Eunice deemed it far more appropriate to celebrate his birthday in spring, so the fifteenth of May it was. What harm could there possibly be in that? Eunice wondered at the time. Even if Jacob was to one-day discover the truth, she could easily blame the problem, _the misunderstanding_ , on hospital error. Until then, however, cake and ice cream would be served in the backyard, where, on this particular birthday afternoon, the sky was clear, the breeze mild, and Eunice's plan was to keep her house free of the crumbs, smudge marks, and trash that an untamed group of screaming little kids was certain to leave behind.

She succeeded, too, although it wasn't the weather, but the simple fact she called Jacob's party off at the last minute. "Just be glad I'm letting you keep your new bicycle because you don't deserve that either," she hurled, as Jacob ran into his bedroom. "Now maybe you'll listen the next time I tell you not to play outside in your birthday clothes. Now maybe you'll realize I mean business when I say I don't want you getting dirty."

Jacob swallowed hard, but it did little to ease the lump in his throat before Eunice was standing at the threshold of his room, assessing the damage, re-staking her claim. "I only do these things when it's necessary, like now, because you didn't listen to me. It tells me you haven't learned that listening to your mother is a form of respect, and respect a form of good manners. And if you act that way around me," she chided, the ambiguous figure of her shadow stretching across the ceiling as she moved closer to her son, "then you'll act that way around others. And that's something we can't have because it makes you look bad, and, more importantly, it makes me look bad. The thing to realize is that it's not too late to change, something you can start by taking off those filthy clothes and hopping in the shower. After that, after you're nice n' clean, and your clothes are in the hamper where they belong, then perhaps I'll let you have a piece of birthday cake. Okay? How's that sound?"

Jacob scarcely nodded before his mother was gone, taking with her the scant smile that accompanied her parting offer, leaving behind the fiery hue of her words, that a year later still simmered inside of him.

In fact, it was only when the sound of his name pierced the bathroom door and whisked him back to the present that Jacob realized he'd yet to comb his hair, or return to the breakfast table, fully clothed, as directed. "Almost done," he called out anxiously.

"Well if you want these blueberry pancakes, you better be," Eunice declared. "I'm not holding the kitchen open much longer. Got a birthday party to get ready for. Remember?"

Jacob quickly drowned his hair, making no effort to wrestle a brush through his thick curls, hustled into his bedroom, where he put on the first shirt and pants combination his hands touched, and then jettisoned down the hall, bolting into the kitchen just as his mother bellowed his name once more. "I'm here, I'm here!" he said excitedly.

"Yes, I can see that," Eunice cracked in perfectly impatient toe-tapping form. "I can also see that your hair's much too wet to be sitting at my table. Now go back to the bathroom and dry it so you're not dripping all over the place."

"But what about my pancakes?"

"What about them?"

"Well don't I get to eat 'em?" Jacob asked, his face a growing ball of righteous indignation.

"Excuse me," Eunice countered, her face a bigger, rounder version of the same, "but haven't you learned it's not polite to answer a question with a question?"

Jacob nodded his head.

"Well then?"

"Well then, don't I get to eat 'em?"

"Don't you get to what?" Eunice asked, her thinly plucked eyebrows hovering over the bridge of her nose.

"Don't I get to eat 'em?"

"Yeah, when you apologize for being a smart-aleck, that's when you get to eat them," Eunice snapped. "And if you don't wanna do that, then maybe I'll just punish you like I did last year. Would you like me to cancel your party again? Hmm?"

Jacob took a step backwards, instinctively, apprehensively, and responded in a voice swelling with anger, sadness, and all the frustration that could fill the body of an eight-year-old boy. "Okay, so I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but please don't cancel my party. Okay? Okay mommy? Okay? All the kids will laugh at me, just like... just like they did last year. And that's not fair, okay? So don't cancel it, okay mommy? Huh? Okay?"

Eunice dipped her head forward, and sighed, the tedious rhythm of her breathing placated, however, only after Jacob trudged back to his room in dispirited silence.

#

The Cromwell Building, built in 1930, and named for Lucius Cromwell, a man, who, in between serving as both the youngest judge and oldest mayor in Screaming Falls, Indiana history, fathered twenty-two children by eight different women, was, with its handsomely sculpted granite facade and five-story pillars, the most elegant looking building in the city - the very reason Eunice Zoe handpicked it as the location for her husband's new accounting office.

Had it been left to Barton, he would not have relocated. More importantly, he would not have split with his longtime friend and business partner, Rube Bentley. And yet, given Eunice's incessant demands, and head-down, ass-up approach to the do's and don'ts of life, liberty, and pursuit of the all-American buck, it was, from the beginning, a simple matter of time.

"He doesn't carry his weight," Eunice often charged, ignoring the fact that Rube annually brought in sixty percent of the business.

"But he's very well-liked and respected by our clients," Barton would say, although if Eunice was standing more than ten feet away his meager assertion would fall harmlessly to the floor.

"Besides, you have a taste for the finer things in life. Rube never will. He doesn't play golf or tennis, his wife still drives that beat-up station wagon, and his children, my God!" she cried. "They're the most unruly, impolite, and worst dressed children I've ever seen. How do you expect to get anywhere if you have to drag along a classless group like that?"

"But where am I going?" Barton would ask, often of himself, and never once sure of an answer. Nevertheless, he did as instructed, quietly, deliberately, and sure of two things: with an important new office, important new expenses, and his wife, Eunice, contemplating membership to an important new country club, money was going to be tighter than ever before. Worse yet, with long work hours dead ahead he'd soon be back on borrowed time with his little boy, Jacob - a situation Barton once endured because his wife would not allow his germs to infiltrate the cultivation of her impressionable young son anymore than was absolutely necessary. As it was, however, the germs died off when Jacob turned four, and cultivating his little boy energy was more like trying to corral a bucking bronco. It was a time Barton quite cherished, for in the three years that followed, he came to appreciate the blessing Jacob's adoption truly was.

It was a cold, rainy day in December, turning the snow that gathered from the night before into a gray and runny mess _._ Eunice looked away from the window the moment her husband entered the kitchen, and then greeted him with a crisp voice and matching smile. "The adoption agency called while you were in the shower. A young girl, probably trailer-trash, gave birth to a baby boy yesterday. He's available if we want it. Clearly, I would have preferred a girl, but since nobody seems to know when one might be available, I decided we didn't really have any other choice... not if we want to keep pace with everybody else. I told them yes."

Barton stared at his wife of two years, feeling neither the certainty of her declaration, nor the ability to hide behind it, and offered only a hesitant, "When? Did they say when?"

"Day after tomorrow. Will you be able to cancel your schedule?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Good, because we have to go to some godforsaken little town to pick him up."

"Where?"

"Destin. It's up north. In fact, we should plan to stay the night."

"If that's what you think, then yes, certainly," Barton muttered under the lights of his wife's watchful gaze.

"The people at the agency said it would take about four hours to get there. They gave me directions, but that doesn't mean you won't get lost driving, so I want you to pick up a map. Will you have time to do that before we go?"

"I'll make the time, certainly."

"Hmm. We're going to need a car seat. I could probably borrow one from one of the girls, but I'd rather have new," Eunice posed, her haughty tone basking in the glow that like neighbors, Phyllis Higgs and Viv Burns, she too was going to have a baby to brag about (something she planned to begin almost immediately). "We're also going to need diapers, bottles, formula, and a crib. To tell you the truth, I'll have to make a shopping list so I don't forget anything. Good idea... don't you agree?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes, certainly," Barton replied, his feet shuffling to the nervous tune playing inside his belly.

"Barton Zoe," Eunice began, the sound of his name riding out on the air she blew through her nostrils, "we're about to pick up a baby and all you can say is, _"certainly?"_ What if I ask you about a name? Are you gonna stand there with your hands in your pockets, shrug those droopy shoulders of yours, and say, "Gee, I don't know. How about we call him, _Certainly?"_

Barton barely pondered his wife's question before taking a defiant step forward, folding his arms across his flat chest. "No, that's not what I would say. To be honest with you, I was going to suggest we name him after your father." (Barton would have welcomed the opportunity to name him after his own father, but since his father disappeared when he was just two-years-old, Barton didn't even know the man's first name, much less feel the need to honor his memory). "We'll call him Eddie when he's young, and maybe Edward when he's grown up."

"Eddie, or Edward, matters not. I hate the name in any form. You know that. You also know I haven't talked to my parents in over five years, so why on earth would I name anything after either of them?"

"Maybe you should," Barton suggested.

Eunice smirked. "Maybe I should what?"

"Talk to your parents. They're about to have a grandchild. I wish my own mother was alive so I could tell her."

"Let's get something straight, Barton. My parents are as dead to me as your mother is to you. They're never going to see this child. They're never going to know about this child. That's the way it is, and that's the way it's going to stay. Now, can we move on? I like the name Jacob, and that's what I'd like to name him. Does that suit you?"

Barton dropped his arms to his sides, where they dangled like flimsy tree branches. "Fine. Jacob it is."

But once Barton opened his new office in The Cromwell Building, working longer and harder than he ever thought humanly possible, it was a name he said with less and less frequency. There were Sundays. There was even the occasional Saturday. For the most part, however, Barton was dressed and out the door before first light, returning only after his wife had taken her familiar place on the couch, a bowl of buttered popcorn to feed her face, a blaring television to feed her senses. As a result, contact with his son was often in the form of, "How's Jacob? How's my boy?"

Questions Eunice routinely saluted with an, _I don't want to be disturbed_ wave of the hand.

#

"Do you remember what I said?" Eunice asked.

"Yessiree Bob. I remember," Jacob replied, his favorite new expression diving out of his mouth before he had a chance to reel it back in.

"I told you, I don't want to hear, 'Yessiree Bob.' It's yes, mother, I remember," Eunice stated, her pudgy forefinger stabbing at the thick air surrounding her.

"Yes, mother, I remember."

"Because if you don't remember everything I told you, then you won't do what I want. And not doing what I want is a sign of disrespect. And I won't have that in my house."

"I won't forget," Jacob promised. He then turned and bolted for the backdoor, hoping to make it outside before he was stopped a second time.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, young man! Not so fast! Not so fast!"

Jacob came to an abrupt halt, though his gaze remained fixed on the doorknob he was both inches, and light years, away from turning.

"I guess that being in the third-grade now means your friends are more important than I am. Is that it?"

"No mother."

"Look at me when I talk to you," Eunice directed. Jacob turned. "Is that it?"

"No."

"Then why are you willing to ignore me so easily?"

"I'm not. You said I could ride my bike as long as I was home in time to wash up for dinner."

"I didn't forget what I said young man. Not like you."

"Why, what did I forget?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"Nuh-uh."

"No, mother, I don't know."

"No, mother, I don't know."

"Well if you don't know, then I guess we'll just have to stand here until you figure it out... won't we?"

"Ya mean I can't go ride my bike?"

"It's _you,_ not _ya,_ and no, you may not ride your bike," Eunice snapped. "Not until you admit that I'm right, that you did forget one of the household rules."

"Okay," Jacob volunteered, "I forgot."

"Then what is it?"

Jacob rolled his eyes, and sighed.

"Well young man, I'm waiting."

Jacob bowed his head.

"Look at me when I talk to you," Eunice directed.

Jacob looked up.

"Now then, what's the rule?" Eunice posed, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her foot suspended in toe-tapping position, ready to drop at the first hint of prolonged silence.

Jacob shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Not to run through the house?"

"Are you sure about that?"

Jacob hesitated a few moments before nodding his head.

"You are? You sure don't look like it." Jacob once again bowed his head. "Look at me when I talk to you."

Jacob looked up.

"Now, are you sure about that?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Jacob Zoe," Eunice countered, her voice rising like smoke from a smoldering fire, "how many times do I have to tell you not to answer a question with a question?"

"But I don't know what you're asking me," Jacob said.

"I'm asking you why it's a rule? I'm asking you why you're not allowed to run through the house?"

"Easy, 'cause you said not to," Jacob returned, quite certain he gave the right answer, not quite as certain, however, his mother wasn't going to squash him with a single raised eyebrow just the same.

"Then why did you?"

Jacob sighed. "I dunno. I guess I forgot."

"Well if you forget a simple rule like that one, how do I know you'll remember what I just got done telling you about playing outside with your friends?"

"What do you mean?"

"A question with a question? Do it again young man and I'll punish you."

"But..."

"Don't but me," Eunice warned.

"But..."

"Jacob?"

Jacob bowed his head. "Sorry."

"Look at me when I talk to you."

Jacob bit his bottom lip and looked up.

Eunice scanned the length of her young son. Then, "Well, didn't I tell you where you were allowed to ride your bicycle? How long before dinner was going to be on the table? How you had better not get dirty?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yes, mother, you did."

"Yes, mother, you did," Jacob repeated.

"Well, aren't those rules?"

"Uh-huh. I mean, yes, mother, they are."

"Well, if they're rules, and you claim to remember them, how is it that I just had to remind you?"

"But I only forgot for a second."

"In fact, if you forget simple household rules, or rules for playing outside with your friends, how are you going to remember the things you learn at school?"

"I'll remember, I prom..."

"And if you can't remember the things you learn at school, how are you going to graduate college?"

"I'll remember, I prom..."

"And if you can't graduate college, how do you expect to become a doctor?"

"I'll remember, I prom..."

"And if you don't become a doctor, how do you plan on becoming a success?"

"I'll remember, I prom..."

"And since you've never remembered in the past, why should I believe you now?"

"Because you should," Jacob said.

"Just the same, I think we should go over everything once more."

Jacob rolled his eyes, but knowing his friends, Carl Higgs and freckle-faced Joey Burns, would leave without him if he wasn't standing in front of Old Man Murphy's house by the time they got there, offered his mother a cheery, "Me too."

Eunice scoured the face of her young son. "Now what is it I always tell you? What's the one thing you must always remember?"

"That I do everything you say," Jacob replied, the answer skipping off his tongue in ready-made fashion."

"And why is that?"

"So you don't punish me."

"Why else?"

"So I learn how to become a perfect gentleman."

"And why is growing up to be a perfect gentleman so important?"

"Because it shows I have good manners."

"And?"

"And without good manners nobody will like me."

"Not ever?"

"Not ever," Jacob said proudly.

"Okay, good. Now, how about we discuss the rules for riding your bike? Where do you get to ride?"

"Around here."

"What do you mean, around here? Where is around here? You mean on our street, our subdivision? Or do you mean in some other subdivision?"

"Nuh-uh, I mean our subdivision."

Eunice threw her hands on her hips. "What did I tell you about your use of, nuh-uh?" She asked, her fingers burrowing into the fleshy roundness of her hips. "I said it's a bad choice of words, didn't I? I said, you should say, _No_ , not _nuh-uh_. Even saying uh-uh is better than saying nuh-uh. Uh-uh only makes you sound uneducated. When you say nuh-uh it makes you sound like an absolute fool. And there's nothing worse than sounding like a fool, is there?"

Jacob shook his head.

"Excuse me, but I can't hear you."

"No."

"No, mother, there's not."

"No, mother, there's not."

"That's better. Now let's get back to this riding of yours. Where else do you plan to go?"

Jacob shook his head again. "Nowhere else."

"Oh really? What if your friends want to leave our subdivision? What are you going to do then? Are you going to follow them like you did last time? Are you going to do what they want? Or are you going to do what I want, and come home?" Eunice asked, the words flying from her mouth like the rat-tat-tat of gunfire.

"Come home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, we'll just have to see, won't we, Jacob? Just like we'll have to see if you get dirty. Or did you forget what I told you about that?"

"Umm... you said not to umm... you said not to."

"But what if your friends decide to roll around on the ground, or ride through mud puddles? Then what are you going to do?"

"Umm... well, umm... I don't think I should get dirty, if that's what you mean."

"Obviously, that's what I mean. Little boys who want to please their mothers should never get dirty. Either should little boys who want to grow up to be perfect gentlemen. But what if you do anyhow? Then what?"

Jacob Zoe hunched up his rigid shoulders, and muttered, "But I won't. I promise."

"Well unless you wanna get punished, you better not," Eunice cautioned, her ardent glare sticking out like a piece of cheap costume jewelry. "You better not."

#

Jacob stood at the street corner and counted to five, just like his mother would have wanted - kept his right hand on the bicycle seat and his left hand on the handlebar, just as she instructed - looked both ways, twice - then proceeded in small, measured steps, just like it was expected of him. The instant little Carl Higgs and freckle-faced Joey Burns clamored for him to hurry up, however, Jacob ignored the shrill of his mother's voice, hopped on his bike, and raced across the street, stopping only after his front tire bounced over the curb and he tumbled harmlessly to the grass.

"What a dummy," Carl Higgs said. "You don't even know how to ride your bike."

"Yeah, what a dummy," Joey Burns repeated. "You don't even know how to ride your bike."

Jacob pushed the hair from his eyes. "I am not," he said indignantly. "And I do so know how to ride my bike."

"No you don't," Carl Higgs countered. "You're a big dummy."

"Yeah," Joey Burns added, "you're a big dummy."

"Dummy-head, dummy-head, dummy-head," Carl Higgs jeered.

"Dummy-head, dummy-head, dummy-head," Joey Burns chimed in.

"You guys are the dummy-heads," Jacob said, as he lifted himself and his bicycle from the ground.

"Then how come you're the one that fell? Huh, dummy-head? How come?"

"Yeah, dummy-head, how come?"

Jacob scowled. "Because I did, that's why."

Carl Higgs whacked Joey Burns on the side of the arm, and then pointed at Jacob. The two boys snickered.

"What's so funny?"

" _Mommy's gonna get ma'add. Mommy's gonna get ma'add,"_ Carl Higgs sang _. "Dummy-head's got grass stains. Dummy-head's got grass stains."_

Jacob glanced at his kneecaps, his khaki pants sporting tiny faces of green, and bit his bottom lip.

" _Dummy-head's gonna get punished. Dummy-head's gonna get punished,"_ Carl Higgs continued.

Jacob peered at the buoyant faces of his two companions, but quickly turned his attention back to his pants, his hands scrubbing the grass stains like sandpaper scrubbing wood, his bottom lip bleeding slightly.

" _Dummy-head's gonna get punished. Dummy-head's gonna get punished."_

"Shut up, Carl," Jacob snapped.

" _Dummy-head's gonna get punished. Dummy-head's gonna get punished."_

Jacob stopped fiddling with his pants. "You too, Joey."

"Oh look, dummy-head's bleedin'. Hurt yourself, dummy-head?"

"No."

"Then how come you're bleedin'? Huh, dummy-head? How come?"

"Yeah dummy-head, how come you're bleedin'?"

"I am not. You guys don't know anything," Jacob said, unwilling to touch his bottom lip to find out.

"Yeah? Well I know you're afraid of mommy," Carl Higgs countered, before breaking back into song. _"Dummy-head's afraid of mommy. Dummy-head's afraid of mommy."_

"I am not," Jacob said, his focus darting back and forth between the uninvited grass stains and the unwanted teasing.

" _Dummy-head's afraid of mommy. Dummy-head's afraid of mommy."_

"I am not."

" _Dummy-head's afraid of mommy. Dummy-head's afraid of mommy."_

"No I'm not. Now shut up."

" _Dummy-head's afraid of mommy. Dummy-head's afraid of mommy."_

"I said, shut up. So shut up!"

" _Dummy-head's afraid of mommy. Dummy-head's afraid of mommy. Dummy-head's afraid of mommy."_

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Jacob bellowed, his body trembling, his voice cracking at the seams.

Carl Higgs smacked Joey Burns on the side of the arm again. _"Dummy-head's a baby. Dummy-head's gonna cry. Dummy-head's a baby. Dummy-head's gonna cry."_

" _Dummy-head's a baby,"_ Joey Burns continued. _"Dummy-head's gonna cry. Dummy- head's a baby. Dummy-head's gonna cry."_

Jacob said nothing, although his eyes, glistening pearls of gentle brown, pleaded with his friends to stop.

"What's the matter, crybaby? Afraid big, fat mommy's gonna be mad?"

"Yeah crybaby, you afraid of big, fat mommy?"

"Take that back!" Jacob demanded. "Take that back right now!"

"Why, everyone knows she's fat. Just like everyone knows you're a fraidy-cat."

"Take it back! Take it back right now!"

Carl Higgs smacked Joey Burns on the side of the arm before stepping away from his bike. "Make us, fraidy-cat," he said.

Joey Burns quickly moved next to his best pal. "Yeah, make us, fraidy-cat."

" _Dummy-head's a fraidy-cat. Dummy-head's a fraidy-cat."_

"I am not!"

" _Dummy-head's a fraidy-cat. Dummy-head's a fraidy-cat."_

"Am not!"

" _And mommy is a fat pig. Mommy is a fat pig."_

"No she's not. Now you take that back, Joey."

" _Mommy is a fat pig. Mommy is a fat pig."_

"Take it back, I said! Take it back!"

" _Mommy is a fat pig. Mommy is a fat pig."_

"Take it back, Joey! Take it back!" Jacob repeated, tears of frustration rolling from his eyes.

" _Mommy is a fat pig. Mommy is a fat pig."_

"Joey!" Jacob wailed.

" _Mommy is a fat pig. Mommy is a fat pig. Mommy is a fat pig. Mommy is a fat pig."_

"Joey!" Jacob wailed again, only this time Jacob latched onto his bicycle and rushed the two boys, launching the bike into Carl Higgs (toppling him over like a bowling pin), before throwing himself at Joey Burns, and wrestling him to the ground.

"Get off... me... get... off," Joey grunted.

"Take it back," Jacob cried, struggling to pin Joey's shoulders to the ground. "Take it back."

"Get... off," Joey stammered, while trying to twist and turn his body free.

Jacob burrowed his head into Joey's chest to hold him steady.

"You're hurting me, you're hurting me."

"Take it back!"

"Okay, okay, get off, get off."

"You better," Jacob warned.

"I will, I promise. Just get off me," Joey gasped.

Jacob eased his head up and glared at Joey (his eyes watery, and his nose runny). But just as he postured himself to stand, Carl Higgs tackled him from behind, sending him to the ground face-first, where he remained, while the two boys took turns kicking and punching him, stopping only after Jacob's desperate attempts to fight back settled into the motionless whimpering of a badly beaten little boy.

Eunice Zoe parked herself on the end of her son's bed, and waited. But when Jacob's eyes flickered open and the wheeze of his labored breathing quieted, she hoisted herself up and marched toward the door, turning only when Jacob said, "Mommy?"

Eunice unlocked her pursed lips slowly. "Dr. Ross said you'll be a little sore for a few days. Otherwise you're going to be fine. He left you some pills. You're to take one tablet every four hours. They're in your bathroom. If you want them, you'll have to get them yourself. Do you understand me?"

Jacob sighed, before saying, "I didn't mean it, mommy. Honest, they were making fun of you. I just wanted them to stop."

"No Jacob, it's your fault! Yours, and yours alone!" Eunice snapped. "Had you listened to me for a change and come home, none of this would have ever happened. But you had to disrespect me. You had to do it your way. You, Mr. Know-it-all. Well guess what, Mr. Know-it-all? I've had it with you."

Jacob curled up on his side, wincing as the tears running down his face burrowed into the crevices of his cuts.

"Look at me when I talk to you."

Jacob didn't move.

"I said, look at me when I talk to you."

Jacob bit his bottom lip, but otherwise remained still.

"Goddamn-it, I said, look at me when I talk to you!" Eunice yelled, the veins in her neck and forehead barely pushing through the folds of her skin. "Look at me! Look at me right now!"

Jacob bit harder, drawing a sliver of new blood, but slowly rolled onto his back and gazed at his mother, who was now standing at the end of his bed.

"Great, now you're bleeding again. Guess you'll have to clean it up. And if any blood gets on the pillows or sheets, you'll be cleaning those too."

"I'm sorry," Jacob sobbed.

Eunice folded her flabby arms and glared at her son. "You should be. And not just for disrespecting my wishes. It's also your fault I got into an argument with Mrs. Higgs and Mrs. Burns. It's your fault they may never speak to me again. It's your fault your father's going to lose two clients, and with it, money I could've used for shopping. It's your fault I had to throw out the dinner I was cooking. It's your fault your clothes got ruined. It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault!" Eunice barked. Then stomping her foot, "And I've had enough of it! Do you hear me? Enough of it!"

Jacob tried to blink away the moisture in his eyes. "I'm sorry, mommy. I'm sorry," he quivered.

"Sorry? You're not sorry. But you will be. I promise you that. You will be. And don't call me mommy again! I don't like it. From now on, it's mother, or nothing. Understand? Mother, or nothing!"

Jacob curled back onto his side and bit his bottom lip. And another sliver of new blood spilled.

#

It was another two years before Jacob was allowed to venture beyond his neighborhood street (a rule he ignored on a good many occasion), and only then to attend the funeral of his father, Barton Zoe, who had died from a massive heart attack; a fate, Eunice was quick to point out, caused by her son's constant whining and needs.

After the funeral, Jacob was once again confined to the wilds of his street, a situation that would continue until he was thirteen-years-old, and only then because his mother had taken ill and needed Jacob to pick up her medicine - a recipe of pain killers and steroids, which, when combined with the anti-depressants she'd grown accustomed to taking, filled her with a healthy dose of chaos and angst.

On his way back from the pharmacy one afternoon, however, Jacob, running as fast as he could (working legs that cried for movement, embracing the wind as it whipped his hair into a dizzying mess), tripped on a fracture in the concrete and fell, tearing a hole in the knee of his pants, and breaking his mother's pill bottles.

Eunice winced as much from the pain in her back as she did from the disgust with her son, and said, "I can't trust you to do anything right, can I?"

Jacob rolled his eyes. "Why, because I fell and broke the bottles? I brought the pills, didn't I?"

"Yeah, in the palms of your sweaty, dirty hands. You also tore your pants."

Jacob rolled his eyes again. "I know I tore them. I ripped the skin on my knee, too."

"Your skin will heal. Your pants cost money. Lucky for you your father had some life insurance. Otherwise, I'd make you get a job and fix the pants yourself."

"I said I was sorry, okay?"

Eunice propped herself up on her elbows (the rheumatoid arthritis in her spine and joints preventing her from sitting all the way up), blew at the gnarly strand of hair hanging by the side of her mouth, and then said, "Yeah, you're sorry. You're always sorry. Well see if you can situate the pillows behind my neck and shoulders without being sorry. Okay?"

Jacob did as directed, and then smiled curtly. "Anything else you want me to do?"

"Yeah, you can fix me lunch."

"Wanna ham and cheese like yesterday?"

Eunice frowned. "That would be three days in a row, not counting the one you made for my dinner last night. Boil me a couple of hotdogs instead. They're in the refrigerator. There's some fresh hotdog buns too. Use them."

"Can I make one for myself?" Jacob asked, trudging toward the doorway, his long, curly blond hair bouncing as he nodded his head _yes_ in anticipation.

"As long as there's more than two left. If there's only two, I want them. You'll have to eat something else. And load them up with ketchup and mustard," Eunice called out after Jacob disappeared into the hallway.

Fifteen minutes later he returned, carrying a plate with two hotdogs, each one layered with mustard and relish. "You want them on the nightstand?"

Eunice labored to sit up, but when the arthritis tightened its vicious grip she gave up the struggle and fell back into the arms of her pillows. "No," she gasped.

"Where then?"

"Next to me, where do you think?"

"I couldn't find any ketchup, so I put mustard and relish on 'em."

Eunice cringed, and her eyes momentarily disappeared behind her swollen cheekbones. "What? I don't like relish. It gives me gas."

"I'll scrape it off then," Jacob offered.

"Forget it. I'll eat them like they are. But it would have been nice if you told me we were out of ketchup before you botched them up. Just once I'd like you to do something right."

Jacob sighed, and then pushed out another tired apology.

"You're right," Eunice said, "you are sorry." Then, after seizing a hotdog and taking a bite, pieces of the relish-stained-bun ignoring her mouth and falling about her neck, she muttered, "She had to be trailer-trash."

"Huh?"

Eunice glanced at her son, her eyes glazed over with a dull film of drug use and sporadic sleep, and said, "Huh, what?" before taking another bite of her hotdog.

"You said, 'she had to be trailer-trash,' and I said, 'huh,' because I don't know what you're talking about."

Eunice massaged the chunk of hotdog down her throat, wiped her gums clean with her stubby finger, and then said, "I'm talking about your real mother. She must have been trailer-trash. You know what trailer-trash is? It's a low class idiot."

Jacob squeezed his mother's shoulder gently.

Eunice grinned. "You didn't think you were really mine, did you? So incompetent, so much the fool, it would have been impossible for you to come from me."

Jacob bit his bottom lip.

"You were adopted, Jacob. Get it? I'm not your real mother. And Barton wasn't your real father. Your birthday isn't even your real birthday. You were born in December, not May."

" _Did you do everything I said? Did you brush your teeth? And wash your face? Hands too? And comb your hair? And make your bed like I asked? And pick up all your toys from the floor? What about your clothes? I saw one of your shirts hanging over the chair? Are you sure? I don't have to check, do I? I'll cancel your party if you didn't. You remember last year, don't you? I'll do it again. I will. You know I will."_

"Uh-uh, you're kidding. I know you're kidding. Say you're just makin' fun of me, okay? Say I wasn't adopted, mother. Okay? Say it. Okay?"

"Well I'm not kidding, Jacob, so get used to it."

" _Do you remember what I said? Look at me when I talk to you. You're not listening, you're not listening. Look at me when I talk to you. Yes mother, yes mother. Look at me when I talk to you. Admit I'm right. Yes mother, yes mother. Admit I'm right. You're not listening, you're not listening. Look at me when I talk to you."_

"Yes, you are. Say it," Jacob pleaded. "Say you're just kidding. Please... please."

"Listen Jacob, you were going to find out sooner or later, so why not now? Your real mother lived about four hours from here. She was young, wasn't married, and already had two other kids. She obviously didn't want you, so we got stuck instead. As for your real father... God only knows about him. He probably works in a gas station somewhere."

" _What did I tell you? What did I tell you? You're disrespectful, disrespectful, disrespectful. I won't have that in my house. Keep it up and no one is going to like you. You'll never be a success. Never, never, never. Mother's always right. Say it. Say it. Mother's always right. Don't call me mommy, I don't like it. Call me mother. Call me mother. Your father died because of you - you and all that whining of yours. You killed him. You know that, don't you? You killed him. You're not to leave the street until I say. I don't care if the others make fun of you, you're not to leave the street. No you may not! No! No! No! Blame it on yourself. It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault!"_

Jacob bit his bottom lip again and a sliver of blood appeared... then another, and another still. He blinked repeatedly. He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder. His knees weakened, and he stumbled backwards, catching his balance on the chair next to the bed. Finally, he began to sob.

"Christ, Jacob, don't become spastic over it," Eunice cracked. "Getting adopted was the best thing that ever happened to you. And if you start working that brain of yours, maybe you'll see that. But no, you'd rather stand there and cry like a baby."

" _It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault!"_

Jacob wiped his eyes. "No it's not," he muttered.

"What? What are you mumbling about?" Eunice asked, annoyed.

" _It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault!"_

"No it's not," Jacob repeated.

Eunice scowled. "No it's not, what? What's the matter with you? What on earth are you talking about?"

" _It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault!"_

"No it's not, it's not, it's not."

Eunice sighed. "I asked you to work your brain, not talk in riddles. I should've figured as much."

"No it's not, it's not, it's not."

"No it's not, what, Jacob? No it's not, what?"

"No its not, it's not, it's not."

"A blubbering idiot... great," Eunice mumbled, before surrendering to her appetite and stuffing the rest of the hotdog in her mouth.

At that moment, Jacob lunged forward, driving the hotdog deep into her throat. Then locking his hand over her mouth, and blocking her nose from the room's stale air, he cried, "It's your fault, all of it, everything, your fault! Your fault! Your fault! Your fault! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

Eunice tried to twist, turn, kick her legs, flail her arms, but it mattered not, for the arthritis would not allow it. She tried to scream, call out, breathe, gasp, but that too mattered not, as Jacob would not let go - not until the whites of her eyes jumped out like headlights, her body convulsed one last time, and he was certain she was dead.

" _It's your fault, all of it, everything. Your fault!"_

#

Jacob Zoe was not charged in the death of his adoptive mother, the police having concluded Eunice's demise was an unfortunate accident. Or, as one officer casually observed, "Asphyxiation by hotdog inhalation."

Shortly after Eunice's funeral, and with no family to call his own, Jacob was made a ward of the state and placed in the foster care home of Rosie and Jules Bermuda, an affable couple who presided over a facility consisting of ten beds and five bedrooms (not- withstanding annual receipt of enough state-aid to comfortably support a facility twice the size; money used instead to run drugs).

For the first three years of his stay, Jacob, whose slender physique and wide-eyed demeanor had slowly given way to an athletic frame and prudent glare, roomed with Tanner Atkins, a wiry built kid with a fondness for chocolate bars, late night conversation, and practical jokes - the latter providing harmless entertainment to the six-boy, four-girl household, until Tanner, on the eve of his eighteenth birthday and court mandated release, made a batch of what he called, "Electric bug-juice" (a concoction of lemonade, orangeade, and LSD), for three of his younger housemates.

For Billie Hogan, a soft skinned, soft spoken girl, who, after shedding her clothes and running through the house naked, announced plans to fly from her second story bedroom window, it was a night of fear, loathing, and stomach-quaking vomit.

For Tony Cass, a tough-talking gangster wannabe, who, after declaring war on the world, sat curled up in the corner of his own room rocking to whatever beat thumped through his mind and body, it was a night of chilling laughter and frantic crying.

But for Jacob Zoe, whom Tanner found lying in the backyard, staring into the guts of the dark, drizzling sky, and smiling peacefully, it was a night of surreal calm, prompting Tanner to pull Rosie and Jules aside the first moment they weren't monitoring their drug induced clan, and say, "I know I fucked up, and I'm sorry. But I think I might've found the guy to take over my job."

Rosie and Jules Bermuda married in their early twenties and immediately set out to conquer the world. "We're gonna be rich," Jules said early on, "filthy, stinkin' rich," his unwavering conviction bulldozing Rosie into such a firm believer, she was willing to follow her nomadic husband anywhere. New York, California, Florida, it mattered not. With Jules to lead the way, it was only a matter of time before they'd hit it big. Rosie was sure of it.

But when the handsome young couple found themselves plagued by one unfortunate event after another ("unlucky," was Jules' description of choice), culminating in a loss of their third business in six years, conquering the world seemed far less a certainty than lassoing the moon. So Jules, despite having promised Rosie he'd fly the straight and narrow, turned to what he knew best, the very endeavor that put clothes on his back, food in his mouth, and paid his college tuition - selling drugs. All he needed to get started was a little seed money. But where would he find it? Having squandered every dime borrowed from their respective families, he couldn't very well go back to them. Besides, what would he tell them? "Put up Five thousand dollars and I'll sell enough dope to double your money?" No, there had to be a better, simpler way. One void of obligation for repayment, one with minimal pain and suffering, one, which upon completion, could be folded up and forgotten about like a tent after a camping trip. And then, while reading the classifieds one sunny afternoon, Jules came across an advertisement that read, _Couple into voyeurism. Will pay_.

Rosie was neither offended, nor apprehensive about the arrangement. Blinded by the bright lights of what had thus far been unattainable luxury, she was resigned, instead, to do all she could to turn their dirt into gold, an attitude that led to a twelve week stint of sexual intercourse on a stranger's bed. Still, at the end of that period, and with their seed money in hand, Rosie and Jules were off and running.

The couple settled in Springdale, Indiana (a mid-size city close enough to the contacts Jules had made in college, though far enough away from unexpected family visits), and for the next two years sold methamphetamines and LSD in such considerable quantities, they were able to move from their confining one bedroom apartment to a large, white-framed, white-pillared, white-fenced colonial sitting atop a manicured bed of green. And though life was good, Jules realized without a facade to hide fact from fiction, the eyes of city fathers would one day be upon them.

The Bermuda Foster Care Home was born and bred under the premise that it be considered a welcomed addition to any city; a strategy fueled for several years by the Bermuda's constant emphasis on good manners, good study habits, and good, clean fun. Yet, when Tanner Atkins (a wily veteran of the drug game, having watched his mother, and only parent, go from marijuana, to heroin, to junkie, to corpse, by the time he was eleven-years-old), approached Jules one day with an offer to sell his drugs in exchange for a weekly allowance of $200.00, and a new car, Jules decided that _good, clean fun_ should include _good, sound business._

Tanner more than held up his end of the bargain, making significant inroads in the junior high and high school arenas, two areas Jules would not have entered, and was, in fact, prepared to abandon once Tanner turned eighteen, and headed for what he called, "California paradise." But after spending the summer feeding Jacob one magic potion after another, discussing sum and substance, cause and affect, dollars and cents, Jules was inspired to follow Tanner's suggestion.

Just as Jacob eagerly seized the reigns, however, driving school business to proportions Jules had never anticipated, so too did he fall prey to the lure of the animal, the lustrous beast. Nevertheless, Jacob felt alive, befriended, beholden, for as time collapsed around him, the formaldehyde-filled memory of his dead, adoptive mother oozed into the dark corners of his mind, where it ultimately slumbered under the wings of hypnotic essence.

#

Janey Lilac and her parents moved from Wellington, Ohio, to Springdale, Indiana, when she was seventeen-years-old. Her father, Andrew, was a regional sales manager for a rapidly growing pharmaceutical company, thus making it the fourth such jaunt in five years. The familiar routine did little to curb Janey's anxiety, however, or the body rash that followed. After all, in the course of a family picnic, complete with black flies the size of steely-eyed crows, and humidity thick enough to choke cacti, her status changed from incoming senior, where it had taken her the better part of two years to become friends with a single girl (even though their friendship was predicated on Janey sharing the drug samples she'd often steal from her father), to a new city, with new, stoic faces to ignore her, unsolicited whispers and giggles to offend her, and small minded criticism to disapprove of her attention-grabbing halter tops and hip-hugging jeans. Worst of all, Springdale was another step removed from New York City, where she planned to pursue an acting career the moment her slender fingers wrapped around a high school diploma.

Still, the canvas of Janey's young and traumatic history was not painted by any one event, much less a series of _stranger-in-a-strange-land_ predicaments. On the contrary, when Janey was six-years-old, her parents divorced. Two years later her mother left home in the middle of the night, never to be seen, nor heard from again. At age nine, her father remarried, a woman Janey _lovingly_ referred to as Broom Hilda. By ten, she had run away from home, and at age eleven, repeated the effort. When she was twelve, just after her family moved to North Wabash, Illinois, Janey lost her virginity to the boy next door, as well as a couple of his friends. At thirteen, she was smoking marijuana. By fourteen, her family had moved to Saint Clare, Michigan, where Janey's first steady boyfriend died in a car accident. And at fifteen, just after moving to Wellington, Janey began snorting PCP and cocaine, which lead to a series of bloody noses, two drug busts, and an overnight stay in the county jail.

Nevertheless, and notwithstanding Janey's belief that Springdale would turn out to be just another bad memory, three weeks into her new high school life, she was in love. True love. Her father called it a silly case of puppy love and said it would pass. Broom Hilda called the notion immature and nauseating. Then she heard the object of Janey's affection lived in a foster home and labeled him, "A loser." But Janey knew different, for as she lie awake at night, the silhouette of Jacob Zoe's tapered frame would unfold before her, and it was then she could trace her own obscurity in the shadows of his reluctant smile, cradle her weaknesses in the contours of his motherless body, and see her reflection in his soft brown eyes; warm and inviting, isolated and scared.

Janey and Jacob met on a gray September morning, when clouds lingered seamless and the residue from an overnight fog dangled from the branches of olive-faced trees. Jacob, leaning against the school's pale brick exterior, was watching the smoke rings from his Marlboro mingle, then disappear into the day's concealed light, when he noticed Janey approaching. He smiled gingerly and nodded.

Janey returned the smile, her eyes echoing the color of emeralds, her face, the freshness of spring, and said, "Hi, I'm Janey Lilac."

Jacob dropped his gaze to his shuffling feet, and mumbled, "Hi, I'm Jacob... umm, Jacob Zoe."

"Yeah, I know. A girl in one of my classes pointed you out."

Jacob nodded.

"I'm new here," Janey said cheerfully. "My family decided to move just in time for me to start my senior year."

"That's a drag."

"Yeah, I'm already counting down the days till graduation."

"Me too," Jacob confessed.

"So, you're a senior?"

Jacob nodded.

"Well then tell me, Mr. Senior, are the rumors true?"

"What rumors?"

Janey grinned. "About you being the guy to see if I'm looking to get high."

Jacob flicked his cigarette to the ground. "Ah, so you wanna make a little purchase, is that it?" he asked, his tone gliding into the comfort zone of his favorite subject matter. "Well, I don't bring anything to school, so if I have what you're lookin' for, arrangements have to be made. Nighttime only. Those are the rules."

Janey shook her head, sending her dark hair from shoulder to shoulder. "No, I don't want anything. Not yet, anyway. I really just wanted to meet you."

"Oh."

"But if you can spare a cigarette, I'll take one of those."

Jacob once again smiled gingerly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure," he said, before pulling a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. "They didn't have 'em in boxes."

"What?"

"My cigarettes... they didn't have any in boxes, so they're kind of squished."

"That's okay, I don't mind."

Jacob mined the near empty pack with his finger, pushing out the dents before wrestling a cigarette free.

"So do you have a girlfriend?"

Jacob dropped the cigarette.

Janey giggled. "Ten second rule."

"Huh?"

Janey bent over to retrieve the Marlboro, the lines from her curved waist to her perfectly shaped ass meeting Jacob head-on. When she popped back up, she flipped the hair from her pretty face. "The ten second rule. If it's on the ground for less than ten seconds, it's okay."

Jacob stared at her in silence.

"How 'bout a light?"

Jacob did not respond.

Janey touched his arm. "Hey there, you still with us?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. A light? Sure, no problem."

Jacob quickly dug the lighter from his pants pocket. Janey leaned in, cupped her hands around Jacob's, where they remained until a perfect stream of smoke sailed from her perfectly shaped mouth, and said, "So?"

"So what?"

"So you never answered me about the girlfriend. Do you have one?"

Jacob kicked at the pavement. "Umm, no, I don't. Do you?"

"What, have a girlfriend? No."

Jacob snickered. "I meant a boyfriend."

"I know. I was just giving you a hard time. No, I don't have a boyfriend." Janey swiveled her shoulders. "Not yet anyway."

Jacob pulled his eyes from Janey and scanned the other students milling about.

"Something wrong?"

"Uh-uh."

"Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why don't I believe you?"

Jacob wiped the perspiration growing from his temples. "I don't know."

"Well in case you're wondering, you look like a deer caught in the headlights."

"I do? No I don't." Jacob frowned. "Do I?"

"Not now. But a second ago you did."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to."

"You don't have to be sorry, silly. I just asked if anything was wrong." Janey pulled on her cigarette one last time before pitching it to the ground, where it smoldered next to Jacob's own. Her fingers grazed his forearm. "So is there?"

"What?"

"Anything wrong?"

Jacob took a deep breath. Then shrugging his shoulders, "No, I... I was just thinking... maybe... I don't know..."

Janey's fingers grazed Jacob's forearm again. "What? Tell me?"

"Well maybe... maybe since you don't have a boyfriend or anything... I mean, assuming you want to... you may not want to... but if you do... I mean, you don't have a boyfriend or anything, right? So it shouldn't be a big deal, right? So if you want to, maybe...maybe we..."

"Yes," Janey said.

"Yes, what?"

"If you're asking me to go out, then yes, I really want to. If you're not, I'm gonna be really embarrassed because I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

Jacob pulled at the curled ends of his long hair. "You want to go out? Really? When?"

Janey dipped her head to one side, and smiling sheepishly, replied, "Arrangements have to be made. Nighttime only. Those are the rules."

Jacob and Janey were soon inseparable, often holding hands, kissing, or touching one another with all the bravado of a young couple in love. Just the same, Jacob had been slow to adopt Janey's quest for something more, concerned his inexperience would tarnish his sanguine façade, convinced it would render him forgettable. But with Janey's parents gone one Saturday night, and Jacob confined by four walls and the unavoidable reality of her desire, he followed her up the stairs, condemned by the notion if he did not, he was probably forgettable anyway. Still, as Janey waited for him in bed, certain her eyes were patrolling that which she could see, as well as that which she could not, Jacob found himself compromised by the lazy burn of candlelight - a concern muted when he clamped thumb and finger around the sputtering wick and turned the room black.

But in the darkness the ardent stride of intimacy exploded, penetrating the veil of cold hands and insolvent childhood hearts, and spawning, in the ensuing months, a love where need survived desire, compassion survived touch, and companionship survived what once had been two lonely and nondescript lives.

#

Andrew Lilac pried his necktie loose, and yet, when he drew a deep breath his starched white skin still managed to creep over the collar of his starched white shirt. He pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and took a moment to dab the perspiration gathered on his forehead (careful not to disturb his salt and pepper coif of distinction), before rearranging the handkerchief, embroidered side out, and stuffing it back home. He then turned from the mirror and abruptly shook his head, saying, "I won't allow you to leave town with him," while Broom Hilda, standing with arms folded just a few feet away, slapped Janey with a look of disdain.

Janey threw her hands to her hips. "First of all, _him_ has a name. It's Jacob. Second of all, _he, Jacob,_ is going with me. And third of all, I'm eighteen now, so I can do what I want."

Still shaking his head, Andrew said, "I don't care if you're eighteen or eighty-five. I also don't give a good goddamn who's following whom. You leave town and I'll disown you."

"Wow, now there's a threat if I ever heard one," Janey said, snickering. "Especially since I'm not sure what you'd disown me from. What, a happy home that moved every other weekend of my life?"

"That's not fair," Andrew responded, his blue-gray eyes jumping side to side. "We moved because of my job, and you know it."

"Your job, your job," Janey sneered. "Everything was always about your job."

"Oh really? You think I wanted to move all the time? You think you were the only one ever affected by it? Well I've got news for you, young lady, it bothered me plenty. More than you can possibly know."

"Your father did it for you," Broom Hilda chimed in, her look of disdain having slipped into a pair of half-baked eyes. "To put clothes on your back and a roof over your head. And I, for one, think you owe him more than that silly childish sarcasm of yours."

_Broom Hilda, Broom Hilda: a woman whose day typically begins at the manicurist's, breaks for martinis, and ends with a new dress, blouse, or pair of shoes._ Janey grimaced. "Shut up, I'm not talking to you."

"Hey, hey, hey," Andrew warned, his forefinger stabbing the thick, uneasy air perched between them, "that's your mother. Now you apologize."

"No way."

"I said, apologize."

"And I said, no way."

"Goddamn-it!" Andrew snapped, the room swelling with a dull thud as he stomped his foot. "You apologize right now!"

"Why? She's not my mother," Janey said calmly. "And if you don't believe me, ask her yourself. She hates me."

Andrew Lilac's clenched teeth slowly parted, his rigid look eased. "What are you talking about?" Then turning to his wife, "What is she talking about?"

Broom Hilda shrugged her perfectly postured shoulders, feigning a look of disbelief. "I don't know. I've always treated her like my very own. I don't understand. I don't deserve any of this." Her eyes then narrowed and she covered her face, sniffling when able, whimpering when not.

Andrew sighed. "Now look what you've done."

"Well don't just stand there, dad." Janey clapped her hands. "Hop to it. Get out your hanky for those crocodile tears."

Broom Hilda rubbed her sockets until smidgens of makeup-cake broke loose, tingeing the whites of her eyes red. She waved off her husband. "I'll be okay. Hurt, but okay."

Andrew peered at his daughter. "What's gotten into you, Janey? Why the nasty remarks? What are you trying to prove?"

"I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm trying to tell you something."

"Yeah, that you're leaving home with your boyfriend... _excuse me_ , Jacob. And going where? To New York?" Andrew scoffed. "Yeah, that sounds like a well thought out plan."

Janey shrugged her indifference.

Broom Hilda thrust her cleft-chin forward. Her eyes bulged. "Can I speak? Or should I just stand here and be quiet?"

"Of course you can speak," Andrew said, "you're part of this family." Then glancing at his daughter, his stoic expression a bleak reminder of the pecking order, "No matter what anybody says."

Janey looked away.

Broom Hilda settled back on her heels. "Well I think it's a good thing, her leaving. It'll teach her a thing or two about life. It doesn't come easy, ya know. It can all be taken away" - Broom Hilda snatched a handful of nothing from thin air and shook her fist - "just like that!"

"Wow," Janey muttered sarcastically, "that's heavy."

"Make fun all you like young lady, but your mother happens to be right."

"She's not my mother."

"Damn-it Janey, she is. And you'll treat her as such!"

"Whatever."

"Whatever, nothing," Broom Hilda countered, her face coiled in disgust. "You think you know all the answers? Well good for you, Miss Know-it-all. Have a nice life."

Janey raised an open palm. "Talk to the hand."

"Hey, I warned you once," Andrew said. "I'm not gonna warn you again."

"Why, what are you gonna do? Send me to my room? Wait, I know, why don't you hit me with your belt? You haven't done that since I ran away. Or was that your wife that hit me? Frankly, I can't remember. Can you?"

Andrew shook, then hung his head and massaged the bridge of his nose. Broom Hilda turned her back and glared out the picture window. And Janey leaned her taut shoulders against the mint green wall, content to stare at the chocolate parquet floor and relive the words that suddenly burdened the room with silence.

It was a day like any other, except that ten-year-old Janey Lilac didn't come home from school, hiding out in the park until nightfall, then maneuvering her way through the city, before landing at a 7-11 store three miles away. It was just past midnight and Janey, hungry and thirsty, asked an obliging cashier for food and drink. But just as she finished washing down her second donut with chocolate milk, the police arrived to take her home. "Your parents are very worried," the bronze skinned man said in an accent Janey had never before heard. "Very, very worried."

And though Broom Hilda was indeed worried (concerned Andrew would return from his business trip and blame her, for what she planned to call, _a slight misunderstanding),_ she was also incensed that her troublesome stepdaughter would put her in such a precarious position. As such, she took a belt to Janey's shuddering backside for a good half-hour.

Janey looked up from the parquet floor. "I'm leaving the day after graduation."

Andrew met his daughter's gaze. "Christ, that's next week, Janey. Do you even know what you're going to do there? Where you're going to stay? How you're going to eat?"

Janey fastened her hair behind her ears. She squinted slightly. "I'm gonna be an actress."

"You're gonna be a what?" Broom Hilda asked, snickering. "What do you know about acting?"

"And Jacob... well, the man who owns the foster home he lives at, he has an old friend out there that'll give him a job."

"Doing what?"

"Sales."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Selling what? Shoes, clothes, cars, what?"

"I'm not sure."

"And you," Broom Hilda quipped, "you'd like us to believe that you're just gonna go out there and become an actress, is that it? Some producer is gonna pluck little ol' inexperienced you off the street and give you the lead in a play? Is that how it's going to work?"

"Actually, I have lots of experience."

"Oh you do, do you?"

Janey spotted a wry grin. "Considering I pretended to like you all these years, yeah, I'd say I did a pretty good job."

Broom Hilda gasped.

"Not quite as good a job as you, obviously," Janey said, batting her eyes in overly dramatic fashion, "but pretty good."

Andrew threw up his hands. "Okay, I've had it! That's enough from both of you! Understand? Enough. Janey?"

Janey winked at her stepmother. "I understand perfectly."

"Honey?"

And old command, a familiar command, a command Andrew spewed anytime he felt the need to protect his happy household perception. Now that Janey had one foot out the door, however, and recognizing what had never been, might finally become, Broom Hilda dug her manicured nails into her bony hips and fashioned an appropriate smile. "You're right, Andrew, this is no time to argue. Janey wants to leave home, and whether we agree, or not, she should go with our blessing. Janey, I hope everything works out... you going to New York, I mean."

Andrew stared at his delicate, indulgent wife a few moments before turning to his daughter. "What about college, Janey?"

"What about it?"

"Well, are you ever planning to go?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Haven't you been listening, dear old dad? I'm going to New York, remember?"

"Yes, I was listening, and yes, I remember. I just hope you were listening to what I said too."

"I don't know. Why don't you hit me with it one more time?"

"Fine," Andrew said, cupping his hands. "Leave town with that boyfriend of yours, and I'll disown you."

Janey once again shrugged her indifference, and then dipping her head toward Broom Hilda, countered, "You did that the day you married her."

#

Janey slipped her hand inside Jacob's as the two made their way along Second Avenue. Dusk was settling, the resin of its pallid fingers sweeping over the tired shoulders of fluorescent-faced storefronts - streetlights blinked to life - horns blared - tires screamed - sewer smoke stirred, echoing wistful bodies of nomadic ghosts - pigeons scurried to and from the rush of unsettled litter - squatters seeped from the crevices of alleys and beyond - street urchins chanted verse to the beat of hell's poetic warriors - and yapping mounds of flesh swallowed up the concrete, beleaguered tokens of a day half-dead.

"Are you nervous? I'm nervous," Janey said.

Jacob nodded. "I'm a bit weirded out, yeah." Janey's fingers tightened. "It'll be okay," he offered. "We just have to get settled in and get used to it." He nudged Janey with his shoulder. "As long as we're together, right?"

"Right," she said, confirming a graduation mantra still as fresh as her need to believe it. Then, "Do you think we're getting close?"

Jacob pointed. "I think the street is right... damn-it," he grumbled, dropping Janey's hand and turning after an old lady with wandering eyes, brittle hair, and skin that hanged like the hem of her ratty dress, nipped his heels with a shopping cart filled with worn out clothes, and tokens of her worn out life. She apologized with a smile of rotted teeth before asking Jacob if he could spare some change. Jacob drew back, his expression a contorted mix of fear and disbelief, so the old lady clenched her gnarled fingers around the shopping cart, and pushed onward, chanting, "Yonder screams the bagpipe, hither cries the soul, ask a man for a quarter, he gives you eyes of coal."

Janey looked at Jacob. "Oh my God."

Jacob took a deep breath, grabbed her hand, and walked on in silence.

Carnegie Street, once part of a vibrant neighborhood dating back to the post depression era, had, like any malady of time, become a muddled strip of refuse and decay. Houses that stood proud and freshly painted, with stained glass doors that spilled into wrap around verandas, and windows that opened to the spring of flower boxes, now sat splintered, cockroach friendly, and bar-clad sealed. Brownstones nestled atop manicured lawns, with wrought iron gates planted like decorative crowns, and cobblestone walkways stretched out like thick painted fingers, now languished as if tree stumps in an abandoned forest. The families too, a one-time pageant of style and dress, had become a table-setting of starving hearts and erstwhile dreams, collapsed veins and drug-filled marrow, penny-ante sex and fatherless wombs, shattered childhoods and decimated souls.

In the sunlight Carnegie Street slept with twitching bodies and red-stained eyes. In the moonlight it munched on poison and spilled arbitrary blood. But in between, as Janey and Jacob were finding their way to the house of Jules Bermuda's old friend, it uncoiled like a creeping shadow, its smoky-gray core just dark enough to shield the eyes in windows watching, sheltering the whereabouts of the taunts and jeers rattling the pace of their steps.

Cyrus Mooney pulled the front door open with purpose. But having learned long ago that handsome faces draw attention, all others must grab it, Cyrus Mooney did everything with purpose - from the way he swelled his chest and slowed his walk on a busy street, to the way he curled his upper lip when he spoke, accentuating the edge to his raspy voice.

Something else: Cyrus Mooney liked control, and would employ vigilant, surreptitious means if necessary to obtain, or keep it. And whilst greeting a newcomer (invitation notwithstanding), may not have been anything more than an exercise of sum over substance, frivolity over concern, it remained, nevertheless, a first impression. So Cyrus, blocking the doorway, folded his tapered arms (his fingers inflating the underside of his biceps), rolled his eyes, as though unduly annoyed by the intrusion, and said, indifferently, "You must be Jules' Midwest protégé."

Jacob stuck out his hand. "Hey."

Cyrus peered at the anxious palm, reluctant to press flesh - though countering with a dead-fish when he finally dropped his arms and did.

"This is Janey."

"Yeah, I figured. Jules mentioned something about her." Then with an eyebrow raised while looking Janey up and down, "I'm Cyrus, but you probably knew that already."

Janey extended her hand, slowly. "Hi."

Cyrus nodded until Janey took back her offering, at which point he turned back to Jacob, the look in his dark eyes as distant as his demeanor, and said, "So Jules tells me you can push the mule."

Jacob cleared his throat. "Yeah, I uh, I've moved my share of stuff."

"Uh-huh," Cyrus grunted. "A little weed, some acid, maybe some TH and mescaline. That about cover it?"

Jacob shrugged. "Close enough."

"So let me guess... you figure to show up here and pick up where you left off, is that it?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Why not? Because that kind of crap doesn't sell around here, kid. Sure, you might find a few pockets of interest. For the most part, though, people around here aren't lookin' to get high, they're lookin' to get out. So it's pretty much heroin and crack, and I doubt you know a goddamn thing about either."

"What's your point?"

Cyrus shook his head, though his braided-snake of a ponytail barely moved. "My point is, take a good look around here, kid. This place ain't Sesame Street. It's more like dead-end street. And I, for one, don't have the time, or inclination, to play nursemaid to some suburbanite punk who's barely wet behind the ears. Understand?"

"Jacob."

"Huh?"

Jacob scowled. "My name is Jacob. Jacob Zoe. Not kid."

"Oh yeah, you're all dressed up in your big-boy pants, aren't ya?" Cyrus cracked.

Still scowling, Jacob said, "Hey _bud_ , I ain't no fuckin' baby, okay?"

"And I ain't your _fuckin' bud_. Now settle down."

"Then chill, dude."

Cyrus pulled at his goatee, his ardent glare burrowing into Jacob until Jacob looked away. He then targeted Janey until she nervously tugged on Jacob's arm. "Looks like your girlfriend wants to split."

"So?"

"So maybe you should listen to her.

"Maybe I should."

"Hey, it might be the best thing."

"Yep, it just might."

"Well don't let me stop you."

"Trust me, I won't."

"Good."

"Damn right it's good."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Who said I'm waiting?"

"Well you're still here, so it's kind of fuckin' obvious."

Jacob searched Cyrus' face, but there was no crack in his expression, no vulnerability in his steely eyes, only a small scar on a cheekbone of an otherwise stoic facade. "Let's go Janey," he said, though Janey was already halfway down the veranda's rickety steps.

"What an asshole," she muttered.

Cyrus stepped out from the doorway. "What was that?"

"Come on," Janey said. "We don't need him." She reached for Jacob's hand.

Cyrus grinned. "Have a nice walk back," he said sarcastically.

When Jacob left Springdale, Indiana, Jules gave him two thousand dollars (severance pay for a job well done). "Keep it for a rainy day," Jules had said at the time. But the rainy day wasn't supposed to come so soon, or alter Jacob's plans so abruptly. He stopped and turned.

"Come on," Janey repeated.

"Hang on a sec," Jacob said.

Still grinning, Cyrus asked, "Problem?"

Jacob pushed the hair from his pointed eyes. "What's your deal, man?"

"No deal," Cyrus deadpanned. "No deal at all."

"Oh really? Then why did Jules say you'd help us out? And why, if you weren't going to, did you have us walk all the way over here?"

"Number one," Cyrus said, pointing, and then stabbing his finger at the air, "I didn't force you to come here, so don't give me that shit. You came because you wanted to... because you need to. Number two, I had you walk over so you'd get a feel for the area. You're in Oz now, baby, you ain't in Kansas. And the sooner you realize it, the better off you're gonna be."

"Great, terrific," Jacob responded, "so we're not in Kansas. Well guess what? I ain't Toto, and Janey ain't Dorothy."

"And number three," Cyrus continued, his jawline softening, his tone bending, "I met Jules when he lived in New York. That was a long time ago. We partied some then. We're only acquaintances now. Point is, you want my help, you're gonna have to ask me yourself... nicely."

Jacob touched his hands to his chest. "Well why else would we be here?"

"I dunno, why?"

"Come on, man. If we didn't need your help, we wouldn't be standin' on your porch," Jacob said. He then glanced at Janey, before adding, "Please."

Cyrus peered up and down the street. A few moments later he turned, and said, "Follow me."

#

Janey waited for the motel room door to close before sneaking up behind Jacob, sticking her finger into the small of his back. "This is a stickup, mister," she said, pushing the words from the corner of her mouth in her best gangster impersonation. "Now get 'em up."

Jacob dropped the box of chocolates he was holding and slowly raised his arms. "Don't hurt me lady. Please don't hurt me."

"What's that you dropped, mister? Come clean or I'll have to blast ya."

"Chocolates."

"Chocolates? For who?"

"A girl I know. She needs her sugar fix."

"Any ol' girl, or a special girl? Janey asked, pushing her stickup finger deeper when Jacob didn't respond quickly enough. She then added, "Out with it, mister, or I'll blast ya."

Jacob turned, though the tenderness of his smile and the warmth in his eyes were lost in the room's darkness. "She's the most special of all the special girls in the world. She's my baby love."

Janey tucked her head into her shoulder and bit her bottom lip. She then lunged forward, forcing Jacob to catch her embrace. "I love you. I do, I really do," she whispered, kissing his neck while he picked her up and carried her to the bed, where, with hearts pounding unsullied love, they trembled with desire, caressed with urgency, and broke the night's tenuous silence with ardent passion; falling asleep in each other's arms only when they had taken a few more spins on the crack pipe, and the promise of dawn had begun to seep through the room's grimy window.

It was almost noon when the phone rang, the dissonant breach jarring Jacob's eyes open. He picked up the receiver. "What?" he said gruffly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head while rubbing the sleep from his bloodshot eyes.

"What? That's how you answer the phone, what?" Cyrus countered, though Jacob sensed a wry grin dressing his response.

"Hey, I was sleepin'."

"I tried your cell phone."

Jacob cleared his throat, swallowing the smoke-laden film from the night before. "It was turned off."

"Why?"

"I don't know, it just was. What's the difference, you said you don't like talking on cells anyway?"

"You're right, I don't. But keep it on. It makes me feel better."

Jacob massaged his forehead, sighing, "Yeah, whatever." He then turned his head when Janey stirred, and smiled when her hand reached out for him. He took it and squeezed it tight.

"Remember that guy I told you about?" Cyrus asked.

"What guy?"

"You know, that guy from upstate New York. Cornelius Watts."

"I don't know... yeah, I guess. What about him?"

"We're gonna hook up with him."

"When?"

"I'll be waiting outside that fleabag motel of yours in an hour. So clear out the cobwebs and be ready."

"Don't worry about it, I'll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," Jacob said, although his words were greeted by a dial tone so he promptly dropped the receiver into its cradle and got up to use the bathroom. When he returned to the bed he grabbed his cigarettes from the nightstand and fired up a butt, settling against the headboard as a stream of smoke spewed from his nostrils.

"Let me guess, that was Cyrus," Janey said, the words falling from her parched mouth as if grains of sand.

"Uh-huh."

"And he's picking you up in an hour, right?"

"How'd you know?"

Janey sniffled, and then said, "Because he's been picking you up in an hour everyday for the past two weeks."

"Yeah," Jacob muttered, "I suppose he has." Then, with his cigarette dangling between his lips, "You don't like him very much, do you?"

Janey sniffled again. "No, not from the first time. He's too arrogant and pushy. And he's always talkin' down to you... especially when I'm there. Anyway, I don't trust him. Do we have any more Kleenex? My nose keeps running."

"It's probably from the crack," Jacob said, before sticking his fingers in the box of Kleenex sitting on the nightstand. "It's empty. Want me to get you some TP?"

"Nah," Janey said, pulling a used and crumpled piece of tissue from the nightstand on her side of the bed. "I'll just use this one." After Janey wiped her nose, dropping the tissue to the odorous carpet, where it landed next to the previous night's pile of used tissue, she propped herself up, resting her head in the palm of her hand. "Can I ask you something?"

Jacob leaned forward and fastened Janey's hair behind her ear - his own long, unkempt hair knotted together because of too few showers, and too many nights of tossing and turning. "Shoot."

"Are you sorry we came here?"

"To New York, or this motel?"

Janey snickered. "New York."

"No. You wanted to come here and I wanted to be with you. So what choice did I have?"

"Well we don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"Why? I thought you wanted to try acting?"

"I changed my mind."

Jacob took a drag on his cigarette. Then, "You don't like it here, do ya?" he asked, the question pouring out with a mouthful of smoke.

Janey sighed. "It's different than I thought it'd be."

"Well if we split, where would we go?"

"I don't know. Didn't Rosie and Jules go to their house in Maine for the summer? We could maybe go see them, couldn't we?"

Jacob shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. But even if we do, we should stick around here until I find out if a deal's gonna go down with the guy I'm meeting today. Cyrus promised me some coin if it does, and we could use it... especially since the combo of livin' in this dump, and smokin' crack like we have, has taken our cash a lot quicker than I figured it would."

"Speaking of crack, do we have any left?"

"Couple of rocks. I'll fire one up before I meet Cyrus and leave you the other." Jacob flicked his cigarette, though most of the ashes had already fallen to the rumpled bed sheets, adding, "But that's what I'm talking about because now I'm gonna have to get some more, and unless Cyrus is feeling charitable, it's gonna cost money."

"What about the money Jules gave you before we left?"

"Taking it as slow as I can, baby love, but I've had to dip into it. Gotta live. Gotta run the car."

Janey scoffed. "I can't believe Cyrus makes you buy crack from him."

"Hey, if I ain't pushin', he ain't payin'. Jules would've done the same thing."

"Well is this guy you're meeting the only thing Cyrus has lined up? I mean, what's his deal? He's always talkin' about how big-time he is. What's his deal?"

"Not sure. All I know is if I wanted to beat the streets, he'd spot me. At the same time, he told me to familiarize myself with 'the stone.' Jacob laughed. "So I decided the best way to do that is to sit around and get high with you. Now I can't seem to stop."

Janey giggled.

"Besides, I'd probably get lost walkin' around the block."

"Yeah, not to mention all those weirdoes out there," Janey added, her body tightening, her face cringing at the thought.

"Exactly... which is why I wanna stick around to see if this deal gets done."

"What if nothing happens?"

"It should, so I'm kind of counting on it."

"But what if it doesn't?"

"Then we either have to stop smokin' the shit, or find money elsewhere," Jacob said, stabbing his cigarette until its smelly, smoldering body stood hunched over in the ashtray.

"Yeah, but where?"

After a long and pensive sigh, Jacob replied, "Wherever we can."

Janey rolled onto her back, her tired eyes wandering the dreary room freely, and yet, the colors of her thoughts, like buoyant hues of watercolor paints, deluged what lay before her. "What about your real parents?" she asked.

Jacob's brows twisted together. "Huh?"

"Your real parents," Janey repeated.

"What about 'em?"

"Well, have you thought about looking for them?"

Jacob's brows twisted tighter. "We've talked about this stuff a thousand times already. Why you bringin' it up now?"

"Just making sure you haven't had a change of heart. If you have, we could go looking for them. I mean, instead of going to Maine."

Jacob winced, saying, "My parents obviously didn't want me when I was born, right? So why would I want them now? They've never been my family. They're never gonna be my family. It's as simple as that."

Janey smiled sheepishly. "Can I be your family?"

Jacob returned the smile. "Baby love, you are my family. My only family."

Janey pulled herself up, drawing her knees to her chest and the bed sheet to her shoulders. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"Promise not to laugh?"

"Why would I laugh?"

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart," Jacob said, gesturing accordingly.

"Okay then, here goes," Janey responded wistfully. "Wherever we end up, can we... can we get married?"

In the time it took for his eyes to water and his Adam's apple to extrude, Jacob had cupped his hands around Janey's face and brought her forehead to his own. "Say the word," he whispered. "Just say the word."

#

The afternoon sunlight poured out of the sky, devouring all hint of clouds and trace of wind. A sweltering heat, with thick and oppressive hands, choked the green in leaves and the yellow in dandelions, stifled the wayward flight of birds and the fretful movement of rodents; there thriving but the chattering of cicadas and grasshoppers, the ornery drone of wasps and bees. Even the baseball diamond behind the abandoned school where Jacob smoked a cigarette, while Cyrus Mooney and Cornelius Watts traded friendly barbs, drugs, and money, was free of all sanctuary or shadow in which to hide or seek shelter; the tall, unrestrained weeds and brown grasses marking the history of one failed millage after another.

Jacob cast an eye toward the backstop (a hunched over, chain-link mass of severed veins that could no more stop a baseball than it could be considered a sparkling centerpiece for the broken bottles and dented cans strewn about it), before looking at the bleachers (rows of rotted wood hanging by threads of rusted steel), and then the base paths that, as a boy, he never had the pleasure to run (now indiscernible save for hostile stretches of rutted, fractured clay).

"Say baby, y'all hear a word I said, or not?" Cornelius asked, his voice heavy, as though saturated with the very humidity that thickened the air. Then, after Jacob failed to respond, "Hey white bread, I'm talkin' to you."

Jacob adjusted his sunglasses, though it did little to curb the glare bouncing off of Cornelius' shiny red Jaguar. "What?"

"Shit," Cornelius said, shaking his head, sweat rolling off his glistening black dome, "y'all didn't hear a motherfuckin' word I said, did ya?"

Jacob pitched his cigarette to the ground. "Yeah, the stuff's real powerful. I got it," he replied indignantly. Yet, Jacob had actually heard very little of Cornelius' bravado. Instead, he had been entertaining thoughts of smoking crack with Janey, or, at the very least, sitting in the air-conditioned confines of Cyrus' SUV, snorting a sample of the very heroin they had just scored, confident either scenario would help calm his jittery body and soothe the stern pounding in his head.

"Don't worry," Cyrus joked, before starting up his truck, "I won't let him kill himself." He then honked the horn, and said, "C'mon, let's go. We got work to do."

Jacob climbed into the front seat and closed the door. "So... do I get a taste of it, or not?" he asked anxiously, mocking Cornelius with a half-assed salute just as Cyrus sped away, leaving clouds of dirt and dust to loiter behind.

Cyrus shook his head, the perspiration on his neck clamping down on a few renegade strands of his ponytail. "Not until I cut it."

"C'mon man, you just got a pound of heroin," Jacob said, fidgeting in his seat, "and I've never tried it before."

"So?"

"So what harm's a little taste gonna do?"

"Not until I cut it," Cyrus repeated. "It's potent shit, remember?"

Jacob pawed his forehead. "Okay, fine, what about a rock? Got one of those around?"

Cyrus smiled to himself. "In there."

Jacob searched the glove box and within minutes was chugging on a crack pipe, pacifying his gnawing hunger, placating the ornery beast.

Cyrus declined to partake, however, content to sit back and drive, the miles disappearing quickly, easily, just as they did whenever he reflected on his past, all the while reveling in the success he had become.

Born to parents who seldom worked (often supplementing their income with monies received via unemployment benefits or shoddy workman's comp claims), were constantly drunk (displaying a sweet tooth for cheap beer, boxed wine, and rotgut whiskey), rarely cleaned their mobile home (the general exception being when they had to get rid of old cans and bottles to make way for new cans and bottles), and thought a blow to their son's face, or a kick in his ass, was as good as any Saturday night on the town, Cyrus' childhood was, to say the least, an arduous venture. One where breakfast was an immutable midnight dream, lunches were digested in whatever form they were conned or stolen, and family dinners were a mix of canned slop and perpetual condemnation. Then there were his clothes, a combination of laughable hand-me-downs and out-of-style shame that served as both fodder for the fights he got in as a boy (often coming home from school bruised and bloodied, only to be decorated again in much the same way by a father too big, drunk, and stupid to defend himself against), and as a catalyst for change, which began one October afternoon on the downtown streets of his hometown, Rockway, New York.

His name was Willie Brackin, though he was also known as Streetside Willie for his propensity to sell drugs from the lining of his overcoat while meandering up and down the city's downtrodden side streets, and Willie the Wonder, for the simple fact he never got arrested for doing so, having learned early in his career that sharing his profits with the beat cops was good, sound business. So too was his use of young, unwitting delivery boys (runners) far more interested in making a buck, than knowing where it came from.

"Say kid," Willie called out only seconds after Cyrus ducked under a storefront canopy to escape the pounding rain.

Cyrus glanced to his left, and then to his right, finding Willie Brackin standing under the canopy of a neighboring storefront. He was flashing a broad and friendly smile. "Me? You talkin' to me?"

"Yeah, of course I'm talkin' to you," Willie replied, his broad and friendly smile relaxing only slightly. "You see anyone else around?"

Cyrus shot a quick peek over his shoulder, before replying, "No."

"Well then, I must be talkin' to you, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Willie eyeballed Cyrus up and down, taking stock of every inch of his thin, and what he was sure to be, penniless frame. But then Willie grew up wearing shabby clothes and tattered shoes and could spot _poor_ easier than if the snarl of an empty stomach announced it in his ear. "You're not nervous, are ya son? I'm not gonna bite ya, so there's no need to be. In fact, I might just help ya."

Cyrus kicked at the pavement. "Who said I'm nervous?"

"Hey," Willie said throwing up his palms, "it's okay if you are. You're just a kid, so it wouldn't surprise me at all."

Cyrus scoffed. "Kid nothin'. I'm almost fifteen."

"Fifteen, eh? Boy that's a great age. You've got the whole world in front of you," Willie declared with sparkling teeth and open arms. "What are you gonna do with it?"

Cyrus started to look away, and yet, the mesmeric tone of Willie's voice, flowing like the unruffled wind of a deep cavern, and the magnetic pull in his eyes, shimmering like the reflection of still waters at night, would not allow him to. Nevertheless, he said nothing, offering a meager shoulder-shrug in response.

Willie pulled a tidy roll of money from his pocket and peeled off a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Then snapping it with his hands, he raised an eyebrow. "How'd ya like to make yourself a little money, son?"

Cyrus' face lit up, and so began his entry into a place where innocence spills from an hourglass, clarity of thought sits as the ambiguous color between darkness and light, and drugs and money hover like medicinal angels. Yet, Cyrus would not fall prey to the _animal_ , only the riches shed from its skin. No longer would he be laughed at, ridiculed, or beaten, forever heightened by the air of possibility, and the certainty of change.

And as time melted from months to years, and the demise of his past was no longer a proposition, but liberation, so too had the dogma of Cyrus' life become firmly entrenched in the gold-plated ground he staked as his own. It mattered not that he lived in a world where laughter was muted by the charred ruins of derelict minds; brokenhearted souls sought gods, found monsters in the saliva of needled tongues; skeletal eyes stared impassively at curtains steel, drawn; or, that powerless stiffs like Jacob Zoe stood in line to walk the plank, all the while begging for more. For in their pleas there was money, and in the money there was retribution, though no amount of either ever quenched Cyrus' thirst for more.

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening when Cyrus finished cutting the heroine with quinine, which he then separated into a variety of quarter ounces, grams, and individual bags of forty-pure. Cyrus had originally planned to share the work load with Jacob, but having spent the better part of two weeks watching him and Janey develop a love affair with their crack pipe, decided he'd be better served using the lovebirds as guinea pigs - test the oomph of the heroine - make certain it was sufficiently nasty for the dregs and whores who would soon be lining up to buy it, do it, and then pass out on it, before waking up and crawling into line to start the money making process all over again.

Judging by Jacob's involuntary head bobbing and sloppy grin, and the soft, contented look in Janey's half-mast, glassy eyes, he succeeded too; just as he succeeded in bringing the dragon into their lives, leading them, in turn, to a love so deep, for an addiction so consuming, night often swallowed day, day often regurgitated fits of restless sleep, and Jacob and Janey grew mindlessly content to survive on the frenzied energy that trembled between.

And then one night, while languishing in the musty embrace of Cyrus' basement, Janey's veins overflowed, her frantic eyes sputtered closed, and her desperate cries for Jacob fell forever silent.

#

Jacob pushed, poked, prodded, and pleaded with Janey to open her eyes - breathe, sit up, stand, crawl, walk, run, hide, smile, laugh, cry, sneer, scream - anything to show movement, to prove life. Yet, there remained not the slightest touch in her fingertips, or twitch in her eyelids. Still, he would not leave her side, rocking back and forth on his knees, every now and then whimpering, every now and then hanging his head, mumbling incoherently.

Cyrus, having found Janey's body, but waiting until Jacob's own drug induced state tapered off sufficiently enough before telling him, took a deep breath, the sour basement air beginning to thicken, and said, "C'mon man. I gave you an hour and the hour is up. Let's move her before she gets too stiff. I want her out of here before morning."

Jacob wiped the fluid residue that had settled around Janey's mouth.

"Did you hear me? I said we gotta move her... like now, before the sun comes up."

"No," Jacob sobbed. He then leaned forward and snuggled his face against Janey's, tears rolling down the warmth of his cheeks, and the ashen coolness of hers'.

Cyrus promptly marched up behind him and swiped a handful of his long, mangy hair. Then jerking his head back, "Get up you stupid junkie, or I'll break your fuckin' head."

Jacob blinked the water from his eyes. "Okay, okay," he said, his voice quivering, "just leave me alone."

"Get up."

"Okay, okay," he repeated, though it wasn't until Cyrus yanked him by his hair that he actually climbed to his feet. "I'm up, alright? Now leave me alone."

Cyrus tightened his grip until his knuckles were digging into Jacob's scalp. "I'll leave you alone after we toss her in the alley somewhere and not a second before. Got it?" he snarled, his upper lip curled back in anger.

When Jacob's only response was a contemptuous narrowing of the eyes, Cyrus slammed his fist into Jacob's chest, the blunt force dropping him to the basement floor like a bag of sand. "Get up, bitch."

Coughing, Jacob staggered to his knees. He wanted to reach for Janey, but Cyrus already had another handful of hair and was tugging him back to his feet. "Do what I tell ya, you piece of shit junkie, and I won't break your fuckin' head. Don't do it, and I will. Got it?" he asked, slapping Jacob across the face.

Jacob winced, but said nothing. Cyrus slapped him again. "Got it?" Another wince, more silence, another, "Got it?" and crack across the face. Jacob stared straight ahead, his hollow expression colored only by the red of his stinging cheek. Cyrus slapped him one more time. "Got it?" He then seized Jacob's jaw, and jostling his head up and down, said, "Good, I'm glad you finally understand."

The moment he eased his grip, however, Jacob latched onto his throat, screaming, "You killed her, you motherfucker! You killed her! You killed her, you motherfucker! You killed her!"

Cyrus tried to back away but Jacob's chokehold had been too sudden, too perfect, and too overpowering; the drug induced adrenaline pumping through Jacob's veins like rocket fuel. Cyrus gasped a few moments, and thrashed a few more, but his body had soon lowered to one knee, so Jacob drove him backwards, banging his head against the basement floor until rendering him lifeless.

#

When Eugene Daybo moved from Tecumseh, Tennessee, to Hastings, Maine, he did so with a new pickup truck, three good dogs, one lousy suitcase, a bank account of seventy-five-thousand-dollars (money he finagled from his then jail-bound nephew, Woody), and an outlook as fresh as the waters he hoped to fish. A good start by most accounts - one furthered along as soon as he rented a house (a one-bedroom clapboard special some fifteen miles from the Atlantic) - one solidified when, not two weeks later, his offer to purchase his first _real_ fishing boat, a twenty-four foot Chesapeake Angler, was accepted. The price was a little more than Eugene wanted to pay, but damn if the boat wasn't a genuine Chesapeake Angler, perfectly suitable for four fishermen in need of a boat, captain, and guide.

Business started a bit slow, although it wasn't long before _things_ were humming and life was good, as _The Eugene One_ manned enough fishing parties in the first five years to allow Eugene to trade up to a thirty-footer (a Chesapeake Angler, naturally). Then life got better because the new boat _, The Eugene Two,_ was big enough for Eugene and the dogs to live on, prompting him to alternate his time between the clapboard house in fall and winter, and a dock in the blue waters of the Atlantic during spring and summer; a lifestyle he enjoyed for another five years.

Life eventually took a turn for the worse, however, when, one stormy night, the blue waters of the Atlantic grew very angry, walloping everything in sight, including Eugene's thirty-foot Chesapeake Angler, which not only sank, but, in the process, swallowed up all of his belongings, including his three dogs.

The dogs were replaceable (though Eugene chose not to), the boat was not, as he had allowed the insurance to lapse. To complicate matters, he still owed several thousand dollars on it (not to mention his rent on the clapboard), a situation he immediately rectified by getting in his truck and spending the next two years working odd jobs, while bouncing up and down the coast of Maine - finally settling in Acme, a town too small and too out of the way for his debts to ever find him. He took a job at Lucky's, a rundown, two-pump gas station owned by a fat, ornery widow, who, as part of his compensation, offered Eugene use of the run-down living quarters located directly behind it.

Work proved slow, as traffic in and out of the gas station primarily consisted of a few familiar faces who dropped by as much for a cup of coffee as they did a tank of gas; vacationers who had mistakenly veered from the coastline and ended up between the rolling farmland and the deep blue sea; and business travelers needing to refill between Points A and B. But slow was easy, and easy suited Eugene just fine.

Collin Hayes had grown weary of his living situation and often took long evening drives, hoping to figure out a way to leave home with more than just his hat in hand. After all, and notwithstanding the decent wage he earned as a marriage counselor, he had become accustomed to Suzanna Swan's standards of living (compliments of her ex-husband, Harley), and didn't want to leave without the standards going with him. Besides, walking away with more than just a _few bucks_ would go a long way in solidifying his on-again, off-again love affair with Abby Sykes, a girl twenty years his junior, sexier than hell, and willing to go away with him, but only if he gave her, as she panted in his ear whenever the opportunity arose, "A first class ride."

Still, and no matter how many scenarios Collin conjured up (blackmail, fraud, palimony, embezzlement), there was but one that came with a virtual guaranty: kidnapping Harley's daughter, Katy, the only soul on earth Harley Swan cared more about than himself. Nothing fancy, nothing violent, just a quick stroll in the park that would end the moment Collin's ransom demands were met - which begged the next question, how much? It was that very question, in fact, that Collin was pondering when he stopped for gas in the small, undistinguished town of Acme, Maine.

Jacob Zoe should have arrived at Jules' summer house within hours of his New York departure, but had gotten lost more than two dozen times (courtesy of his ghostly images of Janey, and the crack he'd been smoking from the outset), resulting in forty-eight hours of frenetic, nonstop driving. His wayward journey would likely have been different, insouciant, had he an abundance of time, money, and drugs. Yet, with Janey dead of an overdose, Cyrus dead from the retribution in his hands, and the drugs and money he escaped with down to a mere seven dollars and one small rock, it wasn't, and he didn't, prompting Jacob to do the only thing he could think of: smoke the last of his crack, then find some money and make the time to buy more - a decision reached just as Lucky's flickering light came into view.

Jacob stumbled from his car, his mind swirling from the captivity of delusion, his body salivating with perilous need, and made his way inside the gas station. "I want some money," he declared, his feral eyes dancing between Eugene Daybo standing be- hind the counter and Collin Hayes waiting for his credit card receipt to print.

"So do I," Eugene huffed. Then looking at Collin Hayes, "Sorry this credit machine works slow. I'll have it in a jiffy."

"No problem," Collin replied, doing his best to ignore the interruption.

"I said, I want some money," Jacob repeated, his slurred, placid tone belying the urgency of his demand. He then made his way to the counter, and while nudging himself in front of an apprehensive Collin Hayes, added, "Now."

Eugene grabbed the baseball bat he kept behind the counter, before grumbling, "Hey fella, I think you better carry your ass outta here. Find yourself a shower and a hot meal. Just find it with someone else's dough."

Jacob looked at Collin Hayes, his eyes void of light, his expression void of hope, and then reaching for his lapel, said, "Give me some money."

Collin slapped his hand away. "Get the hell away from me!"

Jacob reached again, Collin slapped again, and Eugene Daybo darted to the other side of the counter, his soft, droopy beer gut still bouncing once he planted both feet firm, and said, "Don't make me punish ya, fella." He then tapped the end of his bat against the linoleum floor until Jacob turned around. "I'll punish ya. I'll punish ya. God help me, I'll punish ya."

Jacob, however, didn't see the strain in Eugene's weathered face anymore than he heard the tension in his voice, or the threat of his bouncing bat. He saw only the leering face of his mother, heard only the shrill of her constant voice. "It's _you,_ not _ya_ ," Jacob said.

Eugene Daybo drew back. "What?"

Jacob moved toward him. "It's _you,_ not _ya_. _You,_ not _ya_. Say it... _you,_ not _ya_. _You,_ not _ya_."

"Stay back, boy. I'm warnin' ya... stay back."

Jacob threw his head back laughing, Eugene raised his bat, and Collin Hayes hurled his body forward. But just as he knocked Jacob out of the way, Eugene had stepped into his swing, the meat of the bat slamming into Collin's forehead, killing him instantly.

Jacob pushed off the candy rack he had toppled over, and then stared at Eugene - just stared. No longer did he recognize the stench of his wasted space, or the desperate shadow of his body - no longer could he mend the pain of his failed life, or the lives of those he helped shatter - and no longer would he tame a rage he did not seek, or comprehend. Hence, when Eugene Daybo muttered, "This is all your fault, boy... all your fault," Jacob went after him, wrestling the bat from his stubby fingers, and then cracking it over his skull until there remained only the gurgling sounds of a dying man.

Jacob disappeared into the night, the pallid moon all but hiding the next hundred miles of highway lines. Air climbed through the car windows in thick, stale pools of mummified breath, and the sounds in his head, a carousel of futility, desperation, beckoned him with cryptic song. He was so very tired, sore, and his hollowed chest, heaving from the despondency of a broken heart, felt as if it might very well explode.

Still, Jacob would not rest.

Not until he drove off a cliff, returning to the cold and treacherous waters that only in Janey had he ever escaped.

Part Three

#

"Dr. Lanocain, Dr. Novocain, what's the difference," I said, while sizing up my bruised reflection in the mirror, "you're still a doctor, and I'm still an underpaid cop with a busted nose."

"Maybe so, but how would you like it if I called you Detective Hooker instead of Detective Booker?"

"Hell Doc, you can call me Detective Shithead for all I care," I replied. "I don't get hung up on that kind of thing."

"Yes, well, I guess I must," the doctor said, as I turned to face his unyielding expression, "because I prefer to be called by my correct name."

Let's see now, I sleep three hours last night at the most - am out my door by seven in the morning, driving and spilling coffee on myself - run out of gas a half-mile from the gas station, where a female attendant, who wouldn't know a car from a cuticle, couldn't find a gas can for something like twenty minutes - promptly run into road construction, so I, like an idiot, take a half-ass detour and wind up with a nice flat tire - am accosted by a would-be carjacker who doesn't speak a lick of English, or realize I'm a cop, at which point I pull my gun and chase him off, though not before his sledgehammer of a right hand catches me flush on the bridge of my nose - then wind up here, in the emergency room, with a doctor more concerned over the pronunciation of his name than the pounding in my head, leaving me, in turn, with little choice but to dig out an agreeable smile at a most disagreeable time, and say, "Sure Doc, whatever you want. Now, can we forget about the name thing and deal with my nose, 'cause it hurts somethin' fierce."

"I also prefer to be called Doctor, not Doc. So please, keep the distinction in mind," he instructed, while peering at me over the rims of his glasses.

Oh, and did I mention that in all the morning chaos I managed to miss my kid's camp bus return, which means my kid's going to be upset, my ex-wife's gonna give me holy hell sometime this afternoon, and _today's_ agreeable smiles are only gonna have so many seconds of _agreeable_ life, which means, by the way, this one just ended. "And I prefer to get out of here sometime this century," I cracked. "So, you uh, you think you can practice medicine instead of the English language?"

First the eyebrows, they shifted into perfectly plucked strips of condescension. Then the head, it dipped sideways, like it had been weighed down with too much sand. And then the voice, wafting through the air in all its hoity-toity splendor, as he remarked, "I don't know, Detective, it sounds to me like you might just have a chip on your shoulder. Perhaps you're plagued with a small case of jealousy?"

If my nose didn't hurt so much I might've laughed off the suggestion... just before I tattooed a small case of jealousy on his forehead. As it was, however, I merely leaned towards him, pointed at the obvious, and said, "You see this, Doc? This here is called a busted nose. Not a chip, and not on my shoulder. A nose, Doc, right in the middle of my face... busted. And it hurts. It hurts a lot. So, can we dispense with the dime-store analysis and concentrate on something relevant, like a prescription for the pain?"

I'm not sure if it was the sudden change in my body language, or the smell of my stale coffee breath, but Dr. Big Shot took a quick step backwards, scribbled down a prescription, and muttered, "Take these as directed and you'll be fine."

Easy for him to say, he didn't have to go anywhere. And I... well, let's put it this way, my morning was about to go from bad to worse. That's right, no sooner do me n' the doc finish exchanging our heartfelt goodbyes, when I venture out into the wild blue yonder of another workingman's day, and some old lady, looking every which way but the right way, turns into me with the point of her umbrella. Sure, it could've been worse... she could've poked my eye out. Then again, she could have just as easily brushed my cheek. But she didn't. No, instead she whacked me right on the bridge of my nose, dropping me like a rock, hard and senseless.

Still, I had no intentions of racing back to see Dr. Squirrelly. What would be the point? (No pun intended). Seriously, he'd screw up an eyebrow or two, clear his throat a couple of times, offer me the educated mutterings, "I see... um hmm... I see... um hmm," and then, when the room turned perfectly quiet, except, of course, for the steady stream of air pouring out of his perfectly flared nostrils, sum it up with, "You'll be fine."

Besides, all I really wanted to do was get to work and hide behind a little unfinished paperwork. Catch up on my breathing, so to speak. Unfortunately, not two minutes passed from the time I walked into the station and picked up my messages, before I heard, "Booker, get your ass in here," come barreling down the hall.

And there, as sour looking as an ugly bald man can be, sat my fearless leader, Captain Montgomery Hill, scouring my face as though uncertain if he should offer sympathy, or ready himself for a tall tale. "You look terrible, Booker. Where the hell you been?"

Hmm, it seems to me that sympathy might have garnered me a, _"What the hell happened?"_ or a, _"How the hell do you feel?"_ kind of question, but, "Where the hell you been?" Suffice it to say, the sympathy vote wasn't looking real favorable. No matter, I offered him the same answer I always do when I'm not in the mood for a heart to heart, which, for the most part, is all the time. "It's a long story, Captain."

Captain Hill pursed his lips together (a trait so common I once asked him if he was facially constipated), raised his dark, perfectly combed eyebrows until they pushed folds of skin into his would-be hairline, and then said, "Good, maybe you'll tell me all about it when you get back from Acme."

"Acme? As in the town of? Why and the hell am I going there?" I asked, cringing at the unpleasant thought of driving thirty-plus miles, realizing, in the process, that cringing and broken noses don't mix very well.

"Because the bodies of two men were found dead inside a gas station there," Captain Hill replied. Then leaning back in his chair, the worn-out leather moaning under his largeness, "Is that a good enough reason for ya, or do you need something a bit more accommodating?"

"Buzz off." That, of course, is what I wanted to say. But I didn't. Instead, I muttered, with, I might add, the intellectual flair of Sherlock Holmes, a rousing, "So, what's that gotta do with us?"

The Captain rolled his eyes, although one was on the weak side and didn't make the full trip around, and replied, "Because, Acme is too goddamn small a town to manpower much more than traffic violations, let alone a double homicide investigation. We, as in the city of Marlette, retain jurisdiction in all such matters. It's been that way since their first and only murder."

"I didn't know that," I said.

"Why would you? That was thirty-two years ago and you've only been a Detective here for eight. Do the math."

Okay, so maybe Captain Bly and me have something of a hostile relationship. It wasn't always like that, though. There was a time, just a few years ago, in fact, when we spoke as men, not badges - when I didn't look upon him as a political, backstabbing suck-ass anymore than he looked upon me as an embarrassment to the department, or, as he so eloquently put it one day, "A jerk." But then the body of a little girl named Mollie Dickson was discovered, and things changed.

"She was found just like the other six," Captain Hill had said at the time. That meant Mollie had been sodomized, beaten, and strangled. Not necessarily in that order.

"Sweet Jesus," I remember sighing, a remark that drew the Captain into prayer because right then he made the sign of the cross and whispered a few words (which had about as much chance of getting a reaction from the _see-all, hear-all, do-nothing_ holy- man upstairs as a rabbi has of becoming pope).

Meanwhile his name is Sonny Giles, and he was, simply put, guilty of raping and killing six girls between the ages of nine and twelve. Only problem, we couldn't prove it. Whether the gathering of evidence was continually botched, his alibis were strong enough to keep the District Attorney's office at bay, his lawyer played a good game of footsy with the judicial system, or the bright lights of lady luck shined down on him, Sonny Giles, a lunatic who should have been put to sleep at the ripe old age of thirty seconds, remained a free man. And then Mollie Dickson turned up in an alley not two blocks from his apartment, pushing the total to seven, pushing me, in turn, over the edge.

Now understand, I had stalked this twisted fuck for the better part of two years and had nothing to show for it but a growing trail of dead little girls and a few pair of worn-out shoes. Therefore, when I walked out of the Captain's office that day I was determined to put an end to the madness _._ In other words, Sonny Giles was either going to confess his crimes, or die. The choice was his, and at three o'clock the next morning, he willingly made it. At the time, I was working off the premise that _willingly_ included me breaking into his apartment, putting a gun to his head, and promising to blow his brains all over the room if he didn't speak into the tape recorder slowly and clearly.

Unfortunately, the court defined the term _willingly_ pretty much the way the Department of Internal Affairs did, and just as soon as Sonny Giles was put back on the streets, I was removed, suspended for three months without pay. The only saving grace, it wasn't long before a massive brain fart prompted Sonny to spill his guts to some reporter writing a feature story about my underhanded police tactics, and he was locked away for good.

As for Captain Hill... he went from pointing the finger at me (making it plain that my indiscretions should not reflect on his record), to aligning himself with Sonny's incarceration once it became inevitable, telling every media outlet that would then listen, "Sonny Giles' ego, as predicted, would not allow him to give up the spotlight to Detective Booker. And now we've got him."

Needless to say, our relationship went due south, where it remains, a situation I am reminded of every time Captain Bobble-head gets his jollies at my expense. To wit: throwing some pain in the ass case, like the one developing in Acme, in my lap.

"So do we know anything about the two bodies found?" I asked.

Captain Hill shook his head. "I sent a couple of uniforms to check it out. The coroner's office is sending someone too. They should have some preliminary work done by the time you arrive, which," he said, while glancing at his broken wall clock, "should be in about forty-five minutes." Then grinning, he added, "Depending on the traffic and all."

Forty-five minutes, my ass. Maybe as a crow flies _and_ I had wings. Still, with the highway clinging to the shoreline for a good portion of what had been a little over an hour's drive to Acme, a town that jumped out at me with all the vibrancy of a lump of clay, the ride, up until that point, wasn't too bad.

I parked behind the gas station, away from the handful of busybodies who were likely taking a break from their boilermaker afternoon. After checking my face in the visor mirror (my nose taking on the shape of a potato, the circles under my eyes tinted a fluorescent shade of purple), I got out of the car and made my way inside, taking a long look at one serious shit-hole of a gas station, before, "Sam, that you?" broke my concentration.

Charlie Jones, a cop I've known for about four years, plodded towards me, his extended arm arriving a good second before the rest of his body.

"Good to see you, Charlie," I said, shaking his hand. "How ya been?"

"Fine, Sam, fine."

"How are Barb and the kids?"

"No complaints. How 'bout you? And before you feed me a line, what gives with the face?"

"What, this lil' ol' thing?" I said, wagging my finger at my nose. "Pretty, ain't it?"

"Gotta be honest, Sam, I seen prettier."

"Believe me, Charlie, it doesn't feel all that great either."

"I bet. So what happened?"

I rolled my eyes. "Carjacker wouldn't take no for an answer. I pulled my gun, he pulled his fist. I lost."

Charlie rubbed his scalp, a habit he picked up ever since he started shaving his head because of a dandruff problem gone wild, and said, "Huh. Imagine the fuckin' odds of that."

"I did, and I still lost," I joked, although Charlie didn't laugh, or, for that matter, crack a smile. He was too busy rubbing his scalp, and repeating, "Huh. Imagine the fuckin' odds of that," prompting me, in turn, to smack his arm, and say, "So who you here with?"

"Some rook I just sent out to find a hardware store. Guy's a real moron. Probably got lost. Coroner was here too. He took a few pictures and then got some kind of emergency call and left. Said he'd be back by two."

"Who's dusting?"

"Don't know. The Captain said he'd send somebody out here to get some prints, but so far no one's showed up. Big surprise, eh?"

"Huge. I'll call and get someone out here myself. Meanwhile, what do we got?"

Charlie took a deep breath, his chest swelling to the point of putting his shirt buttons at risk, then pointed towards the bodies and proceeded to wheeze out the basics: probable cause of death, weapon used, and victim identification, before finishing off with, "The owner of the place found the bodies. Her name's Florence Donahue. I told her to wait in the office till you got here."

"An office? Where?"

"Next to the John in the back."

"How impressive."

"Oh yeah, it's a regular Taj Mahal."

Okay, so obviously I wasn't thinking palace. But I wasn't thinking glorified tool shed either. Particularly not one filled with wall-to-wall oil (which didn't do a whole lot for my pain since my nose kept twitching), a small wooden desk that looked to serve years of amateur whittlers, and two folding chairs, one of which was overflowing with the bulk of Florence Donahue, who, by the way, had no apparent fear of fire, since she lit a cigarette as soon as I entered the room. That said, the setting quickly turned into a regular super-model-moment when she uncrossed her legs (her dishrag of a housedress grazing the tops of her shin-high work boots), whisked her head back, and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. "I'm Detective Booker," I managed, despite getting weak-kneed from the dainty beauty of it all.

"Well it's about goddamn time," she said, her throaty voice running true to her leathered face. "Was gettin' to think I'd be sittin' here all day. Have a seat."

"Sorry for the delay. And no thank you," I responded, taking a glimpse at my spick and span options. "I prefer to stand."

"I bet it had somethin' to do with your nose, didn't it? The delay, I mean."

"I suppose," I said, shrugging my shoulders. Then, "So you're Mrs. Donahue, correct?"

"Yeah, Florence Donahue. I own the place."

I helped myself to a breath of oil-filled air, before gagging, "And a real nice place it is too."

"It was," Mrs. Donahue said, flicking her ashes to the floor, "but these dead bodies and all. Hell, they'll probably scare off whatever business we had."

"Don't worry, as soon as the news crews show up it'll be just the opposite."

"Ya think? Shit, maybe I should go call 'em."

"Maybe not," I suggested. "They'll find their way here soon enough. Best thing to do is not worry about it. Let's worry about the victims instead."

"You sayin' I ain't a victim here?" Mrs. Donahue asked, the cigarette dangling from her mouth.

I smiled. "Let's just say you're a different kind of victim."

"That's 'cuz it ain't your money."

"Whatever."

"Whatever, nothin'."

"Okay, whatever nothin'," I sighed. "In the meantime, you found them, correct?"

"Found who?"

"The bodies."

Mrs. Donahue dropped her cigarette to the floor, squashed it with the toe of her boot (steel toe, no doubt), folded her arms, and scowled. "Goddamn right I found 'em," she said. "Why else would I be sittin' here? But don't go gettin' the idea that I'm comin' to your neck of the woods to make a statement without some guarantees, 'cuz it ain't happenin' that way. Understand?"

"Actually, we'll get to that later," I said, watching as her discarded cigarette absorbed the color of the oil stained floor. "For now, why don't you just sit back, relax, and tell me what you can."

"Actually, I wanna get to that now. If I gotta come in, who's gonna pay me for my time? The police department? You? Gotta be compensated or I ain't gonna do it. Simple as that," she declared, arms still folded, face still scowling.

I wanted to remain calm. I wanted to be nice. By the same token, I also woke up this morning wanting to be on a beach, compliments of a million-dollar lottery ticket, but that didn't happen either. "Compensated? You want to be compensated? Well then, how about free room and board in the county jail? Sound like your kind of compensation? If not, let me suggest you start tellin' me everything you know so I don't have to explain our health benefits package too."

So here's what I got: his name was Eugene Daybo, which his license already provided, and he moved from Tennessee to Maine a number of years ago because he liked fishing the ocean. But how, or why, he ended up working in her gas station, where he'd been employed the last several months, Florence Donahue didn't know. She also didn't know of any family, friends, acquaintances, or enemies he might have had, snarling, "I don't give a good goddamn if they exist, or not." She did, however, invite me to search for information in the house out back, where, as Mrs. Donahue was quick to point out, "He lived like a goddamn pig."

Now I've got to admit, to hear Florence Donahue, a woman who no doubt spells the word _sanitary_ , _D.I.R.T.,_ make that kind of accusation is a little scary. Yet, between the empty beer bottles, empty cans of food, pizza boxes, wrappers upon wrappers, month- old newspapers, greasy dishes, dirty floors, ants, crumbs, flies, and cockroaches, she was right, the place was under siege. So much so, I quickly deemed the kitchen and living area "information free" and moved into the bedroom, where the only mess to scream, _"Look at me! Look at me!"_ (assuming you can ignore a bed that looked like it hadn't been made in the last half century), was the pile of towels, clothes, and whatever, sitting in the corner. No shit, the mound of crap stood between my waist and my chest, and I'm a solid six feet.

Suffice it to say, I wasn't in a big hurry to start pulling the bedroom apart either. But then, while taking one last look around before making my escape, which I was really looking forward to since there was one of those unrecognizable odors hovering in the stale (and I do mean, stale) air, I noticed a couple of books sitting on the floor beside the closet. One turned out to be the bible, although I'm not sure which version since I've never read any of them. The other, Eugene Daybo's scrapbook, and in it, some noteworthy information. Such as, he was from Tecumseh, Tennessee - married once - had a brother named Garland - a nephew named, Woody, who, according to an old newspaper article, killed his father some twelve-plus years ago - moved to Hastings, Maine, (according to a copy of an old lease agreement), the same twelve-plus years ago - and did, by the looks of a few photographs, own a couple of fishing boats at some point in time. Okay, so maybe that particular information wasn't quite the _smoking gun,_ but it's like I always tell my kid, save the best for last. And in this case it's the fact that Bob Morris, the Tecumseh sheriff, wrote a note to Eugene Daybo a just a few months back regarding his nephew's release from prison. Now there's only two reasons I can think of why the sheriff would do that. Either to pass along some family related news (innocent enough, I suppose), or to warn him (a chin-scratching, ponder-worthy concept to be sure).

Unfortunately, the scrapbook contained nothing about the other victim, Collin Hayes, leaving me to fall back on his driver's license and plates, both of which told me he was a doctor, and resident of Ridgeway, an upscale community located a good half hour from the murder scene.

So why then was he in Acme? More importantly, why did his forehead end up kissing a baseball bat? And that brings up another interesting point: Collin Hayes was not attacked in the same manner as Eugene Daybo. Sure, the coroner may come up with details to indicate otherwise, but even a moron like me could see that Collin Hayes' skull was in much better condition than Eugene Daybo's, as it was still in one piece. So what does that mean? That he didn't put up the same kind of struggle as Eugene Daybo? Or that whoever committed the murders went easy on him because he wasn't the intended target, ending up dead simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Now, if it turns out the latter is true and Eugene Daybo was indeed the intended target, who then intended it?

I'd like to say brilliant police work narrowed the answer, but the truth is all I did was contact Bob Morris, the sheriff in Tecumseh, Tennessee, when I got back to my office.

"What can I do ya for, huh?" he asked, his southern twang spitting out the image of a gum-chewin', truck-drivin', whiskey-drinkin' good ol' boy.

As soon as I explained who I was, where I was calling from, and why I was contacting him, however, the _country-fried_ Sheriff Morris responded with a little too much silence and throat clearing, kicking out the image of a short, fat, nervous guy; prompting me to ask if he'd heard a word I'd said?

"Yeah, I ah, I ah, I heard ya fine. Loud and clear. Loud and clear."

"Well is there anything you can tell me about this Woody character?"

Pause... and then, "Naw, the boy got twelve years for killin' his daddy. That pretty much covers it."

"What about the letter you sent Eugene Daybo. The one telling him his nephew was released from jail?"

"What about it?"

"Why'd ya send it to him?" I asked.

"Just wanted to let him know Woody might be headin' his way."

"Why?"

"B'cuz when he first got out of jail he came back here lookin' for his uncle. At the time I didn't really think nothin' of it. Once he left town, though, I started thinkin' he might have a bone to pick with Eugene. He is a convicted murderer, ya know."

"What do you mean, bone? What kind of bone?"

"Don't really know. Eugene handled the boy's affairs once he was locked up. Maybe it had somethin' to do with all that."

"Think he could've done it?"

"What, kill ol' Eugene? I guess it wouldn't surprise me none. Like I said, he did it to his daddy."

"Well let me ask you this... how would he have known where to find him?"

Short pause, minor throat clearing, and then, "B'cuz Eugene stayed in touch with a couple of his fishin' buddies from around here. Guess one of 'em must've told him."

"No family?"

"None I'm aware of."

"So these fishing buddies, how did he keep in touch with them? They talk on the phone, send postcards, pigeons, write letters... what?"

"I don't believe Eugene had a telephone. Didn't like 'em. Didn't like gettin' the bills. Besides, he moved around some... 'least that's what I heard. So I imagine he forwarded his address along whenever he settled into a new place."

"Uh-huh. And how would you know about Woody if they didn't tell you too?"

"Whata ya mean?"

"I mean these fishing buddies... one of them must've mentioned they told Woody where his uncle was living, right? Why else would you have known to tell Eugene he might be heading his way? Unless... you wouldn't be one of his old fishing buddies, would you?" I asked, smirking.

Long pause, major throat clearing, then, "Is there somethin' I can help you with besides this sort of scuttlebutt, Detective Booker? Or is that it? Got some work to do around here."

"Yeah, you're right, Sheriff, the only thing we should be concerned with is whether Woody might've had something to do with killing his uncle. Discussing who may have pointed out his whereabouts is useless. Besides, there's no law against being a bonehead."

"No. No, there ain't."

"And to answer your question, yes, there is something you can do for me."

"What's that?"

"The name of the prison Woody Daybo was at. What is it?"

"If ya don't mind me askin', what for?"

"Information. You know, as in a copy of his case file, psych workup. Things like that."

"I'd send ya'll a copy of the file we used to have, but I don't know if it's still around. He was arrested a long time ago. But I can check, and if we do, I'll send a copy off. We _do_ have copy machines down here."

"Really? That's impressive. Not sure you can find the file though, huh?"

"Nope. I'll have to go look for it."

"That's okay. I'm looking for more up to date stuff anyway. I want a recent picture of him too."

"I know for certain we don't have one of those, recent or otherwise."

"That's why I want to contact the prison. I'm sure they do."

"Yeah, right, I 'spose they would. Wasn't thinkin'."

"Small wonder."

"Huh?"

"The prison, Sheriff. What's the name of it?"

"Belton Penitentiary. That all you need?"

"Yeah, that's it," I said, scribbling down the name.

"Okay then, it was real nice talkin' to ya. And let me know what happens, eh? The folks 'round here will be real interested in the outcome."

"Oh yeah, I'll call you as soon as I find out," I said... adding, "you stupid jackass," once he hung up the phone, which, as luck would have it, is right when Captain Hill decided to walk in, his evil eye in tow. "You referring to me?"

"No, no, the sheriff in Tennessee I was just talking to. I needed a little info from him to confirm a lead."

"Well I don't imagine calling him a jackass is going to help you get it."

"Jesus, Captain, cut me a break. I waited until he hung up."

Captain Hill leaned against my office wall, his manly contour cutting the image of a ripened pumpkin, and said, "Fine. Now what's up?"

_The sky, the moon, the birds in June._ When he was little that's what I used to say to my son, A.J., who I wanted to see while there was a chunk of daylight left, so I quickly brought the Captain up to speed, finishing up with, "I'm gonna contact the prison and see what they've got on file. I'm also gonna have them scan, or at least fax me a photograph. That way, at least I'll know who I'm looking for."

"Take a run at the computer too," the Captain suggested. "Never know what you'll find."

"I was planning to. Oh, and before I forget, did somebody get to Acme and dust for prints? If Woody Daybo pans out, we're gonna need 'em."

"Don't worry, I got your message."

"Okay, just curious."

Captain Hill smirked (which made me think of a beachball with gastro issues), and said, "Let me tell you something, Booker, there's only so many resources to go around. A town like, Acme, frankly, it's not my first priority. Marlette is. That means the sooner this case is closed, the better it'll look for our city and our department. That doesn't mean I forget my responsibilities, however. Understood?"

I tipped an imaginary hat. "Got it."

"Good," Captain Hill said. "Now, what about the other guy, this Dr. Hayes?"

"Don't know yet. So far I'm going on the premise that he was a victim of circumstance. But that can obviously change. I'm gonna check to see if an MP was filed with the police in Ridgeway. I'll go from there."

"Contact the Board of Medicine as well. They may be able to give you some background information. It probably won't mean much, but anything we get is more than we've got now."

I nodded, saying, "Will do."

"You have his home address?"

"Yeah. His driver's license and car registration both show the same one. If he was still living there, I have it."

Captain Hill folded his arms, which must have stretched the back of his suit coat something fierce. "When do you plan to tell the victim's families?"

I shrugged. "According to that sheriff in Tennessee, Eugene Daybo didn't have any, except for his nephew. As for Collin Hayes, I was going to drive to his house as soon as I had a picture of Woody Daybo. Maybe someone around there will recognize him."

Captain Hill looked unimpressed.

"So far it's the only chance I have to connect them," I said.

"Sounds like a long shot."

"Yeah, but certainly worth checking out."

"Well just don't wait too long, Booker. I don't want somebody coming back and saying we were insensitive, or did something wrong. And I don't want to sit on the identity of the victim only to see it leaked by the media. Christ, if that happens they'll barbeque my ass for good."

Now there's a lovely visual, I thought. "By the end of tomorrow soon enough?" I asked.

Captain Hill stroked his baggy chin, examining my face as if I was from another planet. Finally, "I'll give you till the end of today."

Okay, so maybe I wasn't going to see my son with any daylight left, much less a chunk of it, but in all honesty, the victim's family's right to know was more important. I just hated admitting anything to that fat, leering ball of wax sitting atop the Captain's shoulders. Nevertheless, I said, "Agreed. I'll get right on it."

Fortunately, my ex-wife, Patti, understood the situation and didn't rip into me at all. Not a single nasty word thrown my way. Instead, she calmly said, "I'm not surprised, you're never around," and then hung up on me - twice, in fact, without so much as uttering, "Go back to your hole," a sendoff I've been hearing for the better part of three years. You see, my ex, who had tolerated my offbeat work hours and occasional drinking, would not tolerate my mood swings, which, depending on my level of obsession with a particular case, and whether I was seeking the steady help of my old pal, Jack Daniels, to solve it, often fell between black and gray. But who can blame her? In those situations I wasn't much of a husband, let alone father, keeping to myself for days at a time, chewing on the ingredients of every homicide I was involved with and couldn't solve, digesting the realization that if I didn't, no one else was likely going to.

That was then, however, and I've since given up the bubbly. Eighteen months and counting. Patti still doesn't cut me any slack, though. In fact, I don't even think the word, _civility,_ is a part of her vocabulary, much less her DNA. Too bad, since it would probably go a long way in putting a smile on my son's face; the best part of my life, I've had to stand on my head ever since she threw me out of the house just to exist in his. Regrettably, Patti doesn't see it that way, limiting my visitation to once-a-week dinners, every other weekend sleepovers, parent/teacher conferences - the sort of crap that makes me feel like I'm always waving goodbye, and all because she's convinced my obsessive nature will, bottle or not, one-day swallow me whole.

I don't know, on the one hand, I sometimes think she's right. I should give up what she calls, "The dark side of life," for something else. Shoes. I could sell shoes (lots of money in fat ankles), or vacuums (let's face it, there's nothing like good suction). Better yet, how about cars? Me, a sear-sucker-suit, and some loud mouth know-it-all just dying to tell me I'm ripping him off. God, if that ain't some real full-throttle living, I don't know what is.

On the other hand, I sometimes think, like now, for instance, Patti's living in fantasy-land. I mean, 'dark side,' or not, I've got two stiffs in Acme who can't count on their fingers, let alone do one hand or the other, and I'm selling shoes and vacuums? Not a chance. 'Taint my style. I'm getting off my ass to do something about it, that's what I'm doing.

Unfortunately, I had to wait for the Belton Penitentiary Administrator to stop twiddling her thumbs so I could. In other words, from the time a photograph of Woody Daybo was promised, until one was actually emailed, Martians could have taken over the world. In fact, if I hadn't jumped back on the phone, and asked, "You sending me a picture or painting me a portrait?" who knows when it might have arrived. Granted, the delay gave me an opportunity to do some research on the computer. Yet, to think I wanted to spend the better part of an afternoon reading a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo about Woody Daybo, or learning that Collin Hayes once spent time in jail after losing his license to practice medicine (courtesy of a complaint filed by a Dr. Harley Swan), is like saying I get my jollies playing ring-around-the-rosy with a room full of lawyers.

Meanwhile, the hard part... telling Collin Hayes' family he was killed, was just around the corner. A pathetic chore made worse because once I got to their house and the front door opened, a pretty little girl, maybe seven or eight-years-old, with big green eyes, and a long, blond ponytail, smiled at me, and said, "Hi, I'm Katy."

"Hi Katy, I'm Sam. Is your mommy home?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell her there's someone here to see her?"

"She already knows."

"She does?"

"Yes. She's the one who told me to answer the door. But you can't come in until she gets here."

"Well is it okay if I wait here?"

"Yes. But only if you tell me what happened to your nose."

I flashed the kind of smile only a kid can pull out of an adult, and said, "I bumped into a door."

Katy scrunched up her face. "You have to open them before you walk through them, silly."

"I'll try and remember that," I said, when her mother finally appeared.

"I'm Suzanna Swan. What can I do for you?"

My eyebrows fell, my mouth dropped open, and for a moment or two I must have looked like a complete moron because Mrs. Swan asked, "Are you alright?"

It took me a few seconds to clear the _No fucking ways_ from my head, and say, "Yes, I'm sorry. I was expecting to meet Mrs. Hayes. Your name threw me."

"Collin and I live together. And you are?" she asked pensively.

"Detective Booker," I replied, equally pensive. I then flipped my billfold open and showed her my shield. "Sam Booker. May I come in?"

"What's this about, Detective?"

I sighed. "Please, may I come in?"

Mrs. Swan stared at me, through me, past me (the blue in her eyes and the color in her face washing out like the sunlight in the pending late afternoon storm), before stepping away from the door. Then once inside the foyer, an area about the size of my apartment, "What's happened to Collin?"

I glanced at her daughter, Katy, and then quietly said, "Ma'am, perhaps we should talk alone," but Mrs. Swan snapped, "Damn-it, Detective, answer me! What's happened to Collin?"

Okay, so how was I supposed to answer a question like that? Was I supposed to hit her with, "Oh, I don't know, someone beat him to death with a baseball bat?" Or, "He's run into some real bad luck and won't be coming home for dinner?" Or maybe I just hit her with the ol', "So where were you on the night of routine?" To be honest, I don't know what I said, or how the hell I said it. I only know Suzanna Swan took the news pretty damn hard. Much harder than her daughter, who, after running into the bathroom to get her mother some Kleenex, said, "I feel bad, but okay. I think that's because he beat me up once and I stopped liking him."

I raised an eyebrow. "He did? Why?"

Mrs. Swan held up her hand, dropping it only when her daughter slinked to her side. She then took a good couple of minutes to gather herself. After which, "My ex-husband is a psychiatrist. Collin... Collin was... Collin was a psychologist. My ex-husband went to see him about a problem, but disagreed with Collin's prognosis. So he filed a complaint. Collin learned of it and got carried away. But he was drunk," she was quick to add. "And it's the only time he ever did anything like that."

I looked at Katy, who was staring glumly at the floor, before turning my focus back to Mrs. Swan, a beautiful, well dressed woman, who, my sense told me, would be horrified to learn her eye makeup was long past shot. "So, what happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

"My daddy beat him up," Katy blurted. "He put him in the hospital."

Mrs. Swan held up her hand once again and Katy quickly retreated.

"You'll have to excuse my daughter," Mrs. Swan said, her quivering voice fighting to find a steady mark. "She loves her father. Sometimes to a fault."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know this is hard."

"It is, Detective, but let's be clear about something... my ex-husband spent time in a mental institution for doing to Collin what he did. It's not as cut and dry..." Mrs. Swan looked at her daughter, then, "let's just say it's not cut and dry."

I sighed. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Your husband... excuse me, your ex-husband... his name is Harley Swan, correct?"

"Yes."

"And he lives here in Ridgeway?"

"No. Vernon Springs."

I sighed again. "Does he know a man named Eugene Daybo?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"There were two victims. He was the other one."

Mrs. Swan shook her head, saying, "I don't ever recall hearing the name."

"What about a man named Woody Daybo?"

Mrs. Swan shrugged. "I don't know."

"Perhaps," I said, pulling Woody 's photograph from my pocket, "you'll recognize him."

Mrs. Swan took the picture from my hand. A few seconds later she offered it back. "Maybe. I don't know. Should I?"

I motioned towards Katy. "Would you mind?"

"No."

"Katy," I said, holding the photograph in front of her, "do you recognize this man?"

Katy smiled wide. "That's my daddy's friend. He built a corral for my horse."

If you've ever heard the expression, _I thought I was going to shit down both legs,_ you'd pretty much understand how I was feeling. Fortunately, my expression, like my tone, didn't waver, when I asked, "Are you positive?"

"Uh-huh. He lives in my daddy's guesthouse, behind the corral."

Mrs. Swan looked confused. "Did this man have something to do with Collin's... with his death?"

I shook my head. "At this point I'm just trying to understand a few things. But this Woody Daybo character, he's the nephew of the other victim."

"And my ex-husband... what about him?" she asked, the lines in her face digging deeper, the tears in her eyes finding new life.

I looked towards Katy, before slipping the photograph into my pocket.

"Detective?"

"I'll be in touch," I responded. "And please know that I'm very sorry for your loss." I then crouched down and kissed Katy on her forehead. "And I'm very sorry for yours, too."

#

That the composition of a man facing change is often marked (or plagued, as it were), by his ability to draw light from darkness, tranquility from chaos, sufficient conclusion from deficient premise, is, I readily admit, a time-honored proposition. And yet (and not- withstanding the many successes I have played host to in all my years as a psychiatrist), I've seldom seen a better example of it than in the case of Woody Daybo, exhibited once again when he casually twisted his head in my direction, and said, "Ya know what, Swanny? It's a good thing we held back on bringin' Katy's horse here today. I think it's gonna rain." Simple words, granted. However, words oft times only tell one tale. That is to say, the ease of Woody 's assertion, coupled with the nonchalant manner in which he dangled his arms over the corral when he made it, was a profound contrast to the person who staggered into Maine dressed in the trepidation of an onerous past.

"What tipped you off, the clouds directly overhead, or the ones right next to them?" I asked, convinced our effortless bantering has, in just a short while, become a reflection of our heady sense of camaraderie (which, admittedly, is as new to me as it likely is to Woody, for my life has no more been graced with friendship, than his comfort and stability).

"Neither, my genius friend, neither," Woody replied. He then winked at me.

I stroked my chin. "Oh really?"

Woody nodded. "Rain clouds are a city folk thing."

I snickered. "Well then, tell me my Paul Bunyan friend, how do you know it's going to rain?"

With the grandest of sighs, Woody spewed, "Worms."

"What?"

"Worms. It smells like worms."

"Hmm... now there's a theory you don't hear everyday."

"Hey, I might be a backwoods boy from Tennessee, but that doesn't make me your everyday Boy-Howdy."

"I see. Well then, tell me this: how are you on measuring distances?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, how far to the house from where we're standing?"

Woody's eyes narrowed. He then tipped his head to and fro, before, "Forty... maybe fifty yards. Why?"

"And being a backwoods boy from Tennessee," I said, stroking my chin again, "you obviously know when to head inside?"

"Before it rains? Sure I do. But it's not gonna happen for another half-hour or so, so what's the worry?"

"Hmm... an expert on time, distances, and rain. Interesting," I said. Then with a burst of laughter I turned and started back for the house.

"Where ya rushin' off to?" Woody asked.

I shook my head and continued walking, ignoring my friend's unwavering, "It's not gonna rain, yet," bravado. When I reached the back porch, however, I called out, "My dear backwoods friend, the rain in Spain may fall gently on the plain, but when the skies open up in this part of the world, they really, I mean _really_ open up."

Woody waved off my declaration, at which point I took a seat in one of the rocking chairs, fashioned a face-splitting grin, and waited. Oh how I waited - a whopping sixty seconds, or so, before a crash from the heavens produced a ground-shaking tremor, and it started to pour. So much so, in fact, by the time Woody reached the house, his clothes were thoroughly drenched, his hair resembled a wet mop, and his shoes were overflowing rainwater. "Squish, squish," I said, as he trudged up the stairs.

"Yeah, yeah, squish, squish to you."

"Perhaps," I said, wrestling with my buoyant expression, "the smell of worms is best produced after it rains."

Woody nodded, saying, "I think from now on I'm gonna go with the dark clouds theory." He then laughed. So did I, for that matter, especially when he slipped and fell in a pool of mud while hurrying back to the guesthouse to shower and change. Rude behavior, I freely admit, but when I heard Woody howl with comic delight at his own misfortune, I could not refrain from joining in.

As for my own plans to get ready for dinner... let's just say I was dissuaded by a glass of Bordeaux and the opportunity to listen to the rain. Unfortunately, what should have been a settling moment was seized by the unwelcome shrill of the telephone, followed by the unwelcome shrill of my ex-wife. "Harley, pick up! Pick up, Harley, pick up!" she said, her voice a graduate of the _Wicked Witch of the West Vocal Chord Academy_. "I know you're there damn-it, now pick up. Harley, pick up! Harley! Harley?" I suppose I could have ignored the call (assuming one could ignore _that_ ), but knowing Suzanna's deep-seated neurosis like I did, one that often triggered as many as ten nonsensical phone calls a day, why delay the inevitable? Besides, the call may've had something to do with Katy, a reality, despite my ex-wife's contemptible tendency to cry wolf, I could not ignore.

"Yes, Suzanna, I'm here," I said hastily. "I just came in from outside. Now what do you want?"

"Collin's dead," she sobbed. "Do you hear me? Collin's dead."

I placed my hand on the table to steady myself, before asking a stunned, albeit rhetorical, "What did you say?"

"I said, Collin's dead."

I sighed. "When? How?"

"He was murdered," she hurled. "And you did it!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down," I said, "slow down. You're not making any sense."

"Don't tell me to slow down, and don't tell me I'm not making sense! You hated Collin. You blamed him for everything. You always have. So you killed him. You and that friend of yours."

"Me and what friend?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Harley. You know _exactly_ who I'm talking about."

"No I don't, Suzanna. Now me and what friend? Me and what friend?"

"Woody Daybo, that's what friend."

"Woody ... how do you..."

"Your daughter recognized him from a picture. He had an uncle named Eugene Daybo. He was murdered along with Collin."

I took a deep breath, though it did little to curb the knot growing in my stomach. Then, "You're wrong about this Suzanna. There's been a mistake. A very big mistake."

"Oh really? Isn't he supposed to be your new bodyguard? The one that's going to _tame_ your adversaries? Remember that conversation, Harley? We had it standing on your porch while he was off playing with Katy. And that's why I didn't get a good look at him. But I remember now. Just like I remember your threats."

"It was a joke, Suzanna... a joke."

"No, Harley, it wasn't, so don't think you're getting away with it, because you're not," Suzanna seethed. "Not if I have anything to say about it. I told them where you live. Do you hear me? I told them where you live."

"Who? You told who?"

"The detective."

"What detective? What's his name?"

"They're going to lock you up for a hundred years, Harley. A hundred years," Suzanna said, and in that instant, I could see the smile on her wretched face, hear the glee in her otherwise simmering tone. "You'll never see Katy again. Do you hear me? You'll never see Katy again."

Yes, well, obviously I heard Suzanna loud and clear, but no, I did not respond. I simply hung up the phone and stared at the lifeless wall in front of me, wallowing in the room's silence until Woody walked in, and asked, "What's up? You ready to head to Georgia's for a little pot roast?"

#

They say you never forget how to ride a bicycle. I just wonder if those same ' _Theys'_ know what it's like to get hit by a bolt of lightnin', because believe you me, that's not somethin' you forget either. No sir, when Harley replayed the conversation he had with his ex-wife, I started breathin' heavy, sweatin' down my backside, and gettin' blurred vision. For a second there I even lost all feelin' in my body, stayin' upright only because of a nearby chair. Now maybe I wasn't struck with the same overwhelmin' power I was the night my daddy and sister died, but let me tell ya, the news was just as sudden, and, for the most part, equally scary. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't because I had special regard for my Uncle Eugene. On the contrary, I figured he got what he had comin'. No, what troubled me was the notion that all eyes and fingers would be pointin' my way, no doubt resultin' in somebody wantin' to put me back in jail. And I had no plans to go - not today, not tomorrow, not ever; the very point I made to Harley just as soon as I grabbed hold of myself.

Harley pulled his hair back and tied it into a ponytail, all the while starin' at me, his silver-gray eyes reflectin' obvious concern. So I stared back, wonderin' what the hell I was gonna do, worry washin' over me like that rainwater a short while ago. Finally, "I've got news for you Woody, if Suzanna's implication plays out, somebody is going to point blame at me as well. And like you, I have no aspirations to be locked away, only in my case it'll most likely be an institution."

I nodded. Then, "This whole mess, Swanny... I'm sorry for bringin' it to your doorstep. I didn't know..."

"Nonsense," Harley cut in, "you didn't do anything wrong. Neither of us did."

"Maybe not, but it's not me you gotta convince."

"At best, it's circumstantial evidence, Woody, and very weak at that. Therefore," Harley concluded, his finger pointin' at me with all the conviction of a wounded dog's tail, "to charge us with anything would be an effort in futility, nothing more."

"Jesus, Swanny, they got me the first time around with less than that," I said, the reminder bringin' an immediate twitch to my eye, followed by a twitch in my leg, so I rubbed one and shifted weight on the other, but had only a smidgen of success with either.

Harley's gaze fell to the floor, where it stayed, much like the life in his voice when he said, "Yes, I know all too well."

It's funny, when I came to Maine I had no idea what might happen, or what to expect, hopin' only to find my uncle and get the money he stole from me. After that, I'd start fresh, head for parts unknown, travel the country, see the sights my jail-time deprived me of, and then, then, if luck was blowin' my way, settle into a place where the landscape looked like a page out of a book, a job could be had, the people were friendly, and my past remained just that. It never occurred to me the last part, the settlin' down part, would come first. But in the few weeks I've been here (what with the way I wake up every mornin' wantin' only to tackle some chore on Harley's property, content in knowin' I won't be bothered or judged, my efforts will be acknowledged, greetings returned, conversations welcomed, and opinions respected), that's exactly what's happened. And it all started the very day Harley Swan offered me a job.

I was standin' by the corral admirin' my handiwork (particularly the way the hinges and latches allowed the fence doors to swing back and forth without so much as a hitch or squeak), and Harley was standin' a-ways back, when out of nowhere he said, his boomin' voice reachin' me with plenty of room to spare, "Woody, your work is stellar."

I turned around. "Stellar?"

"Stellar!" Harley declared. "Much better, in fact, than the company I had originally hired to construct it."

"Yeah, their work didn't impress me all that much either. Left a couple of nails stickin' out that my hand managed to find."

"Did you get hurt?"

"Naw. I mean I cut myself and bled pretty good, but it really wasn't that bad. Found a first-aid kit in the garage and taped it up. It's fine. Ruined a brand new pair of work gloves, though."

"Well it certainly doesn't appear to have affected your work."

I laughed, and then said, "That's because the cut was on my left hand and I do most of the good work with my right."

Harley smiled wide. "Well it is indeed good work, my friend."

"Thanks. I'm glad you like it."

"What's not to like? It looks just as I had hoped."

I kicked at the ground, and said, "I did my best."

"You've done more than that, Woody. You've earned yourself gainful employment." Harley then hunched up his shoulders, cast his arms away from his sides, and said, "Unless, of course, you're not interested in fulltime work."

I studied Harley's face, but beyond the spirited flicker I'd gotten used to seeing in his eyes, his expression was about as flat as the patch of ground I was standin' on. After a few seconds, "I don't wanna be a charity case, Swanny. I can't."

Harley shook his head and laughed, saying, "Woody, my boy, would I have had a caretaker's house built if I hadn't intended on filling it with an able body?"

I shrugged.

"No, of course not. I need help running the place. And you, my friend, are obviously no stranger to hard work, which, when coupled with your apparent enjoyment around a tool box, is an attribute not so easily found."

"It's nice of you to offer Swanny, but..."

"Look," Harley said, ticklin' the air with his fingers, "these hands were made for turning the pages of books, manicures, and twiddling thumbs. Understand?"

I snickered. "Yeah."

"Good! Then how about room, board, and fifty thousand a year to start? Sound reasonable?"

I stopped snickerin'. I had to. My jaw was on the ground.

"So?" Harley asked, marchin' towards me. "Do we have a deal?"

I hemmed and hawed.

"I'll even throw in use of a new pickup truck. I've little doubt you're going to need it. Naturally, we'll have to get you a license first, but that should pose little difficulty."

"That's really generous, Swanny. I mean, I appreciate it and all, but you've done so much for me already, I just don't know..."

"Woody?"

"What?"

"This isn't charity."

Once again, I hemmed and hawed.

"Woody?"

"What?"

"Take the job."

I helped myself to a handful of fresh air, before, "Okay. You got yourself a deal."

"Splendid. Splendid."

"On one condition," I added.

Harley stopped dead in his tracks. "What's that?"

I grinned. "I don't have to call you warden, do I?"

"No," Harley said, matchin' my grin, "professor will do."

Meanwhile, no matter what I call him is gonna be from a distance, because the more I think about my Uncle Eugene takin' the fast train to hell, the more convinced I am some guy with a badge, and his mind already made up, is gonna come lookin' for me. "I'll be leavin' tomorrow, Swanny," I said, swallowin' back the catch in my throat. "I don't want to. That's just the way it is."

Harley looked pained, as though he was refereein' a fight between what he knew deep down and what he wanted to accept. "Woody, you need to think it through."

"Harley," I countered, my eyebrows droppin' down like they were lowerin' the boom on the rest of my face, "I have thought it out, and I only see one conclusion - prison. And I already told ya, I'm not goin' back."

"I'm not suggesting anything of the sort."

"Then what are you drivin' at?" I asked, my curiosity waverin' under my eagerness to get some things together, figurin' to be gone by first light.

Harley leaned forward, the leatherback chair breathin' a quick sigh of relief, and laced his page-turnin' fingers together. "Listen, Woody, before we get ahead of ourselves, I think it's important we make sure that what Suzanna said is indeed accurate."

I took a seat opposite my friend. "She'd lie about somethin' like that?" I asked, then immediately conjured up the image of my Uncle Eugene laughin' at me while I sat in prison and quickly shrugged off the question.

Harley answered anyway. "No. I'm quite certain Collin Hayes and your Uncle Eugene are dead." He then looked away, and for the next couple of seconds his eyes walked along the wood floor, as if searchin' for a place to curl up and rest. Finally, "When it comes to me, however, Suzanna often times clouds right from wrong."

I followed the line of Harley's gaze from the bookshelves (rows and rows of cherry-wood cradlin' the bodies and souls of subjects I've never even dreamed of, but that Harley's likely digested time and time again), to the entryway of the adjoinin' room, where the lamp lights were no doubt castin' shadows across the many framed smiles of his daughter, Katy. Before I could ask what he was gettin' at, however, there was a deep sigh, followed by a weary, "You'd think with all the time I've spent studying the human psyche, I'd know why. And yet, the reasoning escapes me." Harley then looked at me and wrestled a weak smile into place. "I suppose Suzanna's distrust of me leaves her little alternative."

"Distrust you? Why?" I asked. "Hell, anyone with a pair of eyes can see you've been generous with her. I mean, she might complain n' all, but that's just a case of the squeaky wheel. Isn't it?"

"I suppose that's possible," Harley replied, his voice still hangin' by more than a few discouraged threads. "What I really believe, though, is that Suzanna distrusts me because she distrusts herself."

"I don't follow."

Harley stroked his chin. Then, "It's like this, Woody: Suzanna's logic works in reverse. She automatically assumes, without actually realizing it, that people are looking to take advantage of her, when in reality it's she who's always looking for the upper hand. In other words, she sees in them what she is herself, but can't see. Therefore..."

"Therefore, she's capable of stealin' without thinkin' she's a crook," I asserted.

"Precisely," Harley returned.

"So, what's that mean, professor? What's that gotta do with our situation here?"

"It means Suzanna is likely to say something dubious." Harley then took note of the confused look I suddenly sported, and added, "Dubious, as in suspicious or questionable. Suzanna, in all her self-deluded glory, may well say something that is not true, just so long as it leaves me in a problematic situation. And when, like now, she does, I have no reasonable alternative but to approach with caution. That, my friend, is the gist of our present situation."

"So you wanna find out if Hayes and my uncle dyin' in the same place was just a fluke, or some detective really thinks we're part of it all because he talked to your wife, is that it?"

"Before I take Suzanna's word for it, and, more importantly, before you leave town, yes. Yes I do."

"You really think your ex-wife is blowin' smoke?"

"If she thinks it will hurt me, then yes, her logic dictates it. But I'll talk to her tomorrow when she's settled down some. She may yet ante up some information."

"And what if she doesn't? Then what?"

"Frankly, Woody, I don't know. What I do know is even if the police think we had something to do with the murders, they need evidence - fingerprints and the like. They're not going to just show up and arrest us. They may talk to us, yes. But arrest us? No. In other words, you'll have ample opportunity to leave. It may not be necessary, however, so why run if you don't have to?" Harley asked, his eyes pleadin' what his voice sounded so sure of.

I spent the next several seconds mullin' the situation over, before mutterin', "Okay, fine. But if it turns out you're wrong, I'll be leavin' in real short order."

Harley nodded. "I understand."

#

I scooped A.J. into my arms as soon as my ex-wife cleared out of the way, and growling, gave him one of those bear-hugs I hoped would last far longer than the hug itself, all the while watching my ex-wife, Patti, who smirked, said, "He already ate," and then slammed the door. She opened it back up about a second later, adding, "Oh, and by the way, nice nose," before slamming it again for good.

"Thank you very much," I replied, all the same.

A.J. drew back to take a look, his expression turning three shades of _ewww,_ and asked, "What happened, dad? You get beat up?"

"Nah," I said, setting him down, "I got it bumping into a door. I tripped."

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

"It looks like it hurts a lot."

"No, it's okay. The doctor gave me some medicine for it. But never mind that. Didn't your mom tell you I was coming to take you out for dinner?"

A.J. shrugged his bony shoulders. "Yeah, I guess."

"So how come you already ate?"

A.J. looked away. Then kicking at the porch, he muttered, "She didn't think you'd make it."

I cut loose with a big, and phony, smile, before saying, "Ah, c'mon now kiddo, just because I missed your bus doesn't mean I'm gonna miss your dinner, does it?" I had to repeat, "Does it?" a couple of more times, before A.J. finally sighed, "No, I guess not."

"You guess not? You guess not?" I said, wrapping him in a headlock, "Why I oughta..." I then followed up my playful threat with a few well-placed noogies, which brought both protests and laughter that continued all the way to my car.

"Where we going?" A.J. asked, once inside.

"Ice cream. You in?"

"Should I tell mom I'm leaving?"

I started up the car and pulled away. "She'll figure it out."

"Maybe you should call and tell her anyway."

For a ten-year-old (and I hope I don't sound like every other dopey parent who thinks their kid is going to be the next Einstein just because they once waved three fingers in the air and squealed, "Fee"), A.J. has a real good head on his shoulders. Smart, not to mention polite, he measures situations and adjusts accordingly. I'd like to believe it's a sign of growing up, that his personality's taking shape, but there's also a part of me that thinks he feels a responsibility to take my place as man of the house. Not only that, but ever since me and his mother divorced, he's become quite the conscientious one, often showing more concern for my life than his own. I ask him about school, for instance, and he shrugs his shoulders and asks me about my job; I tell him to play with his friends, and he mentions something about me taking a day off from work; I make sure he's obeying his mother, and saying his prayers before bed, and he asks if I'm eating right and getting plenty of rest. Even now, while we're sitting in _31 Flavors..._ I want to know all about camp, and he wants to know if I'll ever get married again, looking at me with eyes reflecting the dull light of a cloudy afternoon, and adding, "It's okay if you do."

I assured him it wouldn't happen anytime soon, and not unless he first approved of the woman, to which he responded, "Mom has a boyfriend ya know," rendering me, in turn, all but speechless. But that was just the beginning because once he told me _The Boyfriend_ has been around since the start of summer, _and, and,_ get this: was taking them to Vermont over Labor Day weekend, where it just so happens he owns a ski resort, and plans to teach A.J. how to ski this coming winter (excluding the Christmas season, since they'll be spending the time at _The Boyfriend's_ house down in Florida), it was like getting kicked in the groin, smacked in the teeth, and punched in the gut, all in rapid succession.

Oh yeah, I was having a great time. I sat in the booth as rigid as a two by four, strapped on another phony ear-to-ear (which had to be confusing the hell out of my seldom used dimples), and spilled a bunch of, _I'm really happy for you and your mother_ mumbo-jumbo, all the while watching a bunch of 'tubs' and 'tubettes' waddle in and out, two scoops of their national pastime in hand. Fortunately, I was back home within the hour, where I sat alone in the darkness and toasted _Life Goes On_ with my first, second, and third drink in a year-and-a-half, before cracking wide fucking open.

The next morning, with visions of my wife sleeping with some other guy still dancing in my head (not to mention the pounding I was taking from my old pal, Jack Daniels), I brought Captain Hill up to speed on the Hayes/Daybo homicides. His reaction (not counting all the time he spent pulling at the folds of his three-layer chin), "Ten to one they did it."

I didn't argue. Why bother when, number one, I wasn't in the mood, number two, I'd rather talk to a lump of clay than a windbag like him, and number three, with the preliminary evidence pointing their way, he was probably right. Granted, something might crawl out of the woodwork to indicate otherwise, and yeah, we still had to wait for the blood work and fingerprint analysis to come back from the lab, but that aside, this investigation could be over before it really begins.

Sounds pretty easy, doesn't it? Yeah, about as easy as sticking wings on a cow and then hopping aboard to take flight. That's because homicide isn't like... oh, say, _Burglary,_ where the only thing you've gotta prove is that some stupid schlub helped himself to the property of another. No, show me a cold-blooded murderer and I'll show you two arms, two legs, a head full of nuts, and all the predictability of a hurricane. And the worst part, most don't even realize how demented they are, and if they do, don't care. Then again, why would they? I mean, think about the animal involved. At the top of the heap you've got your thoroughbred, the purest of the whack-jobs, so to speak, the ones literally born with the style, grace, and disposition of Frankenstein. People like Ed Gein, Jeffrey Dahmer, and my own Sonny Giles, to name a few. Then there's the pseudo killer, who, in many ways is just another version of the whack job - normal on the outside, crazy on the inside, yet, their volcanic mush generally erupts but once, and in a single direction. Do the names Mark David Chapman and John Hinkley ring a bell? There's also the semi whack-job - those who surrender to the _whack side_ only when the strains of daily life become unbearable. These are the guys who usually bring shotguns to the office and shoot at everything that moves. And last, but certainly not least, you have what I so affectionately refer to as, _the plodders_. Domestic, business, personal, no matter, these are the people who, while shooting pool or sitting at a stoplight, having dinner or playing poker, say to themselves, "Gee, I know how to get rid of the problem: I'll kill the motherfucker," and then map out plans to do just that. The interesting thing about plodders is that they're the toughest to convict. The others, the whack-jobs, they generally get as _hard_ from their own celebrity as they do killing someone, so getting arrested is all part of their _attention craving_ mindset. But the plodders? No, their lunacy is definitely dialed down a notch. They don't go to all the trouble of orchestrating a murder just to get caught. On the contrary, they kick and scream, "I'm innocent, I'm innocent," every step of the way, and usually have some kind of alibi to back them up.

Harley Swan and Woody Daybo... they're plodders. Instinct tells me so. Instinct and motive, which, the more I think about it, fits like a glove. Look at the obvious: Woody Daybo gets out of jail, where he spent twelve years for killing his father, races to Maine because he has a "bone to pick with his uncle," moves into Harley Swan's house, who evidently spent time in a mental institution for attacking Collin Hayes, and low and behold, Hayes and the uncle suddenly wind up in the same shit-hole gas station - dead. Now then, what are the odds?

The odds are the Hayes/Daybo murder investigation is about the only thing that'll keep me from obsessing over my ex-wife and son. Translated, that means it's even money I'll be at Harley Swan's house, with a search warrant in hand, by ten-o'clock tomorrow morning.

#

My grandfather once told me principled men are easy to understand because they are committed to their beliefs, and therefore predictable. "Look at me, Harley," he said on the occasion. "I believe in nothing short of an honest day's work for an honest day's pay. The hands I employ know it, understand it, and therefore, deliver the goods because they know what they can expect in return."

At the time there were two reasons I did not argue with my grandfather. One, he was a very smart man and in his company I learned far more with my mouth closed than opened, and two, I was somewhat bewildered by the statement itself, for it seemed to me the magnitude of a principle might well define the degree one may go to uphold it - in essence, belying predictability.

Over the years I've come to better understand my grandfather's point of view. Principle is indeed just that - principle, absolute, there being no substitute for taking a particular position, only the virtue on which it is based, and the dignity in which it is furthered along (explaining why he may have used such a routine example in the first place). It was, for grandfather, a matter of purity and nothing else. Unfortunately, I've not known many principled men in my life, and certainly none like my grandfather, confined, instead, to the company of those who found principle necessary only in its convenience; worthy only in its fashion. As a result, commitment rings more cliché than trait. So too, does predictability, a concept built on calculation, certainly, but at its core, knows no bounds - what is its truest color, and yet, most serious blemish.

I say all this because I spent most of the night rehashing my last conversation with Suzanna, keenly aware if her assertions evolve (unwarranted though they are), my freedom, as well as Woody's, may well be placed in the hands of someone else's principles - the pursuit of which I can neither predict, nor, for that matter, gamble on.

The morning sky began as a whitewashed canvas, distant, subtle patches of blue discernable once the sun's splintered light slipped between thick, pallid clouds stretching east to west, where it fell across my property, stitching the valleys and hills into seamless pools of emerald green. It is a portrait I have seen painted on many a late summer's morning. One that will change within the hour, and then change once more an hour, or so, after that, culminating in what would be a flawless blue sky, save for a smattering of tissue-white clouds that will loiter high above.

I moved from the back porch (a bit robotically I might add, yesterday's downpour leaving the ground too treacherous to outright ignore), and headed for the plot of land Woody was busy marking off for the wild apple trees we would be planting by September's end; a suggestion Woody made just a couple of days ago, that I, in turn, thought a splendid idea. Woody, however, appeared to choke on the concept as soon as I had mentioned that one to two hundred trees would make for a lovely little orchard. In fact, he cleared his throat more than a few times, before replying, "I was thinking more like a dozen or so trees, Swanny."

"Nonsense," I countered, taking a casual swipe at the air, "a dozen trees won't produce enough apples to make a decent pie."

Woody looked at me like I was crazy, which I know for some is a matter of fact over fiction. Then, "We do that, I'm gonna need some help. And I don't just mean manpower. Gonna need some equipment... startin' with a backhoe."

I nodded. "We'll go to Eaton's Nursery. They'll have everything you need. Manpower, equipment, you name it."

"Well it sounds like we're gonna need a few trees. They got any of those?" Woody asked. Then raising an eyebrow, "Unless you figure they're gonna sprout up out of nowhere."

Frowning, I said, "You mean they don't?"

Woody sighed. "I gotta teach you everything, don't I?"

"What can I tell you, I'm intellectually challenged. Have been my entire life," I quipped, to which Woody scratched his head, and responded, "Oh yeah, you're a regular dimwit."

I smirked. "A what?"

"A dimwit. You're a dimwit," Woody said, before cackling like an overgrown schoolboy.

Yes, well, cackling like an overgrown schoolboy was yesterday's news. Woody, consumed with packing up and leaving at the first sign of trouble (what I surmise will be the moment some Sherlock Holmes type dips into his, _Where were you on the night of?_ repertoire), is today's news- once again made plain when he greeted my approach with, "Hey, Swanny. You find out anything yet?"

"No. I talked to my attorney, and he's going to get in touch with the prosecutor. Evidently they're good enough friends to garner a courtesy notification prior to any formal charges being filed."

"What about your ex? Talk to her yet?"

"I just called. No answer. But it's probably just as well since cordially speaking, she's not human for another hour anyway."

"What time is it?"

"About nine-thirty."

Woody shrugged. "So what happens now?"

"I call back. In the meantime we go into town and have breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Why?" I asked, a firm believer that while quandary manufactures anxiety, anxiety solicits comfort food. "You didn't eat last night, and if I had to guess, I'd say you've yet to eat this morning. Correct?"

"Just not hungry, Swanny."

"Nonsense," I said grinning. "You are hungry. You're just ignoring your stomach."

"That a fact?"

"Yes, that's a fact. So too is my craving for blueberry pancakes. So come on. Keep me company," I said, an invitation I just naturally assumed would generate more calm than concern, camaraderie than conflict. And yet, as we made our way back toward the house (me posturing as carefree a look as I could muster - Woody, a sullen-faced portrait of hunched shoulders and limp arms), the figure of a stranger standing on my back porch came into view, and I realized nothing could be further from the truth.

He introduced himself as Sam Booker, but did not offer to shake my hand. Rather, he stood in the stoic comfort of a soldier _At Ease_ , notwithstanding what looked to be a few painful bruises engulfing the bridge of his nose, and said, "Dr. Swan, I presume?"

I nodded.

"I've been waiting to say that," he continued, snickering irreverence, I might add.

"Yes, well, that propels you into unique company, Mr. Booker."

"That's Detective Booker, Doctor. I'm with the Marlette City Police Department."

"And a state-of-the-art department it is," I responded, even though the facilities looked to predate WWII. "Now then, what's your purpose here?"

"You mean you don't know, Doctor? That's strange because rumor has it you're supposed to be highly intelligent. I guess maybe you're not."

I sighed. "Well if it's about your nose, I don't practice that type of medicine. Perhaps you'd like me to contact NASA. Rumor has it they specialize in celestial bodies."

Detective Booker sneered. "Forget my nose, Doctor. I'm here because I have a few questions about a double murder. But you know that already, don't you?"

I smiled. "A bit rhetorical, wouldn't you say, Detective? That's okay, though. No harm in fouling up conversational protocol. Ask your questions. Lord knows the sooner you do, the sooner you can leave."

"My, my, my, a little testy, wouldn't you say, Doc?"

"We didn't do anything wrong," Woody blurted.

Detective Booker turned to Woody. "Ah, and who might the defensive one be?" he asked, his dark, brooding eyes studying Woody as a cat studies a mouse, bird, or any other creature it sights with predatory fascination.

I touched Woody on the elbow. "His name is Woody Daybo, but then if you're half the detective you likely tell everyone, you already know that."

"You mean, Sherwood Daybo, don't you Dr. Swan?"

"Wow," I offered, feigning surprise, "you really are at the top of your game, aren't you Detective?"

Detective Booker stiffened, the color in his face flared, and for the next few moments his jawline quivered, as though crushing rage between his teeth. Then he grinned, abruptly, derisively, and said, "Collin Hayes and Eugene Daybo... either of you know those men?"

"Of course we knew those men.

"What do you mean, _knew?_ I didn't say _knew._ What do you mean, _knew?"_

"Detective, please. Spare us the nonsense. I spoke with my ex-wife last night, so yes, Woody and I are fully aware they recently died. It's no longer breaking-news. Now then, is there anything else you need?"

Booker:

Goddamn plodders have an answer for everything. But it's like I said before, their lunacy is dialed down a notch so they're able to walk themselves through a situation like this, long before I show up. That's why they're so damn hard to convict, and that's why I hate 'em. And this one, this Dr. Harley Swan, I'd like to grab him by his grungy, two-toned ponytail and smack the living tar out of his smug attitude. But that's not all that gets me. I'd also like to know how the hell a guy dressed in the colors of a fruit tree commands any kind of respect? I mean, the white pants, besides being baggier than hell, are tolerable if you happen to be a Midshipman heading out to sea, and the white sneakers, yeah, they're okay if you're playing tennis - but a bright orange shirt decorated with lemons, limes, pineapples, and watermelons, is something altogether different. In fact, it's just plain weird looking, if you ask me. And he's supposed to be some brilliant shrink? For the love of Pete, his practice probably consists of one patient - him. Meanwhile, here he stands, playing his cards like some cool and calculated gambler. Well I've got a news flash for him... if he thinks he's getting away with murder, he's got another thing coming. Both these assholes do.

"Let's dispense with the formalities, shall we?" I said, my eyes bugging out so far, for a minute there, they belonged in their own zip code.

"By all means, Detective," Dr. Swan replied. "By all means."

I took a step towards Woody Daybo, who, unlike his Toucan friend, got his fashion sense straight from a John Deere catalogue. "You went to jail for killing your father, didn't you? Then as soon as they let you out, you came up here looking for your uncle. Why? Little score to settle? You take the blame for something he did, is that it? Or maybe he stole some money from you. How about that one? Am I getting warm, pal? Huh, am I getting warm?"

Woody glanced at Harley Swan, then at me, and then back at Swan. His eye twitched and sweat gathered on his forehead, making him look nervous as hell.

I snickered, "Cat got your tongue, pal? Does it? Huh? Does it? That's okay, you don't have to give me an answer. I talked to the sheriff from your hometown. He told me all about it."

Woody kicked at the ground, muttering, "He doesn't know anything to tell."

"Maybe not," I replied with a smile as heartfelt as a scorpion's sting. "Then again, maybe we'll let a jury decide that." And that's when Harley the Haberdasher chimed in, "Detective, if you're here for something beyond making false accusations, please, let me know. Otherwise, I'd like to call my attorney."

"False accusations, Doc? You mean like the one involving Collin Hayes? A man you've had a deep and violent history with... who, I might add, just happens to be very, and I do mean, _very_ dead. Well go on then, call your lawyer. You too, country-boy... unless you're gonna need court appointed counsel because you can't afford one. Wait, wait," I said, shaking my finger, "maybe the good doctor here will pay your way." I then winked at Harley Swan. "How about it, Doc? You gonna pay for his lawyer? That the deal you cut? You know, you kill 'em, I'll buy 'em? That pretty much the way it went?"

Dr. Swan laughed, as in _really_ laughed... as in he laughed so hard, I started laughing myself... right up until he stopped, and I mean slammed on the brakes stopped, and said, "My profound sense tells me you're crazy, Detective."

"Right," I said nodding my head, "I'm crazy. So crazy, let's examine a few facts, shall we? You spent time in a loony bin for attacking Collin Hayes because he beat up your daughter. Your friend here, the one with the _aw-shucks_ looks and southern twang, he gets released from prison after serving twelve years for killing his father, only to come to Maine looking for his uncle. Story goes they had a spat that needed rectifying. But he didn't just end up in Maine. He moved into your house, a man with enough legal history to fill his own book. And then late one night - bing, bang, boom - poor old Hayes and Uncle Eugene, two men who'd never even met before, just happened to be killed at the same time, in the same place, with the same baseball bat. And you say I'm crazy? Yeah, we'll see just how crazy I am when I get the two of you charged with first-degree murder. What do ya say to that, country-boy, you ready to go back to the can?"

Woody:

I dunno, I heard those words and I just exploded, lungin' at Detective Booker with the hopes of knockin' his head clear into outer space. Good thing Harley was there to get between us. Still, the detective got to see my temper blow up pretty damn quick, which is all he was after in the first place. Now he figures he can push a few buttons anytime he wants, and get me to do, or say, somethin' that'll only make his case that much easier to prove. The worst part is, I didn't see it comin' until it was on me like _that_ turn in the road separating pavement from cliff.

I think I surprised him, though, when I apologized. I even stuck out my hand to shake.

But he didn't take it - the apology or the hand. He just straightened his skinny black tie, rearranged his sport coat, and ran his fingers through his hair (which seemed kind of odd since it was pretty short and hardly moved anyway), before sayin', "Perhaps another time, pal. Right now I've got other things in mind." And with that he pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket, and said to Harley, "Here. It's a search warrant. I've got two cops waiting in a car out front to help me. Let me know when you're ready and I'll go get 'em. Okay Doc?" He was grinnin' from ear to ear.

Harley scanned the paper. Then, "I have... excuse me, _we_ , Woody and me... _we_ have nothing to hide, Detective. However, at first glance there appears to be a problem with your document."

"Oh really? Who are you now, Clarence Darrow?"

"I don't have to be Clarence Darrow to know what I read, Detective. I did admire his work, though. Particularly the work he did in the case of Leopold and Loeb. Now most find the Scopes-monkey trial to be of greater significance, and obviously for many reasons it was. That said..."

"Dr. Swan!" Detective Booker snapped. "Just tell me what the hell the problem is!"

Harley held out the warrant, and smiled. "This warrant only applies to this house."

"What do you mean _this_ house?"

"This house... as in you're standing on the back porch of it."

"So?"

"So I presume you're interested in the caretaker's house as well. And it's over there." Harley calmly turned and pointed. "See it? It's right there. See it?"

"Nice, isn't it?" I threw in.

"Yeah, so what's your point?" Detective Booker asked, once again glarin' at me.

"My point is, it has a different address, Detective. This warrant, however, specifies this address here."

"What?"

"Here, have a look for yourself," Harley offered.

Detective Booker slapped Harley's hand away. "Get that out of my face. I know what the address says. I had to drive here, remember?"

"Yes, but insofar as there's more than one dwelling on my property, you apparently didn't realize what it meant. But not to worry, Detective. I have, excuse me, _we_ , Woody and me, _we_ have nothing to hide there either. In fact, I'd be happy to show you around just as soon as you come back with a proper warrant. Until you do, however, I'm afraid you'll just have to confine your search to my house here."

Right about then I thought Booker was gonna pop his top. I mean he just stood there simmerin' like a hot plate, promptin' me to say, "You don't look so good, Detective. You okay? Can I get ya some water, or somethin'?"

Booker:

Boy _,_ if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a smart-ass. And Woody Daybo is a smart-ass. Harley Swan is too, the son-of-a-bitch, with an emphasis on _smart_. He's not afraid to let you know it either, wearing his brains on his sleeve like a piece of expensive jewelry. But that's okay, even the smart ones make mistakes. Swan will too. And if he doesn't? Woody Daybo will for sure. He's too jumpy not to, what with the way he fidgets around like a kid stuck in a car seat.

First things first, though: the search. Obviously I was concerned about the warrant being screwed up because it bought them time. But hey, shit happens, and I could find no rhyme or reason to mope around about it as a result. So what did I do? Naturally, the only sensible thing - I rummaged through the appropriate house like a tornado, me and my boys turning over every pillow and cushion, emptying every drawer and cabinet, and pulling every book from it's shelf, the latter agitating the hell out of Doctor Bookworm, and delighting me in the process. Meanwhile, there wasn't a single item that looked, or even smelled suspicious.

Fortunately, our luck changed when we moved to the garage. That's because not two minutes in, Officer Mitch Wade, a thirty-year veteran with more belly than body, dandruff than hair, and wrinkles than skin, found a pair of blood-stained work gloves sitting on a box, just as plain as day. Needless to say, my eyes lit up. Not to be outdone, my ears then got into the act, perking up like a dog's when Harley Swan, who appeared somewhat rattled by the find, was reminded of Woody Daybo's conveniently cut hand, and offered up a rousing, "Oh right, right."

Still, the bigger issue is whether the gloves will put Daybo and/or Swan at the murder scene and all but guarantee their acceptance to Penitentiary U? To be honest, it's too early to say. I thought it'd be fun to take a swipe at Sherwood Daybo anyway, so I asked him what he thought the chances might be? But ol' country boy didn't respond. Instead, him and his twitching eye looked at the floor, ceiling, walls, everywhere but at me, so I quickly added, "What's the matter, pal, cat got your tongue?"

Woody:

No, the cat didn't have my tongue. But my uncle had my blood type, I explained to Harley, after Detective Booker finally left.

"So?" Harley said, grabbin' a handful of books to put away.

"So, it's AB negative. It's kind of rare," I said, gatherin' my own load of books and followin' suit.

"Yes, it is. Only 1 in every 167 people has it," Harley replied.

"Now why would you know somethin' like that?" I asked, wonderin' what it must be like to dispense information as though secondhand news. "Never mind," I said after a moment's thought. "The point is we were two of 'em."

Harley slid his books on the shelf, grazin' each one with his fingertips as though caressin' old friends and special memories, before turnin' around. "How did you find out?"

I flashed him a copy of _Paradise Lost._ "Where does this one go?"

Harley took the book from my hand, made a face as he looked at it, and said, "In the overindulged section," before gruntin' a mix of air and laughter from his nose.

I then handed him another book, then another, and another still, until several minutes, much silence, and many more books passed between us. I'd grab 'em, and he'd stack 'em - two at a time, three at a time - and it was soon clear, he was either thinkin' about somethin' else, or the only method to organizin' his library was the one that moment. When we got to the last book, somethin' called, _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter,_ Harley held it up like Reverend Beezle used to hold a bible in front of our church congregation back when I was a kid. "This one actually brought tears to my eyes," he said.

"That sad, eh?" I asked.

Harley winked. "I don't know. I never got beyond the title."

This time I laughed, which, around Harley, seems to happen more when there's less reason for it, and, like now, has a way of easin' our conversation forward. "I found out when I was twelve-years-old," I finally said. "I had an appendix operation that didn't go accordin' to plan, so I needed blood. My uncle gave it to me." I then shrugged, "Small town, ya know?"

"So your uncle quite possibly saved your life?"

"Yeah, I suppose. But before you paint him a saint, know my daddy was helpin' him pay his bills and had to threaten to cut him off if he didn't show at the hospital."

"Ah yes, family. Nothing says love quite like it," Harley cracked. He then pointed towards the family room, and said, "Let's sit down," a suggestion that landed him on the couch, his arms danglin' over the back, me in a chair, my arms restin' squarely on my thighs, and the murder investigation of two dead bodies sittin' directly between.

"You know Woody, just because you and your uncle shared the same type blood, doesn't make it _your_ blood at the crime scene.

"I know that Swanny, but it also doesn't mean they can't convince a jury it is. Especially if they're of a mind to try. And that's the scary part, the part that's pushin' me to leave."

"Yes, but your leaving doesn't mean they'll stop looking, Woody. On the contrary, it will likely serve to heighten their search. You do realize that, don't you?"

That I might get caught was a notion so far down the peckin' order, I didn't give it a second thought. Matter-of-fact, I just as soon get shot dead than return to prison, a statement Harley immediately waved off, declarin' my attitude, "Absurd."

I dunno, was it absurd to distrust a legal system that once got it wrong, or wanna run before they got it wrong again? Was it absurd to think I might've earned the right to move forward, or that I wanna experience life without shadow or fear? Was it absurd to think I could outrun the shame and embarrassment of my past, or that Harley Swan would automatically understand what I never let on, and therefore, accept my wantin' to leave without any questions asked? I rested my head against the visor-shape of my hands, lookin' up only after Harley said, "Woody, now is not the time to go silent. We need to talk."

"You're right, we do. But there's somethin' I wanna tell ya first. Somethin' that's been gnawin' at me for so damn long, if I don't get it out now, it's liable to chew a hole right through me," I replied, the sound of my voice barely scratchin' the room's bleak surface. "Remember you wanted to know how I got the scar on my forehead?"

"I remember."

"It wasn't from a broken bottle," I said.

"What then?"

I cleared my throat, before sayin', "Remember how I told you about J.J. Cotton? How he pretty much guaranteed my survival in prison?"

Harley nodded. "Yes."

"It's true, he did. But I was already there eight years before he arrived."

Harley's eyebrows drew close, and for a second the color in his face paled. "What are you trying to tell me, Woody?"

I once heard a saying in prison: _Unearthin' your past buries skeletons forever._ I remember ignorin' it then, thinkin' it was some ol' timer's way of makin' sense of things... findin' relevance in a place where there wasn't any. It never occurred to me there might be some truth in those words. But after tellin' Harley the cut on my forehead was the result of J.J. Cotton wrestlin' a knife from my hand before I could slit my own throat (a desire that came up on me when, after eight years in jail, the only company I was keepin' were the rapists I couldn't fight off), and then hearin' him say, "Woody, you don't owe anyone an explanation... you only owe yourself a chance to live life," a certain calm washed over me, quickly, the way afternoon shadows soak up a patch of sunbaked ground.

"That's all I wanna do," I said, after pausin' long enough to get hold of myself.

"And so you shall," Harley replied. He then bounced up from the couch and left the room, strandin' me with curiosity that only increased when he returned a few minutes later with a newspaper in hand, and a playful look in his eyes; the same kind of look he sports whether he's dreamin' up a scheme (like the one he played on his ex-wife that first day she saw me at the house), or thinkin' up somethin' for his own amusement (which I've come to learn is a daily event). It's only when he sat back down, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Now then," that I got concerned.

"Now then, what?"

Harley held up the paper. "The circus."

I looked at him like he was speakin' a foreign language. "The what?"

"The circus," he repeated eagerly. "The Doodle Love Traveling Circus. It's making its way through Maine. Here, see for yourself."

I took the newspaper from Harley, but had barely glanced at it, when he said, "Woody, you and I are going to join the circus."

"We're gonna what?" I asked, though not until I pulled my jaw from the floor.

Harley snickered. "We're going to join the circus."

"Why the hell would we join a circus, which, by the way, I know nothin' about?"

"I don't know anything about it either, Woody. But you're a good mechanic, aren't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And I can ride a unicycle like nobody's business, can't I?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And we can afford to work cheap, can't we?"

"I dunno," I said, shruggin' my shoulders, "I guess. I mean, if you say so."

"Guess nothing. The tidy sum I intend to withdraw from my bank will be more than enough for the two of us."

"Okay," I said, rollin' my eyes, "I'm a mechanic, you ride a unicycle, and we can work cheap. So?"

"So I would think any circus would be happy to have us," Harley said. He then straightened a make-believe tie, addin', "I intend to be a clown, you know."

"Great, and with my luck I'll probably get stuck cleanin' cages."

Harley snickered, sayin', "Yes, but the cages will be small because The Doodle Love Traveling Circus is a boutique affair frequenting smaller cities throughout the northeast." Then, "Seriously, the idea came to me last night. And I must tell you, it makes grand sense."

"Uh-huh," I muttered, my tone reekin' with all the excitement one might expect from a typically muttered, _Uh-huh._

"Honestly Woody, it's the perfect situation," he said, his eyes jumpin' with as much life as his multi-colored shirt. "And here's why: Detective Booker will be back here sometime tomorrow with a search warrant for the other house, correct?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Okay. Now then, I've testified as an expert witness, and have, therefore, witnessed enough criminal proceedings to know that lab work is not an overnight process. As such, it's safe to assume a minimum of two days will come and go before any results are available to Detective Booker."

I nodded, sayin', "I dunno, but if you say so, okay."

"That means if we were to leave tomorrow morning we'd have no less than a two day head start on him, correct?"

Once more I nodded, this time addin', "I suppose."

"Yes, well," Harley continued, sportin' a sly dog's grin, "we're going to go one better. I'm going to cut myself. Nothing serious... after all, I'm not a Viking. Just enough of a prick on the finger to leave a smattering of spots on another pair of gloves, which we are then going to leave in the guesthouse. Booker will find them, send them to the lab, and we, in turn, will garner an additional two day lead time."

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh is right, and do you know why it's right?"

"No, tell me," I said, as though I had a choice in the matter.

"Because we've both been arrested and our fingerprints are already in the system. If ours had matched any of those gleaned from the crime scene, don't you think they would have pulled us in by our scalps by now? Of course, they would have. But they don't match. That's the very reason Detective Booker is going to push the blood work so hard. He wants something tangible to connect the dots, without which, he has only circumstantial evidence to go by - ergo, a weaker case."

I hemmed and hawed my way to, "Okay. But that just means the case is weaker, not weak."

Harley freed up his ponytail and then just sort of rummaged his fingers through his hair until it looked like he'd been facin' a strong breeze. When he finished, he looked around, slowly, as though pullin' thoughts together from different corners of the room. Finally, "Woody, despite our innocence, despite the police department's inability to place us at the murder scene, I believe they will press on for three reasons: circumstantially, our respective criminal histories, and because Detective Booker, as you previously inferred, wants to. And because I have far more trust in myself than I do juries, which I'm convinced are culled from a league of dunces, like you, I'd rather take my chances running." Without missin' a beat Harley then shimmied to the edge of the couch, looked to his right and left, as though somebody might be eavesdroppin', and said, "According to the article in the paper, the circus will be performing in Barrington tonight and tomorrow night. It's a forgettable little city approximately 150 miles south of here. From there it heads to Kingston for a week, before moving into New Hampshire. Now then, tomorrow morning you and I will take a cab to Georgia's and have ourselves a nice, leisurely breakfast. Thereafter, we'll proceed to the bus station and buy our tickets to Barrington. I've already checked, and a bus leaves at ten. Once settled, we'll be concealed by a circus that travels under the radar, if you will. At the same time, the private investigator I'm going to instruct my attorney to hire will try and find out what this murder situation is really all about. In other words, we're going to take an opportunity to prove ourselves innocent, and yet, remain free in the process." Harley then folded his arms and promptly sank into the belly of the couch with the glow of a satisfied man. "So, my friend, what do you think?"

After a moment or two of head bobbin', I replied, "It's interestin', I'll say that," to which he quickly responded, "Yes, it's quite intriguing, isn't it?"

"Adventurous, too, I suspect," words that prompted him to sit up, throw his arms into the air, and spout, "Tall tales for everyone."

"It sounds kind of crazy, though," I added, a statement Harley merely shrugged off, sayin', "Not the first time my ideas have been depicted as such."

And then I asked, what, if anything, he planned to tell his daughter, and his expression took on the likeness of a ball losin' its air. "Frankly, I don't know," he said, his tone ridin' a flat line. "I only pray she understands."

#

Suzanna:

I seem to have reached a point in my life when I am damned as much for what I do, as what I do not. Though an egregious state of affairs, it is, in no small measure, one I must approach realistically. Therefore, as you read this letter, know that I have left town, burdened by your misguided contempt, as well as the unknown waiting for me in harm's way.

I have prepaid one years alimony and child support, and mailed same to the offices of Friend of the Court, so rest assure, all monthly sums required from me will continue without delay or interruption. In addition, I have deposited funds with my attorney, William Stark, earmarked, of course, for Katy. He is to be contacted in the event a situation arises that you cannot rationally manage. I'm most certain he expects to hear from you.

Suzanna, after all these years it seems quite inappropriate, particularly in light of the daughter we share, that I have nothing more to say to you. However, I do not, and shall, therefore, close this letter.

Regrettably, Harley

_____________

My Dear Katy:

I have lived everyday of my life hoping to find true happiness, and yet, the only time I have found it, has been in the time I've spent with you. You are my daughter, my very smart, beautiful, and loving daughter, and to think I might miss a single moment with you makes me a very sad man. Unfortunately, that time has come for I must leave home for a while. In fact, when you receive this letter I will already be gone, as I must take care of some things very far away. I'm sorry I did not get a chance to say goodbye, but do not think for a second I do not love you, because I do. I also do not want you to blame yourself for my leaving because that would be very wrong.

If some of this is hard to understand, I'm sorry. What you must realize is that you are, and will always be, the most important person in my life. You are the light in my eyes and the beat in my heart, and not a day will go by when I will not think about you. I will call and write you every chance I get. But if you do not hear from me, always know that I tried my best to get in touch with you, but could not for reasons beyond my control. Mind your mother and your teachers, and remember that daddy loves you. Daddy will always love you. No one, and nothing, can ever change that.

I look forward to the day when we will be together again.

Sweet dreams baby girl. I love you,

Daddy

#

A funny thing happened on my way back to the police station. I had a revelation and decided not to go. No shit, it was just like in the movies. One minute I'm driving, minding my own business, the next, I hear this ringing, when suddenly - _Bam! -_ there's an explosion, filling me with instant clarity. It went something like this: "Hey Captain, what's up?"

"Plenty, Booker, but I wanted to hear about the search. How'd it go?"

"Not sure. We found a pair of bloody gloves in one of the houses. Mitch Wades' taking them to the lab, so we'll know more in a couple of days. If you're asking me if they're guilty though, yeah, I definitely think so."

At that point I half-expected the Captain to ask me why. Instead, his wary, "What do you mean, one of the houses?" barely rose above my cell phone static.

"There's two houses on Swan's property," I say. "His and the caretaker's."

"So what you're telling me is we've got to get another search warrant. Is that what I'm hearing?"

"Yep, that about sums it up," I replied.

"Great, that's just great."

"C'mon Captain, it's not the end of the world. It puts us behind a couple of days, but these clowns aren't goin' anywhere. I'll get 'em."

"Really? And what about the department?"

"I don't know. What about it?"

"How about we don't have the time or money we're throwing at this case now, let alone the cost of your screw up."

"Screw up, my ass!" I snapped. "That's a bunch of crap and you know it."

"I know it? I know it? Let me tell you what I know," he barked like the fat old bulldog (complete with runny eyes and jowls), he was. "It's not crap! You, your attitude, that's crap!"

After reattaching the phone to my ear, I said, "Hey, how was I supposed to know about the other house? What, I should figure Swan's got two of 'em? Yeah, right. Give me a break."

" _What, I should figure Swan's got two of 'em? Yeah, right. Give me a break,"_ he mimicked. Then (barking again), "All you had to do was a drive-by. Get the lay of the land, which I thought you would've done out of curiosity anyway. But no, just like always, you'd rather assume. Well what else did you assume _?_ I mean, you checked to make sure an apartment complex isn't sitting out there, didn't you?"

"Hey," I said, about two seconds away from pitching my phone, and with it the snidely image of my snidely Captain, "at least I didn't assume we'd get good prints at that stupid gas station no matter how long it took for _someone_ to send forensics out there. Oh, that reminds me... did I mention the prints are useless? Unless you want to prove the victims were the ones that really died. I don't know, Captain, was it attitude going on there? Or did you let budget concerns get in the way of your thinking?"

"Ya know what, Booker?" Captain Hill said, and right then I could picture him standing behind his desk, hands on hips, or, more accurately, the bouncy skin hiding his hips, nodding his head as though he knew something the rest of the free world didn't. "Deliver the case and I'll overlook your insubordination. Don't, and we may have some issues. Understood?"

And that's when my eyes and ears revealed what a day back at the office would be like. So instead of heading in, I left Captain Shithead with, "Let me know when the other warrant's available," and headed out.

Florence Donahue, "Flo, call me Flo," she hacked out with a cloud of cigarette smoke after I reintroduced myself, was leaning against the counter looking every bit as fresh and dainty as the smoldering ashtray beside her.

"Things getting back to normal?" I ask.

"If things were gettin' back to normal, Detective, you wouldn't be here," she returned, the gleam in her eyes, the sunshine in her voice, buried under the same pile of mud as before.

"I suppose you're right," I said, about as interested in her opinion as I was Oprah Winfrey's.

Florence Donahue countered, "Damn right, I'm right." She then turned and retrieved a crumpled bag of potato chips from behind the counter, announcing, "I wanna finish my lunch."

"Well you go ahead. I'm just here for another look around. But I promise to stay out of your way," I said, posting a fake smile, one I might've been able to hold a few seconds longer had the handful of chips she stuffed in her mouth not turned into soggy projectiles when she mumbled, "Take your time, Detective. Take your time."

Yeah, maybe I'll just pull up a chair and read the paper. Have some coffee. Maybe a donut. Hell, maybe the little Mrs. and me can share another bag of chips and a soda. Then again, "That's alright, I won't be long. If it's okay with you, I would like to get another look at the house out back, though."

"What for?" she asked, her eyelids drawn like half-closed window shades as she gave me the once over.

"Evidence. I wanna make sure I didn't miss anything," I replied, without doubt or conviction.

"What's to miss?"

"Don't know," I said impatiently. "But considering a Buick could get lost in that dung pile, anything's possible."

Florence Donahue snickered, her crusty pitch reminding me of a sputtering engine, and said, "Ain't no point goin' out there, Detective." She then tossed her bag of chips to the side, eased into a smile of crooked teeth, and added, "Not when I can give you everything you need right here."

Talk about a stun-gun, man, that statement was as paralyzing as anything modern science could ever hope to invent. Fortunately, she followed it up with, "Relax, you ain't my type," so I didn't have to smack the color back into my face and the feeling back into my bones - which is just as well since all I could manage at that point was a mouthwatering, lip-smacking, "What then?"

Florence Donahue rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."

I nodded. "So I've been told."

"A real idiot," she repeated, though her attention was squarely on the ashtray when she said it, her stubby fingers rummaging through the ashes in search of a prize butt. After plucking one out, examining it as though it was a painting, or jewel, or in _her_ case, a trophy fish, she declared, "I wanna sell my property. The house, the gas station, the few pieces I got scattered around town... all of it. I wanna go see my sister in Oklahoma City. Need to get a motor home first. Won't be able to if somethin' screws up the sale."

"Okay," I said, tossing my hands in the air, "I give. How's a murder investigation gonna screw up the sale?"

"The bad press. The bad luck," she replied. "I don't wanna be jinxed. That's why I figure the sooner I tell ya what you wanna know, the sooner you can clean up this mess and clear out of here for good."

"Well if you were so damn worried about it," I said, "you should've told me the first time I was here."

Florence Donahue scowled, the tired, swollen skin resting below her eyes all but hiding the bulge of her cheekbones, and countered, "I just decided, Mr. Detective. Is that okay with you?"

Is she kidding me? Interfering with a murder investigation? Withholding information that could lead to an arrest and conviction? Aiding and abetting? Accessory after the fact? "Oh yeah," I said, chewing on one hell of a self-serving alibi, "that's great. That's terrific."

Florence Donahue took a long drag on her stubby, and then waited for the stream of dirty white smoke to mingle with the blades of the dirty white ceiling fan, before, "Eugene Daybo liked to talk when he got drunk, which we did together on occasion. He once told me if his nephew, you know, the one that was in jail for murderin' his daddy, ever got hold of him, he'd likely kill him too. Apparently they had a money dispute that never got itself rectified. That, and Eugene figured his nephew was crazy. And crazy ain't somethin' that ever changes. But you probably already know that, don't ya, Detective?"

Yeah, I knew it alright. I also knew with Florence Donahue's written statement, which she was kind enough to provide once assured her courtroom testimony wouldn't be necessary (so, I lied, so what?), I was getting warm... real warm. Two days later, with the lab results drawing a pretty rare blood type connection between the gloves and murder scene (okay, so it wasn't exactly DNA material, but with all the circumstantial evidence in this case, it was good enough), I was getting hot. So hot, in fact, I decided that searching the caretaker's house could wait. First, I wanted to visit Suzanna Swan and let her know her ex-husband's arrest was imminent.

And then Suzanna Swan showed me the letter she'd received from him that very afternoon, and the only thing imminent was a hangover.

#

Lily Love stared at her father; stalwart, imposing, with buoyant eyes and a mischievous grin, he stood in the framed photograph much the way he had appeared in life. His birth name was Hendrick (after an uncle on his mother's side), but caring little for the man and even less for the name, once he left home (a decision motivated by his mother's absence, and the severity of his father's contempt), he fashioned the nickname, Buddy, and from then on would answer to nothing but.

An adventurer by nature, Buddy spent the next two years dissecting the country by rail, warmed by the flames of garbage can fires, nourished by the fruits of odd jobs and 'lucky' dice, and entertained by a host of would-be scholars and ill-fated world beaters.

At age eighteen, with rumors running rampant that displaced farmers and vagabond migrant workers were discovering gold in northern California, Buddy headed up the coast, bound and determined to make his fortune. Yet, when he arrived in San Francisco, he discovered romance in the name of Daphne Odom, daughter of Wilma and Riley _'Boots'_ Odom, the largest black land owner in Marin County, who, upon catching his daughter in the throes of barnyard passion with a "slick talkin' white boy," not only kicked the tar out of Buddy (ergo the name _Boots_ ), but escorted him aboard an Alaskan bound fishing boat captained by an old navy buddy, where he was forced to work as a deck hand, setting lines, swabbing the deck (often his own puke), and ducking the frigid waters of the Pacific.

The vast Alaskan wilderness proved too mystifying to avoid, however, its inhabitants too colorful to ignore, the economic prospects too promising to abandon. As such, it would be another ten years before the forbidding winters returned Buddy to the continental United States. A small fortune in hand, courtesy of the import-export business he operated out of Ketchum, Buddy first returned to Minnesota, where he lingered long enough to bury his father and pay off his debts. From there he spent two years fattening his pockets buying and selling Illinois real estate, another selling oil and gas leases to wildcatters in northwestern, Ohio, and three more trading commodities in New York, before settling in Vermont with his wife, Lea Doodle (a Trapezist he'd met and married one Fourth of July weekend in New York's Blackhead Mountains in a three-ring ceremony that included Lea's family of clowns, roustabouts, and circus performers).

But country life played slow, tedious, and when Lea remarked over coffee one morning, "It's awfully quiet here," Buddy grinned, thanked the lord, and within a couple of weeks they had cashed in the warmth of home cooked meals and fireside chats for a lifestyle of trailers, tents, and bustling towns along the eastern seaboard.

Lea gave up the trapeze for pending motherhood in the spring of 1989, the same year she and Buddy purchased the traveling road show from the estate of owner, and one-time ringmaster, Simon LaPont. They christened it _The Doodle-Love Traveling Circus_ in a massive fireworks display that would mark the beginning of an adventure Buddy often touted as, "One helluva party," and on his deathbed many years later, called, "A never-ending Saturday night;" words Lea repeated not long thereafter, victim of a broken heart.

By then the landscape was changing, however. Towns were swelling into cities of shopping centers and water parks, subdivisions and soccer fields, high-rises and highways. Computers blossomed, video games beckoned, _togetherness_ became the commodity families could least afford to squander, and the circus, for all the children it continued to mesmerize, sizzled like the day after Christmas (compelling Lily to streamline operations, and, on more than one occasion, reach into her inheritance in order to subsidize, and preserve, the only life she had ever known).

"Lily? Are you in there?" Freddy asked, an incidental knock at the door following.

Lily pulled her eyes from her father's photograph, comforted by the sound of Freddy's crusty tone (her father's right hand man for many years, Freddy was one of Lily's few connections to the cherished past). "Yes Freddy, I'm here," she replied. "Come on in."

"We got company," Freddy said, after stepping inside her office, a brightly lit trailer decorated in a menagerie of ceramic junk and circus-life stills.

"Who?"

There was a time when Freddy's expression would have announced the visitors as either friends or foes, but the years had taken their toll and the lines on his old, grizzled face donned a grimace, whether intended or not. "Couple fellas lookin' for work," he replied. "One says he's a mechanic. The other..." Freddy rubbed his scruffy chin... "frankly I ain't too sure about him."

"Why?"

"Well for starters, he dresses like he just stepped off an island, but he talks like he oughta be wearin' a three-piece suit."

"So?"

"So he's got a bad case of lady hands."

Lily smirked. "What on earth are lady hands?"

Freddy dropped his palms open. "The opposite of these."

Lily hardly glanced down, knowing in the fifty years Freddy had called the circus home, he had worked on every nut and bolt that held it together. From bale-ringe to butcher, rigging to roustabout, spec to spool truck, there was not a job he had not done, a piece of equipment he had not mastered, an activity he had not absorbed, a measure of blood he had not spilled. But the years had slowed him, dulled his instincts, weakened his tolerance, and Lily could no longer afford to cast blind allegiance to judgment no longer willing to take a chance; embracing instead, the _nothing good comes easy_ mentality her mother and father had always preached, and until a few years ago, Freddy had righteously followed. "Didn't my father have what you call lady hands, too?"

Freddy cackled. Then, "Yeah, but ol' Buddy broke the mold, so he could pull it off. This fella, I doubt he ever broke a sweat."

Lily's eyebrows drew close. "What's his name?" she asked, unwilling to entertain a comparison she deemed unfair.

"Swan. Harley Swan."

"I see. Well didn't my father also used to say, 'Give a man a chance and he'll let you know real soon if he's earned it?'

"Yeah, I 'spose he did," Freddy muttered.

"So, let's give him a chance, Freddy. It's not like the cream of the crop or straight and narrow are busting down our gates looking for work. And last I talked to you, we needed another roustabout."

"Roustabout nothin'," Freddy said, a dismissive wave of his hand following. "This Swan fella aims to be a clown. Says he can ride a unicycle better than anyone we got. I know one thing, he come dressed for the part."

Lily snickered.

"Somethin' funny, Lily?"

Lily shook her head, saying, "Freddy, you're too much."

"Why?"

"No reason, forget it," she replied after a short pause. Then, "Have you seen him ride?"

Freddy hunched his shoulders. "Nah. But even if can, he's still gonna have to earn his place. If he don't, folks around here will never accept him."

Lily carried Freddy's surly attitude to the front of her desk (her dark, waste-length hair skimming its mahogany finish), and folded her arms (still taut from her years as a Trapezist). "There's something else, isn't there?"

"What do ya mean?"

"I mean, you've been with me my whole life, Freddy, so I know when something's up. So what is it? What's bothering you?"

"Nothin'," Freddy replied, sorry he'd ever broached the subject. "You already think I'm a paranoid ol' man. No sense goin' deeper."

"Oh hush, Freddy, I do not," Lily scoffed.

"Yeah ya do," Freddy said, posting a wry grin. "But that's okay, I probably am."

"Freddy."

"What?"

"What's bothering you?"

Freddy rolled his tired eyes.

"Freddy."

"Okay, fine," he grumbled, keenly aware if he didn't answer, Lily would have stayed on him until he did. "I think they might be runnin' from somethin'. No other way to explain why two men, one spit, one polish, come strollin' in out of nowhere lookin' for work."

"It wouldn't surprise me if they were," Lily said, her vigilant tone interrupting a brief silence. "But it's not our business to check, number one. And number two, if my father had turned away everyone who was running from something, he would've had to close down long ago. We would've too."

Freddy took off his New York Yankees baseball hat and ran his leathery fingers through his hair, though it remained a thick, disheveled pile of white. Finally, "Well, since Ray ain't very good, and Johnny can't seem to stay off the bottle for more than a day at a time, we can definitely use a mechanic. I just don't wanna see a problem develop, whether we hire one of these guys, or both of 'em. That's my only point."

Lily sighed. "I understand."

Harley was leaning against a tent side-pole, his baggy white pants and flowered shirt flapping in the breeze, while Woody, scanning distant activity, was standing a few yards away, when Lily's, "Gentlemen," caught them from behind.

"Yes, hello," Harley said, offering his hand.

Lily squeezed the callous-free palm (immediately thought of Freddy and smiled to herself), and said, "You must be Harley Swan."

"Indeed I am," Harley voiced regally. "And this," he added, stretching his arm open, "is my dear friend, Woody Daybo."

Woody scurried closer. "Nice to meet ya, ma'am," he drawled.

Lily took hold of Woody's hand (once again smiled to herself), and said, "And you must be the mechanic."

"I am, yes ma'am."

"Well Mr. Swan and Mr. Daybo, I'm Lily Love, the owner. Now what brings you to our circus?"

"Call me Harley, please," Harley said, before cascading into a reply that included the words, _exhilarating, inspiring, audacious,_ and _novel,_ each intended to capture the spirit of the circus and the reasons Woody and he wanted to join; none of which he heard himself utter, however, for with every passing syllable Harley had slipped deeper into the cradle of Lily's rich brown eyes, until the sound of his own voice had become muted by the light, of what he would later tell Woody, was her indelible beauty.

"I've never quite heard it put that way," Lily remarked, once Harley retreated to silence. Then looking at Woody, "And how about you?"

Woody stammered a few seconds before jutting his thumb toward Harley. "What he said."

Lily laughed, saying, "I know what you mean. I'm not sure I understood it all either."

Woody shrugged. "That's just because Harley has a skilled way with words."

Lily nodded. "And unless I miss my guess, something tells me you have a skilled way with equipment."

"He's the finest mechanic around," Harley declared.

Woody kicked at the ground aw-shucks style. "I'm okay," he muttered, his boyish good looks flushed red.

"Nonsense," Harley countered. "There isn't a vehicle or machine you can't fix. I'd stake my reputation on it."

Lily cast a prudent glare (though Harley merely saw the prominent ridge of cheekbones and the contours of a flawlessly shaped nose melting into the gentle fabric of skin), and asked, "And what reputation would that be, Mr. Swan? Harley, excuse me."

After a few moments of chin stroking, amid feigned deliberation, Harley replied, "I've not the faintest idea, Mrs. Love."

"That's Miss, although everyone here calls me Lily."

"Lily," Harley echoed.

"Yes, Lily. But first things first," she said, turning to Woody, the levity in her tone disappearing. "We've got a trailer that doesn't seem to wanna start. Have Freddy show you where it is. We're getting ready for the Tear Down, and I'd like to know one way or the other. Figure it out, and you and your luggage have a place to sleep tonight... assuming we agree on wages."

Woody nodded. "Sure thing. But where's Freddy?"

"In the Backyard," she replied. "That's what we call the area behind the Big Top, which is over there. Tell him I sent you. And if he's looking for me, I'll be in the Ring Tent watching your friend ride a unicycle." Lily then looked at Harley. "Better than anyone we've got?"

Harley tapped his chest. "You have doubts, Lily?"

Lily smiled - window dressing for eyes that no longer perked a blend of enthusiasm and curiosity at the start of each day, but simmered in hues of hope and uncertainty throughout it. "No doubts," she replied. "A couple of concerns, maybe. But no doubts."

#

Instituted by Buddy Love when the circus shifted from overland to train travel, and maintained by Lily simply because it had proved a good system, specifically since loading and unloading the food stocks remained a matter of priority, regardless the method of travel, the caravan (a variety of trucks two city blocks long - some painted orange, some white, but virtually all depicting a rendering of _Doodle the Clown_ sitting atop a blue scripted _Doodle-Love Traveling Circus_ ), was assembled in sections of four.

In front, _The Flying Squadron (_ named in honor of Tom Hawk, a longtime Advance Man, who, in the course of marking a route for the circus to follow, lost control of his pickup truck and hit a tree), carried the layout, provisions, sideshow and cookhouse tents, the latter seating three hundred people at mealtime - a far cry from the one thousand routinely served in years past. Behind it, _The Bulk:_ a combination of semis and flatbeds used to haul a majority of the equipment, including the bleachers, rides, lighting, generators, restrooms, and Big Top. Next, _The Farm:_ a dozen horse trailers filled with Ring stock (horses, llamas and miniature donkeys; lions, tigers, elephants, and dancing bears having disappeared with the arrival of personal injury attorneys and the advent of skyrocketing insurance costs). Bringing up the rear, _The Abode:_ a long line of trailers, campers, pickups, and buses, several pulling personal vehicles, and all housing the workers, performers, their families, wardrobe, and baggage.

But if the caravan (what Freddy called 'Mud Show'), had engaged and disembarked like an impressive, well-schooled battalion, raising the Big Top was the attraction. From hoisting the center poles, to setting and staking the quarter and side poles, to spreading and lacing together rolls of canvas, the unemployed, bored, and curious, often came from miles around to watch the power and precision between man and machine; a display Harley and Woody first witnessed in the town of Kingston.

Harley's interest in the rigorous bond, however, was far exceeded by his interest in Lily, who meandered through the activity on horseback, her discerning command akin to a conductor's baton. Nevertheless, several hours would pass before he and Lily had an opportunity to talk, and only then because Harley bumped into her while wandering the grounds alone. "Greetings," he said, surprised by Lily's unexpected appearance.

"There you are," Lily returned, her affable tone drawing him in instantly. "I saw you at the raising and haven't seen you since. I was beginning to think you deserted us."

Harley bowed his head. "Nonsense m'lady. You were busy, and I feared my presence would only interfere."

"Come O' new subject of mine. Let us chat awhile."

"Your wish is my command," Harley said, a proclamation that lingered until he and Lily had distanced themselves from the sights and sounds of a circus revving up for the weekend, and she asked, "So tell me, how was your first night? How'd you sleep?"

Harley responded, "Fine, Lily, fine." Yet, in thinking quite the opposite, courtesy of the sheer oddity of his situation back home (not to mention the small, cramped trailer he and Woody were given to use), Harley winced, and the unusual gray eyes Lily had found so compelling, reflected reticence. She said nothing, however, mentioning instead how Woody, in just a short time, seemed to be getting on so well.

"Yes, I've noticed that myself," Harley said, eager to agree. "But then, he seems to hit his stride whenever he's working with his hands. I'm just thankful you have work for him to do."

"And what about you, Mr. Harley Swan? What do you see yourself doing?"

"I suppose that depends. Is bearded-lady out of the question?"

"You're not hairy enough," Lily cracked.

"I can always cut off my ponytail and glue it to my chin," Harley deadpanned.

Lily giggled. Then, "Please don't. I like it on you."

Harley smiled, warmed by a comment he wasn't certain how to pursue, so after offering, "Ahh Lily, you're too kind," he shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I guess that means I'll just have to ride a unicycle then... in full clown regalia, of course." But his declaration was met with silence, prompting him to add, "Then again, perhaps my audition failed to impress."

"No, you were actually quite good," Lily remarked. "But I had a different idea. It came to me after we talked in the Ring Tent yesterday."

"Really now, and what, prêtell, does Madam Love see for her hopelessly gifted, albeit shunned, unicyclist?"

"How does ringmaster sound?"

"Ringmaster? Why ringmaster?"

"Because you have the voice for it, and I just as soon not do it anymore."

"You mean I've a big mouth?" Harley quipped.

Lily smirked. "Now did I say that?"

"Intimation, Lily, intimation."

"Seriously Harley, you have a certain flare with the English language that I think would work well with an audience. And it's not all that taxing a job. You pretty much introduce the acts and get out of the way."

"Then why don't you want to do it anymore?"

"Given the chance I'd rather work behind the scenes, where I belong."

"And you find no one else in your employ capable?"

"Beyond a handful of performers, no. And I'd rather they concentrate on performing."

"Hmm," Harley uttered.

"Hmm, what?"

"Hmm, you're actually quite serious."

Lily nodded. "Yes, I thought maybe you could watch me for a few days and then take over once we get to Richmond."

"I see."

"But?"

"But nothing," Harley replied.

"Then why the troubled look?" Lily asked.

"Curious, not troubled."

"About?"

"Well, if I may, I'd like to pose a question?"

Lily swept the back of her hand over the patchy grass in front of her. "The floor's yours."

"Splendid," Harley returned. He then adjusted his weight, cleared his throat, and asked, "Will I get to wear one of those nifty costumes?"

Lily's eyes flashed wide. She then bit her bottom lip.

"Something funny?"

Lily shook her head.

"Are you sure?"

Lily nodded.

Harley grinned, the creases on the sides of his cheeks spilling easily, and said, "You want to laugh, don't you?"

Lily shook her head.

"Yes, you do."

"No," she managed.

"Then why is your bottom lip quivering _yes,_ but your top lip quivering, _I better not?_ Did you suddenly garner the image of my ample derriere and chicken-bone legs in riding pants, boots, and tails?"

It wasn't Harley's eccentricity alone that intrigued Lily. After all, her father was Buddy Love, a man who, as Freddy so aptly stated, _broke the mold._ It wasn't a simple case of his intellect, either. On the contrary, Lily was a college graduate - Dartmouth - a deal she once made with her parents in order to pursue circus life fulltime. Nor was it Harley's air of distinction, for he was no more a culturist than she. Lily had been to London and Paris, The Guggenheim and Louvre. She had seen the paintings, read the books, listened to the music. What she had not done in longer than she cared to remember, however, was spend time with a man whose personality and interests offered an escape from the male banality of her life. And as she finally burst out laughing (intoxicating merriment Harley could not help but join), Lily realized it was a situation she both dearly missed, and sincerely welcomed.

Afterward, when their conversation had digested all matters frivolous and ordinary, and the only sign of time passing was the day's dwindling light, Lily glanced at the distant activity behind her, before saying, "I should probably get back to the mix before they send out a search party."

"I'm sorry, Lily. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time."

"That's okay, Harley. I enjoyed every minute of it."

"As did I," Harley returned. "In fact," he added, his throat growing dry and tight, "it's not too often I have the pleasure of such dazzling company."

Lily dipped her head to one side, her prolific brown hair dangling like a shadow at dawn, and said, "Come on, walk me back to planet earth."

#

Telling Captain Hill that Harley Swan and his hillbilly sidekick, Woody Daybo, flew the coop wasn't as bad as I figured it'd be. Sure, I went into his office with the DONG...DONG...DONG of a church bell ringing in my head, the result of a little too much Jack and Coke from the night before, and yeah, he bitched a blue streak, blaming everyone and everything under the sun for what had happened - but those elements aside, I pretty much got out of his office unscathed. Wet, compliments of the spit and spray that flew from his mouth with every other word, and annoyed, having been told I was the dumbest cop he'd ever seen (when all he had to do was look in the mirror to see a dumber one), but unscathed.

Meanwhile, the race was on - me against the two sons-of-bitches, Swan and Daybo - me against every cop in Maine, since it would only be a matter of time before a statewide police bulletin was issued for two murder suspects on the run - me against the Captain, who no doubt stands ready and willing to single out his favorite slappy the moment he's caught in the crosshairs - me against myself, swirling gray matter navigating the means to an end - and, in what would start things off with a bang, me against Fido. But more on that in a minute. First, a couple of quick observations:

Cunning men are purposeful. They do not assume. They do not rile easily. Egotistical men are brash. They do not like to lose. They do not like to give up control. I believe Harley Swan is both, with one major difference - his cunning and ego have been amplified, if not altogether, created by his wealth. Deprive him of it, snatch it from his manicured fingernails, seal it from the stench of his hoity-toity air, and he'd probably turn into a sniveling old lady. Don't, and it's status quo. But therein lies the kicker. Swan needs his money to succeed, a necessity that should create a nice, big, juicy trail to follow, one he may have already coordinated with his attorney, William Stark, who, right, wrong, or otherwise, I planned to visit real soon.

Now then, back to Fido. There I was smoking a cigarette on the front porch of Swan's guesthouse, while Officers Wade and Rogers were inside looking for clues - anything that would help pinpoint the suspect's whereabouts, or, in the alternative, further tie them to the bodies of Eugene Daybo and Collin Hayes - when I heard some rustling sounds, tree branches snapping, leaves crackling, that sort of crap. At first I thought it was just a couple of squirrels running around, but the more I listened, the louder and clumsier it sounded, so I thought, okay, maybe it's a raccoon. Not likely, the Davy Crockett in me chimed in. Raccoons are nocturnal little buggers and the prospect of one screwing around at ten-thirty in the morning isn't very likely. Maybe it's a deer, I then say to myself, followed by, _Hey genius, why not go see?_ So that's what I did. But when I got to the side of the house, a dog, maybe twenty feet away, stopped whatever it was doing and looked up at me. I'm not talking a little French Poodle here. I'm talking a dog so big and hairy, if it had lived in the Northwest, someone would have mistaken it for Big Foot. "Hey boy, what are you doin'?" I said, trying to sound a lot calmer than I actually was. He replied with a big dog smile, otherwise known as bared teeth. I backed up slowly, which must've seemed like a handwritten invitation to do the opposite because Fido (his melon-size head hanging just below his shoulder blades), started moving towards me, with one little add-on... a low sounding belly grow - the kind that makes you utter, "Uh-oh" - the kind that takes you back to those boyhood days when you ran across your neighbor's grass, only to stop dead in your tracks when a dog appears out of nowhere, and snarls, _"Howdy Neighbor" -_ the kind that sends a chill up your spine, puts fear in your eyes, and zaps your chicken-shit brain of all thought, except to move like you've never moved before, which is exactly what I did. What I wasn't counting on, however, was a sticky screen door, or Fido, doing his damnedest to rip the seat from my pants, being able to plow in after me.

Now here's the thing: the thought my bloody ass would play host to a tetanus shot because a dog might be rabid never dawned on me until Mitch Wade (whose sharp-shooting eye dropped Fido like a bad habit), assured me the foam around his mouth had nothing to do with him suckin' down a cold one. Suffice it to say, I went to the hospital, where I stood in the emergency room for almost three hours before I was tagged with a needle the size of my arm, and released. But rather than go home as the doctor advised, and figuring I still had a shot at making something of the day, I drove some forty-five minutes to William Stark's law office, my black and blue butt-cheek screaming for mercy with every passing mile, and my pride hanging in a sling; the upshot, I suppose, of me against Fido, and, if recent events are any indication, my life as a man as well.

But enough about that. After I got to Stark's office and conveyed a desire to see him, the receptionist, a mealy-mouthed, pug-nosed, twenty-something girl with braids in her hair and suspicion in her eyes, asked, "And you are?"

I pulled out my badge, a move she didn't seem the least bit impressed or intimidated by, and replied, "Sam Booker. I'm a Detective with the Marlette Police Department."

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked. Before I could answer, however, she flashed a _hang-on-a-sec_ finger and picked up the telephone. A couple of seconds later she put the caller on hold, buzzed a message to somebody somewhere, her voice carrying all the sweetness of an empty sugar bowl, and then peered at me, and said, "So do you?"

"Do I what?"

The receptionist sighed, "Have an appointment?"

"No," I replied, shaking my head.

"Then how do I know which Mr. Stark you're here to see?"

I frowned. "How many are there?"

"Two," she answered with a smirk. "My uncle and my father."

"Figures," I muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm here to see William."

"Well have a seat," she said, shooing me away from her perch, "and I'll see if he's available" - a proposition that began with, "uh-huh, uh-huh, okay, I don't know, I'll tell him, okay, uh-huh," and ended with her informing me that William Stark was on a conference call and couldn't be disturbed. "However," she added, "if you'd like to wait, he said you should have a seat and he'll be with you as soon as he can."

Have a seat? Yeah, maybe if I was a patient man, wasn't involved in a murder investigation, and the pain in my ass wasn't growing by the second. But I'm not, I am, and it was, so I countered, "No, I don't think so. In fact, this is what I do think. You should get off your spoiled little behind and go tell your uncle, or father, to hang up the phone before I go back there and do it myself. Understood?"

"Excuse me?" she responded, as though we were teenagers on our first date and I was trying to enter virgin territory.

"You heard me," I returned. "Now move."

But she didn't, and after a brief stare-down, I grumbled, "Ah, the hell with it," and moved myself - past her work station and through the doors separating the lobby from the long, winding hallway, where fact and fiction probably bump into each other fifty times a day, and no one knows the difference.

William Stark's office was the first one on the right, and though my entry was accompanied by cheap threats and insults from his niece, or daughter, or whoever the hell she was, I had no plans to leave. Not even when Stark stood up from his desk, his tailored appearance cut straight from an episode of Court T.V., and stated, "I could have you arrested for trespass," an assertion I immediately shrugged off, saying, "I doubt it. But you go ahead and try. Otherwise, let's talk about your client."

Stark folded his arms, though he looked far more graceful than defiant (no doubt the art of self-control picked up from years in a courtroom). He then dismissed his niece, or daughter, or whoever the hell she was, with a wink and a nod, before asking, "And what client might that be?"

"Yeah, like you don't know," I cracked.

"This firm, Detective, my firm, has over six hundred clients, so..."

"So bully for you, Counselor. I only want to know about one," I cut in. "His name's Harley Swan. Remember him?"

"Absolutely," he replied, his tone and expression peppered with a dose of Hollywood indignation. "But like all my clients, I'm not free to discuss anything involving Dr. Swan with you. Do we understand one another?"

"Your client," I said, folding my arms in a tit for tat gesture, "is a primary suspect in a murder investigation. I don't have to remind you that withholding information, like his whereabouts, when there's reason to believe he may engage in further criminal activity, can make you an accessory. And if not an accessory, a disbarred attorney for sure. Now, do we understand one another?"

"That's nonsense, Detective."

"Oh really, Counselor? Well let me clue you in on something... Swan's criminal history may be a lot of things, but nonsense ain't one of 'em."

William Stark peeled off his suit-coat and draped it over the back of his chair. He then sat down, put his shiny alligators on the desk, his laced fingers on his crisp-white shirt of a midsection, and said, "Your name, Detective. I'm not sure I got it."

"Sam Booker. But please, call me Detective. All my close friends do."

William Stark nodded. "As you wish, Sam. Now tell me something... how long have you been with the department?"

I scanned Stark's office (a mix of dark wood, leather, and tribal-like artifacts that could've just as easily come from a flea market as Africa), all the while wondering how in the hell I was supposed to take a guy who doesn't bat an eye when he gets insulted, much less display any kind of oomph when he gives one back. Finally, I gave up wondering, and said, "Long enough to know when someone's guilty of a crime."

"Yes, well, perversions notwithstanding, apparently you don't know much about the law."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"And how ya figure that, Counselor?"

"Well," Stark said, dropping his palms open, "if I knew where Dr. Swan was, which I don't, it would be, as I alluded to, privileged information. And since I have no reason to suspect he'll engage in any criminal activity, regardless of what his past might indicate, it'll remain that way, regardless of what you want to believe. Now then," he added, after retying his fingers across his wine and caviar-filled gut, "is there something else I can do for you? If not, please excuse me because I'd like to take a little nap."

Okay, so strangling the son-of-a-bitch was out of the question. Unfortunately, kicking the shit out of him was too. Still, I couldn't stand there with his tanned and pompous face grinning at me like he'd just delivered a death blow to a theory I had yet to reveal, so I glared at him until the steam from my ears wasn't blowing like whistles at a train station, and said, "You think you're so damn smart, don't you? Well guess what? I have the letter Swan mailed to his ex-wife, so I know about the money you're supposed to send her. Well how about Swan? You supposed to send him money too? Help him evade capture? What, he calls you up and you wire it to him? Is that how it's gonna work? Or maybe you'll tell me that's privileged information too, hey Counselor?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Stark countered, his words following the trail of a slow burning sigh, "but I've been instructed by Dr. Swan to help out his daughter, look after his property, and hire a private investigator to get to the bottom of the situation."

"Hiring a P.I., now there's a smoke-screen if I ever heard one."

"No smoke-screen. We're just looking to get to the truth, that's all," Stark replied. He then poked, prodded, and patted down his hair, although I'm not sure why since it looked glued down anyway, before adding, "But please, don't ask who it is because that information is also privileged."

I took a deep breath, buried my hands in my pockets, tapped my foot about a-hundred miles an hour - hell, I did just about everything I could to mask my frustration, which worked, right up until I pushed my sneering face forward, and snapped, "And what about Woody Daybo? He off limits too?"

"Frankly, I've never met the man," Stark said annoyingly calm. "So I don't know what there is I could possibly tell you, even if I wanted to."

"Well how 'bout this... is he with Swan?"

"I'm not a travel agent, Detective," Stark replied, his curved eyebrows sending ripples across his forehead. "I'm an attorney."

"Yeah, and attorneys never lie or break the law, do they?" I asked. I didn't wait for an answer, though. Instead, I took the truth I knew existed and headed back to the station.

#

Ever since he arrived at Lily's doorstep, Woody Daybo (given to moments when the face of his dead uncle, like shards of glass, littered the trail stretching from one day to the next), had remained cautiously optimistic about concealing his whereabouts under the nomadic umbrella of circus life, though never more so when the _Doodle-Love_ caravan crossed the state line.

Richmond, New Hampshire, once a thriving Native American fishing settlement, disappeared when the railroad brought settlers far more adept in exploiting the soil than the waterways, and in its place grew a two-tier town, with farms, and later textile mills, dotting the landscape. It would never become the commercial center once envisioned, however, as poor working conditions and regional competition for manpower would deplete the mills of an adequate workforce, leaving behind a farm community, a downtown district of aged buildings, flat-faced and brown, and a lazy river that reminded Woody of the one that meandered behind his childhood home.

"Wanna go fishin'?" he asked Harley shortly after the Big Top was raised, an event that attracted a lively segment of the entertainment-starved community.

Harley winced.

"Guess that means no, huh?"

"Do you even have a rod and reel, Woody?"

"Nah, but I know where I can scare one up. Two, if you wanna go."

"I'm sorry, I can't. I've already made other plans," Harley said. "But why don't you come along?" he quickly added.

Woody pointed toward the flourishing blue sky. "Nope, I'm goin' fishin'."

"Are you sure? Lily and I would certainly welcome your company."

Woody grinned. "Lily?"

"Yes, why?"

"No reason."

"Then what do you find so amusing?" Harley asked, professing ignorance when the answer had already soiled his expression.

Woody shrugged, saying, "Oh nothin'." Then grinning wider, "So where are you two love-birds off to today?"

Harley feigned indifference, but again it wouldn't stand up against his reddened face, or the sheepish smile he could no longer ignore, so he finally gave up, and asked, "It's that apparent, is it?"

Woody cackled, "Only for the last week or so."

"You don't say?"

"Fraid I do, Romeo."

"Hmm," Harley uttered.

"Hmm, what?"

"Hmm, I guess my head, as they say, has been in the clouds."

Woody's eyebrows suddenly furrowed, bringing the trace of an old man to the face of a young man. "Lily doesn't know anything, does she? I mean, you haven't said anything to her, have ya?"

Harley pondered the question, but stymied by the prospect that his trust in Lily was based solely on a brief history of earnest conversations and exquisite midnight hours, he merely sighed.

"Does that mean yes?" Woody posed.

"Don't worry, Woody, I've not revealed the truth," Harley replied, his tone flirting with disappointment.

"Hell," Woody said, after taking a swipe at a pesky fly, "I know ya wouldn't say anything intentionally, Swanny. But what about unintentionally... as in those moments when the two of you are together and you're not seeing things... you know, real clearly?"

Harley frowned. "Woody, I truly don't foresee myself losing sight of our dilemma, regardless of the situation I'm in."

"I'm sure ya don't, Swanny. By the same token, does a starvin' man always see the food on his plate when he's gobblin' it down? No, and why would he? He's too busy eatin' it so he can feel normal again."

His eyebrows raised, Harley drew back.

Woody couldn't help but grin. "You like that one, don't ya?"

"It's an intriguing analogy, I'll say that much."

"Yeah, but is it true?"

"In my case, no, I don't believe so," Harley replied. Having then decided the noise and activity of the circus camp had strayed too close, Harley suggested he and Woody take a walk; a silent trek that left Harley wondering if his friend's uneasiness was because he felt deserted, his plight (their plight), ignored. "You know," he proffered, once their company had been reduced to a pair of crows squawking overhead, "we don't open until tomorrow night. That gives us tomorrow morning and afternoon. What would you say to a little fishing expedition then?"

"Sure, I can probably squeeze out an hour," Woody replied eagerly. "Probably won't be until late morning, though. Gotta finish replacin' the bearings on that Merry-Go-Round first. But after that, yeah, as long as some kind of emergency doesn't pop up."

"Splendid, that'll give me an opportunity to call my attorney, and he rarely gets to his office before ten. I thought I would contact him from a payphone in town."

Woody stopped walking and waited for Harley to do the same. Then, "What do you think is going on, Swanny? Back in Vernon Springs, I mean?"

Harley folded his arms. "Frankly, Woody, I don't have the vaguest idea. In fact, as you know, I purposely avoided contacting William until we were out of Maine. It seemed much safer that way. Of course, looking back on it, it also presented an opportunity to move beyond the shock of everything that's occurred. Nevertheless, I am eager to speak with him."

Woody kicked at the patchy grass until he wedged a piece of its scalp free. "Just do me a favor," he said.

"By all means, what?"

Woody looked up, the buoyancy in his eyes replaced with solemnity, and said, "Tell me when I have to run."

From a distance the river had appeared to cut an unblemished swath through the tree-studded countryside, and yet, as Woody ambled closer, a body of water, like a ragged old woman limping through time, unfurled. He would not be detoured, however, and after casting his line in the water, Woody found comfort against the girth of an old oak, and closed his eyes (the gurgling current singing him to sleep, while the fishing pole twitched in his lenient grip). He dreamt of his mother, so pretty in white, with lilacs in her hair and a bouquet of flowers in each hand. One for him, the other for his sister, Tess, who smiled gingerly, and then skipped off without taking it, turning and waving, before disappearing into the light. _"Where are you?"_ his mother called out. But there was only the despair of young girl whimpering, _"I'm over here, mother. Come and find me. I'm over here. I'm over here."_ Woody reached for his mother's hand. _"Take me,"_ he cried. _"Take me."_ But frantic, she did not see him, leaving him to toil in the shade of her garden, while she rummaged through a field of clover, disappearing when violent rains swept her away.

"You gotta fish! Wake up! You gotta fish!" Tammy Bobo clamored.

"What? Huh?" Woody mumbled, his eyes flickering open, though he remained momentarily lost, dancing in the void of where he'd been, and where he was.

"You gotta fish! C'mon, you gotta fish!"

"What? A fish?"

"Yeah, you gotta fish! C'mon, get up!"

Woody's eyes bulged. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, springing to his feet, and then snapping the line back.

"You got him! You got him!"

Woody tugged and reeled, tugged and reeled, blocking out all sight and sound jut like his Uncle Eugene (of all people), taught him to do, until the fish was safely dangling over the riverbank.

"Here," Tammy said, dragging her cooler over the rutted knoll, "put him in this."

Woody unhooked the fish, but then dropped it the moment he turned and his eyes collided with hers. "You dropped your trout," she said.

Woody glanced down, having to fight the urge to stare at a tanned body seamlessly stitched inside skimpy cutoffs and a halter-top. "Um yeah... I guess I did," he said nervously.

"Well don't you want to get it?" she asked, her piercing brown eyes breaching the sun's afternoon glare.

"Um, yeah. I mean yeah, sure I do... absolutely," Woody replied, before dropping to one knee.

After watching the fish wiggle free of Woody 's grasp for a second, and then a third time, Tammy asked, "Would you like some help?"

"That's okay, I can get it," Woody responded. And he did, when the fish squirted out of his hands and into the cooler.

Tammy giggled. Then, "Now there's a circus trick if I ever saw one."

Woody remained quiet, his expression hinting confusion.

Tammy put her hands on her slender hips, easing her weight to one side. "You don't know who I am, do you?" she asked, a question Woody had not heard since leaving prison (one that often preceded a good old fashioned beating if the wrong answer, such as, _Should I?_ was given to the wrong inmate). Nevertheless, and notwithstanding his inbred trepidation, Woody shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "Should I?"

"I would think so," Tammy responded, even though she knew there was no truth to her words. She had seen _him_ before though - the shy boy Lily introduced to a near-capacity cookhouse tent on the evening of his arrival - the shirtless mechanic sporting the defined shape of a gymnast - the handsome face and reticent smile of a man she tried to get a peek at whenever her boyfriend, Frank, wasn't shadowing her very move. But Frank's summer had disappeared, and so too had Frank, taking the morning bus from Richmond to a college campus somewhere down the road. A playful smile slowly crossed her lips. "You're using my pole."

Woody shook his head defiantly. "No way, uh-uh," he countered. "This is Ray Bobo's pole. I work with him. He's a mechanic."

"Down boy," Tammy said softly, her fingers grazing Wood 's arm. "I'm just havin' some fun with you. Ray's my uncle. He bought me the pole last year for my twenty-third birthday. I told him to let you borrow it. And you can, anytime you want."

Woody's taut expression eased.

"As long as you play by the rules."

"Oh yeah? And what rules are those?" Woody asked cautiously.

"Don't worry, they're not so bad," Tammy said. "You just have to share is all."

"What, the fish? Hell, if you want it, take it. I'll even clean it for ya," Woody politely offered.

Tammy toyed with the curled ends of her shoulder-length blonde hair. "You don't understand. You have to share it. As in share it with me."

Woody shrugged off his confusion. "Okay, so I'll cut it up. Even give you your choice of fillet. How'd that be?"

"I'm sorry, that won't work either."

"Why not?" Woody asked, after rolling his eyes.

"Because, I had something else in mind," Tammy replied, her breezy tone lingering.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Be at my trailer at seven tonight and I'll cook it for supper. Yours and mine."

In the time it took Woody to clear his throat, and then mutter, "Sure, okay, that'd be nice, thank you," his shoulders tightened, his jaw tensed, and his throat dried up all over again, rendering him speechless; just as he was when Tammy invited him to her bed later that night.

#

I once began a psychology lecture at the University with, "It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." Naturally, I was quick to share with my students that Sir Winston Churchill, although discussing politics at the time, could just as well have been describing the intricacies of the human mind. "And if not the mind," I recall pontificating, my forefinger shaking at the ceiling to emphasize my tongue-in-cheek vigor, "a plump and juicy hotdog to be sure." Yes, well, after I donned my Ringmaster attire and peaked in the mirror (Lily said I looked handsome, regal, although she bit her quivering bottom lip between words), I realized Sir Winston's words pertained to me as well.

Having had no experience in circus matters (excluding, of course, my stint in Valley View Mental Institution), coupled with the prospect that I, a murder suspect, was about to masquerade as emcee in front of a tent full of country folk, and thereby forsake my anonymity (particularly since it would be the first, of what may be, many crowds in many towns to come), I was feeling a bit daunted. Be that as it may, once the showground dimmed, the music blared, and two dancing searchlights beckoned my presence to center ring, I chalked my anxiety up to a common case of paranoia, and succumbed to the old adage, _The show must go on._

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," my voice rang out, and for an instant I could have just as easily segued into, "In This Corner," but didn't, and instead introduced, "The Darest Of Devils, The Quintessential Equestrians, The Slickest, Quickest, Proudest Men And Prettiest Women That Ever Pranced Atop Stallion And Steed, The Doodle-Love Traveling Circus Is Pleased To Present, The One, The Only, Zanzara Roughriders!"

I now digress. Lionel Zanzara, a robust man with an equally robust pair of fists, came to Buddy Love's aid one night when Buddy was confronted by a group of thugs in a local tavern. Primed with alcohol and a false sense of security, these men (four, according to Lily), surrounded Buddy when he would not provide them with a dozen free tickets to the following day's matinee. The long and short of it: a knife was brandished, a beer bottle broken, and Lionel Zanzara, sitting in a nearby seat, walked over, and without so much as a word of caution, grabbed one of the men by his neck and hurled him to the floor, where he remained in a fetal position, victim of a profound headache, and an acute case of fear. One of the others then tried taking Lionel to task; an effort quashed when Lionel caught the man's fist in his vise grip of a hand and squeezed until the would-be thug dropped to his knees, writhing in pain, while Lionel roared with unabashed laughter. Suffice it to say, the knife and broken bottle quickly vanished, Buddy had himself a new friend, and Lionel, his first steady job in years. Yet, Lionel was not content to merely roustabout, and with Buddy's blessing, began training his sons and daughters to ride horses. What followed would ultimately become one of the most popular, albeit dangerous, routines the Doodle Love Circus ever produced: gymnastics _ala_ galloping.

When Lionel Zanzara suffered a heart attack and died, his eldest son, Zachary, seized control of the family's concerns. But rather than share the money or limelight with his brothers and sisters, he pushed, and pushed, and pushed, until he remained the only Zanzara standing - what Lily considered a private family matter and the upshot of the story - what I consider a reflection of integrity and only the beginning.

To wit: In the brief period Woody and I have been with the circus we have met a good many people, the vast majority, drifter and dweller alike, I would categorize as friendly, hard-working, and respectful (quite similar to the farmhands my grandfather employed long ago). Zachary Zanzara is not one of them, however. An assertive man prone to sanctimonious grandstanding, he is, quite simply, an egotistical, if not an altogether, boorish malcontent. Originally, I harbored no such thought, and was content to look upon his actions, which primarily consisted of him badgering me for personal information once he realized Lily and I were spending time together, as either hapless jealousy, or innocuous meddling. My attitude changed, however, when I overheard a conversation wherein he professed concern over my burgeoning relationship with Lily. Apparently, it put me, "an outsider," in the enviable position of obtaining that which Zachary, himself, likely wanted - control of the circus. More troubling still, Zachary was having the conversation with Lily's right-hand-man, Freddy Thomas.

I, of course, said nothing to Lily, concluding, number one, I didn't know how long I would be part of the circus, much less in control of it - number two, behind-the-scenes politicking by Freddy would likely break her heart, if he was indeed scheming and not merely humoring his counterpart - number three, I had complete faith Lily's business acumen would protect her, if and when she ever needed to fend off the disruptive likes of Zachary Zanzara - and number four, as long as Zachary Zanzara's questions, and animosity hovered, the safe-haven Woody and I had hoped to find in the circus would remain compromised. It would not completely disintegrate, however, as it would, I feared, if the issue was brought to light. Suffice it to say, I was glad the nomadic lifestyle Woody and I adopted had not yet been swallowed up by the Google universe, but instead, remained a self-contained unit where information was, for the most part, gathered from one's eyes and ears.

At any rate, my inaugural performance under the Big Top turned out to be rather entertaining and enjoyable, prompting Lily and I to celebrate with a bottle of champagne, amid the splendor of our senses and desires. Eye upon eye, breath upon breath, and body upon body, our intimacy had, in just a blemish of time's passing, transcended all but the feelings we had yet to consummate via the spoken word. Fear, I suppose. Fear of rejection. Fear of uncertainty. Fear of failure. And if truth is the means by which love is grounded, then for me, fear of truth as well.

Still, our silence was not without some measure of benefit, for Lily's disclosure of love would be inducement for my own, thereby unleashing a disturbing and unwelcome debate: whether to confess the sum and substance of my life, most notably, why I truly joined the circus, or remain silent, and so perpetuate a love affair predicated on self-serving and debilitating half-truths? Then again, as I watched Lily drifting off to sleep in my arms, I wondered... was I not already doing so?

Save for hints of pale blue sprinkled across the ashen horizon, the morning sky was overcast. Nevertheless, the air was warm, inviting (although the last gasps of summer could not be far behind), so I decided to venture into town for breakfast, and afterward call my attorney, since he wasn't in his office yesterday, as I had hoped. Woody's company would have been nice, as would have Lily's, but Woody was nowhere to be found, and Lily, well, she'd left the trailer by first light to begin what, for her, would be another busy day - though not without first suggesting a late afternoon stroll, an invitation I would eagerly await.

_The Diner,_ aptly named, as its florescent sign sputtered with the simplicity of the town it graced, was brimming with the weathered faces of farmers who likely worked too hard and earned too little, but nevertheless, conversed graciously and laughed heartily over coffee and cigarettes. As I made my way to a corner table I was greeted by curiosity (the alien factor facilitated by my ponytail, and, in this sector of the universe, 'uncommon' style of dress), and the indelible scent of sizzling bacon. The curiosity I ignored. The bacon I could not.

I never got the opportunity to place an order, however, because as soon as I pulled out a chair to sit down, a man across the restaurant stood up, clutched his throat, and then stumbled a couple of feet before toppling over, taking with him a nearby table.

"Somebody call Doc Simms!" I heard a frantic voice yell. "Somebody call Doc Simms!"

An immovable wall of blue overalls then engulfed the man, and it wasn't until I declared, "I'm a doctor! I'm a doctor!" that I was able to piece my way through the frantic crowd.

Yes, well, soon enough the diner was resonating to the beat of the back-slapping laudations I received (the result of performing the Heimlich maneuver to dislodge a pitted prune, and then cardiopulmonary resuscitation to placate the erratic breathing which followed). But attention was clearly the last thing I needed, so I slipped into the vestibule to call my attorney from the payphone, hoping the scuttlebutt would die down, if not altogether cease, in the interim. Unfortunately, hope is a sentiment rewarded sparingly.

In other words, no sooner did I hang up the receiver when I was summoned, and when that failed to succeed, escorted back inside by a couple of good-natured, well-intentioned locals, who just happened to be at the circus on opening night. "We seen you introducin' the circus acts," said one of the men. "And we're gonna make sure everyone knows what you did today."

"Lenny, here," a second man chimed in, jutting his thumb at a rather large figure, "he thinks we oughta call Charlie Wise. He owns the paper in town. That's Henry behind ya. He's Charlie's brother-in-law, and he thinks so too. Ain't that right, Henry?"

I turned.

Henry, a stout individual with a bulbous red nose and spindly veins webbed beneath his eyes sockets, nodded his concurrence, and said, "You bet I do. Gonna have him take your picture and do up a real nice story. How'd that be? Betcha the circus folks would getta charge out of seein' headlines that say, _Circus Doctor Saves Al Mullings From The Jaws Of Death._

I smiled my gratitude, politely excused myself ("for just a moment"), and then ambled out the door, never once looking back.

But make no mistake, a wild fire had taken root. How quickly, how far it might spread, I had no idea until Lily and I were in the midst of our leisurely afternoon stroll and she broke, what had been an uncharacteristic silence, with, "So, word is you're a doctor."

#

Considerin' my experience with females pretty much consisted of the two nights I spent with Tammy, I didn't really know what to think, expect, or even say. But after we finished our mornin' coffee, and she asked me, "Woody, if you could be a color, what color would you be?" I figured I had little choice but to follow her lead. So I shrugged off her silly question, and replied, "Blue."

"Me too," she responded enthusiastically. Then, "If you could be a flower, what kind of flower would you be?"

Again, I shrugged. "A daisy."

"Well, I'd be a rose," she said, not nearly as enthusiastic as with my first answer. Then, "If you could be an animal, what kind would you be?"

"A lion," I replied, this time addin' an eye-roll to the shrug.

"And I'd be a lioness," she responded, her enthusiasm back to full throttle. Then, "Okay this one's a three-parter."

I put down my coffee cup to brace myself. "Okay, shoot."

Tammy giggled, which did more for lightin' up the trailer than the bleak mornin' sunlight wrestlin' its way through the curtains, before askin', "If you could take three memories to heaven with you, what would they be?"

Now bearin' in mind that I'd spent a good chunk of my life in jail, thereby rulin' out anything from that time period, and believed memories of my mama, daddy, and sister Tess, were better left unsaid, I couldn't come up with anything right off the bat. Still, I gave the question its due before decidin' there wasn't any harm in bringin' Tammy back to my boyhood days, when me and my dog, Joe, were wanderin' through an area we used to call Sway Valley, a never-endin' field of wild grasses, some as short as a boy, some as tall as a man, but all of 'em constantly swayin' back n' forth, due to a steady breeze blowin' in from across the river. Anyway, on this particular day we heard some rustlin' sounds. Between the height of the grass and the wind whippin' around us, though, it was hard to see or hear where they were comin' from. But ol' Joe had quite a sniffer on him and in no time at all we came upon a mare, black as night, and shiny as still water reflectin' the bright sun. But the best part? She was givin' birth to a foal. We moved closer. First me, crawlin' on my hands and knees until I was sittin' beside her, rubbin' her head and talkin' to her, hopin' the combination would reassure her that everything was gonna be alright. And then Joe, creepin' along on his belly until he was as close as me, whimperin' every few seconds, while his big brown eyes shifted between the mare and me. Now I can't say experiencin' horse afterbirth as a twelve-year-old kid was all that excitin', but watchin' that foal try to stand, its stick legs wobblin' mightily under the weight of its body... well, let's just say, in lookin' back on it, I realize I was witnessin' the agony and ecstasy of life unfoldin', which is precisely what I explained to Tammy.

But Tammy seemed less than impressed with my story (probably because when she isn't doin' seamstress work on circus costumes, she helps care for the animals and has likely seen it all before), so I quickly pondered the few good memories I could think to share, before offerin', "Another would be seein' the ocean for the first time."

Tammy yawned.

"No good?" I asked, wonderin' what could be bad about a body of water so big and blue, chances are it could sprout a thousand memories in as many days?

"It's okay," she said. "It's fallback stuff, but it's okay."

"What's fallback stuff?" I asked curiously.

"It just means lots of people use it when they can't come up with anything else," Tammy replied, her nose scrunched up as though the thought itself carried some kind of foul odor, or somethin'.

"Maybe lots of people like the ocean," I suggested.

Tammy tipped her head side to side like a scale weighin' possibility. Then, "Maybe so, but we can talk about that later. Right now I wanna hear your third memory."

I labored in thought, and could tell by the way Tammy's expression was twistin' and turnin', she was growin' impatient as a result. But here's the thing... part of me wanted to say, "Sleepin' with you and findin' out for the first time in my life what it's like to be a man," but the mere thought of those words fallin' from my mouth had the other part of me tied up in knots, makin' it difficult to say anything, until finally I just reached in my gut, and pulled out, "Watchin' you dress in the mornin'."

"Aw, that's sweet," Tammy gushed, "really, really sweet," promptly followed by, "okay, now it's my turn. You ready?"

I fell back against the loveseat, my shoulders squeezin' the very life out of the Styrofoam cushion that was just squeezed out of me, and then scanned the trailer (living area, kitchen area, bedroom area, all wood-grain-brown except for the red curtains), until there was nothin' left to scan, and nothin' else I could think to say, but, "Fire away."

She was born in Mendocino, California, Tammy was, product, she said, of Meg and Connie Bobo (Connie being her daddy, she was quick to point out), but moved when she was three years old to Harsons, South Dakota, because her daddy got a job doin somethin' she couldn't remember.

I wanted to ask if that was the first of her three memories, but she seemed intent on talkin' so I didn't bother to interrupt her.

Anyway, from South Dakota the family moved to Jasper Springs, Iowa, because her daddy got a better job at either a steel mill or paper mill, again, she couldn't remember, but was fired a year later, so it didn't matter anyway.

Next stop, Sudbury, Pennsylvania, where Tammy's grandfather owned a lumberyard and her daddy was assured steady work. Not long after arrivin', however, Tammy's folks were killed in a car accident, leavin' behind a pile of debt nobody claimed, and a seven-year-old girl the grandfolks had no choice but to. That's where Tammy's Uncle Ray comes in. Him and his wife, Celia, paid a visit the following year, and only then because his mama and daddy promised model behavior. Yet, after witnessin' the same hard drinkin' and nasty bickerin' that drove Ray and Connie away from their home years earlier, Ray scooped Tammy up, put her in his pickup, and drove off. That was Tammy's first heaven-bound memory.

The second one, which took Tammy a half-hour of nonstop talkin' to get to, was the day she and her Uncle Ray joined the circus (which, by the way, came on the heals of Ray catchin' his wife, Celia, in bed with another woman, which just so happened to be the same night Aunt Celia disappeared).

No matter, it was Tammy's third memory I left her trailer thinkin' about. She called it her "Fifteenth birthday party." In prison they called it gang rape. Now granted, I had no right to judge her past any more than I'd want her to judge mine, but takin' on five men just because they all wanted her company seemed a bit... well, let's just say even though I had promised to return to her bed later that night, I realized if I didn't, somebody else likely would.

Havin' always been good at concentratin' on my work (particularly when I can bury myself in a project that requires a little more than spit n' grease on my end, much like I had goin' on with the cookhouse generator), I was kind of surprised I spent so much time thinkin' about Tammy Bobo while doin' it. But the truth is, any worries I might've been havin' were overruled by the simple fact, I liked her. The edge in her voice, the shape of her mouth, the look in her eye - it didn't matter what thought or image popped into my head, all I wanted to do was touch her, be with her, mix her sweat with my own.

Yeah, well, one flip of the switch changed all that. Meanin', sometime during the afternoon I got wind of a rumor that Harley Swan, The Doctor, saved some farmer's life back in town and every thought I had been entertainin' just sort of unraveled. It all started when _The Petes,_ Carbona and Scully, a couple of fulltime roustabouts and part-time ride operators, came up behind me, and Pete Scully asked in that nasally, and I don't mind sayin', irritatin' voice of his, "Hey Daybo, are you really a nurse?"

I wiped my hands before droppin' the grease towel into the bucket of tools I had with me, and then turned. "What?" I asked, squintin' my eyes like I was facin' the sun, when all I was really doin' was expressin' my displeasure at the unexpected intrusion.

"Yeah, we hear you're a nurse," Pete Carbona said, smilin' as if he was auditionin' for clown work.

"What the hell are you two talkin' about?"

Pete Carbona hitched up his pants, which doesn't mean a whole lot since his overflowin' gut has a lot more to say in the matter than his efforts, and then told me all about him and Pete Scully stoppin' in the local diner for a little afternoon snack. Only it wasn't just their appetites that ended up gettin' filled. No, by the time they'd made it to piece-of-pie-number-two, the waitress had also filled their ears with the day's big event.

I laughed off the story as if _The Petes_ didn't know what the hell they were talkin' about, hunched up my shoulders, and then walked away. Unfortunately, I walked straight into a nest of busybodies, the likes of which included, Zachary Zanzara, who said, "You and Swan... I think you guys are fulla shit" - Neville Adams, head cook, and owner of a real fat finger that got within an inch of my nose when he said, "I knew there was somethin' strange 'bout that friend of yours" - Leo Little (a midget), and his wife, Daphne (the tallest woman and straightest walker I'd ever seen), who, together, found it curious a doctor would wanna join the circus - the bearded one, Hilda somethin' or other, who stroked her whiskers, before cuttin' loose with a bellyful of laughter - the fire-eatin', Ezra Brown, whose charred mouth barely moved when he muttered, "I hope your buddy can get prescriptions" - and, of course, Freddy Thomas, who shook his head over and over, before sayin', "I pray that friend of yours turns out to be a square shooter."

Fact is, everywhere I turned, it seemed, somebody else approached; some sayin' more with their eyes than with their mouths, others usin' a healthy mix of both, but all of 'em leavin' me to wonder if I was gonna catch up with Harley before the ghost of my dead uncle caught up with me?

Unfortunately, by the time I got my answer, my eye was twitchin' such, Harley's first words when he walked into the trailer and saw me, were, "You've obviously heard the news."

"Heard? Christ, Swanny, I was lookin' for ya for somethin' like two hours. Finally came back here 'cause I knew ya had to get ready for the show tonight. Where the hell ya been?"

Harley sat down, took a deep breath, and then proceeded to tell me everything - from his doctor declaration, to his life-savin' technique, to the explanation he gave Lily, which went somethin' like, "I confessed to being a doctor, fearing she would settle for nothing less. I told her, you and I came to the circus in search of adventure and that I purposely avoided advertising, or even discussing my background because I did not want to appear unduly arrogant."

"And what'd she say?" I asked nervously.

Harley grinned, sayin', "That I appeared unduly arrogant anyway."

"No really, what'd she say?"

"That's what she said, Woody. That, and as long as I was not a rapist or murderer, she was no more concerned with my past than she was anyone else's in the circus."

"So do you think she believed you?"

"Perhaps," Harley replied, after pawin' at his chin a moment or two.

"What do you mean, perhaps?" I asked.

"I think she wants to believe me," Harley said, the uncertainty in his tone like a drawstring pullin' his eyebrows across the bridge of his nose. "But I caution you, if my assumption is correct, her belief will likely continue only as long as her interest in me continues. Or until she's provided with evidence to the contrary."

"Hmm," I grumbled.

"Hmm, what?" Harley grumbled back.

"Do you think... I mean you and Lily... I know you've been spendin' a lot of time together, and I know you're fond of each other. But your relationship... is it..."

"It's splendid," Harley broke in, and in his voice, and smilin' face, I heard the sound, and saw the reflection, of a man content. Truth is, if there wasn't so much scuttlebutt surroundin' the two of us, I believe Harley would've breathed that special air long into the night.

I also believe my quiverin' eye might've settled down some long before the witchin' hour fell, and Tammy took me to her bed.

#

Pardon the pun, but that tetanus shot I got because of my little encounter with Fido made me sick as a dog - as in severe burning and swelling at the injection site, my ass, not to mention a fever so nasty I had to be hospitalized for ten goddamn days. My doctor, a man with eyebrows long enough to braid, and a nose as big as my foot (I wear a size 12 shoe, by the way), blamed it on the toxoid dosage, so I, in turn, blamed it on the medical profession, and we, in turn, got along about as well as Cain and Abel.

Meanwhile, this is how the situation came about: when I left William Stark's office that day, wanting as much to slap the pompous look off his face as I wanted to find his client, Harley Swan, I went home, soaked my head in a bucket of Jack and Coke, and then fell asleep, only to wake up, I don't know, about five hours later, wanting only to shed my skin. I was in so much pain, in fact, I wasn't sure I'd even make it to the hospital, let alone have to endure several days of needles, tubes, crabby nurses, rotten food, little or no sleep, and best of all, temper tantrums by the guy in the bed next to me whenever his medication wore off (which seemed like every hour on the hour, leading me to christen him, Old Faithful). I don't think he appreciated my sense of humor, though, because whenever I'd say, "Hey, Old Faithful, isn't it about time for a primal scream?" he'd say, "Hey Fuckhead, isn't it about time you fucked off?"

To make matters worse, I hardly had any visitors. My ex-wife came by with my son, A.J. - once to say hello, and once to say goodbye, as she and _the boyfriend_ were taking him out of town for one last hurrah before school started. So did a few of the guys from the department - once with a six-pack of beer, even though a nurse with the disposition of a moose confiscated it, and once with a message from Captain Hill. Turns out the Captain wanted me to know the Daybo/Hayes murder investigation would be waiting for me when I returned to work; a welcomed gesture, except he and I both knew the department was already spread too thin, so the news wasn't so much a ringing endorsement as it was a matter of manpower, policy, and convenience.

Still, getting another crack at Swan was something to look forward to, so when the insurance company finally deemed me too expensive to be anything but healthy as an ox, I hit the street running. First, to the police station to reacquaint myself with the case evidence - what would've taken all of fifteen minutes had I not been interrupted, what seemed like every fifteen seconds, by the obligatory, _"How ya feeling, Good to have ya back, I would have come to visit you, but,"_ routines - and second, to meet with Captain Hill.

"Booker, how the hell are ya?" he asked when I appeared in his office doorway.

"I'm fine, Captain," I replied. Yet, something inside me begged to differ and I winced as I took a seat opposite his desk.

"You alright? You need something? A glass of water? Couch to lie down on? What?"

Ah, grandstanding for pity's sake. Now I remember what the pained look was all about. "No, I'll survive," I said.

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Okay, then," Captain Hill responded, nodding his pumpkin-size head while the bagginess of his chin spilled over his shirt collar. "You bring yourself up to snuff?"

"Yeah, and it doesn't look like there's anything new on Swan's whereabouts," I replied.

"No, the only thing new is the pair of gloves found in his guesthouse that day you got bit. They had blood stains on 'em. You catch that?"

"Yeah, but the stains don't match the ones we found on the gloves in his garage."

"Or what we picked up at the crime scene," Captain Hill noted.

"Do we know if any of the blood samples... gloves, crime scene, whatever, are Swan's or Daybo's yet? Has anyone bothered to check their records, or what we have on file?"

"Frankly, no. No one's done anything with this case since you went down," Captain Hill responded. He then leaned back in his chair, adjusted his body mass (what likely changes with every meal), and said, "Ya know, I would've come to see you. But as usual it was pretty damn busy around here and I couldn't free up any time."

"Don't worry, Captain, I never gave it a second thought," I returned. (Yeah, whatever).

"Did you at least get some rest?"

I smirked. "Not really."

"That's too bad. And here I was hoping you'd feel nice and refreshed. Be able to focus a little better."

"What do you mean?" I asked, hesitantly.

"Just what I said."

"Okay, but what did you mean?"

"I meant new energy, new focus. What part of that is confusing?"

"The part you didn't say, Captain. The reason for saying it at all. So what did you mean? Or is it a matter of national security and none of my business?"

Captain Hill sighed, and then muttered, "Same old Sam Booker."

"Who were you expecting," I scoffed, "Daffy Duck?"

Captain Hill waved off my sarcasm. "Easy, Booker, calm down."

"I am calm, Captain."

"Well you sound like you're getting all riled up to me."

"I'm not riled up. I asked what you meant, that's all. No rile, just question," I said, pushing a smile through my tightening jaw.

"That's fine, and I have no problem answering you. I just don't intend to get into an argument over it, that's all."

"No problem," I said.

"No problem," Captain Hill repeated. He then spent the next few seconds pulling at one of his three chins, before saying, "Here it is in a nutshell, Sam. We've... no, no, let me be clear... _you've... you've_ made some costly mistakes on this case. Now so far we've... no, no... so far _you've... you've_ gotten away with it because it's a small town case that originated in a jurisdiction that frankly isn't our primary concern. Nevertheless, mistakes translate into wasted time, and wasted time translates into wasted funds, which, number one, the department can't afford, and number two, I don't want to be held accountable for. My point is, you've now had a week-plus off, so you should be reenergized and focused. Either way, I don't want any more mistakes, alright? No more excuses either. I'm going to run a smooth ship, plain and simple. Do you understand?"

I didn't reply, telling myself to ignore Captain Hill's snide remarks.

"Well?"

Again I didn't reply, this time telling myself to ignore his point-the-finger-at-everyone-else attitude.

"Damn-it Booker, you asked what I meant, and I told you. The least you could do is extend me the same courtesy. What do you think, can you do that? Huh?"

_Hmm, what did I think?_ I think I simmered in my chair for the next minute or two, telling myself to ignore his presence, his voice, his stench, his fatness, even his ugly tie (which, by the way, didn't match his ugly suit), but realized it was no use. So I countered with, "Maybe if you had sent someone to dust the crime scene sooner, the prints wouldn't have been screwed up, I wouldn't have made a special trip to Swan's guesthouse and ended up in the hospital, and we wouldn't be sitting here right now discussing blood samples," all the while expecting Captain Hill to jump out of his seat (figuratively speaking).

He didn't budge, though. As a matter of fact, the man with a face big enough to launch a hundred expressions at once didn't even twitch.

"Cat got your tongue?" I asked.

"I got a phone call from William Stark last week," the Captain replied, his sneering grin cutting trenches into his spongy cheeks.

"Wow, now there's a treat," I cracked.

"He said you went to see him."

"I did."

"Why?"

"To find out where his client was."

"You didn't really expect him to tell you, did you?"

"No harm, no foul," I replied.

Captain Hill snickered.

"Something amusing, Captain?"

"No harm, no foul, eh, Booker?"

"That's right."

"So then it's your contention if Stark files a complaint against the department, as he's threatening to do, it's a simple matter of no harm, no foul. Is that it?"

"A what?" I asked, stunned, mad, suspicious... you name it, I carried the look.

"You heard me."

"On what grounds?"

"Trespass, Assault, and False Imprisonment, to name a few."

"Assault and False Imprisonment? What kind of shit is that?" I asked, stunned, mad, suspicious... you name it, I still carried the look.

"Apparently, Mr. Stark didn't feel he could safely leave his office as long as you were in it."

"Bullshit! That's a bunch of lawyer crap, and you know it!" I snapped.

"Maybe so, Booker, but that's not the point."

"Oh really? What is?" I asked.

Captain Hill stared at me far longer than my eyes cared to stare back, before asking, "You remember our little talk about insubordination? If so, figure it out. If not, too bad."

And that's when it hit me. Captain Hill was going to distance himself from me. In fact, he had already planned his little cut and run routine. This was just his way of letting me know if Stark filed a complaint before I had this puppy wrapped up in a nice, neat package (and even then it was no guarantee), I was done. He wasn't going to back me up. But here's the thing... he also wasn't going to get the satisfaction of putting my future as a cop in the hands of William Stark. Therefore, after I made my way to the door, I turned, and said, "If you want me out of here so damn bad, Captain, do what you think you have to. Just remember, I'm gonna do the same. In the meantime, I've got a couple of ideas to pursue. But I'll be in touch."

"What the hell does that mean? And where the hell are you going? I didn't dismiss you yet."

"Time's a wastin'. And time, as you like to point out, is money. So adios, General," I said, offering a parting salute.

"What kind of ideas? Hey come back here," he called after me.

"Don't worry," I called back, "if they pan out, you can take the credit."

"Booker, you get your ass back here!" he yelled. "Booker, I'm talking to you! Booker, so help me..."

The first time I saw Suzanna Swan, I thought she was beautiful. Never mind that she broke down over the news about Collin Hayes, that her mascara, like her nose, was a runny mess, or that her eyes were more red and puffy than they were blue and clear. She was beautiful. Just as she was the second, and now, third time around. That said, I never looked at her as anything more than the _face_ of this case - the grieving victim of a homicide, so to speak.

All that began to change, however, when standing in her kitchen (a combo of sugar, spice, and everything white), me with a cup of coffee, her with a far more appealing Bloody Mary, I asked if Dr. Swan ever bought, or discussed buying, vacation property (a good place to hole up, I figured), and if so, where?

Suzanna Swan countered by asking if I had ever killed anyone in the line of duty, and if so, why?

Interesting response, I thought. About as relevant as me saying, "Nice weather, we're having," and her replying, "What color is your house?" Still, if there's one thing I've learned in my job, nothing is irrelevant, including conversations that don't seem to make a lick of sense. That's why I followed up with, "No, I haven't. Why do you ask?"

"Would you get into trouble?"

"There'd be an investigation," I said, after dismissing the sudden image of a sneering Captain Hill. "But if it was in the line of duty, I doubt it. Why do you ask?"

Suzanna Swan's eyes drifted away from mine. "He has a lot of money," she said, her tone riding flat, as if she was talking to herself.

"Who has a lot of money?"

"My ex-husband?"

"So what does that mean?"

"Katy, my daughter, would stand to inherit it."

"So?"

Suzanna Swan turned towards me. "Never mind," she spouted, although her answer came after the look on my face moved from one of curiosity to _where the hell are you goin' with this, lady?_ She then swallowed the remains of her drink, before adding, "No."

"No, what?"

"No, Harley never discussed purchasing vacation property. It's not something he'd do."

"And why is that, Mrs. Swan?"

"Because, Detective, he never wanted to leave Maine... especially his sacred property. It once belonged to his grandfather. Did you know that? And please, don't call me, Mrs. Swan. I don't like it. Call me Suzanna."

"Fine, Suzanna. And no, I didn't know that."

"Oh yeah, at one time his grandfather had over two-thousand acres."

"That's a helluva lot of land," I remarked.

"I suppose," Suzanna sighed. She then turned her back to me and proceeded to make another drink. When she spilled as much vodka on the counter as she did in her glass, however, I said, "Maybe you oughta give it a rest for awhile."

She snickered, "What, are you the vodka police all of the sudden?"

I rolled my eyes, saying, "Yeah, that's me alright. No, I just think with your daughter at home n' all, it might be best."

"Nonsense, Katy's playing at a friend's house. She won't be back until later this afternoon. Sure you don't want one?"

"I'm positive," I answered. (I'm also a liar because I really did). Meanwhile, "So tell me about this two-hundred acres."

"Two-thousand, Detective."

"That's what I meant, two-thousand."

"What do you want to know?" she asked, adding a dose of Clamato Juice to both her glass and the counter.

"Well, for one," I said, setting my coffee cup on the kitchen table, "did his grandfather leave it all to him?"

"No, Harley's parents sold off a bunch of it. But why's that important?"

I waited for Suzanna to finish stirring her cocktail, what concluded with the dull clank of the spoon against the mouth of the glass, before replying, "Well, unless the two-thousand acres is as flat as a parking lot, he could probably find a place or two to hide out... at least temporarily."

"Maybe. Then again, since he doesn't have anywhere near that size property, I doubt it," she said, her expression boasting sarcasm. "And besides, Harley isn't the camping type."

"Oh really? And how do you know that?" I asked.

"I was married to the son-of-a-bitch, wasn't I?"

I nodded.

"So I think I know him a little bit better than you."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe you never _really_ knew him at all," I suggested.

Suzanna snapped, "I knew him fine! Now are you here to argue with me, Detective Booker, or to find him?"

"Fair enough," I said, flashing my palms to signal peace, "you knew him fine. But that only means you should be able to give me something to go on. A habit, quirk... anything that might shed light on his personality and help locate his whereabouts."

Suzanna leaned against the counter and stared at me. I wanted to think it was because she found me so damn attractive she couldn't help herself, but with my broken nose still a bit too irregular, that was hard to imagine. Meanwhile, I stared back, until she announced, "I'll do better than that."

"Oh really, how's that?" I asked, first letting a skeptic's silence creep into play.

"Take me to his house."

"Huh?"

"You heard me. Take me to his house."

"Why?"

"Because you might have overlooked something... something that I'd find meaningful."

"Think so, do ya?"

Suzanna snickered, and then said, "What I think is that you have nothing to lose, Detective. Besides more time, that is."

Ah yes, time - not only the key ingredient to Captain Hill's new and improved _drive-thru_ police policy, but with William Stark's cheesy threat hanging over my head like a guillotine, the sum and substance of my future as a cop as well. Here's the thing, though: Swan's house was gonna be my next stop anyway, so what difference did it make if I brought Suzanna along? Worst case scenario, I become reacquainted with the scent of perfume. Best case scenario... well, let me put it this way... before we arrived at Swan's house I would've said, "Suzanna finding something helpful." That would've been the understatement of the year, however, because some twenty minutes after we arrived, she muttered, "I know where he is." Now being that she was looking at a newspaper when she made her declaration, I felt compelled to ask, "What, one minute your reading and the next you have a vision?"

Suzanna sighed, and then handed me the paper, saying, "Here _Detective_. His whereabouts are in the middle of the page."

"Huh? What are you talkin' about?"

"The paper, it was on the couch. Look at the date. It's almost three weeks old."

"So what?"

"So that's just about the time I received his letter telling me he was leaving town. Remember?"

"Of course I do. But what does that have to do with the newspaper?"

"Read the article about the traveling circus and you'll see."

"Are you telling me your ex-husband joined the circus?"

"No, I'm telling you to read the paper. When you're done, then I'll tell you he joined the circus."

"That's crazy," I commented, as my eyes fell to the article.

"No. That's Harley," Suzanna stated.

#

The thought I was going to have to tell Captain Hill that Harley Swan and Woody Daybo had joined a traveling circus, when all he'd want to do is turn jurisdiction over to the F.B.I. on the grounds two murder suspects had crossed the state line, was enough to... _wait! I know..._ not tell him. Instead, I gave him some cockamamie story about going to the Allegash River region, a remote wilderness area about five hours northwest of Swan's hometown of Vernon Springs.

"You're going where?" he barked into my cell phone.

"The Allegash River region."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I think Swan might be hiding there."

"On what basis?"

My rehearsed answer was, 'Swan's ex-wife thinks he may own a cabin up there.' At the last second, however, I decided the mention of Suzanna's name would bring her into play, allowing Captain Hill to learn the truth by questioning her himself, so when I opened my mouth, out popped, "I had an epiphamy," instead.

"A what?"

"An epiphamy," I repeated.

"You mean epiphany, don't you, Booker? It's spelled with an N, as in nincompoop, not an M, as in moron." The Captain then laughed, which rankled my ass to no end, especially after he caught his breath (what must be the equivalent of a fat guy chasing down a hot air balloon), and said, "You better shape up as a cop, Booker, because you'll never make it as a teacher."

"Yeah, but at least I don't have to go through life like a lard ass," I cracked. Strange thing, that's just about the time our connection went bad. I mean, I heard Captain Hill shout something about insubordination, but that was it. I don't know, I think I hit the power button on my cellphone by mistake.

Meanwhile, according to the story in the paper the _Doodle-Love Circus_ was in New Hampshire. Since it didn't specify a locale, however, I got on the horn with the reporter, who said, "Oh yeah, when I wrote that piece I wanted to include their upcoming New England dates. Somebody from the circus provided me with their entire summer schedule instead. And from the looks of it, they're in Richmond."

I thanked him for the info, though not before he suggested I contact the Richmond County Clerk to see if a permit was issued, allowing the circus to set up shop. So I did, and lo and behold, reporter-man was right. That was at one-thirty in the afternoon. Thirty minutes later I was heading west. Only problem, I hadn't banked on that goddamn Fido coming back to haunt me. In other words, three hours into what should have been a five, six hour trip max, the pain in my ass not only reappeared, but hurt so damn bad from sitting on it, I had no choice but to stop for the night.

And boy did I pick a beaut of a place. The Bonnet Motel, an isolated dump that took its Q straight from the movie, Psycho; complete with a skinny little office runt who introduced himself as Norman. Thank God there wasn't a house behind the motel with an old lady sitting in the window. Either way, I decided not to shower. Instead, I spent the night in my room eating cheese sandwiches and drinking Jack and Coke, knowing when I hit the road the next morning only a couple of hours separated me from pay dirt.

Harley:

When Lily said she was looking forward to leaving Richmond, I sensed she wanted to part company with the realization that I had saved one of the town's own, hoping, perhaps, the distance created would temper the rumors and innuendos that had been circulating among the circus folks about my "other" life, and with it, diminish the questions and uncertainty she may have been entertaining (notwithstanding her intimations to the contrary).

It was not my intention to remain the fodder of such conversations anymore than it was Woody's, who, despite the calming influence of his recent companion, Tammy Bobo, was quite concerned the place we had come to find refuge, was not to be. Nevertheless, I spent a restless night convincing myself a knee-jerk reaction, to what may soon enough die down of its own accord, would likely bolster the premise that Woody and I were indeed hiding something. As such, I saw no rhyme or reason to desert our present situation. That did not prevent me, however, from paying homage to Lily's concerns by asking if my presence represented too much a distraction, and if she wouldn't prefer Woody and I move along?

She took my hand in hers, what I can only describe as the pedals of a rose, and after a prolonged silence, one marked by a slow, naked dance between yearning eyes, said, "I know it hasn't been that long, but you're being here, Harley... you've made me... I don't know... I'm just happy. Really, really happy."

I pulled Lily toward me until our foreheads met, our noses touched, and our mouths were but a breath away, before saying, "I'm in love with you, Lily. I have been from the moment I first saw you."

Lily then wrapped her arms around my neck, and gasped, "God, I love you too, Harley. I do. I really do."

I cannot say with any degree of certainty the last time I had contemplated hearing such words - me, Dr. Harley Swan, a man who has been given so much in his life, only to meet a glorious woman through a most bizarre set of circumstances, and then be presented an opportunity for so much more. At the same time, I could not help but wonder if Lily's feelings would be compromised if she discovered I had been untruthful? Moreover, did I risk my own misgivings surfacing if indeed the truth was to become known and she thereafter rushed to judgment, undermining all that had been, all that might become?

Yes, well, consequences notwithstanding, with our souls bared I no longer felt I could perpetuate a love affair predicated on self-serving, debilitating half-truths without suffering the senseless guilt of fools. As a result, I revealed everything - my ex-wife Suzanna, daughter Katy, Woody, Collin Hayes, Eugene Daybo, Detective Booker, William Stark - everything.

Lily sat quietly throughout, and though her expression had drifted between shadow and light, her eyes, her hands, never left mine. And when, upon finishing my story, she asked if I thought Katy would like her, I knew her heart was not leaving either.

Woody:

Tammy gazed at me in the oddest kind of way, before sayin', "Woody, I need to ask you something." She then turned her back and looked out the trailer window, but I knew she wasn't measurin' the morning weather near as much as she was churnin' her thoughts.

"Sure. Ask me anything you want," I said, an invitation I would've thought better of had I known she was gonna ask why my eye kept twitchin'.

"Allergies," I muttered, after takin' a real slow, real deep breath.

Tammy then turned back to face me, at which point I bent down to tie the laces on my shoes. "What kind of allergies?"

Still wrestlin' with my laces, I shrugged, sayin', "Don't know. They usually show up in August and September."

"So how come I never noticed it before last night?"

Since I couldn't very well retie my laces again, I looked up, and said, "Can't answer ya."

"Know what I think, Woody?"

"Uh-uh."

"I think it has something to do with yesterday."

"Yesterday? What was yesterday?" I asked, obviously not as ignorant of the matter as I tried to make out.

Tammy folded her arms and glared at me, and suddenly she didn't look as pretty as she had in all the moments leadin' to that one. Then, "Yesterday, as in everyone findin' out your friend, Harley, is really a doctor."

"So?"

"So I think you got nervous about it and that's why your eye started twitching. Just like it's starting to twitch now."

Needless to say, Tammy was right, my eye was twitchin'. But that's because she was right about yesterday. I couldn't very well agree with her, though, and as I rubbed my eye, hopin' a little finger massage would help settle it down, I said, "That's crazy."

"No it's not, and you know why?"

I shook my head. "Why don't you tell me," I returned.

"Maybe if you stop rubbin' your eye, I will."

I dropped my hands in my lap (I wasn't gettin' anywhere anyway), and said, "Fine, tell me."

Now I can't say if that old phrase, _Be careful what ya wish for 'cause ya might just get it,_ is equal to askin' someone to reveal information ya might not want to hear, but when Tammy started in about me and Harley joinin' the circus 'cause we were probably runnin' away from a messy situation, it sure seemed like the same thing to me. Meanwhile, I stuck to the story Harley was feedin' everyone else, you know, about him bein' a doctor lookin' for a little adventure in his life.

Tammy wasn't havin' any of it, though, sayin', "What's that got to do with you?"

"I'm his friend, so I came with him."

"Yeah, I know, that's what you told my Uncle Ray."

"And what'd he say?"

"That you're lying."

"No I'm not," I protested, hopin' like hell not to sound overly concerned. "No matter what Ray, you, or anyone else thinks."

Tammy grinned... and then smiled... and then laughed.

"What's so funny?"

She pointed at me. "Your eye," she said, cacklin'. "The more you talk, the worse it gets."

"So that's funny?"

Tammy covered her mouth and nodded.

I hung my head, sayin', "Then don't look at it anymore." A few seconds later, I got up, and walked out the door.

Booker:

When I left my Five Star motel, I was roughly 140 miles outside of Richmond. Unfortunately, the map I was using didn't say anything about the country roads I'd have to take to get there. Now don't get me wrong, driving country roads are fine when reasonably paved, and you can tolerate the scenic mix of wheat fields and the little Tom, Dick, and Harry towns that litter them like crumpled up brown paper bags. When you're trying to avoid potholes at 70 miles an hour, however, all the while looking for _this_ road or _that_ turnoff, which you never realize you've actually passed until five miles after doing so, it can be a real time consuming, pain in the ass.

Suffice it to say, I got lost twice. First, in Chutney, where, if I hadn't spotted a Post Office with my own eyes, would've figured mail delivery was by Pony Express, and second, in Placerville, a boomtown consisting mainly of a gas station and adjoining church. Lucky for me the part-time gas station owner and part-time preacher was also a part-time travel consultant. Oh yeah, I asked him where and the hell Richmond was, and he pointed his finger at an open field that looked like it stretched from where I was standing, all the way to California, and said, "Richmond... let's see now... it's ah...ah...ah, ten miles that-a-way," then readjusting his aim, "and, ah...ah...ah, five miles that-a-way. Best thing to do is look for signs."

I looked for signs, alright. The only problem, they were the size of matchbook covers, so finding my way to Richmond, while it may have only been, "ah...ah...ah, ten miles that-a-way, and, ah...ah...ah, five miles that-a-way," took me a freakin' hour. Worse yet, by the time I got there, my ass was throbbing so bad, instead of heading straight to tent city (a _lovely_ back-drop to a town that looked long past dead), I walked up and down the block, before stopping in the local diner for a coffee to go. I wasn't in the joint twenty seconds, though, when the cashier, a hearty woman who could've had a second career as a pro wrestler, asked if I was with the circus.

"No, why?"

"Cause for the last few days that's where most of our strangers have been comin' from," she replied.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, but on second thought, you're right," she said, squinting her eyes, and scrunching up her weather-beaten face in the process. "You don't look the part."

"Uh-huh. And what about this guy?" I asked, pulling a picture of Harley Swan from my sport coat pocket, and then sticking it in front of her baby blues. "Does he look the part?"

"Why sure," she said at a glance, "that's the circus Doc. He saved Al Mullings just yesterday." She then pointed a stub instead of a finger, adding, "Right over there. Look, you see where I'm pointin'? That table, right over there."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, taking a quick peek over my shoulder. I then smiled to myself, thinking, _the_ _son-of-a-bitch is mine_.

Harley:

I found Woody sitting against a tree (an oddity given his propensity for working sunup to sundown), and as I approached, he greeted me with a relaxed wave of the hand. "Taking a break?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess," he said, his languid tone indicating contemplation of what I naturally assumed was our recent predicament.

"Feel like talking, or would you rather I left you alone?"

Woody did not answer, and yet, the dispirited look on his face, the silence in his eyes, spoke volumes. "I'll leave you alone," I offered, after a few moments.

When I turned toward the distant tree line, however, what mirrored a charcoal drawn landscape beneath overcast skies, he said, "Ya know, Swanny, I never would've guessed I was gonna come here and meet a girl. Let alone a girl like Tammy."

A discerning smile crossed my lips. "What do you mean, a girl like Tammy?"

"She's so damn pretty, I just... I just... I dunno, all I really wanted was for her to like me. Was that too much to ask?"

I turned, as did my discerning smile. "Did something happen?"

Woody shrugged, and then, while gazing off into the distance (his slightly quivering eye reflecting the token stain of a man deeply scarred), regurgitated the early morning conversation he'd had with Tammy.

I did not know quite how to respond, appalled she would find humor where none but the callous and condescending find it. Nevertheless, I refused to let silence further erode the breach in Woody's emotional wellbeing, so I extended my hand, waited for his palm to latch onto my wrist, and then pulled him up, saying, "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

It had not been my intention to lie, and yet, without a factual scenario to delve into, I conjured up a story befitting a man pained by love's grievous trespasses, hoping the analogy would provide some emotional relief to my ailing friend. "Sarah was so enchanting," I began, "that I fell in love with her on what was the first night I had ever been intimate with a woman. A love, in the ensuing months, that filled me with more joy than I had ever experienced in my life. I was close to your age at the time."

"Sarah, huh? So what happened?" Woody asked.

"Ah," I exclaimed, my forefinger wagging at the low-lying clouds. "I discovered she and my then best friend were having an affair. Needless to say, I was quite distraught, suffering a rather severe nervous reaction of my own."

"What kind of reaction?"

"It was awful," I said. "The right side of my body, from my shoulder to my hip, would shake uncontrollably at the first sign of stress. And yes, there were people who laughed. Those who obviously didn't know any better."

"Did it last long?"

"Long enough. What's important is that it eventually stopped."

"How?"

"Hmm... I suppose the passage of time played a part. Mostly, however, I think it stopped once I decided I had too much going for me to be derailed by another's self-gratification. I simply told myself I was a good man. And I was. But I wasn't half the man then, Woody, that you are today." I then gave my comrade in arms the once over, before adding, "Or what I predict you'll be tomorrow."

Woody:

I thanked Harley for his kind words and was about to tell him he'd been a real good friend, when we'd entered the circus lot, and - Whamo! There, millin' about the circus folks, the face of my nightmares. I stopped dead in my tracks, promptin' Harley to turn, and ask, "What's the matter, Woody?"

I pointed. "Look over there."

"Where?"

"By the cookhouse tent. The guy in the suit coat. He just turned around to talk to Zachary Zanzara."

"Who?"

"The detective that came to your house."

"Detective Booker? Are you certain?" Harley asked, scannin' the forty, maybe fifty-yard distance.

"Hell, my eye may twitch, that doesn't mean I can't see out of it." I then glanced at Harley. "See where I'm talkin' about?"

"Yes."

"Is that him?"

Harley sighed, and then, "We've got to find Lily."

"No, we've got to get the hell out of here," I insisted, tuggin' on Harley's elbow until he turned and followed me back to the maze of trucks and trailers that stood between the circus grounds and the wide open spaces beggin' us to run.

Harley, as usual, then conveyed a different idea: borrowin' Lily's jeep, which would make disappearin' a whole lot easier on the legs. "It may also buy us enough time to contact my attorney," he suggested, his typically steady voice soundin' a bit anxious.

"Great, fine, but will she give it to us?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Oh, I dunno, maybe because we're wanted for murder," I said sarcastically.

Harley took a deep breath. Then, "She knows the truth, Woody."

"Come again," I responded, after decidin' my ears might've been playin' tricks on me.

"She knows the truth," he repeated.

"Great, that's just great," I said, shakin' my head in disbelief.

"Don't worry. She'll help us."

"Help us, nothin'," I countered, while throwin' my hands in the air. "She's probably the reason Booker found us."

"Nonsense," Harley declared. "I didn't tell her until this morning. And when I did, she professed love, not deceit. Lily believes our story, Woody."

"Uh-huh, and so you think with a cop around, she's gonna help us, eh?" I asked, my voice as edgy as my body was tense.

"Yes, but her trailer's the other way, so if we're going to get it, I suggest we stop our fruitless bickering and make haste before Zanzara leads Booker there," Harley replied, his spirited gray eyes dancin' with more concern than I'd ever seen before. "And mark my words, Zanzara knows Lily and I have spent a good deal of time together, so he will."

Turns out, Harley was right on both accounts. Not only did Lily hand over her keys, but by the time they finished huggin' and kissin' goodbye, Lily tellin' Harley how much she loved him in the process, Detective Booker and Zachary Zanzara had walked into her office, with Booker sayin', "Zanzara, here, told me you were shacking up with the broad, Swan, so I figured she might know where you were hiding." He then snickered, addin', "I guess she does."

And then somethin' happened I would've never expected. Harley, without so much as a word spoke, marched over to Zachary Zanzara and punched him in the face so hard, his legs just sort of caved in and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Booker then grabbed Harley from behind, so I made a move on Booker, wrestlin' his arms away and then spinnin' him around, at which point I drilled him, once to knock him down... once to knock him out.

"Take Highway 31, Harley, it's the quickest way out of here," Lily directed. "When it splits off, take it east until you come to a little town called, Pinkerton. It's about ten miles from here. Get supplies, and call your lawyer if you have time, but head north to Canada as soon as you can. And don't stop until you reach Saddlebury, Quebec, where I have friends. I'll find you there... somehow, someway, I'll find you." She then leapt into Harley's arms for one last embrace, before we were off, our tires spittin' out dirt like there was no tomorrow. It was only then I noticed my eye had stopped twitchin'.

Harley:

Certainly, I could have handled the Zanzara affair with far more acuity and grace than I did. When I heard, _'shacking up with the broad,'_ however, I momentarily lost all sense of self, focused only on the premise that if Lily and I were to part ways, I would not part without an exclamation point.

As for Woody attacking Booker, that obviously was not premeditated either. Much the way I lost control of myself, I'm convinced he did likewise, rendering futile all further conversation on the matter.

Regrettably, our journey through the farmland abyss did not succeed, for no sooner did I see the road sign directing us to Pinkerton, when I noticed a car in the rearview mirror rapidly approaching. Naturally, it was Booker, who, after partaking in a brief game of cat and mouse, shot out the rear tire of Lily's jeep, catapulting the vehicle out of control, where it careened into a tree.

Fortunately, Woody and I walked away from the accident unscathed - figuratively speaking, of course, as we were charged with the murders of Collin Hayes and Eugene Daybo, and thereafter taken into custody; Woody to the Marlette County Jail, pending trial; me, where else, but Valley View Mental Institution, pending inkblot analysis.

In the days following, I pondered my situation long and hard, confident Lily would pay a visit as soon as time freed her of obligations. I was equally confident I'd hear from Woody. Hopeful, I might add, that he had entered his incarceration with the same presence and vitality I had the good fortune and profound honor to witness firsthand.

Yes, well, confidence and desires notwithstanding, the only visitor and word received came courtesy of Detective Sam Booker. It was a Saturday, I believe, although the days have a tendency to bleed together, a result, I fear, of my arduous existence in Valley View, so it was difficult to know precisely. Nevertheless, there he stood, his misguided pomposity a glaring reminder of his flawed and fragile character; once again displayed when he delivered news Woody had hanged himself in his jail cell, and died.

I did not utter a sound... could not, would not, in fact, until left alone in the sterile confines of my merciless room, whereupon I dropped to my knees, and wept as a child.

#

Dr. Lawrence Henry, Chief of Psychiatry at the Valley View Mental Institution, opened the door for his stunning new protégé, Dr. Kimberly Reynolds, before following her derriere into the east wing of the third floor. "This is where our most troubled patients are located," he said, his billowy tone flooding the barren hallway they walked.

"Troubled, how?" Dr. Reynolds inquired, after adjusting her glasses.

"Well, as you'll soon learn, Kimberly... may I call you Kimberly?" Dr. Henry bid, his nostrils flaring at the bright lights of her beauty. "Our patients suffer from a litany of mental illnesses; many unique, many similar, but _all_ troubling. My comment merely refers to those who are too mentally challenged to understand, or absorb, our counsel in any way, shape, or form." Dr. Henry then pointed to the door on his left. "The patient in Room 310 is a prime example," he remarked. "A white male, forty-four years of age, and yet, he doesn't speak to anyone. Never has. In fact, if he isn't watching television, an evening privilege granted to all of our patients, or making use of our library, which, I might add, is scheduled to undergo a complete renovation in the spring of 2020, he's standing in the center of his room, talking to himself - at times loudly, at times softly, but always, always animatedly. Yet, the moment a doctor, nurse, orderly... anyone, for that matter, says something to him, or simply opens his door, he retreats into a world of absolute silence. A pattern that has continued for thirty-plus years."

"Is he like that with his visitors too?"

Dr. Henry shook his head, saying, "In all the years I've been here, he's not had any. Not a single one."

Dr. Reynolds peered through the door's viewing glass. "What about his family?"

Dr. Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That includes his family. Then again, there's no record to indicate his family ever extended beyond the mother, father, and sister, he lost."

"What do you mean, lost?"

"All three of them were brutally murdered when he was twelve years old. Each one stabbed multiple times during a home invasion gone bad. Our patient, here, was on his school's overnight field trip, so he escaped the blood-bath. Unfortunately, he's also the one who discovered the bodies the following day."

"Jesus," Dr. Reynolds muttered, her solemn gaze falling to the floor.

"To make matters worse," Dr. Henry continued, "no one... not a family friend, neighbor, or that long lost relative we'd all hoped for, came forward to help him, so the State placed him in a foster home. But that only lead to a handful of failed suicide attempts. Ultimately, he was brought here for observation, where he's been ever since."

"My God, what an awful, awful story," Dr. Reynolds said, her palm pressed against her chest.

"Yes, it is. Not to mention very traumatic. No doubt the impetus for his schizophrenia."

"Which is obviously the reason he talks to himself the way he does," Dr. Reynolds added.

"Oh, his is a world of profound fantasy... complete with multiple personalities. Of this I'm certain," Dr. Henry stated.

Dr. Reynolds peered through the door's viewing glass once more. "What's his name?" she asked.

"Swan. Harley Swan."

